#and rich people hardly have any souls

[yandere-romanticaa]

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭.

🎀 Traveling from nation to nation and learning the art of creating the most delicious chocolate has been a passion of yours for ages. However, upon stepping foot into the Nation of Flame, you never could have prepared yourself for the incoming wave of sweetness and obsession which was going to hit you like never before.

A/N: This story is loosely inspired by Joanne Harris' book of the same title, Chocolat. It's a book that I am very fond of and I was inspired to write this once I saw that we were able to make chocolate in Natlan, probably the best thing in the game. I am a massive chocolate enjoyer, so... Also, the fic has some minor nsfw implications, just a bit of a heads up! Apologies if Kinich is not in character, oopsie.

yandere! kinich x fem! reader.

Proud warriors, the scorching hot sun and eternal flames were the first things that came to mind whenever you would think about Natlan. As a humble Mondstadter, it never occurred to you just how rich this nation was, how welcoming the people were going to be and not to mention how this place could help you develop your love for chocolate.

Stirring the pot in front of you was no easy task as the decadent scent of delightful goodness enveloped the entire humble little hut which you occupied, the entire floor littered with pots and pans filled to the brim with your creations and some personal trinkets which you had brought for yourself along for the journey.

One of Natlan's great tribes, the Scions of the Canopy, had graciously taken you under their wing and allowed you the privilege of experiencing the culture firsthand. You let out a wistful sigh as the chocolate bubbled happily before you, the dark liquid almost looking too good to be real.

You always took pride in your skills as a chocolatier, even if you hardly considered yourself the best one in the whole entire world. An endless sky of knowledge was out there waiting for you, the voices of the unknown beckoning you to come forward and seize them with your own two hands.

You were a true Mondstadter at heart. No matter where you were or how far you traversed, the wind was always there to guide you, to show you the right path. And right now, the flow of the wind said to stay in Natlan, to finally stop and smell the roses a little.

And each rose you touched had never been as sweet.

The rose, your rose, had a name and merely thinking of him sent your heart ablaze. Messy dark hair, gorgeous dew eyes and skin so perfectly rough and tender at the same time, it made you wonder how he managed to pull off something so contradictory.

That was Kinich's charm, you supposed. Cheeky little thing, he always looked out for you ever since he saw you. Despite his dry humor and straightforward attitude, there was a certain gentle quality to him which made him so irresistible, as if he was temptation personified. Never once did he leave you alone for the entirety of your trip if it could be helped, which came as a shock to his fellow tribe members.

Looking back on it, you were foolish to not see his intentions, even more so for not paying attention to the longing glimmer in his eye and how he would trail after you like a shadow.

He was shy, at first. Unsure on how he should express his feelings, Kinich merely resorted to doing things for you, because he was simply that kind of man. Actions speak louder than words and there was no word in the dictionary which could describe the way in which his chest would tighten in pain whenever he would make eye contact with you, as if large and thorny vines had sprouted from the ground up and taken root in his soul.

You are sweeter than any chocolate you could possibly make, he whispered into your ear one evening.

A shudder came over you, your cheeks hot at the memory of that night... The moon was high and full, overtaking the pitch black sky as Kinich had pinned you to the ground, his gaze boring deeply in your own, those large eyes focused on you and only you...

Chewing your bottom lip, you stirred the pot harshly as the memory replayed in your head over and over - his grip, which was tighter than any rope imaginable, the feeling of melted chocolate which was caked over your lips and fingers, the sensation of Kinich's tongue as he licked away the sweet goodness off your body...

By the seven, this was too much.

With a huff, you turned off the fire which was lit beneath the pot, your hands shaking with excitement as you felt your entire body growing hotter and hotter, making it harder to concentrate.

Damn that Kinich. Damn him for making you feel so wonderful, so wanted, so perfect. The thought of having to leave this place, it... It bordered on anguish. Sometimes, when you were sure no one was around, you would find a dark little corner and weep quietly to yourself. It was hard to manage the massive hiccups and keep the snot away from staining your clothes at first but you managed. Like always, you would find a way to get everything back in order and all would be well once you got everything out of your system.

You had fallen for Natlan. You had fallen even more so than Kinich. Even so, the wind was picking up once more, demanding that you make your next move.

There was so little time left to enjoy everything you had built here. Therefore, your plan was to make the most of everything you possibly could.

And Kinich was more than ready to assist with that.

He hid high up in a tree as he observed you, his face schooled into that of one of his classical nonchalance and stoicism. The chance of him being spotted by anyone up here was slim but even so, he liked to play it safe.

No one needed to know the pain he was in. No one needed to be aware of his more... dubious thoughts and actions. Kinich always fancied himself as a man of action rather than flowery words. And so, he acted.

Quietly, stealthily... Perhaps even a little lethally at times.

Violence was hardly ever the answer but if anyone got in his way and refused to back down, it was his only solution then.

Kinich had a solid reputation in his tribe - he was trustworthy, he was strong. This granted him access to many things, many useful and convenient things. All he had to do was say the word and most people would keep their mouths shut if they saw him somewhere he should not be. And if his poorly veiled threats were not enough, he was more than ready to take up his weapon and fight.

It really was that easy for him.

Sneaking into your newly built home was its own beast though.

This is wrong, he would chant inside his mind over and over again. The intensity of his actions and his nonchalant persona were always at a clash with one another, constantly fighting a never ending war. He should trust you, he knows you are capable, he has no right to be doing any of this even yet... And yet, he does it anyway.

Because he knows that if he doesn't do something, he will never see you again. Kinich knows that he will lose you to the wind if he lets you slip through his fingers, he will never get to experience what it means to be touched, to be loved.

He wants to adore you in the same way people adore your delectable creations. The various statues made from chocolates, the little cacao bites, the endless sea of pralines which would be devoured so fast by the masses that he could not keep up...

Whenever he had the luxury, he liked to imagine you as one of those pralines. Perfect and oh so easy to devour, you were nothing short of excellent in his eyes. Kinich was no blind fool, he was well aware that you had your flaws as well but he cared very little about that.

He wanted the entire package. He wanted you, wrapped up in a little bow and delivered on his doorstep like the world's most precious package, a package which he could unwrap and enjoy time and time over.

Even in his hazy state of mind, he could still recall how you tasted. Licking his lips, Kinich made sure to double check that he had taken a few things from your hut which could prevent you from finishing your latest project. Yes, that was petty of him.

But he could not be bothered to care.

The wind was cruel. Whenever a gust of it would blow at him, Kinich would scowl as he knew that it meant that you would take it as a sign to leave. His hair would get tousled as he would wrap his arms around his body, the constant yapping of Ajaw did him no good either.

The clock was ticking. There was only so much he could do to keep you here. A plan needed to be formed, fast.

For now, he was going to enjoy you in every way he could. He was going to be greedy and devour you wholly whenever the opportunity arose. As Kinich balanced himself up on the massive tree branch, yet another fresh gust of wind made its way towards him. He saw the way you popped your shoulders, that all too familiar smile on your face.

You loved the wind and the wind loved you. You loved to make chocolate and were quite excellent at it too.

Despite all that, Kinich loved you more. He adored you more than the sun adored the world, he wanted you more than unlike anything else before. He cursed the Anemo Archon underneath his breath, his poor lip bloody and bruised from the amount of times he had bitten it in order to keep himself quiet.

Kinch was a man of countless deeds. And he would find a way to keep you by his side, no matter the cost. Be it Celestia or the Abyss, there was no force in this world which could destroy the endless and raging fire he felt for you.

[azen13]

CW: Yandere Themes Thinking abt Yandere!Neuvillette with a Sovereign!S/O who seeks asylum in Fontaine after years of hiding in Teyvat from the Fatui, Celestia, etc...

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The moment you enter the Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette feels your presence; like when the sun peaks through a blanket of clouds on an overcast day, something heavy falls off from his soul, like a curtain opening. His office doors open and you find yourself face-to-face with the only being like you in this land.

Of course Neuvillette can't just drop any of his appointments or cases, so he asks you empathetically to wait out in the lobby until his lunch break. Before he returns to his office, he asks one of the Melusines working to keep an eye on you and to make sure you don't get hurt or run off. His fingers twitch as he takes one last look at you, his eyes searching deep into your soul.

When he's finally finished with all his paperwork and met with several people, he ushers you in his office, his face imperceptible. Beneath his human facade, there are currents of emotions pushing against one another like boiling water: protectiveness, anxiety, fear, jubilance, relief. Neuvillette asks you if you want something to eat. Some water from Monstadt to go along with it, maybe?

He lets you tell your story and listens patiently. His expression, perfected over the course of hundreds of thousands of trials, stays perfectly intact, but the tides of his heart lurch as you tell him about all the atrocities committed to you.

The waters roar, and the dragon stirs.

When you ask for asylum and protection he is quick to agree. Very quick. Almost immediately he promises to set you up with a comfortable apartment, a simple job at the Palais organizing papers, some Mora to help you buy clothes, and whatever else you might need. He has to return to work, unfortunately. But he asks again if you can stay in the Palais Mermonia until he is done with work—or at least his official work—for the night.

Your agreement is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

The rest of the day, Neuvillette cannot think. There is an permanent indentation in his mind now from that first feeling of sensing your presence. The feelings duplicate themselves in his mind until he can hardly grasp his pen. Words on pages turn into soupy mush.

For the first time in centuries, Neuvillette does not stay late to continue working. When the clock strikes seven, he has already neatly organized the work he has to get done on his desk to pick up later. Briefly, his expression eases, thaws in a way, the corners of his lips slightly upturned, a hint of fondness finding its way into his iridescent eyes.

Unfortunately, he says, he can't organize all of the papers and contact all of the people needed right now to get you what he promised. However, he can offer you a guest room in his home. Your agreeance is so beautiful, your smile radiant like the sun and eyes shining like stars. He wants to see you smile. He likes it. Loves it, even.

As the two of you walk through the streets of Fontaine, the energy of the city begins winding down; there are still people clustered at cafes and musicians spouting tunes off into the evening summer air, but already, stars have begun to appear in the dazzling dusk sky.

You say you love the stars. Neuvillette listens with rapt attention, as though he is studying for the most important test of his life. He is an Akademiya scholar, and his Darshan is the study of you.

You are his star.

After the walk home, Neuvillette finds himself blessed by your expression when you gaze into the foyer of his house. It's nothing extraordinary like the opulence of the nobility, but it is upper-class; a quiet luxury permeates through every part of the home, from the banister carved with patterns of the sea to the walls painted a rich, deep blue.

He holds in a laugh when you see a potted plant and gaze at it like it is a miracle of life. Perhaps it is, with its delicate petals and fragrant scent. How—he wonders as he guides you to the guest room, nearly reaching to put his hand on the small of your back before deciding against it—could it survive this long? How did it not get ripped apart or trampled on by beasts and humans alike? The thought lingers in the back of his mind like the last traces of sunlight beaming in through the windows.

Neuvillette files it away.

When he goes to bed, he cannot sleep. Part of him is worried that there is something genuinely wrong with him, that he should seek medical attention. But that's impossible. And he knows it. It is an easy, dismissive lie; thin like ice in late winter. Once he smashes through it, he plunges into something lethal.

Is it wrong, Neuvillette thinks, that he wishes to protect you?

He should rephrase that. It is wrong that he wishes to keep you tucked away somewhere where those beasts will never hurt you again?

He holds a court case in his mind, you versus him. He cards through the evidence. The laws. He goes on a hunt in his archives for a tome on the law when he needs clarification.

When he composes a mental opinion to this rhetorical case, it is after several hours of back-and-forths in his head. But he knows now.

You are a special case, Neuvillette thinks. Cursed by Celestia even, he would say, with how much you have gone through, escaping the clutches of the Fatui and their Harbingers, and countless other evils. He can trace the scars on your hands knowing there are thousands of tragedies written in invisible ink over them. Could he be what decodes those messages? He can. He will.

To put it more plainly, you don't fall under the standard limits of jurisdiction of Fontaine's law. You are a Sovereign, not a citizen of Fontaine, and in addition, you fall under the qualifications of a person in extreme danger. Your very existence is endangered, the elusive essence of your being alluring to the foulest forces in Teyvat. And since the Archon of your element has not rescinded their powers, you are so very vulnerable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Time passes strangely after that night. The god of time has always been a strange, fickle thing in an immortal being like Neuvillette's eyes, but after meeting you, it has only become more warped.

You go out to cafes together. Neuvillette buys you a croissant. You ask him what lavender tastes like. He describes it the best he can, and you buy a lavender latte. You and him share easy, pleasant conversation on a small streetside patio. That is just one morning. There will be an infinite number of mornings like that, but they will all carry that insurmountable significance to Neuvillette. Just like your smile. Your face. Your eyes. Hair. Nose. Everything. Anything. All of it.

This is love. It must be.

Days float on by like meandering clouds, the guest room slowly transforms into your room, and the thought of an apartment is abandoned. Neuvillette asks you to start helping him organize papers in his office, find the right tome he needs on Fontaine's laws from his expansive shelves. He buys you clothes in shades of blue, gray, and white, your outfit's color palette harmonizing perfectly with his. Your days are spent constantly together, going from home to the Palais Mermonia, back home, maybe going out for dinner or some other excursion like an opera or show, and Neuvillette is pleased.

Pleased because you have not tried to fight against this. Pleased that you are just as affected as he is. Pleased that he wakes every day knowing you are safe in your home. Pleased that you are his.

His grasp slowly tightens around you like a gardener lining his pruners up against a flower. His hands clasp yours. They draw around your back. Cup your cheek. Brush your lip. When a stranger finds themselves talking to you, Neuvillette's gravity draws you back in, like the earth and the moon. The stranger is simply a speck of dust in this cosmos, never to fall into your shared orbit again.

When you finally kiss after months of this slow pull, Neuvillette knows it is over. You are his. Your room is now his room. Your bed now his bed. Your love is now his love. Your life is now his life. And you know it. And he knows it. And you both know it's for the best.

He will protect you. His rose.

His star.

His love.

Forever.

[hanniebaeee]

Cursed

Siren Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MDNI

Genre: fantasy au, romance, smut

Summary: You come to a little coastal town to learn more about its rich mythical history. And you come across a very handsome stranger, who's the answer to all your questions.

The wild wind whips through the town, carrying the salty tang of the ocean and the promise of a storm. You are here, in this little coastal town to learn more about the ancient myths surrounding it, for your research. No one really believes in them anymore - they're just myths. Just stories of monsters and creatures that belong in folklores and fairytales.

But some of the older residents still recount the nights they heard a beautiful voice, a song so heartbreaking and soulful that drifted through their windows, and beckoned them into the ocean. It's the hardest thing to fight that pull. And they shudder as they speak of the “cursed one”, before someone comes and tells them off for spreading rumors and fear. But this was hardly any material for your research. 

You skim through every book and the oldest newspapers and records, anything at all that can give you the slightest hint of their existence. When you start to lose hope, you find him. 

Hyunjin.

The first time you see him, he is watching the sunset at the beach, barefoot, the waves lapping at his feet. The wind toss his dark hair in every direction. You are just sketching into your notebook, thinking of leaving the town, when your eyes drift towards him. His presence is magnetic, his beauty….otherworldly.

He didn’t belong here. That much is obvious when he looks at you, his sharp, ethereal features too perfect to be human. His eyes, like the darkest of storm clouds, hold something heavy and magical in them. Something dangerous.

The townsfolk avoid him most of the time, whispering about him in hushed tones. They are terrified of his beauty and his strange allure. But against the best of your judgment, you just can’t stay away. You just know that he's the answer to all your questions.

Striking a friendship with him was so hard. He is wary of the town's people, and you're a newcomer. He doesn't know anything about you, and so, keeps you at a distance every time you try to start a conversation.

But you don't give up. One evening as you sit at the beach, sketching, he catches a glimpse of your art. And that's how you find your way in. He's completely mesmerized by it. You hand him your sketchbook, and he flips through the pages, eyes wide in awe and your heart skips a beat as you see the childlike wonder in them.

So the next time you meet, you gift him a sketch book and some pencils and pastels. Hyunjin's hands tremble as he accepts them from you. No one has ever done anything for him. He has never felt acceptance before. And now, here you are, wanting to share this with him.

And the more you talk, you notice things about him. He speaks of the ocean as if it was a lover he once cherished but now resents. And as you both bond over art, you see how much of a natural he is. All his drawings depict the ocean. A beautiful blend of blues and greens and turquoise.

And this paves way for something more. You notice, when he thinks you aren't looking, he watches you with a hunger in his eyes, with so much longing -  it sends shivers down your spine. As the days pass, you realize this is having more of an effect on you than you thought it would.

You hear it one night. Its so soft at first, you think you're still dreaming. But your eyes flutter open, and you sit up on your bed, your heart racing as you strain to pick up that tune.

And then it gets louder and clearer. You gaze out of the window, and the thrashing ocean and the storm that's brewing doesn't hinder the voice from enveloping you in a heartbreaking embrace.

And just like that, you're on your feet, and out of your little room you called home. You walk barefoot through the empty, dark streets. It's raining now - strong and heavy, but it does nothing to slow you down. It is like you have no choice at all - it's like your legs have a mind of their own. There is a fire burning within you, hot and bright, not just with desire, but also with what you know.

You follow the voice towards the old lighthouse, and then you see Hyunjin already there, sitting at the beach. You are both drenched, and the minute he sees you, he's up on his feet and pulling you into the lighthouse, away from the rain.

The wind howls through the broken windows of the old lighthouse. And Hyunjin isn't happy to see you. He had warned you not to follow him. He did his best to keep you away, even when he accepted your friendship.

“Why are you here?” His voice is a low growl.

His body looms over you, his raw power barely contained beneath his soaked shirt. His chest heaves, his eyes darkening as they meet yours.

“Because you wanted me to,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the wind. “You sang for me, didn't you?”

Hyunjin swallows, shaking his head as if that would turn you away. Every time he takes a step away, you feel his pull even stronger. His hands clenched into fists by his sides as he fights for control.

“You don’t understand.” he bites out.

But you do.

You’d seen the carvings in the sea caves, during your first few days at the town. The ancient symbols spoke of the sirens who once lured sailors to their deaths, and cursed creatures who could never fully return to the sea unless they bound themselves to a human soul.

You were a little heartbroken when you'd connected this knowledge to Hyunjin. You didn't want to believe it. But every time you saw him, it was a little more clear. 

“You’re a siren,” you breathe.

His jaw tightens, and he turns away, running a hand through his dripping hair as the storm rages on. You take a step closer, your fingers brushing against his arm, and he shudders under your touch.

“Why are you here?” you ask. 

Hyunjin gazes at you, his eyes dark and stormy like the sea.

“Because I can’t go back.” He struggles to say this. “The curse won't let me-”

“Without binding a soul to yours?”

“I’m not like them,” he rasps. “I don’t want to take a life just to return to the sea. I stayed because I can't do that.”

“Hyunjin, is there no other way?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “I'm fine here. I get to be near the ocean. I'm fine.”

You slip your hand into his, giving it a little squeeze. Your eyes meet, and you see pain in them. You cup his cheek with your hand, and he leans into your touch. Before you know it, his lips are on yours, so warm and salty. You can taste the ocean on them. 

He pulls you against him with a fiery desperation that leaves you breathless. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your body. You can feel the power in him, the centuries of longing and restraint crumbling away as he gives in to the desire.

His lips move down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers your name softly.

“Please don't do this to me,” he begs, as he breathes in your scent. “I can’t take you with me. I won’t.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “Then don’t leave me.”

Hyunjin’s lips ghost over your collarbone, as his hands move up your thighs and under your dress. 

The walls of the old lighthouse groan, as the scent of brine and storm pour in through the windows. He presses you against the damp wall, his hands running over your hot skin.

You could see the conflict in his eyes. He wants you so bad, but he knows what it'll mean. You just cup his cheek with your hand, bringing his face closer to yours, and kiss him again. You can feel all his self control melting away as he finally gave in. He's quickly pushing your panties down your legs. His fingers are in your folds - so gentle and soft. Your breath comes out in uneven gasps and you close your eyes, losing yourself in this moment completely. 

You whine softly as his fingers slip into your hole. He's moving them in and out gently, and you're so wet, and so needy.

“Please-”

His eyes meet yours again, as if asking for permission. You nod, and he pushes down his own pants, and lifts you in his strong arms. He pushes into you slowly, the sensation so overwhelming, almost too much. His name escapes your lips in a breathless cry as he moves against you. It's so slow at first, making sure you are completely adjusted to him, before the pace picks up.

Everything blurs together, and in that moment, you feel like you're being completely consumed by him. You hold onto him tightly, your nails digging into his back, urging him to go faster, deeper.

His grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts faster. And you can feel that knot inside you, ready to break any moment. And when it does, a wave of pleasure crashes over you, and you whimper his name, your legs going weak. Hyunjin follows right after, his body trembling as he buries his face in your neck. You feel him twitch inside you, and he moans as he spills deep inside you.

For a moment, you both just stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms. The silence is broken by the eerie wail of the wind. 

“What if I want to help you?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Hyunjin pulls out of you slowly and sets you down. He pulls his pants up with a strange expression on his handsome face. You feel his cum dribble down your thigh, and he notices too because he's quickly taking off his shirt and kneeling before you.

Your eyes fall on his toned chest and lower, towards his abdomen and hips, you can see a discoloration. You think they're bruises at first, but no - they're scales. Beautiful shimmery turquoise scales. 

“Don’t.” He says, his voice raw and barely above a whisper. “Don’t say that.”

He carefully wipes you clean and helps fix your clothes, as you blush. 

“But if I want to-” You step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His breath hitches, and you can see that he's fighting himself to maintain some control.

“You don’t know what you’re offering. I shouldn't have called out to you. I didn't do it on purpose, I can't help it-”

Your heart races as he gives you a sad look. 

"You don't understand what you're asking of me," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

But you didn’t care. You don't care what this is. You press your lips to his and his body presses against yours, solid and warm. 

"I don’t care what happens," you whisper breathlessly against his lips, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

His eyes reflects the storm outside -  wild and untamed, as if he was fighting against something deep inside him - some part of his soul he had been keeping at bay for centuries.

His lips found yours again, softer this time.

"You're mine," he whispers, his voice filled with a dark edge that sends a thrill through you. "No curse, no ocean, nothing will take you from me."

In the distance, the sea raged on, its dark waters churning in the storm. You can almost feel its pull, the ancient magic of the ocean trying to take Hyunjin away. It was trying to call him back home. 

"I will not bind your soul," he tells you. "I cannot do that to you."

You nod, and he kisses you again. He may not bind your soul, but you are already bound to him, not by any ancient curse, but with love. The sea may call to him, but at this moment, you know that he wants you, and he's not letting go. And not even the ocean can take him away.

a/n : Divider by @saradika 🤍

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  HERO OF THE HALF-TRUTH

SUMMARY : “I'm a hoe for Soldier Boy (I'm past hiding it😅) so I thought maybe you write one smut fic where he seemingly picks up reader from a bar, where he is at some promo event or something like that, and they go for a quickie behind a bar and after when she wants to go home, he forces her to sit through rest of the evening with his cum dripping down her legs, and if you're comfortable with it- there could be some degrading, hair pulling, roughness, choking?” — @k-slla 

PAIRING : soldier boy (ben) x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

TAGS/WARNINGS : explicit(18+), tiny canon divergence, depression, trauma, ptsd, degradation, i made soldier boy a sad little puppy, hair pulling, roughness, choking, unprotected p in v, cum kink

WORD COUNT : 3.7k

A/N :  title from an august burns red song. this fills the secret relationship square on my @jacklesversebingo card. I almost forgot to post this lmao 

Soldier Boy, he can’t seem to escape Vought. 

Even breaking every rule Stan Edgar enforced didn’t get him released of the steel strings keeping him from doing whatever the fuck he wanted. 

After being tortured for forty fucking years, it was the least he thought he deserved. He was old as fuck, he could feel the heaviness of it every morning when his eyes opened up to the bright sunlight. He was exhausted and everything looked dead. 

On top of everything, there was a dull ache that remained attached to him like a parasite from the betrayal of his teammates. Even though they’re all dead, even though they didn’t matter to him as he ended their lives—or even before that—his life layers around the hurt and pain left behind by the Crimson Countess. 

There was an emptiness that pressed into his soul like a black hole that no amount of drugs, sex, and alcohol could fill. It got sucked up like it was nothing, unseen, forgotten. It’s how he felt, too. Like nothing, forgotten, thrown away like a useless piece of trash by the very company that struggled to keep him under their thumb now, once again.

He had dreams and hopes before everything that happened. He could have had it all, but all of that evaporated in the same way he had eviscerated his old lover, the Crimson Countess. 

More often than he liked, Ben woke up to nothing, to no one—completely alone, unloved, unimportant. Forgotten. 

Still, here he was, at a ridiculously expensive bar for a promo event. Rich assholes surrounded him, faking smiles and faking laughter, shaking hands and making stupid small talk. They wore expensive suits and held glasses of alcohol that they hardly drank from the whole night. 

Don’t even get him started on the Supes that were on their best behaviour for the night. Pretending to be the good guys. Ben thought they were worse than him. Every single one of them were pathetic, useless, and weak. He didn’t like a single one, but he smiled, too, faking for the night knowing all the annoying cameras that were snapping shots of everyone at any given moment, and that irritating journalists were eavesdropping on every conversation to get the juiciest stories. 

He rolled his eyes as soon as he was able to get away from a journalist who refused to take his ‘no comment’ for an answer. Instead, she was hounded by the Deep who was told which people to talk to in order to continue rewriting his image. 

Ben grunted when he sat on the barstool and the bartender greeted him with a flirtatious, red-lipped grin. He wasn’t in the mood for anything tonight, but he mustered a smile when he ordered a whiskey. But otherwise, he stared into the golden liquid after taking a small sip, ignoring the woman when she brushed her fingers with his. 

Life went by around him; pop music played in the background, people’s voices made a hundred symphonies from laughing and conversation. And the bartender took Ben’s rejection with pride and continued to speak to patrons, reporters, and other Supes. 

His attention drifted away from the glass containing golden liquor when his skin prickled, a shiver running up his spine. He looked to the one side and then the other, there’s only one person who could make him feel that. 

And there she was, sitting on a barstool at the edge of the bar top laughing it up with A-Train, rather awkwardly. It’s like she called to him, somehow, without words. Not a single look had been exchanged just yet. His body felt her before he even laid eyes on her beauty, or touched the softness of her, or caught a whiff of her floral scent. 

Ben stood up to make his way to her. A-Train left instantly when Ben stood behind her with a scowl on his face. He watched her shiver with a tiny smirk, her sentence halfway complete by the time A-Train made it halfway across the room. 

Casually, she spun around in the stool to face him. Her expression was guarded—to everyone else, they were strangers. 

“Hey,” he grunted, deciding to take a seat next to her.

“What are you doing?” She asked quietly, looking away from him to drink the sweet Cosmo she ordered for herself. 

“I should be asking you that,” he shook his head and gave her a sideways glance. He caught the tiny smile on her face for being caught and bit his lip to stop himself from mirroring it. 

She paused and took a slow, short sip of her drink. He resisted the urge to look at her for taking so long to respond. He could feel her hesitation and her quiet sigh made his smile drop slightly.

“I haven’t seen you all week,” she murmured, finally admitting what had driven her to see him in a place filled with people he was hoping to keep from entering her life. They had no privacy now with all the Supes and Stan Edgar around, and he wanted to be angry at her for risking their… relationship, but most importantly her safety. 

He kept her from Vought, from Supes, from anyone who could hurt her or use her to get to him.  

He felt bad. Even though he had good intentions. He couldn’t deny that he was neglecting her. Making her wait for him as Vought dragged him here and there either to play hero or to do shit like this. Promo events. Fucking movies, songs, advertisements. 

It was exhausting to pretend so much. 

He wished he could see her more often. 

If he could, he’d like to return home to her. To lay in bed with her while she runs her fingers through his hair and while they watch another important movie he missed while he was… yeah. 

He just wanted to settle down with her, but Vought was a danger to his dream with her. 

Ben drowned the whiskey in one gulp and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, inhaling softly. He could feel her watching him, and he eyes subtly followed as he stood up and stomped away from the bar to get outside.

He hoped no one would follow him, except her. 

The night was dark, and cool enough that the sky was clear and the stars fought to shine against dark blue-violet skies despite the bright city lights. There was no breeze, the air didn’t bite at his skin and made his cheeks and nose turn red. 

It was perfect.

As perfect as the back of a bar could look during the evening. Cars zoomed by at the very end of the alley and colourful graffiti covered posters of Supes in the wall. Slander and hatred were sprayed against the walls, against Vought, a majority of the Supes. Others wanted Maeve back or defended Starlight, or Homelander. 

People were twisted. Cruel. Pathetic. Hypocritical. As they always were. They never changed, from what he remembers. Not really. They always think they are right, that they know better-

“What?” He heard the heavy door slam against the wall. The door shut slowly behind her when Ben turned around to see colourful pink and blue lights from inside form a shape around her body. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, her face was sadder, but still careful. She knew better than to drop her guard. That fearful glint in her eyes told him that she knew better than to think she was safe. Or that he wasn’t being watched.

That didn’t stop Ben from wanting to hold her. To kiss away her doubts, to smooth the worry lines on her forehead with his fingers, to melt away the tension from her muscles. 

“Sorry,” he whispered instead, his fingers twitching before clenching into a fist. He stepped towards her once the door clicked shut behind her, but she stood where she was as if her feet had grown roots, preventing her from reaching him. “You know I’d like to go everywhere with you in my arms, but-”

“You don’t need to explain it to me again,” she interrupted him softly, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to make herself warm. She looked down at the intricate designs on his suit rather than looking into his big, pleading, green eyes. “Did you miss me… At least?” She blurted out, embarrassment blazing up her face for needing that reassurance, for asking it out loud.

Ben took the final steps to close the distance between them and cupped her cheek. He pressed his lips to her forehead and brushed her cheekbone with his thumb. “I did, you know I did,” he mumbled softly against her.

Ben could feel her relax in his arms. She breathed out slowly and he wrapped his arm around her waist to bring her as close as possible. She clung to the buckles on his vest and closed her eyes as the sounds of the city at night faded into nothing around the two of them.

Part of Ben still felt guilty. Probably more now that he was holding her than before.

Here she was, all dolled up and glamorous for him. Because she missed him. Sure, he thought of her way too much the entire week, but she doesn’t know that. He was so overwhelmed with his job and doing what was expected of him, reshoots and interviews, so many things that came with his contract with Vought. 

If he trusted the damned company, he’d include her and her safety when it gets renewed. He’d request a meeting tomorrow, or tonight, to have it changed. So he wouldn’t have to sneak around with her. He’d like to quit to have all that without being under Vought, but he wouldn’t feel safe, and therefore, she wouldn’t be safe either. 

If he could, he’d fake his death and run away with her. But unlike him, a man who simply doesn’t belong in this time, she was the tree at the centre of a garden that everyone loved to gaze at and be around. He couldn’t just uproot her and leave an empty space where she once was in everyone’s lives. She was loved for who she was—genuine, kind, feisty. But Ben was just liked for his looks, for what he was good for—except for her, he loved him as he was, for all that he was.

Every ugly part. Every bad part. And there was a lot of that. He was an asshole and he was insecure, he already knew that. Who was he kidding besides the people who seemingly adored him? Fans?

“Come on,” she whispered, pulling away to kiss him on his bearded jaw, “let’s get back inside so I don’t freeze out here.” Ben’s fingers dug firmly into her hips to keep her in place.

“What makes you think I’m letting you leave so quickly?” His rough voice caused a shiver to run up her spine. She smiled softly against his mouth and pushed up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. “I missed you and you look gorgeous. And now that I have you here… I’m going to make a mess of you with the time I have.”

She inhaled sharply, excitement speeding up her heartbeat. Ben walked her backwards until her back hit the cold wall and she gasped softly once she was pressed against the painted bricks. Her flushed skin made her more sensitive to the cold surrounding her and almost instantly, before his luscious mouth even landed on hers, she felt a tingle of excitement followed by a flood of wetness between her legs.

“Are we really gonna fuck here?” She whispered against his lips. His beard tickled the soft skin of her chin when he hummed a ‘yes’ against her lips, pressing softly at first. “What if someone sees us?” She asked, burying her fingers into his soft, brown hair. 

Ben smirked, his tongue teasing the seam of her lipstick-painted lips. The dull flavour of lipstick hit his taste buds, but his mouth still watered. Her lips parted just slightly, her shaky breath made his lips tingle. “You should know better than to think that would stop me.” 

“Fuck,” she exhaled, his voice alone was enough to make her moan. His fingers clenched her dress, slowly dragging it up her legs, slowly pressing his knee between her legs. To tease, his knee grazed her clit, their mingled breaths made his mind hazy with arousal.

“Now, be a good little slut and give me your panties,” he ordered, releasing her dress to smack her ass with both of his hands. She moaned softly and brought his lips down to hers for a deeper, sensual kiss. 

His fingers tangled in her hair and he tilted her head to slide his tongue into her mouth, licking, sucking, desperately looking for a way to fuse himself with her. Her fingers blindly pulled and tugged at the buckles around his hips and then she whined uselessly when she couldn’t get a single one undone. 

He stopped kissing her to laugh softly, “I told you to focus on you.” 

“Please,” she laughed shyly, pecking his lips. She cupped his cock over his trousers and he gasped, rolling his hips against her hand. 

“We have to make this quick,” he told her, stepping back to work quickly on the buckles. He was faster, pulling out straps expertly, habitually, from years of practice. He didn’t even have to glance away from her flustered face, but unlike him, she clumsily dragged her seamless panties down her legs.  

He hadn’t removed anything, not enough for her to see how hard he was, and he wasn’t giving her a chance to. “I’m keeping these, doll,” he grinned, snatching her underwear and shoving them inside his armour vest, right where his heart thundered against thick metal. 

“Can I keep anything of yours?” She pouted. 

“You can keep my cum?” He offered with a smug smirk, his hands moved from where they were to grasp her hips and spin her around faster than she could process. 

“Okay,” she replied with a smile, hesitantly setting her hands and cheek against the wall. He laughed against her shoulder and hiked up her dress again, his fingers trailing up her sides. 

“You just love being a fucking cum-dump for me, dontcha?” He teased, his voice dripping over her like honey, deep and hot. She moaned softly in response and wiggled her hips impatiently. 

“Fuck.. anything for you, Ben.” He sank his teeth into her neck and guided his cock to her dripping entrance. The tip of his cock circled her entrance and slid through her wet folds slowly. The feeling of her bare heat against his skin made his grip tighten painfully around her hip.  

“Christ, you’re so fucking wet already,” he groaned, the length of his dick teasing her clit with every back and forth, “and I’ve barely even touched you.” He slowly pushed himself into her, shuddering at her delicious warmth wrapped around him. Her walls fluttered around him and she pushed her hips back into him, adjusting to the size of him. “That’s my needy little whore,” he praised degradingly, dragging his calloused hands up the front of her dress to palm her breasts. 

She moaned softly and reached back to thread her fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands until he groaned deeply against her back. The sound shook through her body like an earthquake and sent ripples of pleasure to her clit and pulsing walls. 

“Beg for my cock, needy little slut, show me how much you missed me,” he whispered into her neck with a smirk. He was all smug and sexy, hard and firm, and each touch woke something in her that she would have otherwise been too embarrassed to show anyone else.

“Please, fuck me,” she begged pathetically, pulling harder at his hair if she couldn’t convince him with her pleas. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pressed his fingers into her palm until she relaxed her grip. “God, please, Ben… I need you so bad,” she whispered needily, extending her hands back to grip onto any part of him that she could easily reach when he let her hand fall.

“Come on, let me hear you,” he panted, slowly thrusting into her. He bit his lip, digging his fingertips harder into her hips. She gasped at the pain and squirmed, but a tingle of pleasure began to bloom as he bruised her skin and dragged his cock slowly through her walls. “My pretty little slut,” he growled, smoothing his hands up her sides to bend her forward slightly.

“Please, Ben! I need you!” She whined, allowing him to roughly pull her up again against his chest. He pressed a hard kiss to her jaw, snapping his hips forward once as he groped her chest. Ben pulled the top of her dress down and didn’t hold back with the painful pinch of her nipples between his fingers. He ground his cock into her, driving himself deeper as she moaned and squeezed him. 

Her toes curled inside her heels and her breath hitched, but Ben continued to mouth at her cheek and her shoulder, his breath as uneven as hers. She could feel the grin on his face, the tickle of his beard fueled her arousal and she was dripping around his cock like a desperate whore.

“Please! I-I can’t take it!” She cried, pulling hard on Ben’s hair to make him move faster. He growled against her flushed skin and delivered another rough thrust in response. 

Ben’s teeth grazed her jawline and he grunted softly with each unhurried, deep, hard thrust. Her soft pleas and loud moans echoed against concrete walls, carried into the dark nothingness of the city. Her pussy clenched tighter around him and he was almost out of breath from how amazing she felt.

She clung to him as best as she could and his large hand ended up wrapped around her throat. He was waiting for her to finally fall apart and beg him to make her come. All she could do was ride along the tiny edge of her orgasm, so close to toppling over, but never having that pleasure wash over her.

“Faster, Ben! Let me come... Please… make me come!” She cried out, trying to move her hips to desperately meet his deep, slow pace. He squeezed her throat, pressing his fingers around her throat until her vision turned nearly all the way black.

“Christ, you’re perfect when you beg for my cock,” he chuckled. Be  relaxed his grip and she inhaled sharply, her brain getting fuzzier, like static. A moan slipped from between her lips and Ben finally began thrusting into her faster, sharper, precisely. Short quick gasps made their way past her swollen lips and his name hung in the air when it was stuttered lovingly. 

She found it easier to hold onto the wall, bending herself over once again as her knees became weak and her heels became difficult to stand in. Her mind evaporated from her skull, all she could feel was him, Ben. His suit brushed against her sensitive skin, hard armour pressing into her soft body. His beard scraped against her flushed neck, causing her to shudder and clench around him.

His lips were wet and warm against her skin, his breath adding to the heat to combat the cold that engulfed them. His hands touched and grabbed at what he could reach before tangling in her hair. He gripped her hair in one hand to breathe clearly into her ear, and he pulled at the strands so she stood up straight and couldn’t move away from him again.

Her scalp stung at occasional harsh tugs but his fingers on her clit distracted her enough to find more pleasure than pain. “You always do the stupidest fucking things for my cock,” he grunted in her ear, and despite how irritated she was from being edged she couldn’t help being amused.

Maybe it was all the pleasure that put her in a good mood or maybe it’s that she was finally where she wanted to be, with Ben. The man behind Soldier Boy. 

Her body had a pin-point focus on all the pleasure induced by everything he did to her. Taking her ability to breath with his grip tight around her throat, holding her to him with her hair wrapped around his fist. She felt like an overfilled balloon, overwhelmed with pleasure, love. She missed him more than anything and he was intoxicating.

She felt her orgasm wash over her, a scream of Ben’s name that he was partially able to muffle with his hand squeezing the side of her neck. She gasped, strained and strangled sounds that could barely move past his tight grip and then he let go before he could finish.

She was cold and empty for a few moments, her pussy clenched sound nothing and then a breath was punched out of her chest when he pressed her back into the wall. She was up in his arms, back to moaning and shaking when he slammed back into her.

A few quick thrusts with rough kisses pressed against her lips before warmth bloomed inside her from spurts of his release. Warm cum trickled down between her thighs and Ben laughed huskily against her shoulder when she held him tighter. 

“I missed you,” she whispered breathlessly, slightly disappointed when he pulled his cock out of her and set her back down. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath and recompose herself. She closed her eyes when he dipped down to kiss her cheek.

“Me too,” he murmured, his lips ghosting across her flushed cheeks. She fixed her clothes and tried to keep her focus on him, but she felt exhausted. Weak. “Tell you what,” he began, pulling her back in to keep her warm, “Sit like this through the night and I’ll take you home with me,” he proposed, smirking at the laughter that shook her body. “That’s what you’re good for, keeping my cum safe inside that needy little cunt of yours,” he brushed his lips against hers, collecting sticky strings of their release with his fingers to smear them across her painted lips. He bit his lip and watched her lick her mouth clean. 

“Yes, sir, Soldier Boy,” she smiled, entranced by the lascivious way he sucked on his fingers. 

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[beneaththehalo]

nfwmb [rafayel x fem! reader]

an exploration of your married dynamic with rafayel based on the song. there are references to sex and murder, but nothing explicit. the song lyrics are indented, small text, and bolded. 1.3k words. link to ao3!

When i first saw you / the end was soon / to Bethlehem, it slouched /And then it must’ve caught a good look at you / Give your heart and soul to charity / ‘Cause the rest of you / the best of you / honey, belongs to me

another charity gala as rafayel’s wife. parasitic leeches of linkon hoping to boost their image through large donations that barely make a dent in their generational wealth. a drink at the bar, a waltz with a man fifteen years your elder, and the flick of your hair to drain their wallets. it would all be worth it once you could present the large donation check to your favorite ocean conservation charities — saving the sea turtles, clean the beach, etc. in fact, your knack for playing the game is what attracted rafayel to you in the first place. a measly event reporter drowning your sorrows in seconds at the buffet table, ranting to the poor photographer. in a crowd of fairweathers, you were the first real person rafayel had seen. it intrigued him.

you could say the rest was history, but you certainly didn’t make it easy for him as you were wary to trust another snooty, rich man. artist types tended to be uppity, over pretentious, and full of themselves, but their big pockets made them an easy target for charity. you changed your mind on him when you heard him talk about his paintings for the first time, no longer filtered through the PR-lens of Thomas, you saw the true tortures, loves, and muses of a real artist. of course, you were both a bit inebriated at the time which helped forego the filters as you both ranted over the pompous event. when you found out who he was, you thought you’d lose your job and never speak again. you will forever be thankful that the opposite happened.

ain’t it a gentle sound, the rollin’ in the graves? / ain’t it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes? / ain’t it exciting you, the rumble where you lay? / ain’t you my baby? ain’t you my baby?

it wasn’t always easy. the attention that came with being rafayel’s significant other was something you weren’t used too. microphones shoved in your face, constantly ending up on worst-dressed lists, and never knowing who you could trust out of your business contacts. it was fatiguing — this image of mr. rafayel’s perfect wife. she never said anything controversial, so she didn’t have morals or values. she never demanded attention away from her husband. she hardly ate in public or sipped more than one cocktail. yet, she women still seethed with jealousy and found any excuse to tear her down. they told her she would never meet his needs. she wasn’t pretty enough or smart enough to understand his art or tall enough or whatever bullshit excuse the media sold. rafayel’s ability to be a sex symbol as well as an artist was important, you were a threat to the brand.

you can imagine all that external pressure caused an implosion. insecurity breakdowns at home, intimacy interrupted tears, anger, and frustration. rafayel was ever-understanding, his patience with your struggles admirable. and on one such night, he said, “fuck my brand. i fell in love with you because of your capacity to care, tenacity, and raw emotion when you discuss your passions. i could lose my whole career, but i can’t lose you. not to people who don’t know you,” he says, planting a firm kiss upon your forehead. from then on, the dynamic shifted.

nothing fucks with my baby / nothing can get a look in on my baby / nothing fucks with my baby / nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

you were married within a year or so, quick for some, but why wait for something you know will never change? the wedding naturally received a lot of attention despite it being a private elopement. tabloids clamored for the exclusive interview about the marriage of the famed rafayel and if he had any regrets about marrying at his younger age. would this effect his career? was he considering children? intrusive vultures thinking they were owed answers just because of rafayel’s fame. they never received any.

for rafayel was too busy burning every detail of your body into his mind each night. memorizing his favorite canvas and painting purple hues upon the skin of your neck. he touched you as if to prove that you were the only one who could ever draw his attention. all of your insecurities reduced to ash with his steady rhythm and guidance. he was everything you would ever need, and no one could satiate you more. it was heaven on earth, the connection you both shared. you’d both rather be damned than give that up.

if i was born as a blackthorn tree / i’d wanna be felled by you / held by you / fuel the pyre of your enemies

and here you are, back at the scene of the crime, aka this month’s charity gala to benefit coral reef restoration and preservation. you’re a few cocktails deep, the liquor always making things much easier to bear when conversing with the wealthy elite. men who hated their wives, women who loathed their husbands, and children far too privileged to be well-adjusted. people always found you easy to talk to, a little too easy to talk to, which normally you didn’t mind, it caused them to open their wallets all the same. however, tonight was not your night.

one of the men was blathering on and on about his petulant divorce. nothing you had not heard before. he was bolder than the others though, his words slurring a bit as he drapes himself over you. most people knew not to mess with you. for one, you could handle your own. for two, rafayel was rather possessive. so when this man thought he was clever, groping you inappropriately and making inane comments at your behest, something had to be done. so in your best, pseudo-sympathetic voice, you coax him into a private hall. rafayel isn’t far behind.

ain’t it warming you, the world gone up in flames? / ain’t it the life you, you’re lighting of the blaze? / ain’t it a waste they’d watch the throwing of the shade? / ain’t you my baby? ain’t you my babe?

the smoldering, remnant ashes of the man are promptly flushed down the toilet. rafayel cleans his hands at the sink, the small cut across his face already healing. you fix your hair, and blot at any of the smearing of your makeup. “better off anyways,” rafayel mutters, giving you a once over. he gingerly takes your face in his hands, resting his forehead against yours, “Ça va mon amour? [are you alright my love?]” he whispers. you nod, nuzzling your nose against his.

he peppers delicate kisses across your face. then drapes a few more down your exposed neck and collar. all your worries assuaged for the time being as you float in his attention, the memories of the disgusting socialite washed away as he fans the flames of your nerves. “rafayel,” you sigh, leaning into his touch, “you keep at it and the coral reef will never receive their generous check.” he whines in protest, but ultimately agrees and accompanies you back out to the party.

nobody mentions the missing man, and rafayel was such a smooth talker that any questions were easily forgotten. in the end, you had raised over $1.2 million for coral reef restoration, which was a feat in itself. when the party finally concludes and you tiredly shed your personas at the door of your shared home, you couldn’t be more grateful rafayel was who you had chose to spend your life with. and now that you were finally alone again, he would take that chance to remind you.

nothing fucks with my baby / nothing can get a look in on my baby / nothing fucks with my baby / nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

beneaththehalo || est 2024

[lychniis]

⚘ — COSMIC BALLET.

i. SYNOPSIS : sometimes you wonder if your spark could outshine his centuries old light. ( jing yuan x reader )

ii. WARNING(S) : mentions of mortality, comfort, Jing Yuan needs a hug, we all do, really. This is all very rough and unrefined I wrote this on my phone hdhdhdhd. Inspiration.

# masterlist

&& . jing yuan · ( hello dear sun of mine ; you shine ever so bright )

JING YUAN SHINES WITH A LIGHT too bright for a human. It's the sun embodied, carved onto muscle and skin like fire on flesh, and the art of kintsugi itself, and the people would look upon him and walk their orbits and live their lives.

He'll pour his wine out and rearrange his xianqi pieces and watch the years on the Luofu tick by with war, then peace, then war, then peace again. He'll change strategies. He'll land his checkmates. He'll count every victory and loss. Then he'll shut his eyes and dream of a world where he was a distant speck, anything but a burning star.

And still, he shines —

( Bright, bright, brighter and you fear the hearth shall soon give out. )

— And still the people look to him. For the planets center their suns, the asteroids chart their course, the universe exists in itself, a state of orderly chaos. Jing Yuan was the Luofu’s heart, the people's heart and that great light was a terrible thing that could never be diffused ( only burn out as time wears upon it ).

You wonder where he gathers his strength, if he could keep dancing this cosmic ballet. Jing Yuan was still Jing Yuan, a human with his soft insides and his fragile soul. And he holds that sun in him. He holds the face of The Hunt. He holds onto Lan's will. He falters. You watch him stagger at times. You see his weariness and something, something in you cries.

You wonder if you could do such a thing too ( you cannot, for your life was a limited, fleeting thing and the daunting weight of immortality scares you too much, like the cold metal of a vice ). You wonder if your comfort would show any effect.

"If you are the sun..." You ask him one day, when the world was quiet and you slip deeper into the warmth of your sheets. "Then what am I?"

You feel his weight shift behind you, his warmth press against your back and his breath against your skin. They were the subtle hints of proof, of his life, of the humanity that stirs in him. You inch closer. "That's a strange question to ask in the middle of the night."

"I know it is. But I'm curious. And I can't sleep when I'm curious."

He laughs that deep, rich laugh. You feel something, it's a wild sort of adoration, a strong urge to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. It hurts. You push it away.

"A spark," he decides after a moment's silence, like the word is a funny joke you don't quite understand. "Sparks hold potential. Sparks can burn brighter."

"Not as bright as you."

"Of course you can." He replies. He seems sure of himself. He kisses your lips, your neck. He looks at you with a reverance, with worship on his fingertips, with a wistful, desperate longing. "They may not see it, but I do. I will."

You want to laugh. He sounds silly, foolish, and it was a strange way to describe someone as meticulous as him. You only hold a few decades of life left. You hardly believe you could come to be something so profound. "Why?" You ask him.

He gives pause. There is a sacred thing nestled in your question, something that should be handled delicately.

"Because..." He carefully picks his words. You feel his fingers curl in with yours. "You're mortal." Your lips part. He keeps speaking. "And when you love me, when you live and feel as you do — in my gaze, dear heart, you far eclipse this old worn soul of mine."

Ah. You blink. Ah, he was being sincere.

"Do I?"

You sound small. Jing Yuan smiles. He leans into you, nose grazing against yours. The gold in his eyes have dimmed to a mellow affection.

"You do." He nods. "And I am honored, so honored to be loved by you." He kisses your knuckles.

You do not speak. But you hug him, hold him as close as humanly possible. Jing Yuan shuts his eyes. He lets his light dim in your presence. You let yourself eclipse him, as he says you do.

You let him rest.

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

BAHAHAHAHA I wrote this whole thing in college on my phone help dhdbdjd. But hey, something short, a bit of a buffer so hehehe.

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AINE | 2023. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

[ariainstars]

Why Can’t the Star Wars Franchise Renew Itself?

„Shame is a soul eating emotion.“ (Carl Gustav Jung)

Warning: longer post.

Growing up with Japanese anime I learned that being a hero is not about being perfect. The heroes I knew looked cool, were smart and brave and anything you could wish for, but also human: they were tormented, traumatized, struggling, they often doubted themselves and they sometimes cried (yes, the guys too). When I was first confronted with the Western idea of heroism I was appalled; to this day, I can’t fathom what is even supposed to be heroic about a guy like James Bond. Western heroes are usually just as terrible as the villains, except that for some reason they happen to be on the right side. The way they appear is more important than what they do. Franchises like Terminator, Mission Impossible, Batman etc. always portray the “hero” as untouchable, seemingly unbeatable even in the most dangerous situations and, most of all: impassive.

These days, new stories are being told. With new heroes. Except that said heroes are still quite the same as above, only now they’re more often female.

Is it an improvement when heroes are portrayed as being complete a**holes, with an aura of perfection and untouchability? No.

It always was ridiculous. It always was awful. It always was immoral.

But hardly anyone seemed to care as long as it was the guys being tough. Now that females are often portrayed doing and appearing the same, being a cool a**hole has become a caricature. Most people hate it. But the problem is that portraying alleged “heroes” like that was wrong in the first place.

The Fandom Menace

To Star Wars viewers who see stories as simply black and white and who are there mostly for the action and the superior-looking heroes, the Jedi are untouchable. Solitary and aloof, the Jedi have shiny sabres and can make things float, they travel the galaxy to kill the villains according to their own judgement. What could be more masculine than that? You try to tell an action film fan, or a Jedi fan, in particular, how messed up that is: they will never accept it. No wonder they get so upset and embarrassed when Jedi show their vulnerable, human side. Luke’s green milk in The Last Jedi must have caused a million of meltdowns among Jedi stans, mostly male ones, who felt that their hero had been character-assassinated and totally missing the point. Fans who are used to admire “heroes” like Batman, James Bond, Rambo etc. believe that the main characteristics of a male hero is a stoic appearance. A man who actually questions and doubts himself and feels guilty when he did wrong is automatically branded a loser.

Star Wars is mostly followed by action fans. But since it’s not a typical action franchise but an epic fairy tale and a metacommentary rich in symbolism, philosophy and psychology, there are also many intellectuals who love it, or hopelessly romantic souls like me. Except that fans who can actually enjoy Star Wars even when it’s not about the alleged Jedi superheroes, will most probably not send death threats to the studios and believe that “everything will be better once these producers are gone.”

The Prequels

The prequels were so disputed that Goerge Lucas himself confessed that he had sold the rights to the saga because he didn’t want to be exposed to that pressure any more. Ahmed Best, who played Jar Jar, was mobbed to the point where he considered suicide. Jake Lloyd, who portrayed little Anakin, suffers from schizophrenia to this day.

Were the films really that bad? No. But for the first time after having spent the years since 1977 believing that the Jedi were the wisest and strongest men of their time, fans were let down being confronted with their many mistakes. Anakin Skywalker was all too human as well, and quickly got apostrophized as a “whiny brat.” The very idea that the iconic villain Darth Vader once was a kind-hearted little boy and then an ardent young man was considered shocking to say the least.

The Classics

Luke is a simple farmboy when the saga starts, young, hot-headed and naïve. He is hardly aware of his powers. In the second film he’s more mature, but still impulsive and reckless. It’s only in the third instalment that he’s calm and collected: he’s a Jedi now, as the title says.

Let me ask a bold question.

Would there have been the vicious uproar we have witnessed, had The Last Jedi picked Luke up where he was in the first two films, before he became a Jedi?

I daresay, no.

Because to the Jedi stans Luke is first and foremost a Jedi. And that is what they get wrong.

Luke’s strength was exactly that he did not act like the other Jedi, that he followed his heart instead of their maxims. Had he acted like a Jedi, like Obi-Wan and Yoda expected him to, he would have killed his own father and spent the rest of his life hating himself. Luke is a team player, it’s one of his greatest strengths ever since the first film. He’s the one who brings people together and reunites his family. No Jedi is like that, on the contrary, in the prequels we learn that they’re discouraged from bonding with other people.

Jedi stans love Luke the Jedi, not Luke the person, who was wiser and stronger and better than any of the old-school Jedi, who strictly followed the rules instead of following their hearts the way he did.

Luke is the central character of the classic films because he’s so likeable. All three classic films have a scene towards the end where he’s about to die, and someone rushes to the rescue - Han in the first film, Leia in the second, Vader in the third. Do they save him because they are interested in his Jedi-like qualities? No. They do because they care for him; because, each in his own way, are his family. The Skywalker saga is a hymn to the power of love.

Hardcore fans still haven’t understood that the core story of Star Wars is the Skywalker saga, the story of a family. That’s the actual beauty and fascination of the Star Wars saga. And yet Jedi stans can pick apart any and every photogram of The Last Jedi and rant about how awful it is, never getting one inch closer to what is actually irking them too much: their own, misguided conviction that The Jedi Are the Good Guys and that their detached, collected attitude is not hypocritical.

Pride, male pride in particular can be oversensitive, and apparently many don’t grow beyond the mental stage of adolescents, who are particularly vulnerable. Listening to Jedi stans one would think that the Disney studios are producing new Star Wars content with the deliberate intention of hurting their feelings and laughing into the face of their ideals.

The Sequels

In Return of the Jedi (the only film where for all intents and purposes Luke looks and acts like a Jedi, and the title says it), on the Death Star he lashes out towards Vader when he threatens to corrupt Leia if he won’t succeed with him; and when he realizes that Vader can feel him in his mind, he says “I shouldn’t have come, I’m endangering the whole mission”. This fits perfectly to a Luke who debates killing his nephew - and that time he didn’t even strike - and who, once the damage is done, closes himself off the Force and retires to a deserted island before he can do any more harm. But ever since The Last Jedi, Jedi stans rave that “their hero” Luke Skywalker would never have behaved like that and that the film was a slap in the face of everything he ever stood for. Why?

Jedi stans expected Luke to be the hero and central figure of the sequel: he was supposed to be adult at last, wise, self-controlled, powerful, in other words the perfect Jedi. After the events on the second Death Star, Luke was not celebrated; no one even knew that Vader had saved him. In the final scene he had a vision of his father, now looking healed and serene, together with Yoda and Obi-Wan. No one else saw that, not even his sister. So, a lot of fans were waiting for Luke to have his big moment at last.

Instead, they saw a disillusioned hermit who at one point had to admit that he pushed his own nephew, albeit not on purpose, to the Dark Side. Luke was portrayed as a man who still had hope and strength even when he had seen his whole life’s work literally go up in smoke; who admitted his faults, apologized, and in the end gave his life to still make the best of the situation. That is what true heroism looks like. But it’s not what an average action moviegoer wants to see: to them, a hero looks cool, kills whoever gets in his way, maybe says some wise-sound words, and that’s it. Bonus if he gets the girl.

Jedi stans felt that Rey was taking the shine from Luke, pushing him aside. Far from usurping his place, Rey said to Luke “I need someone to show me my place in all this”. She clearly didn’t want to fill in his place. But Jedi stans felt like they were watching a James Bond film where Bond is suddenly not convinced of his mission, doubts himself and steps aside to make way for someone who normally would only be a Bond girl.

Rey is one of the most controversial characters of the sequels, allegedly because she’s a Mary Sue or a feminist fantasy who didn’t earn all that she achieved. But in the classics Luke was also good at things we never or hardly had seen him training or learning before. In The Empire Strikes Back, he pulled his sabre into his hand only by the force of his will, and called out to Leia in his mind. He acted on instinct; he assuredly hadn’t trained at a Jedi temple for decades.

The sequels were the story of the third generation of the Skywalker family, and one of its main mistakes, the way I see it today, is that they focus too much on Rey. She is Ben’s other half in the Force, as we learn later on, but still: the scion of the Skywalker family is he, he is the one who changes deeply, while she doesn’t.

I like Kylo Ren / Ben Solo because he’s a complex character, well-written and interpreted, but not only for that. I understood him so well on a personal level. I know what it means to be so isolated and abused that the moment someone shows you only a glimpse of kindness you fall in love to the point you would do anything for that person. The actual problem was that Rey did not know what she wanted, or what the Force wanted her to do. She only told Ben “not to go this way”. He saved her life twice, once as Kylo (when he killed Snoke) and once as Ben (when he gave her his remaining life force). If she had known what she wanted apart from staying alive, or if she had known the will of the Force, I do not doubt that he would have done anything she wanted. But she didn’t.

Star Wars stories only develop and the heroes only have success when they know what they want, not what they want to avoid. Fair enough. But the Force’s will remains mysterious. Even the alleged Chosen One didn’t know it. After The Last Jedi, I naively assumed that the better times when the Jedi actually did the will of the Force and the galaxy was at peace was during the time when the temple of Ahch-To was built; that we would learn more about it and that new Force users would find back to these better times. Seven years after having seen the Force Balance mosaic on the floor of the Jedi temple, I’m still waiting in vain for one or more Force users to actually discover and share said balance.

Obi-Wan Kenobi (2022)

The miniseries Obi-Wan Kenobi was the first and only time that I actually liked a character who I had until then felt to be narrow-minded, haughty and largely responsible for Anakin’s damnation and the downfall of the republic.

“From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!” Anakin Skywalker in Revenge of the Sith

Obi-Wan proved that Anakin was right a few minutes later: he ended the duel with Anakin cutting off his legs and leaving him to burn in the lava - a Jedi does not soil his hands through a coup de grace. Obi-Wan did not manage to save Anakin in the moment of his greatest need, and he did not have mercy. Padme was about to take Anakin with her, which would at least have spared the galaxy the worst. Being the perfect Jedi, of course Obi-Wan had to interfere, setting the seal on Anakin’s fate. At the beginning of the same film Anakin killed Count Dooku who was kneeling handless in front of him; and it was also said that Anakin had saved Obi-Wans’s life ten times over. But he did not learn from his mistakes: twenty years later he tried to push the naïve Luke to patricide, so that is own hands would, again, not get dirty. Obi-Wan recurrently appeared to Luke as a Jedi spirit; but in The Empire Strikes Back when the traumatized young man, having learned the truth, repeated over and over, „Ben, why didn’t you tell me?” he was silent. When they did meet again, he shirked his responsibility with wise-sounding words.

Was Obi-Wan a good Jedi? From their perspective, undoubtedly. But I would not call him a compassionate human being. Obi-Wan was afraid not so much of Anakin but of the Jedi’s judgement: he knew that if Anakin tripped over a line, he as his master would be responsible. And Yoda had his fair share of responsibility - he refused to help Obi-Wan with the training of the powerful boy, he feared him although he was the one who clearly said that fear is the way to the Dark Side, and in Revenge of the Sith he practically ordered Obi-Wan to kill him.

Obi-Wan was always the first to draw the weapon. In A New Hope, he cut off the arm of a guy at a bar who was merely annoying him. In Revenge of the Sith, he attacked General Grievous showing up behind him, challenging to an uncalled-for fight. He had neither himself nor anyone else to protect right then. During his duel with Anakin / Vader in Obi-Wan Kenobi, he also was the first to draw his weapons.

Obi-Wan never questioned himself, his choices and actions. He never took his responsibilities: even when dead, he justified his blatant lie to Luke saying that the truth is only a point of view. He never felt guilty or admitted defeat and wrong choices.

Not until Obi-Wan Kenobi, where was alone, traumatized, regretful, bonding with little Leia. Owen said clearly him that he did not want him to train Luke because of the way he had trained his father. Human at last! The last thing Jedi stans want him to be like. He even did what a Jedi actually ought to do, giving Reva spiritual advice. Of course, another Star Wars character who was accused of having been “character assassinated”.

Was Moses Ingram attacked for her portrayal of Reva because she’s a woman of colour? No, it was because Obi-Wan was not portrayed as Jedi stans wanted to see him. The actress was mobbed because they needed someone to project their hatred on. It’s true that her character was not written well, but any fool must have known that it wasn’t the actresses’ fault.

The Acolyte (2024)

“The Jedi live in a dream. A dream they believe everyone shares. If you attack a Jedi with a weapon you will fail… But an acolyte kills without a weapon. An acolyte kills the dream.” (The Stranger)

„The majority of my colleagues can’t imagine a galaxy without the Jedi. And I can understand why. When you’re looking up to heroes, you don’t have to face what’s right in front of you.“

„I think the Jedi are a massive system of unchecked power posing as a religion. A delusional cult that claims to control the uncontrollable. You project an image of goodness and restraint. But it’s only a matter of time before one of you snaps. And when, not if that happens, who will be strong enough to stop him?”

(Senator Rayencourt to Master Vernestra)

Did anyone at Disney Lucasfilm honestly think that this kind of show would be accepted and even loved by Jedi stans, who make up the majority of the fans - or at least a group that is very loud in their disapproval? If it “simply” was a bad tv show, fans would be disappointed, shrug it off and move on. I haven’t met such an amount of online vitriol since The Last Jedi, and it’s not difficult to see why: because the precious Jedi were shown as arrogant fools who believe they mean well but are too narrow-minded and stuck-up to see the errors in their ways.

„The Force does not belong to the Jedi.” (Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi)

Some in the galaxy far, far away call it The Thread. And use it their own way. Both ways might be wrong. Osha is raised by two very different mentalities and finds both don’t suit her, so she joins The Stranger who is also looking to find his own path. Whether they will or not we won’t know unfortunately, since the show’s second season was cancelled. (At least for now.)

Is Master Sol a bad person? No. He’s fallible and believes that the lies he told Osha are justified. So are the other Jedi that travel to Brendok with him. What makes Jedi stans hate them is that they don’t defeat the Stranger; and that Sol and Torbin actually feel guilty for what they did to Mae, Osha and their family. Vernestra on the other hand lied to the Jedi Council to make sure they won’t find out what happened.

Sol took Osha away from everything she had known by destroying, in the process, her home, her past and her family, and letting her live in a lie for the next sixteen years. Sol knew that she was already too old to be trained, and taking her as his padawan he set her up for failure. Even when she left the Jedi order, failing the tests, he didn’t tell her the truth. Osha was condemned to loneliness, her only friend being Pip, a mechanical device. She could go back neither to Brendok nor to the Jedi, and being Force sensitive, she belonged nowhere until she met the Stranger.

Sol certainly was kind to her while he trained her, but for all the wrong reasons. He said that he “felt that Osha was meant to be his padawan”. What does that mean? Osha failed the tests and Sol knew she was already too old for training. He even said he loved her at one point. My take is that Sol felt lonely and wanted to raise her as his daughter, he did not care that much about Osha becoming a Jedi nor not. Osha was right confronting him about what he had done to her, her sister and her entire coven, allegedly knowing what was best for her. She didn’t have to go as far as to kill him, I found that it did a lot to make her character unlikeable. Osha effectively “killed the past”, the way Ben Solo had wanted to. However: if it’s immoral to kill your father figure, it is equally immoral, if not much worse, of said father figure to wipe out your family and its entire civilization with it just to get a hold on you because you have the same power as he.

Impossible!! A Real Jedi would never do that! That’s why Jedi stans hate on the show and will pick on every small detail where they believe they find a flaw. The actual flaw is their headcanon that the Jedi can’t be the problem. Watching the saga, you see that they were very much a problem. But woe if you speak up; your will get your head ripped off.

The Acolyte also isn’t a female fantasy, as his haters claim. The strongest and most impressive character is the Stranger. Mae is his first pupil, but she doesn’t connect with him on a personal level, she only learns fighting from him; in the end, this makes her regress to childhood (the Stranger deleting her memory and she finding herself helpless in the Jedi order the way her sister had been sixteen years earlier). So? It appears that just wanting to be a strong female character and to do what a guy shows you is the wrong way, which is certainly not feministic.

The Stranger, despite his black clothes and mask, is not a real villain: when you watch him fight you see that he defends himself, he never attacks first. Despite their Code, again we see Jedi draw their weapons first, attack from behind or eight against one. He rightly points out to Osha that Yord had arrested her for a crime she did not commit and that both Jecki and Sol, whom she saw as her friends, would never commit fully to her.

Another popular criticism is that the Stranger allegedly has seduced Osha to the Dark Side with his male charms. But the Stranger is a mixed creature the way Osha is, neither good nor evil; he kills in defence or self-defence, and when he criticizes the ways of the Jedi he has a point. Osha is neither good nor evil herself, and I liked that they were starting on a new way together, all the more because I had been so disappointed that the sequels didn’t show us the much-needed and already announced Balance in the Force. When both Anakin and his grandson Ben came back to the Light side, it swallowed them whole, causing their death.

The Acolyte is a metaphor for growing up. Osha learned two ways of using the Force - first with (mother) Aniseya, then with Sol (father figure). The Stranger understands her doubts because he’s been through the same. Osha understands him better after putting on his helmet. In the end, they join their lives to find a new way together and in the final scene, both turn their backs to the past.

The Broom Boy: a Metaphor for the Future

The final scene of The Last Jedi with the Force-sensitive slave boy sweeping a floor before an open space which looks very much like a theatre stage, and who then looks up to the stars dreaming of being a Jedi, was clear: “Free the stage, now it’s time for us, the children.” There has hardly been a Star Wars show until now where there wasn’t a child in a central role.

Since the prequels, Star Wars made a point of showing that the Jedi are very bad at dealing with children. Anakin was taken away from his mother at age nine, shouldered with the prediction “You are the Chosen One”, and his emotional development was stunted because he was not allowed to go through the stages of being a normal child and teenager. Remember Attack of the Clones, where we see children playing around with light sabres - deadly weapons - like they were toys? Or Revenge of the Sith, where we see even smaller children, all with their light sabre tucked into their belts? It looks tragic. The scene where Anakin kills the children is a painful metacommentary on how a good person with a gun is no match against a bad person with a gun.

Sol: „She was just a child.” The Stranger: „You brought her here.”

In The Acolyte, Torbin and Jecki are heartbreaking examples of two Jedi padawans not allowed to be the teenagers they actually are. Jedi stans call Torbin “whiny”, but they overlook that his behaviour is normal for any teenager forced to be away from home for weeks on end on a trip he didn’t choose to make. Jecki has more self-control, but it doesn’t help her: she gets killed. The Stranger rightly points out that they both should never have come along on a risky mission to a planet with wholly unknown dangers. Jedi stans of course despise Torbin, because he’s supposed to be proud to be part of the Jedi since it gives him the possibility to look cool and fight all the bad guys in sight. Ironically, Torbin is the only member of the group of Jedi on Brendok who feels that something dreadful is about to happen and wants to go away. And years later, he is the only Jedi who admits to Mae that he feels guilty for what they did to Osha and her covert believing “they were doing the right thing”. That’s simply not what Jedi stans want to see. It’s an aberration to them, a slap in the face of everything they believe in.

Luke did not learn his ideals from the Jedi, he learned them at home with two simple farmers who neither were Force-sensitive nor knew the ways of the Jedi. Had he been raised like his father, all his power wouldn’t have helped him. Why do the Jedi insist that at a certain age you’re too old to be trained? I daresay because you have to start with brainwashing very early, before a person’s character is formed and its ideals in place.

The Mandalorian always allows Grogu to be a child. He keeps him close because that’s where’s he’s safest; he does look for safer places where he could leave him and is ready to make the sacrifice to give him up, but Sorgan proves not to be safe and later on Ossus, Grogu chooses to leave Luke on his own accord. And as soon as he is with Mando, he shows his playful side again. Grogu needs that! It’s healthy, because a child needs to be a child, no matter how powerful it is. But Jedi stans only think that it must be a great honour to be trained to be a hero from childhood on, never considering that it’s unfulfilling and frustrating at best, and traumatizing at worst.

It’s not a coincidence that family is the core theme of the Skywalker saga. Children who grow up feeling loved and protected develop well. That’s a wise message, and The Bad Batch, Obi-Wan Kenobi or The Mandalorian made a good point of it. But still: until now it didn’t lead anywhere. None of the Force-sensitive children we saw until now pointed to a new and better new Jedi Order, or anything else of that sort.

Star Wars Bigotry: Jedi and Jedi stans

If the Force wants Balance, as is said in the prequels, then the Jedi must be just as wrong as the Sith, because the Force does not want to be used either way.

I don’t mind a good villain. But if a viewer needs to compartmentalize characters into black and white or else he believes it can’t work, then that’s his problem, not the author’s. The sequels were unclear as to who the villain was, so was The Acolyte, so Jedi stans rave about how they suck. In my opinion they’re interesting exactly because the good guys sometimes do wrong and the bad guys sometimes are right. Of course, anyone who’s adamant that a good story, in particular a good Star Wars story, has to be Good Guys against Bad Guys with the Jedi being the good guys will never accept that.

The Jedi worshippers are many, and they are the most vicious among the SW fandom. Woe if you dare to criticize their Flawless Heroes with shiny light sabres who make things float. They will pretend that „wokeism“, feminism, blackwashing etc. are the problem. But that’s not true. Most of them wouldn’t mind strong female characters, queer or black characters whatsoever as long as the show they appear in would actually focus on showing off the Jedi as heroes. They do not mind stories like The Mandalorian, Rogue One, Andor, or The Bad Batch, they usually like them: because the Jedi hardly appear there. Or if they do, like in The Mandalorian season 2, The Book of Boba Fett or Ahsoka, they kick ass. In The Force Awakens Han Solo, also a very popular character, got killed, and no one hated on that film, on the contrary, most fans loved it. But hey, Han is not a Jedi. He can die a seemingly senseless death.

The Book of Boba Fett was mediocre at best. But it wasn’t hated. On the contrary, a lot of fans loved episode 6 because they finally saw a young Luke as a Jedi master making frogs float (argh!). The Jedi taught their pupils to suppress their feelings and to live without attachments, an attitude that proved fatal. Yet Jedi stans love the idea, probably because of the age-old adage of the lonesome cowboy who is too cool and aloof to care for anyone. They loved seeing Luke as an adult Jedi master alone and cut off from the very people who had been his life and purpose until then. He trained Grogu but didn’t play with him, didn’t allow him to be a child. It was the contrary of everything the character ever stood for - family, friendship, team spirit, loyalty. Of course that was not seen as “character assassination”, apparently that’s exactly what they wanted to see.

Many Star Wars fans believe that Luke Skywalker and the Jedi stand in for certain values, which they claim as their own. These values are their own values; they have only chosen a person and a group to represent them. If you believe that Star Wars is about Good vs. Evil and that the Jedi are the heroes who always triumph, of course you will be disappointed by the new stories. The studios are not deliberately harming the franchise, it’s the fans who want the saga to fit their worldview. They hardly care for what the stories really tell them. Someone who e.g. is convinced that all Frenchmen are cheaters and liars will also see a Frenchman and see in him the embodiment of everything he despises; he will not care to get to know this man better, or to learn about his country and his culture. And if said Frenchman has success in his life and is popular, the worse. It’s unacceptable. And anyone who does not hate this particular man is an idiot.

Bigotry has many forms, it doesn’t only mean despising and not wanting to understand people from another race, religion, orientation etc. The Fandom Menace’s bigotry consists in worshipping the Jedi and hating anything that criticizes them. Bigotry is the firm conviction of being Good, and supporting who also is “Good”, whatever category those good people are supposed to belong to. A bigot is a stern denier of his own sins and inner darkness. Either you’re with him or against him. Bigoted people are capable of fighting tooth and nail against perceived “enemies” who threaten their ideal of the “goodness” they believe in and think they belong to. Unfortunately, Jedi stans have many channels on social media and many, many followers who would rather die than see the Jedi as anything but perfect. A perfect person does not go wrong, of course. Ever. Their perfection prevents them from questioning themselves. A lot of fans don’t even watch the pieces of media they criticize at all, but hate on them anyway because their influencers tell them they suck. Bullies do not care who they attack. They feel frustrated, they can’t handle their feeling of shame, and take it out on who is or seems most vulnerable. And the worst bullies are those who pretend they are being aggressive out of morality.

“Wokeism” is Not the Problem

After the hatred coming from the fans who disapproved hotly of The Last Jedi, the narrative of this film was tainted and instead of finishing all the narrative threads it had set up, it was plainly ignored in favour of a pure action film, flat and disappointing. The Rise of Skywalker ended not only the trilogy but the entire saga in a way that I can only call disgraceful. On both sides, hardly anyone really liked it. But was it hated? No, because the Jedi were portrayed as the heroes, with even one ridiculous scene where the ghost of Luke appears to Rey telling her how wrong he had been when he was still alive.

Just for comparison: very many fans of Joker didn’t understand the film’s point as well. Todd Philips answered with the sequel Folie à deux, which is a logical continuation of the first film and boldly asks the audience to look at themselves and their wrong interpretation. The reviews are mixed - as with The Last Jedi, apparently you can only love or hate that film -, but Folie à deux is, first of all, a good film. In time, when the controversy has calmed down, it will be remembered as an excellent piece of art. The Rise of Skywalker is just embarrassing, and there’s no way it can age well.

The saga was indeed tainted, but not by Disney. Toxic fans who flooded social media with hate after The Last Jedi and sent death threats or tearful resentment to the studios did, resulting in the production of the flattest, most low-quality and uninteresting film Star Wars has ever seen, obviously patched together as a try to “amend” for what didn’t need to be amended for in the first place.

Star Wars’ strength is constant weaving between Good and Evil, good guys showing dark sides and bad guys having a point, interacting and learning from one another instead of killing each other. It could be a dream for film studios and authors, because it offers such rich tapestry for storytelling: the possibilities seem endless. But every time anyone dares to criticize Jedi or to show that an alleged Bad Guy still has a bright spot in his heart, and that he might have his reason for turning his back on the Jedi, Jedi stans cry out to heaven as if an inconceivable blasphemy had occurred.

If you like the sequels, you’re an idiot “Reylo” who believes she can fix the bad guy. Kylo Ren alias Ben Solo was the most deep, complex and fascinating character of the sequels, who went through a deep and compelling transformation. And no, he was not fixed by a woman’s love. But if you understand his conflict and follow him hoping for him to come back to the Light, you just “don’t get it that he’s the villainTM who wants to seduce an innocent girl to become evil”.

Same thing with The Acolyte of course, because there’s a scene where we see the non-Jedi-not-quite-Sith taking off his clothes. Of course the Stranger was “evil”; he wanted an acolyte, i.e. he did not want to be alone. What kind of guy is that, who does not embrace his loneliness?! The Strager - a guy - was he coolest character of all in The Acolyte and the only “relationship” we saw there was one between man and woman. But if you like that show you’re apostrophized as woke (which is still a mild word), because the author is a lesbian and the actress portraying the protagonist identifies as non-binary. That is neither true nor does queerness have anything to do with the show’s quality.

Luke exposed himself both body and soul to the Emperor, first almost falling to the Dark Side himself and then almost dying in the process, because he wanted to “fix” the Bad Guy, aka his father. And he actually did.

In The Bad Batch, the character of Crosshair goes from belonging to the heroes to betraying them and then going back again. In the last season his relationship with Omega is evenly balanced, they break free from imprisonment together. It’s one of the show’s best parts. But they are no Jedi, so that show is not hated on.

Jedi stans expect Star Wars to “stick to its roots”, i.e. tell stories where morals are as clearly cut as in A New Hope. They don’t consider that that expectation was already beyond all hope when The Empire Strikes Back came out, with its infamous key scene and all its implications, including the failure and hypocrisy of the Jedi.

Action films have taught spectators that real heroism is defined by the “license to kill”, i.e. the good guy is recognizable from the fact that he has the right - or believes he has the right - to kill anyone who stands in his way. Jedi stans love the idea that Jedi are the good guys because, not having attachments, apparently that gives them the right and to decide who must be sacrificed by them “for the greater good”. I would like to see them in a situation where someone, maybe even someone they love, tells them “Oh well, now I’m going to sacrifice you for the greater good.” It’s absurd and unbelievably cruel to pretend that such an attitude has anything to do with good morals. If anything, it ought to be the victim who decides that they’re sacrificing their lives, not some Jedi or other hero who allegedly has the right to decide over life and death.

Luke Skywalker himself sacrificed himself over and over. He did debate to kill his nephew, but it was only a brief moment of panic on his side, he didn’t go through with it, and afterwards he felt so ashamed he exiled himself. Luke’s trademark characteristic was his compassion; whereas we never see a Jedi act out of compassion. And believing that having no attachments because it gives you the licence to sacrifice someone “for the greater good” is everything but compassionate. But even the greatest Jedi and Luke stans don’t see any contradiction there.

Do the Jedi stans really expect a white male straight character as the lead? No. Most of them for instance were fine with Jyn Erso being the protagonist of Rogue One. But in that film, there was no Jedi. When the sequels, Obi-Wan Kenobi or The Acolyte came out, they were upset because the non-white, non-male, non-straight characters seem adamant to take the place of who Star Wars allegedly ought to be all about. Jedi stans want a story where they can be on the side of the “good guys”, follow them sitting comfortably on their couch or in a theatre seat, identify with them and pump their fist in the air when “their side has won”. A lot of them do appreciate more complex stories like Andor; but their untouchable Jedi do not appear there, so there is nothing to hate on.

The classic trilogy’s topics were Hope, Love and Faith (the Force representing and tying together all three). The prequels had very little of all of that, because they’re the story of a tragedy and a massive failure; but what fans who like them apparently have learned from the prequels it’s that it must be great to be a Jedi, lonely and aloof and the master over life and death. Who wants Hope, Love and Faith instead of cool heroes killing everybody who stands in the way of what they decide is right?

Where Do We Go from Here

Star Wars will never have the chance to truly evolve and renew itself as long as there are people who will cry blasphemy any time a film or tv show dares to portray one Jedi or the Jedi as a whole as anything but perfect. Try to tell a Jedi stan that the Jedi perhaps are not the Good Guys after all (starting with Luke Skywalker after his third film): it’s as telling a staunch Catholic that Jesus was not the Son of God. They will fight you literally like their soul depended on it.

The unpardonable fault, in the eyes of Jedi stans, is not diversity the way it’s often mistakenly interpreted; it’s the Disney studios portraying the Jedi Order, Luke, Boba, Obi-Wan etc. as humans instead of Good or Evil cardboard cut-outs. To them, that’s simply bad writing, and they sternly refuse to see any other angle; they identify with the allegedly Good Guys and now believe it’s up to them to put up a fight against the Bad Guys who make their heroes allegedly look like fools, i.e. who dare to take them from their pedestal by criticizing or at least humanizing them. It was the Jedi stans who built said pedestal. It wasn’t George Lucas or the Disney studios.

Most Jedi stans would not mind strong female characters, black, diverse characters, homosexuality etc.; as long as everyone stays in sidelines while the Jedi take the shine. Heated Star Wars discussions usually start with one side accusing the other of being misogynistic, homophobic etc. and the other side claiming that the responsible people at the studios are using the franchise to shove their “woke” agenda down their throats.

Instead of cancelling interesting character developments that were just getting started and ending entire trilogies after almost half a century on disturbingly flat notes, dear Disney Lucasfilm studios: please finally give Jedi stans what they want - a tv show or film trilogy that caters to them. Set it a few hundred years before the fall of the Republic, endow their precious Jedi with all imaginable virtues, let them make things float and have cool light sabre battles destroying some faceless, boring Bad Guy and then take off into the sunset. Tell these kinds of stories for the next decade, and maybe the Fandom Menace will finally be appeased.

Choose a diverse cast if you want: Jedi stans will hardly care. If a Star Wars show had Jedi for protagonists and these would be the infallible, all-wise superheroes their stans take them for, they won’t mind if these Jedi were black, Asian, female, lesbians or non-binary, with a few white straight people sprinkled throughout. They will swallow it hook, line and sinker.

In the meantime, please complete the stories that you enchanted us other fans with, which are actually epic and magical and centred around human connection and personal development.

Thank you.

[runningfrom2am]

Reader’s childhood friend gets dumped by Rafe, and then when the reader moves to town, they get back at Rafe, by breaking his heart.

thank you for this request ahhh i'm obsessed! (I've never seen john tucker must die but i hope this is along the right lines of what we were after lol.) i feel so bad ab hurting him :'(

anyway happy halloween guys!! i hope everyone has so much fun :))

rafe cameron must die - r.c.

pairing: rafe x fem!reader

wc: 3k

tags/warnings: toxic af reader, cheating, manipulation, swearing, read at your own discretion (but nothing else really that deep).

requests (currently closed- feel free to send whatever but it will be a while before I get to them!)

nav/masterlists

After your best friend showed up on your doorstep in New York with tears in her eyes and her favourite pillow under her arm, you knew you had to do something.

She had lived in New York most of her life, having only left you a few years before to move down to the Outer Banks with her family. You missed her dearly, but you hardly went a day without talking or a holiday without her coming home- that is, until she starting dating Rafe Cameron.

Over the last year your friend had fallen off your radar, not for a lack of you trying. But with her crying with her head in your lap, she confessed that she never meant to hurt you, but it was Rafe who had insisted that she didn't need her connections back home, and would roll his eyes when she mentioned anyone he didn't know personally. This got to the point where she just stopped, and made the mistake of listening to him when he drilled into her that you didn't even care if you couldn't be bothered to come visit. Luckily for you, while manipulative and abusive, Rafe also was careless- and your best friend told you he never even bothered to remember your name.

You dried her tears after days, shedding a fair few yourself upon hearing about how your friend's ex had treated her and how he broke up with her over text after no-call, no-showing their one-year anniversary date. You couldn't take it. You had to fix this somehow.

You had always been one for silent, secret revenge. Like spreading rumours about people who had done you wrong and never laying claim to the story, homie-hopping the friend group of a boy who refused to give you the respect of labeling your relationship, or even taking the liberty of sleeping with all of another girls ex-boyfriend's if she had given you one too many dirty looks. They didn't have to know about it in order for you to maintain your confidence- you knew what you did, and that was enough. This time, though, it wasn't you they had hurt. It was your best friend, the purest, kindest of souls who couldn't hurt a fly if you handed her the swatter and somehow held it still.

Rafe Cameron had to know the mistake he made by treating the wrong girl the wrong way, and you would make sure that he would. As you got off the ferry in Kildare with a suitcase in your hand, your mind was already reeling with every last thing you could do to him to make him feel what your best friend did- to hurt him the way he deserved. Rafe Cameron must die.

After scrubbing your social media's of any evidence of each other, your friend gave you the name of the country club he frequented. You had been quick to apply for every job they had open, and you landed one as a cart girl- it was perfect. You couldn't be more pleased with the position, you got to drive around on a drink cart in whatever short skirt you pleased, serving drinks and snacks to rich men who tipped generously and to most importantly, Rafe Cameron.

He had been intrigued from the first time he laid eyes on you. You were pretty, and seemingly so nice, and better yet; you were new in town. To him, you didn't know anything of him and his reputation, his drug habit, or his family name. He didn't know that you knew it all.

"Good morning Mr. Cameron." You smile, pulling up next to his tee-off point and quickly but casually stepping out of the cart. "Your usual today?"

"Come on, you can call me Rafe. My dad is 'Mr. Cameron'." Rafe chuckles, shaking his head at you and already digging for his wallet.

"That he is." You agree with a slight laugh, digging through your cooler to grab his favourite brand of beer and a shot. "First one is on me." You insist, holding the shot out for him as he looks up from where he was shuffling through the bills in his wallet.

"What's the occasion?" Rafe chuckles, furrowing his brow as he grabs the small glass from you.

"I don't know, it's always a good day when my favourite client is in early." You shrug, painting an innocent smile on your face.

"I'm your favourite, huh?" He smirks, accentuating the statement by taking the shot as you crack open his beer and hold it out to him to chase with.

"Of course you are." You hum, watching him as he trades the shot glass for the can in your hand.

"Well, that's funny, actually, because you're my favourite cart girl." Rafe smiles at you, and you return it, looking down and brushing your hair back out of your face.

"That's real sweet, thank you." You blush, fighting back the urge to scowl at how honestly fake he is. He's not this nice person he pretends to be- but he doesn't know that you aren't either. How long could the two of you play this game before one of you shows your cards? You're hoping that you get the chance to go first.

"You're welcome." Rafe smirks, nodding at you, reaching for his wallet again. God- he is so obnoxious you could vomit. "Here, this is a tip then if the drinks are free." He hands you a fifty, and you once again resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Oh, wow, thank you." You smile sheepishly, taking it from him and tucking the bill into your bra.

"Don't worry about it." He smiles, leaning on his club as he watches you go to get back in the cart. "Hey, Y/N?"

Bingo.

You turn and put that smile back on, humming and tilting your head at him expectantly.

"Want to grab drinks after your shift? I know this great country club with a really cool bar."

Of course he wants to take you out to the club you work at- and to think that's funny, too? What a joke.

"Yeah! I would like that." You nod with a smile.

Your first few dates went... swimmingly. Perfectly to plan, anyway. Rafe would always pay, and you would always act a little nervous. You would wear sundresses- your friend said they were his favourite, and you played into his interests. You made a strong impression that you were one to be easily manipulated, and he was falling for it. Hard.

You were walking down the beach, hand in hand, taking the time to look at the beautiful view of the ocean while the boy next to you watched you intently, as if you were the only girl in the world. Right now, to him, you were. "Hey, Y/N, so I was thinking..."

"Oh, were you?" You tease, giggling as you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, I was," Rafe chuckles, gently swinging your hand. "I was thinking that maybe I'd like you to be my girlfriend, a more official thing. If you want, of course."

"Really?" You smile, chewing your bottom lip as you look up at him.

"Yeah, of course. You're really cool, and kind, and so beautiful, and I was just hoping you were feeling the same way I was." It was sweet, you can see how he roped in your friend so effortlessly.

"Aw, well, yes, I would love that, Rafe."

When you got back to your apartment that night, you were quick to text your friend and tell her he was all in. The plan was working out beautifully, and while she felt guilty, you reassured her that karma was on your side- and it would be the only justice he ever would face.

You spent the following month as Rafe's dream girl. Within three weeks of him asking you to be his girlfriend, he had told you he loved you over a shared bottle of wine on his yacht. You would be lying if you said you didn't enjoy this new lifestyle he was giving you, but you were much more excited by the idea of all of this blowing up in his face. You had considered the route of revenge porn, even going so far as to save some illicit pictures of him that you asked for, but even for you, that feels too far.

Safe to say, though, it's only a matter of a few months before he's all in, and you're all in with his friends, and thankfully, his family. He didn't get on with his sister, which worked out for you considering that her boyfriend, John B, was a pogue- and your overly possessive boyfriend had a wonderfully convenient distaste for pogues.

"Sarah! How are you? I didn't expect to see you here!" You smile, walking up to her and immediately pulling her in for a hug.

"Uh, at a boneyard party?" Sarah chuckles, hugging you back and looking over your shoulder at her friends, sharing a confused look with them.

"Well, yeah. I guess you're right." You giggle, pulling away and looking around at her friends. "These must be your friends! I've heard so much about you guys."

"Uh, yeah, everyone, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is John B, Kie, Pope, and JJ." She introduces you and you smile politely, giving them a small wave. "Y/N is Rafe's girlfriend."

"Nice to meet you." Pope says, but it sounds more like a question. It would be suspicious that Rafe's girlfriend would want anything to do with pogues.

"I just moved here a few months ago. I'm still trying to make friends and stuff." You shrug. "Really I've heard only good things about you guys."

Kie scoffs at this, bringing her cup up to her lips and shaking her head.

"What?" You giggle, furrowing your brow.

"As if Rafe would have anything nice to say about us." JJ agrees with his friend.

"Well, Rafe is... you know. Rafe."

"You could say that." John B says sarcastically and Sarah hits his shoulder.

"He's just... Actually, never mind. I shouldn't say that." You laugh it off, hoping one of them will take the bait.

They all look at each other, and a silent interaction takes place that you hope you're reading correctly. "Hey, can I grab you another drink?" JJ offers after a moment.

You nod and smile. "Yeah! Sounds good, I'm not drunk enough to be getting these shoes dirty like this. I still feel guilty about it." You laugh.

"Alright then! Tell me- have you ever done a shotgun before?"

The night progresses just as planned, with you getting sloppy drunk. Or, outwardly, sloppy drunk. You'd "accidentally" spilled over half of your drinks, gravitating closer and closer to JJ. He was cute anyways, and funny, and who were you to deny yourself the pleasure of being around someone you actually liked after months of faking it with Rafe?

You fire off a text to him, asking him to "pretty please" come pick you up from this party, and he replies within a minute promising he'd be there soon, and, the icing on the cake, that he loved you.

Now was most definitely the right time to get this whole thing over with.

"So, you were saying earlier about Rafe..." John B asks, leaning on Sarah's shoulder as she nudges him, shooting him a look that says 'don't be too obvious'.

"Oh! Well like I said, I probably shouldn't say..." You giggle, leaning into JJ's side more as he slots his arm around your waist to steady you.

"C'mon, Y/N/N, you can tell us. We won't tell a soul." JJ promises, squeezing you gently.

"Okay, well, In that case, he's kind of... weird, I guess? When we're alone he's just so clingy and whiney and kind of annoying." You slur out, giggling and covering your face. "I mean, I love him, but like, it's a lot."

You watch as their faces collectively light up, John B and JJ trying their best not to laugh. "And! And, you seriously can't tell anyone I told you this..." You cut them off, shaking your head and pretending to stumble a bit. "It's like... quite small. Honestly, I feel bad for him. The sex is so bad."

You laugh as everyone else does, already knowing you've lit the fire for a rumour to spread. Not that it was entirely true, but you figured it was a nice touch. Something for him to remember you by after you're back in New York and he's still fighting off the small dick allegations.

"That's... yeah that sucks." JJ laughs, running his hand down your back. "I have to tell you, though, no one's ever said that about me." He whispers the last part to you so no one else could hear, but you're sure they got the general idea.

You hum, taking another sip from your can as you turn in his arm. "Come with me to grab another drink?" You whisper back and he nods.

"Guys! We'll be back, just going to grab another drink." JJ explains, already leading you off.

"Don't tell anyone what I said about Rafe!" You laugh, pointing at them as you walk away, sure to be loud enough to draw looks from other kids scattered around.

"Come on, this way." You grab his hand and lead him away from where you stashed your drinks, up toward the road.

"Don't you want your drink?" JJ asks, confused as you turn to face him, shaking your can to demonstrate that it's still almost entirely full.

JJ chuckles, shaking his head. "What about your boyfriend?"

"What about him?" You say, stopping next to a tree, chewing on your lip as you look up at the boy in front of you.

"Nothing." JJ says quietly, shaking his head as you lean in, catching headlights approaching in your peripheral vision.

You pull JJ closer to you, his lips pressed to yours and you tangle your fingers in his hair as the lights get closer, brighter.

Rafe makes his way down the road, repeatedly trying to call you. No answer after your text, but he just sums it up to you being too drunk to make out what's on the screen. He loves it when you're drunk, you're giggly, and fun, and more relaxed than normal. It's not a side of you he sees often.

Rafe is beginning to think you're changing him, for the better. He's never loved someone so much, he fell fast and hard for a girl who was perfect for him. Soulmate was a word he swore he never believed in, that was until he got to know you.

When he caught a look at you in his headlights, making out with JJ fucking Maybank, he could swear his heart stopped. Typically he'd be angry- he's not a stranger to being cheated on, or doing the cheating, but with you, it was so different. He was more mature now. Apparently, maturity meant heartbreak.

"Y/N? Is that you?" Rafe calls out, getting out of the truck as JJ disappears back down to the beach. He already knew the answer.

"Rafe! Uh, hi!" You giggle nervously, deciding to play this out a little longer as he walks up to you.

"Who were you with?" He asks, stopping a few feet away as his voice cracks.

"Oh! Uhm, just a friend." You answer, keeping your distance.

"Oh, okay. Well, let's go, then. I'll get you home." He mumbles, a tear falling which he quickly wipes away as he turns to head back to the truck. Hopefully, the few seconds he isn't facing you are enough to compose himself.

"What, that's it?" You scoff, crossing your arms. The sudden sobriety in your voice caught him off-guard. "I really expected more from you, Rafe Cameron."

He turns, brow furrowed as he looks you over. Sober as ever, he's sure of it. "What?"

"What?" You mock him, rolling your eyes. "I'm disappointed. Honestly. Not even a screaming match?"

Rafe pauses for a moment, shaking his head slightly as if it would help him interpret the situation. "Y/N, I'm not going to fight with you. I'm going to pretend I didn't see what I'm pretty sure I just saw, and we're going to move on. Okay?"

"I'd rather not, actually." You reply, feet planted firmly where you stood. "Are you crying?" You ask, leaning in a little and squinting in the headlights to see better. "Oh, my, god. You are crying!"

"What are you laughing at? You cheated on me!" He defends, wiping his eyes rapidly as his voice shakes.

"Aw." You laugh, clutching your drink to your chest with a fake pout. "It really worked, didn't it?"

Rafe looks down at the ground now, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Tell me, how does it feel?" You ask. "I'd like to pass it on to a friend. I mean, she already knows, because you cheated on her. Then blamed her, and then hit her when she pointed the finger back at you. Oh, and that was after you ghosted her and broke up with her with a snapchat."

He just shakes his head again, chewing now on the side of his nail as tears continue to fall.

"Nothing? Not even a word?" You ask, waving your hand in his direction to grab his attention.

"I love you." He mutters, a weak attempt at regaining your favour.

This only succeeds in making you laugh. "So I win!" You drop your can so you can give yourself a round of applause.

"Rafe Cameron, I have never met someone as fake, and sick, and as cruel as you are." You recite, stepping closer with every word. "You are going to die alone. And you'll deserve it."

"You will too." Rafe counters, taking a deep breath. "You are just as cruel and sick as I am." He spits, regaining enough confidence to be angry. "What kind of person takes months out of their life to move to a new city just to fuck up someone else's life?"

"You don't even know the extent of what I did yet." You whisper, face to face with him now. "Go ahead. Hit me. I won't press charges. I won't need to."

His fists are clenched at his sides, jaw shut so tight his temples are starting to ache as angry tears continue to fall.

"You can't, can you?" You continue, taking a step back now, smiling and shaking your head. "You're pathetic, Rafe Cameron!" You call, turning and walking back down the path.

He watches you walk away, heartbroken as he huffs with anger. That's what he gets for changing. That's what he gets for trusting you.

taglist: @bookishbabyyy, @madelynie, @whore-4-drewstarkey, @slut4drudy, @winterrrnight, @totalswag, @sadfury, @fullfledgedemo, @rafemotherfuckingcameron, @urfaveluvr, @chenslucy, @hxnnah-397, @s-we-e-t-t-ea, @tahliac11, @saccharinesammie, @ietss, @maybankslover, @redhead1180, @suzyheartsrafe, @wpdailyminimeta, @rafegirly, @thelomlisrafecameron, @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles, @flonkertn, @whtvrrafe, @r1vrsefx

[leejungchans]

rich girl — l.mh

word count | 3.2k

pairing | lee minho (skz) x female reader

warning(s) / includes | food mentions, a lil swearing, reader has icky friends

genre | fluff, angst if you squint, high school au, ???-to-friends/implied lovers au, lino’s a bit of a tsundere

note | i imagined this whole thing as a kdrama scene while writing which is why it’s kinda cliche and dramatic at parts 😭 not proofread but i will when i wake up

summary | of all the places to run into you, lee minho never expected it to be at a convenience store.

a/n | happy new year everyone 💖 i’m so sorry i haven’t posted anything in a bit, had a bit of writer’s block which is why this took months to finish but i’m slowly getting back into the groove!! to everyone who requested in my 1k event, i promise i’ll get to every single one of them so dw!! i hope you enjoy!!

“Thanks for today,” Yang Jeongin murmurs shyly, bowing his head as Minho pockets the money. “I hope I didn’t take up too much of your time.”

Even now, Minho still remembers the look on his friends’ faces when he told them he wanted to try tutoring the younger kids at school. He doesn’t particularly enjoy it, but it’s not the worst way to earn some extra money.

“It’s fine,” he says with a casual shrug. “Lemme know how the test goes and text me anytime if you have more questions.” He doesn’t really mean the latter part—responding to texts outside his self-scheduled working hours is hardly appealing—but it feels customary to say.

Jeongin nods, his arms hanging at his sides as he walks Minho to the front door. “Okay, thanks again. Have a good rest of your night.”

If the older boy had noticed how tense he is, he doesn’t point it out. It’s no secret that Lee Minho has a reputation at school for being intimidating, and while he was surprisingly patient for the entirety of those two hours, Jeongin still finds it hard to shake off that feeling of being scrutinised when his sharp, cat-like eyes constantly feel like they’re probing right into his soul.

“You too. I’ll see you around,” Minho says, hardly bothered by the awkward energy of the empty apartment as he slips on his shoes. He wonders for a brief moment where Jeongin’s parents are, but doesn’t entertain the thought for long because he cares more about going home to his cats. Going to a private school comes with a hefty price tag, so he wouldn’t be surprised if Jeongin’s parents are still at work much like his own. 

The sun has long set by now, draping a blanket of dark indigo over the bustling streets as people rush to get home. Up ahead, Minho sees the glowing sign of a convenience store, and as though being reminded his stomach rumbles, a reminder that he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

He could go for some ramen, and this way he wouldn’t have to cook and do the dishes.

From the stocked shelves, he picks out his dinner—a bowl of Shin Ramyun, a tuna triangle kimbap and a bottle of green tea. Simple, yet so satisfying; his go-to no matter how many times Hyunjin teases him for getting the same thing time and time again.

Hyunjin makes fun of him, he lovingly threatens to shove tissue down his throat. Minho wouldn’t have it any other way.

A fond scoff falls from his lips as he waits for his ramen to cook. His eyes scan the store, flitting from the bored cashier picking at his nails to the girl sitting at the table just several feet away from him. It takes a few seconds for him to realise she’s wearing his school’s uniform, and another few to notice the polished shoes with the dainty gold buckles that look all too familiar.

It’s not just anyone from school—it’s you.

The realisation has him turning on his heel immediately. Surely, his back profile isn’t too recognisable? His heart skips a beat in his chest and only one thought consumes his mind as he hastily straightens his tie and redoes the first button on his shirt—what the hell are you of all people doing in a convenience store?

“You know, most people eat their noodles before they get soggy.”

Minho resists the urge to let a few colourful words slip. He doesn’t think your parents would appreciate learning that the student-guide assigned to their precious daughter was the one who taught her her first swear word.

Huh, that was a little mean. Distantly, Chan’s disapproving voice rings out from the back of his mind.

“Give her a chance, Minho. Just because she’s from a rich family doesn’t mean she’s a spoiled brat. I’ve talked to her a few times, she’s really nice.”

His feet move slowly as he turns to face you, finding your eyes still trained on him as you await his reaction, glossy lips curled up amusedly. He wants to flee, wants to curse the gods for making him run into you at such a time and place. But he’s already made the ramen, it’s too late to leave.

Reluctantly, he grabs his dinner and makes his way over to the table, making sure you’re separated by a seat as he plops himself down on the squeaky bar stool. You don’t seem bothered, the little grin still ever-present on your face before you turn back to your dinner.

Minho watches from the corner of his eyes as you pick up your half-eaten kimbap, dunking the corner into the spicy broth before taking a bite. Maybe he’s a little impressed, he didn’t expect you to know the only correct way to eat kimbap and ramen—at least, the only correct way in his eyes.

“Don’t seem so surprised,” you quip lightly without looking up, “rich people eat ramen too.”

His cheeks grow warm from being caught staring. “Just didn’t expect you to hang around somewhere like this.”

“Are you kidding? I love convenience store food. They didn’t have the stuff here when I was at boarding school, I had to order everything I wanted online.”

“Must’ve taken a long time to get them shipped to you,” he muses. It’s strange, he thought he couldn’t care less about what went on in the fancy boarding school you attended before transferring here, but it’s refreshing hearing you talk about mundane things like bulk-buying instant ramen as though a squirrel stashing food away for the winter.

“Oh, it felt like forever each time! I felt like I was going to die craving all the snacks I couldn’t get there.” For a second there you sounded just like Hyunjin during his dramatic moments, like that time when Minho refused to pay for his ice cream and he acted like he was left to fend for himself in the wilderness.

He finds it oddly endearing.

“That’s not the worst part,” you continue, “the worst part was dealing with thieves in the dorms. I can’t count how many packs of ramen I had stolen from me.”

“Oh, the tragedy!”

You roll your eyes at the exaggerated gasp he lets out, though the action hardly holds any genuine annoyance. “I can’t tell if you’re still being serious.”

A small grunt leaves Minho as he twists open the bottle cap of his bottled tea. “I mean, I’d be pretty pissed if people stole food from me.” The worst Jisung’s done to him is snagging a few gummy bears, and that already feels like a criminal offence in his book.

“I guess that’s the second thing we have in common.”

“What’s the first? Having good taste in convenience store dinner?”

“I knew you were smart, Lee.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he scoffs, yet his the corners of his lips can’t help but quirk up at the devious, teasing grin you flash him.

He’d rather do Hyunjin’s PE laundry for a month than admit it, but you’re kind of cute.

“What’re you doing in this area so late, anyways?”

You offer a smile in thanks as Minho holds the door open and gestures for you to go first. The two of you step out of the store, the frostiness of the winter night penetrating through the layers you’re wearing and settling deep into your bones.

“I was with Hyebin and the others.” He doesn’t miss the way your smile falters, the twinkle in your eyes dimming like a fallen star. He’s never liked the friend group you’ve found yourself in ever since you transferred over to the school. They’ve always given him the impression that they were more interested in your money and brains than anything. “They needed help with their homework.”

“Of course they did,” Minho scoffs.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“You need to be more careful with this stuff. The teachers aren’t as stupid as you think, just because you’re not the one doing the copying doesn’t mean you won’t get into trouble.”

“Gosh, what’s with the lecture? Why do you care who I hang out with?”

He freezes, pursing his lips together as he thinks of a counter. You’re right, why does he care? Perhaps your earlier conversation in the store changed his admittedly biased perception of you. Or perhaps despite everything he's ever thought about you, he thinks you still deserve better than Hyebin and her goons.

“W-Well, I was assigned to be your guide to the school,” Minho splutters, “sorry for taking my job seriously!” It’s a horrible excuse, so he’s not the slightest bit surprised when you don’t buy it at all.

“That’s funny, because you’ve made it pretty clear from the day we met that you couldn’t care less about a spoiled brat like me!” He hates that he still finds you cute even as you’re fuming and ranting at him. “Everyone at school is exactly like you, always making your own assumptions without even bothering to get to know me! Well, I’m telling you right now that I don’t need you to—”

“Watch out!”

Your foot gets caught on a raised ledge that you hadn’t noticed in your moment of frustration. You trip with a loud shriek, knees scraping painfully against the pavement as you break your fall with your hands. A burning sensation spreads across your face, and you’re utterly mortified that you just embarrassed yourself in front of someone the likes of Lee Minho while you were giving him a piece of your mind.

“Are you okay?” You feel his hand wrap around your arm as he helps you up, refusing to meet his eyes out of sheer embarrassment. “You need to watch where you’re going.”

You tug your arm out of Minho’s grasp with an aggravated huff. “I’m fine!” you snap, but the pained hiss that whistles through your clenched teeth says otherwise as you attempt to stand without his support. Your left ankle throbs with a sharp pain, causing you to lose balance and stumble.

“Seems like you’re not,” he observes without his usual snark as he reaches out to hold you steady again. This time, you don’t shake him off. “You should get that checked out soon, it’s probably a sprained ankle.”

“Great,” you mutter under your breath. Scraped knees and a sprained ankle? You dread the earful you know you’ll be getting from your overprotective parents. Thankfully, your family’s driver is only parked a few blocks away from where you are, so you shouldn’t have to hobble too far—

“—get on.”

“H-Huh?”

Minho rolls his eyes at your dumbfounded expression, his knees bent as he gestures to his back with a tilt of his head, signalling you to climb on. “You said your driver is waiting for you nearby, right?” You nod. “I’ll carry you there.”

“You better not tell your friends that I forced you to do this,” you mutter sulkily.

“Jesus, Y/N. I don’t stoop that low. I’m the one who offered, okay?” At your hesitation, the sharp angles of his face soften ever so slightly. “I swear. I’m not gonna stand here and watch you walk three blocks on a twisted ankle.”

The sincerity in his eyes has knots forming in your stomach out of guilt, embarrassed that you’ve been so harsh on him for his intentions when all he’s done was offer help. Murmuring a thank you, you gingerly wrap your arms around his neck as his arms hook around your thighs. With a soft grunt, he draws to his full height and begins heading down the street.

The proximity between the two of you floods your cheeks with warmth. You’re certain you harbour absolutely zero romantic feelings for Lee Minho, your less-than-enthusiastic guide to the school who cares more about the stray cats lingering outside the gates than ninety percent of the student population—at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You suppose he can be charming, especially when he smiles; it’s a sight you’re hardly privy to seeing, but sometimes you catch a glimpse of his toothy grin when he’s talking to Chan or play-wrestling with the tall kid who’s on the soccer team.

And you suppose he’s pretty charming now too, not an indication of annoyance towards your current predicament as he piggybacks you the rest of the way to your car. A faint jasmine scent greets your senses, and it takes all your willpower to resist leaning in closer. Ugh, of course his shampoo just so happens to be your favourite scent too.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you back there,” you say quietly after a while. “I was frustrated with people at school but took it out on you, which was really unfair of me.”

For a brief moment, Minho doesn’t respond, leading you to believe he’s still upset. It’s understandable, but it leaves you with a sinking pit in your stomach and you’ve never wanted the earth to swallow you whole so badly until now.

“It’s okay.” You perk up a little at his unexpected response. “I get it, really. I’m sorry too, for letting all those stereotypes and assumptions get the best of my judgement. I was a pretty shitty guide, huh?” he jokes with a soft chuckle.

A smile slowly appears on your face at his attempt at lightening the mood. “I’ve seen worse, and in a way you did kinda help me learn my way around campus.”

“By avoiding you like my life depended on it while you searched high and low for me?”

“Questionable execution, successful outcome.”

His head tilts back as he lets out a genuine laugh, the bright sound only increasing the palpitations of your heart. “That’s how I roll. Leaves an impression.”

He certainly has. Never would you have guessed that you’d be seeing this side of Lee Minho tonight, or ever, and you don’t doubt that you’ll be thinking about this moment for the next week even if he goes back to being all ‘bad-boy’ with you tomorrow. It feels like you’re witnessing something you’re not supposed to, and it’s exhilarating.

His gentle voice brings you out of your thoughts. “I was serious about Hyebin. They’re using you, both her and her friends,” he says, spitting the last word out like it’s venomous.

“I know.”

“You know?”

You hum sadly. “My family runs a conglomerate and I’ve attended more of their functions than I can count. I learnt very early on what it looks like when someone’s only being nice to you because they want something.”

Minho nods in understanding, yet your response only begs the next question. “Then why do you still hang out with them? What do they have that you don’t?”

“Nothing, but… who else do I have at school? Almost everyone else is either no different from them, or are too intimidated to approach me even when I’ve done everything I can to prove I’m anything but.”

Something about how you don’t bother hiding the defeat in your voice makes his heart twinge with sympathy. He knows you’re right—hell, he considers himself unbelievably lucky that he managed to find people he genuinely sees as his close friends in a sea of snobbish, self-centred students.

“Hang out with us. Really,” he adds when you fall eerily silent. “I know we’re probably the furthest thing away from the people you’re used to associating yourself with, and I guess we can be a little weird sometimes—” admittedly, maybe a lot weird—“but we’re good people, especially my friends.”

Minho stops himself upon realising he’s already begun rambling, but the quiet giggle that reaches his ears relaxes him a little.

“I like weird.” Despite currently looking ahead, he can still hear the smile in your voice. “Wouldn’t I make things awkward, though? I don’t wanna intrude on anything.”

“Are you kidding? Once you're friends with Chan, he’ll find a way to make you feel comfortable no matter what. Do you like anime, by any chance?”

“Actually, yeah. I do.”

He chuckles, “Then you’ll have no problem getting along with my other friends too.”

“And what about you?” you ask softly. “Are you okay with it?”

“I’m the one who offered, of course I am.”

You’re unsure if you can consider Lee Minho your friend yet—or rather, if he’d want that or not—but one thing’s for certain: his authenticity is both admirable and appreciated. You don’t question his kindness now because he wasn’t afraid to show his genuine indifference in your encounters prior to today.

“Thank you, Minho. I don’t know what else to say other than… thanks, really.”

Spying your family’s car just down the street, he turns to grin at you, eyes curved and smile reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. “Feel free to also comment on how unfairly handsome and strong I am.”

You respond with a fond roll of your eyes. He’s not wrong, but you don’t need to tell him that either. “Very funny, but yes, thank you for this too. I’m sorry you had to carry me all the way here.”

Now it’s Minho’s turn to roll his eyes. “Stop apologising, Y/N, I wanted to. Hopefully your ankle isn’t too seriously sprained.”

“My parents are going to make such a big fuss if I need a cast.”

He snickers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be the first one to sign it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble sulkily, though it only makes him laugh harder. It’s beyond him how it’s possible for someone to sound this adorable even while swearing.

Carefully, he lets you down upon reaching the car, still holding you steady by your arms as the door slides open to reveal luxurious leather seats. He helps you into the backseat, offering a shy nod in greeting when your driver looks back to give you a questioning look.

“I’ll explain later,” you tell him before turning back to Minho, “let us give you a ride home.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he reassures, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I live really close by.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “You better not be lying to me.”

Dramatically, he places a hand over his heart. “I swear.”

“I’m gonna ask Chan first thing when I see him.”

“You do that,” he replies smoothly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Relenting, you nod and return the smile he gives you. “Okay, get home safe. Good night, Minho.”

“Good night.”

Your eyes never leave his as the door shuts between you two. You look back at Minho through the tinted windows, finding him still standing at the same spot as he watches your car take off down the road. Even as you make a left turn, causing him to disappear from your line of sight, you don’t turn back until your driver feigns a cough, a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

“That boy,” he begins, eyes briefly flickering to meet yours in the rear-view mirror, “is he your classmate, Miss L/N?”

You nod.

“You two looked close.” He must’ve seen the look on your face because he lets out a hearty laugh, one you’ve grown accustomed to over all his years of service to your family. “Don’t worry, miss. I won’t tell your parents,” he reassures, “I just wanted to say that he seems to like you a lot.”

“Huh, is that so?” is all you say, yet you can’t fight the smile that appears on your face the second no one’s looking.

༉‧₊˚✧ thank you so much for reading <3 please reblog if you enjoyed my writing, and any form of feedback is greatly appreciated ! support the creators and content you wish to continue seeing <3

[blade-liger-4ever]

Airborne - One of the Best Supporting Joes, and a Great American Indian Character

So, by now, I'm pretty sure everyone knows I love Airborne, at least if you typed #airborne, #gijoe airborne, or #gi joe airborne into my search engine. Admittedly, I first fell in love with the character through being a fan of Peter Cullen. He brought Airborne to life in a way that made the character approachable, endearing, and familiar to me, given he used a voice that, to my ears, sounded like a cross between Optimus and Ironhide.

But upon my (many) rewatches of Airborne's debut, Operation: Mind Menace, and his other guest star roles, I've come to love him for who he is as a character.

To summarize his history, Airborne, birth name Franklin Talltree, was born in the Navajo Nation. His parents were oil rich, often indulging him with skydiving lessons from a young age. Despite this love for the air he nurtured, Airborne, as he was later known, decided to at first (I believe) take classes to become a lawyer. He passed all the exams, and would've gone into the business except he didn't like the idea of signing legal papers day-in and day-out. Instead, he enlisted as an airborne infantryman/paratrooper in the Army, hence his call-sign when he transferred to G.I. Joe.

What really makes him stand out, especially compared to the more common Native representative Spirit, is how Airborne is such a fun personality. He makes jokes, he teases his fellow Joes, and often approaches life with a smile and a quip. It makes him feel down-to-Earth in a way that Spirit usually lacks [except Spirit's appearance in Sigma 6; that was a good spin on his usual characterization.] Seeing an American Indian with this relatable, relaxed manner about him makes Airborne stand out and feel like someone you could be comfortable around.

Despite his "normality", though, Airborne actually has a more serious side. One paired with a trait that Spirit seemingly lacks:

He has telepathic/ESP abilities.

Airborne has a younger brother, Tommy, who's roughly ten to twelve years younger than him, given that he was a teenager in Airborne's debut. Because of this strong familial tie, Airborne and Tommy share a psychic link that allows them to be aware of where the other is and what's happened to him. Additionally, Airborne can sometimes experience remote viewing, which allows him to see where a person - regardless of their personal meaning to him - is and what danger is threatening them. Obviously, this is a trait he keeps under wraps, as too much talking about it either "spooks people" (especially if he appears to be randomly staring right into your soul), will get him pulled into a psi-ops division rather than the frontlines, or have him become the target for some testing due to his powers and their unpredictability. It's no wonder why he hardly talks about his gifts.

Combining all of these traits, Airborne manages to be a fun, interesting, and friendly Navajo character. He's never seen being a "stereotype", or harping on his special shaman powers like Spirit does. Merely, he's an "ordinary Joe" who will get into the thick of a fight with his friends, or wrestle with them for grins and giggles. And if there's an apt joke to be made - whether about his powers or something else - you can bet your back pocket dollar Airborne will jump to make it first. He's just truly fun and underrated, and I wish we had more content with Airborne. He's one of a kind in the American Indian representation department, if you ask me, and I wish we had more guys like him in media, who's heritage just happened to be Native.

That's all I really have to say about him. Airborne deserves more love, especially since his old Wikipedia file has been deleted. I hope you enjoyed this, and that it inspires any artists who find it interesting to draw him some more.

Til then -

"Yooooooo, Joe!!!"

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The Devil drives a good bargain.

"I'm a good salesman. I don't mean that I'm good at selling things. I'm ethical and I sell fairly. All the same, I have to make a profit, so I drive a good, fair bargain.

Your soul for your dreams.

I mean, you don't exactly need it after you die, right? So why not just hand it over then?" I looked hopefully at my customer. He seemed torn, uncertain. I needed to strike fast, hard. I needed to sell this now.

"Come on... You said you wanted to fall in love again, right? I can do that. I can make you and your wife feel as though you were both teenagers in the throes of passion. Or, if you want, I can get you to fall in love with someone else? And I'll throw in a clean divorce too. Or perhaps an open marriage? The possibilities are endless!" Still, the man hesitated. What was wrong with the bastard? I gritted my teeth. He had been standing there for weeks, quietly contemplating. Wasting my time.

"I've decided," he said. My hope soared. "I don't want any of that." My hope crashed into a tree and died. 

"Then, what do you want?" I asked, giving him a winning smile.

"I want to make a bet. If I win, I get a wish for free. If I lose, I'll give up my entire family's souls. Deal?" He suddenly seemed infinitely more confident. I was nonplussed. Some people tried to fake me out, trick me into giving them free wishes. 

"What's the bet?" I leaned on the countertop, bringing myself to his level. We stared each other in the eye.

"We swap places. I be the Devil, you be the everyman. First to give up loses. You in?" He smirked.

What was I to do? I could hardly resist a gamble. It was a deal.

Perhaps I was a fool, I thought, sitting at a desk. Overseeing a herd of imps was not fun. They drew markers everywhere, squelched mud, and somehow had the ability to cry on command. But as I was sitting there, rifling through unartistic crayon drawings, an idea struck me.

I did not have to stay in this job. I did not have to go home to a dumpy wife who was cheating on me and a pair of whiny teenagers. That fool lent me his body and by hell, I was going to get a good deal out of it.

I decided to think of it as a vacation. I took out all the cash from the accounts, including the kids' college funds and the retirement money. Then I borrowed an unthinkably large amount of money before disappearing off to the tropics.

I spent my days in luxury, traveling, seeing the world, gambling when I needed more cash (for the Devil always wins). I saw the world from the rose-tinted glasses of the rich, and enjoyed luxuries beyond imagination. After a while, I began to dread the end of the bet.

And then I grew old, and still the bet had not come to an end. My heart was on the verge of dying on me, and I lay bedridden with kidney failure. So I did what anyone who was not in their own body would do in that situation. 

I jumped off a 50 story building. The impact did not hurt that much. It all quickly faded to black.

I reappeared on the other side of my counter. The man whose body I occupied stood manning my shop. When he saw me, he laughed maniacally. "So you just couldn't stand the old missus, huh? Guess I beat the Devil at his own game," he said. I merely smiled, and got back on the right side of my shop. He hopped over the counter, grinning wildly.

"So… About my boon?" he asked. I steepled my fingers and sat down, leaning backwards.

"I'm afraid not. We only serve living customers. I'm afraid your body died while under my care. But thank you for the free vacation," I replied, allowing myself a satisfied smile. 

His face turned thunderous. "What do you mea-" He was whisked off to the afterlife in a flash of light before he could finish. Cheerfully, I waved at him as he went.

"Thank you for shopping with us. Have a nice day!" I called after him.

[windvexer]

Hi, Chicken!

I have recently entered a dilemma. After diving headfirst into research about 'quantum mysticism' (and VERY quickly learning how BS it is), I'm left wondering if there's anything linking witchcraft and science together.

I ended up watching a ton of science videos from a reputable source, and it left me feeling... weird about magic/witchcraft as a whole.

I guess I'm just looking for validation that magic/witchcraft is real, whether or not science can explain it.

Thanks, friend! <3

Internalized Scientism is common.

The only things that are true can be measured (so the philosophy goes), and if you experience something that cannot be measured, well, you aren't crazy - it's just that your experiences are not yet able to be reduced to measurements; your mysticism cannot now be tacked up on a board and dried out as a scientific specimen, but one day - what a relief! - everything you've ever known or been will be reduced to binary, nothing but a mystery-free code copied down in some database; measured, true, complete. What a comforting feeling, apparently, for how ardently some love the thought.

It is not particularly any of our faults for being made to feel crazy, foolish, stupid, or whatever pejorative term, for believing in things that have meaning without having measurement.

At the intersection where you meet the rest of reality lives a dazzling mystery, dark and glittering like granite in a mossy stream, breathtaking and sometimes so sacred we fear to touch it.

What little cracks appear in things that are when a person learns to explore that mystery. There is hardly an easier way to keep people from exploring those bothersome depths than just convincing every last person that because some crude scientist cannot reach into the mystery of their soul and crack it apart with a measuring tape, those mysteries simply do not exist.

I will tell you why I started practicing witchcraft (apart from the goading spirit man) - I knew there had to be something more.

There had to be something more.

Why are you here, Anonymous, sniffing after the mossy stream? Can you tell that your feet are wet, even if you can't feel the water? Do you sense there is something glinting down there, tucked away in invisible cracks?

You are at work, you are at school, you are on your phone, at the store, at a party, and still: moss is growing over your toes. Lichen is growing on the box of cookies on the store shelf. A ghost stag is sad somewhere near the meat department. And if they are not there, is something in the back of your mind yelling, keening, weeping: why not? where did it go, it is supposed to be there, how do I find it?

What is witchcraft, my friend? It is different things to different people, but I will tell you something that it can be:

Witchcraft is a system of tools and frameworks to explore the desperate need for something more.

Do you have that need? Does something inside of you want to cry with joy if you dare admit to yourself there might be something more?

If so, witchcraft may be the framework you choose to explore those mysteries.

I cannot convince you that there is a mystery to be explored. I do not want to convince you of that. I am just telling you - you can explore it. We have the tools. Sometimes, some of these tools are called Witchcraft.

Do you know the problem with trying to see more clearly in the moonlight?

As soon as you bring the sun in, it isn't night any more.

In the rich darkness, you may never gain the clarity of sight and insight you already have under the sun.

But for some of us, that gentle night is a place we must go to; to see things in their ghostly, star-struck forms; to feel the world outside of its measurements; to experience our same universe, inside-out and upside down, merely by virtue of having the sun slip away, and thereby become complete within ourselves - because so many of us are already inside-out and upside down to begin with.

Explore the darkness if you would like to. All you've got to do is open the door and let the moonlight reveal what you may already know:

your toes are in a stream.

[askganon]

Great King, What do you enjoy to eat? I'm not asking a simple icebreaker question I should be clear. In my opinion, one of if not THE greatest pleasures in life, more than physical desires, is easily food. You've lived through literally countless eras, not years or decades but ERAS, and you've traveled just as much as you've lived, the amount of history and experience you have in anything is sure to be boundless and priceless let alone on something as culturally and physically important as not just food for survival, but food for pleasure. A good meal can not only provide sustenance, nutrients to strengthen and nurture the body but a good meal can also fix, or break, any spirit or moral. A dish can also tell the entire history of a person, nation or even an entire people. You're a very large man and not to mention a very, very active warrior so I can imagine that you've had to learn of ways to not only replenish your strength while also enjoying a meal fit for the greatest of kings. You've talked at length many a time on Gerudo cuisine, and don't get me wrong I'd always love to hear more, but I also know you're a wise and cultured man with a broad mind who's explored palettes as much the lands and time itself. I want to hear about your more adventurous expeditions in the culinary frontiers. I wish to know what tastes you find pleasant, what you find repulsive, what you initially thought lesser of but was pleasantly surprised by, do you prefer the sweeter tastes? The soft, sweet taste of a smooth honey or a rough sugary explosion? What things had greater value, were they good for the body or the soul? The mind or the heart? Do you lean towards more savory, rich dishes or more hearty meals? There are a million different ways one can prepare an apple all with drastically different and hardly resembling one another. Those arent exactly what I mean to ask but are just examples, I seek something far more abstract. I seek any and all knowledge you're willing to give about food and am especially interested in your experiences further away from the comfort of the familiar.

Eating is necessary for survival. This was the way when I was a youth. It was only when I was filly grown and had already infiltrated the realm and castle of Hyrule did I learn kg eating for pleasure.

While I have already had meals that pleased me greatly within the desert, the idea of living to eat rather than eating to live was foreign to me completely.

However, it is as you say. Over the millenia, I have sampled many varieties of dishes and many more flavors.

I can honestly say, as I have before, that Goron cuisine is not fit for those who cannot digest rock. They also require incredibly high heat to cook their... Minerals, so even tasting such dishes can be hazardous to one's health.

Hylian delicacies are, as I have said, quite bland. They have plenty in butters and salts and herbs, but lack in spice and spirit. For this, I find their dishes dull.

Zoran cuisine tool longest to understand, and delight in the mixing of salted and spur, bur they have masters the blend, and have made sea-born food palatable to thise of the desert.

[yuna542]

Note/Disclaimer at the beginning:

I do not want to romanticize or trivialize (domestic) violence, suicide, drugs, and toxic relationships in this story. If these topics trigger you, then you should rather skip this story. If not, I hope you enjoy the little OBX Story I had in my drafts for forever and I've finally written down. If you are experiencing domestic violence, as hard as it is, tell someone, whether it's a friend, a teacher, or a family member. You are not alone <3

——-

Soundtrack:

⏯️Play: Wait a Minute by WILLOW

“Hold on, wait a minute

Feel my heart's intention, oh Hold on, wait a minute

I left my consciousness in the sixth dimension

Left my soul in his vision”

Prologue

Now I'm sitting here in a hammock in front of an old fishing shack in the swamp, trying to figure out how to tell this story in a structured way while my life is actually a complete mess. Well, before you read this, you should know three things: First of all, Hey! I'm a Kook. But not just any Kook. I’m Skylar Diaz the Kook Princess. At least that's what most people call me, since my family owns one of the largest ferry companies in the US. At least the part of it that's still left. I have built up this reputation over the years and have also lived up to it in a petty and clichéd way. The typical rich spoiled girl living in an estate in the Outer Banks. A brat and arrogant little bitch. The most popular girl at school, desired by all the boys and envied by the rest. With her perfect little family, hip friends, like the Camerons and no money problems at all. The perfect Barbie Dream Life.

But it wasn't always that way. Little Trauma Dump: My father was from the Cut, the South Side of the island. That's where those who make their living as waiters, yacht cleaners or skippers live and work. My mother was also from the Cut, which few people know. She and my dad fell in love and had me. Their perfect little star. My father was a very ambitious man who actually managed to become a police officer and was even promoted to detective on the mainland. However, he died on a job when I was six years old. So I have hardly any memories of him. A short time later, my mother started a relationship with Rick. He was my father's best friend and the richest man in the Outer Banks at that point. So all our money problems were forgotten and I have been raised and lived in a huge mansion in Figure Eigth ever since. The fancy Island Club, big parties and banquets, as well as expensive clothes were now part of my life. I played the role of the rich and arrogant princess flawlessly and knew how to present myself to survive among all the scavengers. And for quite a while I really liked this life.

Next, I should mention: All of this is a lie. Nothing in my life ever went perfectly, even if everyone thought it did. My mother committed suicide when I was only 16 years old. Everything fell apart as a result. My relationship with my stepfather Rick was disastrous even before that, but it got a lot worse in the months after “the incident”, how he liked to call it. I was never allowed to talk about it again and to call it what it was: A big shitty tragedy which ripped my life apart from that point on. We moved away from the Outer Banks and lived in Nassau for a year. Rick had always had a fondness for alcohol, but that year it took on proportions that made my life more than difficult. We never talked about my mother's death again. That was okay, because I didn't understand it anyway and the less I thought about it, the better I felt. Meanwhile, Rick was a violent choleric who couldn't even control himself around his own daughter. My great "friends" stopped contacting me after only a week and had probably forgotten about me even faster.

And last but not least (that’s when the shitshow really started) : We were now moving back after this year and I had no idea what to expect of Kildare. According to Rick there were new business opportunities, but what did he actually tell me? Actually, I didn't care either. With my return began a crazy journey full of chaos, a lot of anger, sadness and no end of adventure. I ran into old friends and things escalated quickly. I learned things about my mother's death that made me more than suspicious, and gradually I began to suspect that her death had not been a suicide after all. My father's death also suddenly seemed to be no longer a coincidence and I learned a lot about my roots and especially about treasure hunting.

Then there were the Pogues and a certain blond boy. My nemesis, who regularly drove me to white heat and equally to madness. But let's start at the beginning:

[-Press Start]

[spadesofgrass]

 "No pieces of mine are lost in the process." - A rare sit-down with the elusive Marguerite Thorne.

Marguerite Thorne, Drakovian royalty and a newcomer has already taken the industry by storm with her riveting high-fashion and radical, artistic concepts. Paul Carter of The Needle sits down with her for a look behind the curtains. Who is Marguerite?

(WC: 1.9k - No warnings)

It’s a beautiful afternoon at Manhattan’s Garment Center - a narrow view of which we can observe through Marguerite Thorne’s extravagant French windows in her studio as she sits down with me over Zoom. She prefers ‘Marguerite’ - a lot more sincere than the many titles her Royal roots have given her. There’s a certain tired look in her eyes she is unashamed to admit. “I wear the work in my face, my hands - you see this?” She lets me see her thumb, which is bandaged. She doesn’t expect pity either and when I attempt to, she gives me a small smile - one of reassurance.

It will be her fifth year participating at Paris very soon, with many accolades under her belt.  She appears poised, with sharp focus and an unreadable, cryptic expression that warrants more questions. The stage is set and yet she will not breathe a word about her new collection. The charisma, the kitschy floral top and the carefulness with which she takes her tea wraps her in an enigmatic package. “I don’t talk shop much. It is boring. It is long. People like the words ‘sewing’, ‘stitching’ - so I tell them what they want to hear. Nobody wants conjugations.”

However she is rather outspoken about her inspirations. From the way her studio draws inspiration from her childhood bedroom in the Drakovian Royal Palace to the meticulous design in the pen with which she writes, Marguerite doesn’t stop at merely breaking down a craft into the sum of its parts. She prefers the brainstorming - calling it “such a funny word” for she shows me her sketchbooks littered with pieces of napkins from coffee bars, wrappers from candy she enjoys and leftover fabric; the “process, in all of its messiness!” as she puts it. She is quite excited - practically at the balls of her feet like a child breaking dolls apart and putting the pieces back together - to talk about her muses. To her, being chosen as a muse is a form of her showing a dedication; weaving their heart and soul into the design. 

“For the longest time, my brother did most of the hard work. He showed up every day. We would have him twirl around in dresses, in suits, in skirts and trousers. What are you listening to, we’d ask. Have you been to any art shows? Did you smoke any weed? My good friends, they visit Via Montenapoleone, they go to Brera. They go to oceans, seas, warehouse parties to get into the fast life. I tried. Never worked out for me.”

Marguerite prides herself in being a homebody. She likes the comfort of home and cites American reality TV shows as ‘potent noise' that helps her get into her work. She invites models to have breakfast with her at home. She conducts team meetings in parks. Her unconventional technique prioritises comfort. Her methods of moulding her design after her muse’s “daily musings” as she so lovingly puts it - helps her visualise the rich colour and the vibes. A fast worker, Marguerite enjoys the rush of a new idea. A box of bandages are always kept at her desk, for her mind moves faster than her hands. 

“My brother gets very chatty on Sundays. They're always on about one of their friends. Suede jackets, dark watery coffee, a singular gold earring. It's about the vibes. Getting used to New York’s fashion and adapting it to my palate was perhaps the biggest project in my career.”

We chat a little more about Drakovian fashion. She is hesitant to broach the subject of the Royal Family, brushing it off and murmuring a little about lawsuits as a joke and steers her thoughts into the gold that exists everywhere in the streets of Drakkos. Cold weather calls for practicality more than aesthetics. The Royal Family are hardly the type to drape themselves in shades of gold, for they prefer dotting their everyday greys with metallic silver or humble reds with drops of pearls. A surprising contrast. A comforting unease. A blend of familiar and novel so it doesn't resemble a betrayal. Marguerite considers herself Drakovian first. The music, the chatter, the food and the energy are the only things she's willing to take home. “Pieces that find itself-” she says. Where? Which pieces? The answers lie in silence. 

Marguerite is adamant on keeping her muses at arm's distance. Perhaps it is with an intention to not draw attention to her older sibling, Trystan Thorne whose latest stint left the Kingdom of Drakovia in perplexity over the summer, but she makes it quite clear her brother is not the cornucopia at this table. She snacks on sunflower seeds, a source of sustenance she credits a mutual friend for introducing her to. With a close circle of confidants, Marguerite has a more reclusive social life; tiptoeing around the usage of the word - ‘friend’.

“I love my people. I party with them, I light their cigarettes. I treasure every chance I get with them a lot. People fly like clouds. People change and leave. It isn't wrong. As someone with many years left to go, I treasure these moments because I may not get the same moments when I grow up.” Her choice of words are deliberate. Marguerite is still a child at heart. She loves talking about her brother, she embraces the slowness in a fast-moving culture, she wants to share her stories drawn in bright crayons. Unattracted to labels and boxes, Marguerite prefers doing her own thing. It is a privilege in this world tied down to roles and expectations. Even the unreachable ones in her industry are not immune to it. 

“People are surprised when they ask me if I am royalty.” she laughs, “I like having my identity a separate thing. I put parts of myself in my work. But I don't lose anything. No pieces of mine are lost in the process. I hope so.”

Marguerite has done her homework and she is here to answer all of my quizzes for her. To her, the term fashion icon means little. She chuckles, saying perhaps the royal blood in her tends to cleanse her tongue of its humility, but she's quite thorough in her research. Stewd, precise, a surgeon's cut - she cites Thierry Mugler’s avant-garde geometricism as some of her greatest inspirations to work on structure. Silk and cotton are her best friends. Strength and texture are maternal entities in her craft and yet, she never tells. My stabs in the dark are futile, even worse are my attempts at humour. 

“I don't see the point in explaining my work. You see it and you interpret it the way you like it. It is a bit like putting a hat on a hat. My family used to ask me all the time. Make pretty dresses. What is pretty? They mean regal. Controlled and less voluminous. To them that is pretty. Sleek. They like my clothes. I made several pieces for my Mother. I hope she loves them.”

A traditional Marguerite piece is a coveted possession. A personally commissioned one? That is a rare jewel. She shakes her head, playfully chiding me for making her sound more mysterious than she already is. Her charming brown hair with red highlights, her charismatic Drakovian accent slipping through the cracks of her painfully-built New Yorkish character, the warmth in her laugh is enough for any unassuming stranger to proclaim her inviting. 

Each one of her personal pieces is thoroughly made, rendering it inherently special. The elites at Hollywood have placed glorious commissions. Marguerite only makes a few. A young prodigy being patient or an old soul being selective? The only box she wishes to be contained in is the video call panel in which she visibly struggles to adjust her camera. She doesn't have assistants, calling them strictly “her people”. She encourages one of them to wave at me as they pass by with armfuls of packages. What does it take to get a personal piece directly from Marguerite’s closet, woven by her hands?

“I am not as trendy to be such a prodigy. My passion started because I wanted to make clothes for my people. I never learned to sew. I would outsource the hard work to other people. School was not my thing. But I knew colours well and perhaps, with a few bandages, I can learn how to sew. And maybe I can learn how to dye. How to feel colour. Maybe with that I can build shapes. I was learning kindergarten lessons.”

She continues after another sip of her tea. “I really enjoy working with people. They guide me. It is an elaborate process. They must be patient.”

A dig at the Hollywood elites? Marguerite is very tight-lipped about her clientele but her connections to North America’s jewels and Europe’s castles have certainly put her high on the contact list. Not to mention an endorsement from Vogue - ‘A Marguerite Summer’, showcases at two of the Big Four and not many public interviews have made an up-and-coming figure to watch out for. And yet, she believes nothing is greater than getting a letter back from home. Family is a sour subject but clothes heal the soul. 

She recalls the time her Mother called her up to say thank you for a winter ball gown. “She never asked. I made it. She's never attended a dance since 1992.” Nothing is off the table between the mother and daughter pair, as she walks us through a typical conversation. They find themselves so far away, on small screens, chatting about velvet- a Marlboro in both of their hands, a glass of red, some hush-hush talk. Marguerite effortlessly plays off the “cool internet girl” persona and once you mix in her love for her family, she possesses the best of both worlds - trendy and traditional, with a spot of her usual campy grim humour. 

“My motto has always been to get people to know themselves. Funerals, weddings, parties, you name it. Fashion is a big part of people's identity and I would be happy to be a part of that journey as they explore that.”

What makes her tick is her steadfastness - something the Old Guard in the fashion community are in desperate need for. She’s a swift businesswoman whose ambitions are so practical and rarefied and succinct that bleeds into the stitches she creates and thus, the tapestry she weaves. When she brought Empty to New York Fashion Week during September of this year, the industry was positively stunned. Her ability to intermix Drakovia’s quick-footedness with American streetwear - deep with intricate designs that hinted at this unique kind of rebelliousness the youth share in spades is almost effortless and yet, the rugged permanence of her collection leaves a lavish, uncaring impression in people’s minds, compared to the fast fashion trends of today and tomorrow. She’s perhaps more than a star - an undescribed flying object, without labels, without her identity condensed down into a single collection. Marguerite confesses she hates the job and yet, it is a helpless addiction.

“I just have too many ideas and too little time. Maybe that must be why I don’t go home often. I’d like to go home if they will have me, haha.” She rubs the back of her neck, as she’s telling me where she stands with her family. Artists are always doomed for a life of loneliness, she thinks. “No matter what I do, it is just me here. And I create some of my best work. I reserve many chairs. I hope they care for me and show up. I do not care if I have a legacy. That is the least of my concern. What about the present? What can I do to make things better?”

____

A/N: I hc Mags' fashion label's called Empty (Empty sounds like M.T, her initials).

If you'd like to be tagged, lmk!

Tagging some people who might be interested: @thosehallowedhalls @coffeewithcutcaffeine @choicesmc

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All That Remains | Moriarty the Patriot

Written for @yumiko0987 | Prompt Here

Reminder that I'm not a request blog! This one is an exception and it was just a really cool idea/perspective that I wanted to try out. Not a happy read. 1240 words. Third person POV. Hardly any editing/proofreading.

Enjoy! (sorry if it hurts your heart JKHDASJK)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Naive. That’s what Albert had once called her when she questioned the ill intentions of a nobleman they’d met during a house party. He was quite drunk, skin red and nose flaring as he ranted about the common folk “taking up too much space” and “contributing to the detriment of modern society.” Maybe she was an outlier, a person who wouldn’t take offense at even the most degrading of words, but even with the man’s foul temperament and even more vulgar language, she sought to understand him. Because everyone was misunderstood in some way, or so she believed. Even the most corrupt of people ought to have some shred of decency inside them.

“This man is rotten from the inside out, and the only way to purify his soul is by sending it through hell fire.” That’s all that Albert had said before staging the inconspicuous murder, all of the terrible details of the noble’s life being brought to the public eye by the hero that was Sherlock Holmes.

She was naive when the estate in which she’d lived all her life caught on fire, killing everyone but her elder brother, Albert, and their two newly-adopted brothers, William and Louis. It was framed as a tragic accident, an unfortunate circumstance likely caused by a gas leak. She’d never thought otherwise, not when Albert came rushing into her room, helping her frail body out of bed and out of the house before the flames could engulf her, too.

And when she gazed at that house slowly being devoured by flames, she watched as the memories of her loving family, her caring brothers, her safe, comfortable, and happy upbringing turned into ash at her feet. Despite her great illness, she tried to run back in, desperate to save her family, but Albert held firmly onto her, preventing another miserable death. But still she screamed and kicked and cried, slamming her fists into the ground until they began to bleed. Why her? What had she done to deserve such suffering? Why did her family have to leave her? Why did they have to die?

Almost every night she saw those corpses of her mother, father, and younger brother in her mind, bodies disfigured from the flames. And she would wake in a cold sweat, rushing to find something to vomit in. Then the rest of the memories of that terrible night would come rushing back to her, and sometimes she would scream so loudly that she would wake all of her brothers, and they would come rushing into her room, trying in vain to comfort her.

Indeed, she truly was naive, she’d learned. But years of psychological trauma and torment could change a person, and slowly she began to fit the pieces of the bigger picture together. Why had her brothers started a mission to murder the corrupt rich? When did their intense hatred of the select few of the upper class begin? Why had they barely mentioned their parents’ mistreatment of them? Surely such upsetting circumstances in their lives couldn’t be so easily forgotten. While it was true that she never stepped in to stop the “discipline,” she never enjoyed watching her brothers being ridiculed. However, her parents had instilled into her the idea of “toughening them up” and “preparing them for the challenges of the real world.” But she knew how it affected her beloved siblings, and how she wished her soothing words could dull all of their pain.

But one day when she saw Albert preparing for a mission in his room, brandishing a knife in the mirror, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

The anger on his face was beyond words. It was an expression only something truly unholy could make. Vengeance burned in his eyes, and in his hand the silver glint of steel looked more like the scythe of a reaper who was finally ready to gather a new harvest of the dead.

The man standing there was not her sweet brother, Albert. That was a monster, a devil that delighted in serving people a twisted version of punishment just to further its own gain.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she quickly rushed into another room. William and Louis stepped into Albert’s room, discussing the details of the next plan. And then she’d heard her name being mentioned.

“Brother Albert, she’s been quite distant as of late. Perhaps it’s wrong to even suggest such a thing, but I think…I think she’s finally caught onto what we did that night.”

The blood drained from her face, her heart stopping for a moment in her chest as if it had been struck with a knife and pinned to the wall behind her.

Albert kept his gaze trained on the mirror. “You’re right, Louis. I would go so far as to say she even appears to detest us.”

“It’s too difficult for her to comprehend the great severity of evil in this world,” William said. “She truly believes no one is too far gone. It’s a sentiment that will end up costing her her own life.”

“Just like it did my parents’?”

She didn’t even remember entering the room. But now the world was spinning out of control, ready to fall from its axis into a black hole of nothingness. Complete and utter nothingness. Because her brothers were once the only things she still held dear, but now they had been cruelly taken from her, too.

Rather, they cut the string of fate tying them together, and she was the one left tumbling down to a cold, dark, and miserable death.

Albert turned towards her, his expression stern, yet she could still spot that hint of love in his eyes in midst of all the disappointment. It enraged her, made her want to take that knife from his hands and plunge it deep into his chest until the hilt was soaked with his blood. “Our parents were as evil as people can possibly be. You saw how they treated William and Louis. They hated and scorned them just because they were born in the ‘wrong’ class.”

“That doesn’t justify taking away a person’s life. You are not an arbiter of fate. You are just a man…a man that took my family away from me.”

“But we are your family.”

“Not anymore.”

“Sister–”

“Don’t even address me as such anymore,” she said in a hushed tone, hand clutching at her chest. “None of you…don’t ever speak to me again. Go ahead and hunt me down and kill me if you must, but I’ll be beyond the grave making your lives a living hell.”

“This was for your sake as well,” William said gently, extending a hand to touch her shoulder, but she backed away, hugging herself tightly.

“No, it wasn’t. You’re forcing me to live through even more deaths.” And she began to drag herself out of the doorway, footsteps carrying her through the halls and across the threshold of that manor’s door for the very last time. “The deaths of my brothers who were nothing but devils in the first place.”

As she wandered down the evening rain-soaked streets of London, her mind flickered back to that terrible night. 

Why her? What had she done to deserve such suffering? Why did her family have to leave her? Why did they have to die?

“Because hell is empty, and William, Louis, and Albert are all here.”