#and let’s be real I root for someone who’s villainized

[foreveranevilregal]

The Traitors (US) 🤝 The Traitors (Australia)

Most interesting person is named Kate.

[mintyys-blog]

can you do a jinx reader(from teen titans) x main mark(villain x hero trope).

BAD LUCK CHARM | mark grayson x jinx! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: fighting

Rain crackled against the ruined rooftop of what used to be a small government building—now just steel and concrete, torn apart by a bad-luck burst and a well-timed punch. Smoke rose from the crater where a security drone exploded, courtesy of you.

You stood at the center of it all—one hand on your hip, the other still glowing faintly with violet energy. The wind tugged at your cloak. Your grin? Crooked. Dangerous.

“Oops,” you murmured, voice laced with mischief. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“You’re the one they call Jinx.”

The voice cut through the smoke like a blade—deep, heroic, annoyingly confident. Mark Grayson hovered mid-air, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

“You’re late, Invincible,” you drawled, not bothering to look at him. “The party’s over.”

Mark landed hard, the ground cracking beneath his boots. “Funny. Doesn’t look like you’re done.”

You turned your head slowly, locking eyes with him. His gaze was sharp, focused—but there was curiosity behind it. A hesitation. Good. You liked hesitation. You could work with hesitation.

“You’re seriously getting in my way over a couple of blown-up toys?” you asked, feigning innocence. “Didn’t know you were such a stickler for property damage.”

“I’m here because people are scared of you.”

You chuckled, low and mirthless. “They always are. That’s the fun part.”

A flash of violet cracked around your feet, warping the ground beneath him. Mark dodged easily, shooting up into the air.

“You really think you can keep doing this without consequences?”

You tilted your head, grin fading into something bitter. “I’ve only ever had consequences.”

Your bad luck aura surged—glass shattered, lights shorted out, and a crane two blocks over toppled with a shriek of metal. But it wasn’t aimed at him.

Mark landed in front of you again, slower this time. More cautious.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’re powerful. You could help people.”

“People don’t want help from me.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated that. “They want to lock me up. Keep me broken. I bring bad luck, remember? No one roots for the girl who ruins everything she touches.”

There was a pause. The rain began to ease.

Mark’s tone softened. “I think you’ve convinced yourself that’s true. But I’ve seen villains before. Real ones. You’re not like them.”

You looked up at him, for once not sneering or smirking. “You don’t know me.”

“Then let me.” That stopped you. You blinked. “What?”

“I said, let me get to know you.” He stepped closer. “You’re not the only one who’s struggled with expectations. Or trying to live up to something you didn’t ask for.”

For the first time, you didn’t feel the need to throw a curse or knock over a building. You stood still, feeling… seen. And that was scarier than anything else.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, hero,” you whispered, eyes narrowing.

“Maybe.” He gave a half-smile. “But I think you’re worth the risk.”

You stared at him, your fingers twitching with residual energy. Your instincts screamed at you to run, or attack, or at least say something mean. But instead, you whispered, “You’re the first person who’s said that.”

He offered his hand. You didn’t take it. But you didn’t destroy it either. You stared at his hand—solid, sure, heroic. The kind of hand that saved lives. The kind that didn’t belong to someone like you.

A storm raged in your chest—quiet, conflicting, aching. He was offering you a chance. Something real. Something terrifying. For a second, your fingers twitched toward his. Just when he thought you’d take it—when your eyes softened, when his guard lowered—you smirked.

“Nice try, golden boy.”

A burst of violet surged from your palm, striking the load-bearing column beside you. With a groan of concrete and steel, it crashed to the ground between you in an explosion of rubble and smoke. Mark’s eyes widened. “Jinx!”

He rocketed forward, fist slamming through the fallen pillar like paper, chunks flying in all directions. But you were already gone. Only the faint scent of ozone, and the echo of your voice—mocking, mysterious, and a little too vulnerable—lingered behind:

“Some games weren’t meant to be played fair.”

Mark stood in the ruins, heart pounding, jaw clenched. He didn’t know if he was more frustrated… or intrigued.

You sat there, the hum of your powers dimming to a low throb, barely noticeable beneath the noise in your head.

Jinx.

The name rolled around in your mind like a curse you’d long since learned to wear like a crown.

“Freak.”

“Get away from her—she ruined everything!”

“Don’t touch her! She’s bad luck!”

You remembered the way the kids used to scream, scrambling to put distance between themselves and whatever misfortune followed when you were near. Tripped bikes. Broken bones. Fire alarms. Blackouts.

They made you believe you were cursed long before you had powers to prove it. They didn’t ask why it happened. Didn’t wonder how it felt. They just called you one word, over and over, until it stuck.

Jinx. It suited you perfectly, didn’t it? A walking disaster. A storm in human skin. The villain before you even had a chance to be anything else.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, fingers laced together tightly. Your nails dug into your gloves. You hated that he looked at you like you weren’t a threat. Worse—you hated that he looked at you like you could be more.

Mark Grayson.

You could still feel the weight of his gaze, steady and sincere, like he didn’t care that you were toxic, unlucky, wrong. Like he saw you—past the smirks and sarcasm and sharp words. That’s what twisted the knife.

You weren’t supposed to care. You weren’t supposed to wonder what it would be like to touch someone and not ruin everything. But the way he reached for you— You swallowed hard, the smirk you’d thrown on earlier slipping like a cracked mask. “Idiot,” you whispered to yourself. “Him. Me. All of it.”

You dragged your hands down your face and leaned back again, staring at the ceiling, willing the thoughts to stop. But they didn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t flinch when they saw you coming.

And part of you—no matter how much you hated it—wanted to believe he was right about you. That you could be more than just a jinx. That maybe… you already were. The hum of your hideout was no longer comforting. Too quiet. Too heavy.

You stood up sharply, like movement would scatter the thoughts clawing at the edge of your mind. Your boots hit the metal floor hard, echoing around the empty space like a warning. You paced, arms crossed tightly over your chest, power flickering at your fingertips—unsteady, agitated.

“This is stupid,” you muttered, pacing faster. “This is so—stupid.” Why the hell did he have to say that? “Let me.”

Let him what? See you? Understand you? Save you? You weren’t the saving kind. You were the caution tape at the scene of the accident—the reason for it, not the survivor.

You stopped in front of the cracked mirror hanging off the wall. It tilted to one side, warped your reflection slightly—made you look like a villain straight out of a comic book. Hair wild, eyes glowing faintly with violet light, mouth set in that familiar crooked grin.

But your eyes—there was something different in them now. A flicker. Something too soft to name. You reached up and touched the mirror gently, dragging your fingers across the glass like you could scrub the look away.

“He doesn’t know me,” you whispered. “He doesn’t know what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt.”

And still, part of you burned at the idea that he didn’t care. That maybe he would stay, even after finding out.

You swallowed hard, that familiar ache swelling in your chest. The ache you’d buried under every heist, every battle, every smirk and snide comment. The ache for something more. Respect. Recognition. Hell, maybe even love. But you’d long since convinced yourself those things weren’t for you.

You pressed your forehead to the cool glass. “Jinx,” you whispered, like it was a tether. “That’s all I am.”

But even now, the word didn’t sit right on your tongue. Not after how he said your name. Like it wasn’t something broken. Like it meant something more. You hated how that made your chest twist. You hated how much you wanted to believe him.

The hideout was quiet. Hidden beneath the ruins of an abandoned subway station, its only light came from the glow of broken neon signs and the soft flicker of your aura curling around your fingers like smoke.

You kicked off your boots, the echo sharp against the metal floor, and tossed your cloak to the side. Still buzzing with adrenaline, you paced in a slow circle before finally letting yourself collapse onto the ratty couch in the corner. Your hand lifted, studying the residue of violet energy still sparking in your palm.

“What a fool…” you muttered to yourself, voice laced with disbelief. “Me? Being redeemed? Ha!” You laughed. Sharp and bitter. “I’m just bad luck… just a jinx.” The words spilled out low, like a confession you didn’t mean to make.

Your grin dropped, eyes cast downward, letting the weight of it settle in your chest. The way he looked at you—like he saw something else, like he believed in someone you couldn’t recognize in the mirror. It lingered, worming into the parts of you you usually kept sealed shut. But then—click. That switch flipped. You straightened. Smirked. Let your power crackle back into your fingertips like armor.

“Let him chase his little redemption fantasy,” you whispered, leaning your head back against the couch. “He’ll learn. They always do.” But even as you smiled, you couldn’t shake the memory of his voice.

“Then let me.”

You scoffed again—but this time it didn’t come with a laugh. You were bad luck. You were a jinx. But for some damn reason… Mark Grayson made you feel like that wasn’t the whole story.

The museum was quiet—too quiet.

Lasers danced across the dimly lit floor, their soft hum the only sound besides your calm, measured footsteps. You walked between them like a phantom, weaving through the security grid with ease. You’d done your homework. Every guard schedule, every camera blind spot, every sensor delay.

You stopped in front of the glass case.

There it was.

The Crimson Seraph—a flawless ruby the size of your fist, glowing beneath the spotlight like a caged heart. Deep red, almost hypnotic. You stared for a moment too long, fingers twitching at your side.

You used to dream about it.

Back when you were just a weird little girl in a secondhand hoodie, huddled under broken streetlamps, peeking through dusty windows at stolen catalog pages. You never wanted a crown or a kingdom—just this. Something beautiful. Something no one could take from you.

With a smirk, you tapped your fingers. A pulse of violet energy cracked through the case, disabling the sensors just long enough.

You reached in, curling your fingers around the gem. It was heavier than you expected. Warmer, too. A perfect kind of wrong. Your smile widened.

“Finally.” You slipped it into your bag and turned— Only to pause, the smirk fading the moment you saw him.

In the reflection of the glass behind you, clear as day: Invincible. Standing in the shadows. Watching. Again. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you raised an eyebrow, letting the mockery drip from your voice.

“Invincible,” you purred, spinning on your heel, “planning to stop me?”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, eyes steady. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Jinx.”

Your breath hitched. Just a little. But your expression didn’t change. You scoffed, loud and sharp, shaking your head with a bitter grin as you backed away, bag over your shoulder. “Then you don’t know me.” He took a step forward. “Maybe not all of you. But I’ve seen enough.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, voice low, dangerous. “Seen me rob museums? Blow up satellites? Ruin lives without even lifting a finger?”

“I’ve seen the way you hesitate,” he said. “I’ve seen you let people run instead of crushing them. I’ve seen you smile when you think no one’s watching. You’re not the villain you pretend to be.” You stared at him. For a long moment, the room was silent again—save for the hum of lasers and your heartbeat in your ears.

“Don’t do that,” you said, voice quieter now. “Don’t try to see me. You don’t get to do that.”

“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why can’t someone care about you?”

“Because I don’t need them to,” you snapped, taking another step back. “Because I’ve made it this far on my own. No one cares about bad luck. They just run from it.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m not running.”

You looked down, then up at the ruby glinting through the bag’s opening. You hated how warm your chest felt. You hated that part of you—deep, buried, furious—wanted to believe him.

But instead of answering, you turned and dashed toward the skylight above. A blast of violet cracked the glass wide open. The cool night air rushed in as you leapt through it, disappearing into the dark.

Behind you, Mark didn’t chase. Not yet. He just stood there, watching the broken ceiling, wondering why the girl who ran from everything looked so much like someone desperate to be caught.

The wind cut against your face as you soared across rooftops, darting between rusted water towers and broken satellite dishes. The city was still asleep, oblivious to the weight you carried—ruby in your bag, guilt in your chest.

You kept moving, faster than usual. Not because you were being chased. Because you were running from the way he looked at you. That stupid, stubborn look. The kind heroes wore when they were too naive to let go. When they still believed the villain could be saved.

He was wrong. You weren’t the one who needed saving. You dipped into the shadows of a forgotten alleyway, slipped behind the rusted fence, and ducked through the narrow tunnel that led back to your hideout. Your sanctuary.

You sighed as the door creaked shut behind you, letting the weight of the night roll off your shoulders. The ruby clinked softly against the side of your bag as you dropped it on the table.

The familiar hum of neon filled the space, casting you in purple and pink. Home. You exhaled through your nose and leaned back against the cold wall, arms crossed.

“What was that tonight?” you whispered. “Trying to talk me down like I’m some lost puppy.” You glanced at the ruby.

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll forget me.” But even you didn’t believe that. You didn’t even forget him. You turned toward the couch but stopped—something in the air felt off. The kind of silence that was too still. The kind that made the hair on the back of your neck rise.

But you didn’t see him. Not yet. Mark hovered in the shadows just above, just outside the broken skylight of your hideout. He’d followed you from the museum, keeping his distance. He was faster than you, quieter when he wanted to be.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he found your hideout. But watching you now—watching the way you dropped the act the moment you were alone, the way your shoulders sagged, the way your voice broke just a little—he knew one thing: You weren’t as heartless as you wanted the world to believe. And maybe… you were waiting for someone to see that. To see you. He stayed quiet. Waiting. Not as a hero. Just as Mark.

You moved toward the center of the room, slow and tired now that the high was fading. The adrenaline had worn off. All that was left was you, the stolen ruby… and the echo of his voice still clawing at the edges of your mind. You sank into the couch like a storm collapsing on itself, arms draped over the sides, head tilted toward the ceiling. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Jinx…”

You scoffed, staring up at the fractured glass overhead. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought, Mark.” Your voice dropped, lower now, almost unsure. “…Why do you keep coming back?”

Silence.

Just the soft hum of the city above, distant and unreachable. “I’ve hurt people. A lot of people. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to. Because it was easier than hoping someone would give a damn.” You swallowed hard. “You don’t get to walk in, act like a hero, and make that all go away.”

You sat up suddenly, eyes sharp, angry at yourself for saying too much to no one. You grabbed the ruby from the bag and held it in your palm, turning it slowly in the dim light. “It’s just a rock,” you muttered, lips twisting. “But I used to think it meant something. That if I could take it, I’d prove I wasn’t worthless. That I could still win.”

You paused, fingers curling tight around the ruby. “…Why doesn’t it feel like winning?” A gust of wind, barely there, brushed against your cheek. Your eyes snapped to the skylight—and then you felt it. The weight of a gaze. You turned sharply. And there he was. Invincible. Perched silently just inside the skylight, like he’d been there for a while. Not chasing. Not arresting. Just watching.

Your heart thudded, rage and panic flashing in your eyes. “How long have you been there?” you snapped, standing quickly, the ruby still clutched in your hand. Mark floated down slowly, his feet barely making a sound when they touched the floor. He didn’t look smug. Or angry. Just… soft. Quiet.

“Long enough,” he said. You laughed—sharp, defensive, shaky. “Enjoy the show? Go ahead. Call the GDA. You got your proof. Your villain monologue. I’m all yours.”

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said gently. You glared at him. “Then what? You want a thank-you? A confession? You think breaking into my space makes you the good guy here?” He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you—like you were standing on a ledge and he was already reaching out.

“I just wanted to know why you looked so sad… when no one else was around.” Your lips parted. No words came. Because there it was again—that thing in his voice. That aching belief that you weren’t just bad luck. That you mattered. You wanted to scream. To disappear. To laugh and say something cruel enough to push him away. Instead, you stood there frozen, the ruby trembling in your hand. “…Get out,” you whispered, voice suddenly hoarse.

Mark took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t want me to.” You hated that he was right. But you couldn’t let yourself believe it. Not yet. Not when you were still just… a jinx.

Your grip tightened around the ruby, the edges biting into your palm.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

The silence between you stretched, thick and sharp, filled with everything you wanted to say and everything you never would.

Mark’s voice broke it.

Low. Steady. Soft in a way that cut deeper than any punch ever could.

“You’re not just a jinx.”

You tensed.

“Don’t,” you warned, shaking your head, voice cracking on the edge. “Don’t say that.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re not.”

His words were stronger now, more sure, like he needed you to believe it—needed to say it loud enough to drown out all the lies you’d been feeding yourself for years.

“You’re Y/N.”

That name.

That name you hadn’t heard from someone else in so long. That name you’d buried under bad luck, black eyeliner, and bitter grins. That name that still felt too soft for someone like you.

You finally looked at him.

And he wasn’t looking at you like a thief or a villain or a mess too broken to fix.

He was looking at you like you mattered.

And that—terrified you.

“I don’t even remember what that name used to mean,” you whispered. “It never brought me anything but pain. They called me a freak. Said I was cursed. So I became what they already thought I was.”

He took another step forward. “But that’s not who you are now.”

“And how would you know?” you snapped, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes, furious that he was seeing too much. “You don’t know what it’s like to be hated for something you can’t control. To lose everything before you even had a chance to fight for it!”

Mark didn’t move this time. He just met your fire with calm, unflinching eyes. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through. But I know what it’s like to feel wrong in your own skin. To think maybe the world would be better without you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I know what it’s like to break something you care about because you’re afraid you’ll ruin it if you try to hold on.”

The ruby fell from your hand with a soft clink, forgotten. Mark took one more step. He was close now. “You’re not just your powers. You’re not just the pain people caused you.” He paused. “You’re Y/N. And you’re still here.” Your eyes burned. You hated how much you needed to hear it. Hated how much you wanted to believe it was true. And for the first time in a long time… You didn’t smile to hide the hurt. You just stood there, stripped bare beneath the weight of your name.

“…You should’ve let me run,” you said, voice barely a whisper. Mark’s eyes softened. “I wasn’t going to.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly, breath caught between anger and something far more dangerous—hope.

You stared at him, still and tense like a wire stretched too tight. Everything inside you screamed to run, to curse him out, to disappear back into the shadows where no one could ever reach you again. But you didn’t. You didn’t move at all. Mark stepped even closer, slow and careful like you were something fragile. Like he knew you were.

He reached out—not to grab you, not to stop you—but to offer his hand, fingers open, gentle. No force. No pressure. Just choice.

“I know it’s scary,” he said quietly, “but you don’t have to be alone.”

Your lip trembled. You hated how your eyes were stinging again, how the weight you carried felt so much heavier now that someone else could see it. Could feel it.

“I don’t even know how to be anything else,” you admitted, your voice a whisper. “It’s not just bad luck—it’s who I am.” Mark shook his head.

“No. It’s what you were told you were. There’s a difference.” You looked at his hand. So open. So steady.

A thousand warnings fired off in your mind—what if he turns on you? What if he’s wrong? What if this is another cruel joke from the universe? But still… you reached out. Your fingers brushed his. And for the first time in forever, something didn’t fall apart at your touch.

You didn’t break anything. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he laced your fingers with his, warm and sure and real. You let out a shaky breath, a half-laugh breaking through the silence as the tension melted from your shoulders.

“You’re either brave or incredibly stupid,” you mumbled. He smiled. “I get that a lot.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. For a moment, there were no capes, no powers, no labels. Just you and him—two people standing in a broken-down hideout, holding hands like the world wasn’t ending for once. And for the first time… maybe you weren’t just a jinx. Maybe you were something more. Someone more. “Don’t get used to this,” you said softly, finally leaning into him just a little. “I’m still probably gonna rob a few places.”

Mark chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Just give me a heads-up next time. Maybe I’ll come with you.” You laughed. Really laughed. And for the first time very in a long time… you didn’t feel cursed at all.

[endlesslyhyperfixating]

Every time people try to pretend there’s no existence of racial bias in the way Sydcarmy is dismissed, an angel loses their wings.

You know what’s exhausting? Watching people bend over backward to insist that there are no racist or misogynoir undertones to the way Sydcarmy gets dismissed as a valid ship—let’s just be real for a second.

I understand people who don't ship it or believe in the ship because they prefer to take the show at face value, focus on different dynamics, or interpret relationships in other ways. However, the people who deny any validity to believing their relationship is more than meets the eye? That needs to be addressed.

People will swear up and down that their issue isn’t with Sydney, that they love her, and that they "just think Carmy should go to therapy first"—but then in the same breath, you'll catch them romanticizing the hell out of his dynamic with Claire, a relationship that was unhealthy, regressive, and rooted in avoidance rather than growth. @yannaryartside covers the very strong existence of the Oedipus complex and the fulfillment of Carmy’s mommy issues through Claire’s behavior and manipulation in their relationship, and I agree wholeheartedly.

Let’s talk about the “Carmen needs therapy before a girlfriend” argument. Let’s be real—Carmy needed therapy when he was with Claire too, but nobody seemed to mind that. In fact, everyone around him—Richie, the Faks, even the audience—enabled this idea of Claire as a “good” thing for him, as if she wasn’t feeding into his worst tendencies. And the most infuriating part? Claire was, in fact, manipulative. (Again, covered by @yannaryartside .)

She didn’t do it in an overt, villainous way but used **soft, socially acceptable manipulation**—the kind that gets ignored when it’s coming from a conventionally attractive, non-threatening, quirky white woman.

Claire’s Manipulation: The Softness of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

People like to act like Claire was just a character who wasn’t well-written or worth the time for analysis, but that was the entire point of her: to feel underwhelming, to feel forced into place. In many ways this is true of course, she's under/not well-written in ways, and people think she was simply there, offering Carmy what she believed (and convinced him to believe) was love, when in reality, she inserted herself into his life in a way that preyed on his vulnerabilities and pre-existing issues.

And before anyone jumps in with "she didn’t do anything wrong!"—let’s actually look at how she operated.

- She sought him out when he wasn’t in a good place.

She made it a point to go out of her way to get his real number after being given a fake one. If course she uses that classic manipulative play it off as a joke move when she threatens him but not the best way to start. I know it's been said before, but can we imagine if the roles were reversed? Would we not think that creepy?

- She made it about her when he was struggling.

When Carmy tried to set a boundary, Claire framed it as him pulling away from her, rather than him dealing with his own issues. She encouraged his avoidance, gave him an easy escape from his problems, and then was surprised—and (validly) hurt—when reality came crashing down. Even when Carmy was harsh in breaking up with her, he was speaking from a place of truth for himself. To be with her, when he was so damaged and not really in a space of genuinely liking her, was bullshit.

- She used nostalgia as a tool.

Claire’s entire presence in Carmy’s life was based on a past version of him that no longer existed. Just as Carmy didn’t really see Claire, but rather a projected version of her shaped by his family (and a little bit of Sydney), Claire didn’t love him—she loved the idea of Carmy she had from childhood. And she expected him to fit back into that mold, to regress into a state where he could blow off work to hang out with her and forget his partnership with Sydney, someone he's meant to work with and has a responsibility to be with. That’s not love. That’s entitlement to a person’s growth—or lack thereof.

And yet, people ignore all this because Claire fits their idea of what a love interest should look like to them. She’s non-threatening, familiar, digestible. They don’t question why she feels right, - white - while Sydney—who actually challenges Carmy, who understands him in ways Claire never could—gets written off as “not romantic.”

Claire, for "clarity" or "peace" (ugh)—is simple. She's the painted picture of a woman who puts others before herself, the quirky manic pixie dream girl inching too close to the camera, sneaking her way into his life. People argue it feels like the same effect Sydney has on Carmy, but it's not the same at all. Claire is easy. For Carmy. He can fuck up, regress, and stay stagnant, and she’ll applaud him for it. "Never ever, ever apologize."

Sydney is the opposite. She calls him on his shit, and she sees him for who he really is. Sydney is the real peace for him (how many times do we need to bring up that damn panic attack, the table scene, and strange currencies? Thank you, @chefkids ).

Phew...

Moving on,

The Hypocrisy of the “Carmy Needs Therapy First" Argument

Back to the “Carmy needs therapy before a relationship” excuse—because wow, is that just selective. People only seem to apply it when Sydney is involved, not when Claire is around. It’s the most transparent double standard imaginable. I’ve seen one too many “I ship Carmy with therapy” memes, and I need to talk about it.😾.

When Carmy was with Claire, he was a mess—but people loved to romanticize it, acting like she was his “breath of fresh air,” even when she was just another distraction. Even he fell for it, tricking himself into believing the false sense of security she contrived for him.

When these people talk about Carmy and Sydney, suddenly it’s “he needs to work on himself first” as if the mere suggestion of them together is too high-stakes to even consider. It’s always “God forbid we have well-written female-male relationships without it being romantic.”

So we prefer shitty romantic relationships between the quirked-up white woman and our white male main character rather than the chemistry, character plot, and dynamic between Syd and Carm? Okay.

It’s not about Carmy’s emotional availability for these people. It’s about who people *want* to see him be available for, and it's not Sydney.

Why Do People Feel So Pressed About Sydcarmy, Anyways?

If Sydney were white—let’s be honest—this wouldn’t even be a conversation. The dynamic is already there. The intimacy, the trust, the undeniable chemistry. Their relationship fits the mold of that slow-burn, work-obsessed partners-to-lovers trope better than any other ship that actually makes it to canon.

But instead, people act like EVEN speculating about it is ridiculous, like the idea of Carmy feeling something deeper for Sydney is somehow beyond the realm of possibility. They’ll call it “forced,” “delusional,” or “just not where the story is going”—as if every single element of storytelling isn’t deliberately crafted to suggest something simmering under the surface. Whether platonic or romantic, it's there. It’s genuine soulmate energy.

They pretend their dismissal of this ship has nothing to do with race, but race is an integral part of the ship because Sydney is a black woman.

It's almost like erasure in itself when they deny it's importance, as if there isn’t a long history of Black women in media being sidelined, desexualized, and treated as expendable when it comes to romance. Sydney isn’t “just a coworker.” She’s not “just his business partner.” She is one of the most important people in his career—and even his life—whether people want to admit it or not.

So yeah, maybe people need to interrogate *why* they can believe in Claire—a character who offered Carmy nothing but regression—but not Sydney, who actually represents something real.

Because if the reason is "Carmy's growth," you're bullshitting.

---

Tags

@fairestbeard @chefkids @thoughtfulchaos773 @yannaryartside

[bakuchrome]

WILDFLOWER -K. Bakugo

Katsuki Bakugo x Reader

Master List

Bakugo never cared about his reputation. He was a hero, a damn good one, and that was supposed to be enough. But with every explosion, every pissed-off rant at reporters, and every viral video of him telling a villain to "sit the hell down," his agency wasn’t exactly pleased.

They wanted him softened. More palatable. Someone the public could root for in a safe way. So they made a call.

And that’s how Tsuyu Asui became his fake girlfriend.

It wasn’t her idea, but she agreed— calm, logical, a perfect contrast to Bakugo’s temper. The media ate it up. Headlines praised his 'gentler side.' Paparazzi photos of their staged coffee dates were plastered everywhere. People started to believe that maybe Dynamight had a heart underneath all that fire.

But you?

You knew the truth.

Because Bakugo Katsuki might have been 'dating' Tsuyu for the world to see, but behind closed doors, in stolen moments, and in the way his hands always found you in the dark— he was yours.

The first time you heard about the fake relationship, you laughed.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Bakugo glared at you from across the room, arms crossed, a vein threatening to pop in his forehead. "Yeah? Well, tell that to the dumbasses at my agency."

You tilted your head, watching him. He was tense, more than usual. And that meant something.

"Does Tsuyu know this is fake?"

"’Course she does, idiot," he scoffed. "She doesn’t give a shit— she’s just helping me out."

"Right." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "And you’re fine with this?"

"Obviously not, dumbass!" His voice spiked, and he groaned, rubbing his temples. "But what the hell else am I supposed to do? They’re threatening to pull my damn endorsements— say I’m 'too aggressive.'"

You stared at him. His jaw was locked, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You are aggressive, Bakugo."

His red eyes snapped to yours. "Yeah? And you like it."

The words sent a rush of heat down your spine. Because he was right.

You had known Bakugo for years. You had seen every side of him— the ruthless fighter, the stubborn idiot, the boy who loved so deeply it scared him. And this? This was some PR bullshit that didn’t belong to him.

"You could say no," you said softly.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And what? Let them ruin my image? Make me out to be some kinda—" He clenched his teeth. "—villain?"

And that was the part that killed him the most.

Bakugo had spent his entire life proving he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t another Shigaraki, another Dabi, another cautionary tale of power left unchecked. He had worked for this. Bled for this. And now, the world wanted him to play nice, or they’d take it all away.

You swallowed hard.

"So, what now?"

Bakugo sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. "Now," he muttered, "I pretend to be in love with someone else."

And you hated how much that hurt.

The first time he kissed Tsuyu in public, you saw it on the news.

It was a quick thing— just a brush of lips outside a café, cameras flashing, a reporter gushing about how 'Dynamight is finally showing his softer side!'

You had to turn off the TV.

Because the thing about Bakugo was— he didn’t do half-measures. If he was pretending, he was going to make it look real. He was going to sell the lie.

And it made you sick.

That night, he showed up at your door.

You almost didn’t let him in.

"Go home, Bakugo."

"Open the damn door, please."

You froze. Because Bakugo never said please.

When you opened it, he looked— wrecked.

His hair was messier than usual, his eyes dark with something unreadable. He wasn’t wearing his usual scowl, wasn’t posturing like he had something to prove. He was just— there

"Don’t," you whispered. "Don’t come here after you just—"

"It’s not real," he said, stepping closer.

You clenched your fists. "It looked real."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

"Then maybe you should go back to her."

His eyes flashed. And then— before you could push him away— his hands were on your waist, his lips crashing into yours, desperate and real and nothing like what you saw on the news.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hoodie as he backed you against the wall.

"I hate this," he rasped. "I hate this fucking lie—I hate that I gotta do this when all I want is you."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. "Then stop."

His breath was ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because they’ll take everything from me," he murmured. "And I can’t lose this."

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "And me?"

His grip on you tightened. "I’m already losing you."

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

Because you knew— you knew— this wouldn’t last. That eventually, something would break. Either you, or him, or this whole stupid act he was playing at.

But for now— just for tonight— his hands were on you, and his lips were on yours, and he was saying your name like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

And you let him.

Because if Bakugo Katsuki was a wildfire— then you were already burning.

[shysublimecoffee]

Marinette receiving the Ladybug mantle was an absolute mistake. I watched the special, and honestly, gurl is doing the most—and for what? A guy? One dude, and she’s ready to throw her common sense out the window. Like, how has Hawkmoth/Gabriel not used his own son more often as leverage against her by now? That’s villainy 101, and he’s just sitting on it. Like for the amount of times I've seen this show rag on ChatNoir because of his weakness in romance when that Ladybug biggest weakness not CN lol.

At this point, I don’t even care about what Marinette’s going through. Whatever emotional investment I had in her? Long gone. She’s out here spinning lies on top of lies, desperately trying to hold together her crumbling Adrien-obsessed empire, and for what? She lost. Game over.

Now, if this were a story about a girl slowly getting corrupted, spiraling into villainy, and intentionally written as a downfall arc? No problem. That would’ve been a compelling narrative with a real lesson for kids about the consequences of obsession and dishonesty. But nope, instead we’re stuck with this mess where her choices make it harder and harder to root for her.

Marinette's speech at the press conference—“Ladybug holds the truth, she holds the truth” —had me scratching my head cause it sound more like a villain then a hero. Like, did the writers forget she’s supposed to have hero-like qualities? She’s meant to be the messenger, the symbol of hope, the hero. But how often does she actually display that in her own show?

Lately, it feels like being Ladybug is more of an obligatory chore for her than something that brings her real joy or fulfillment. Isn’t the whole point of magical girls to inspire, to help others, and to grow through their journey? Where’s the sense of accomplishment, the spark, the joy of making a difference? It’s like they’ve stripped her of everything that should make her role uplifting and meaningful.

I've seen here and there about how MC was never meant to come off that way or the writers are trying to make her more complex or how dare you do you dislike complex female characters or the most used it was never her intention to come off that way it was a mistake.

I want you to picture this without the music just dialogue cause i'm going to be clearcut about this.

Ladybug went to an orphaned, grieving child—one who had been locked away in solitary confinement, surrounded by nothing but white walls and being sensory deprived—and lied to him about his father being a hero. Let that sink in. Gabriel, who systematically abused his own son, was painted as a noble martyr by Ladybug.

Adrien, a kid who was finally starting to question his father’s authority, even beginning to tear down the oppressive image of the man who controlled and hurt him, is now trapped in an even tighter mental cage. After all, if Paris sees his father as a hero, a savior, how could he possibly feel justified in blaming or resenting the man? Gabriel is now a martyr in the eyes of the world, and Adrien is left to wrestle with guilt and shame for ever having cruel thoughts about someone everyone else idolizes.

Ladybug’s decision to perpetuate this lie doesn’t just protect Gabriel’s image—it messes with Adrien’s already fragile mind. Instead of helping him heal or giving him the freedom to process the truth, she’s reinforced the very chains Gabriel used to control him. It’s not heroic; it’s delusional and harmful, all in the name of preserving some twisted version of peace in her head.

You want me to feel pity for a girl who I'm sorry if I sound harsh to yall at the end of the day just want to keep the peace to fill her delusions that everything is going to work out in her part at the end when really she's just the worst type of coward there is when it comes to confrontations lmao. Accountability? She avoids them like they’re some kind of plague. It’s almost impressive how someone can masquerade as a hero while being utterly incapable of facing the hard truths. Lmao, sure, let’s all pity her.

Honestly, in the earlier seasons, at least Marinette seemed to feel bad about her mistakes. Now? She’s only gotten worse. I headcanon that receiving the Ladybug mantle or becoming the Guardian inflated her ego, giving her a power trip. With no proper mentor to hold her accountable and everyone automatically deferring to her leadership, who’s left to challenge her? Well maybe CN if he has the guts to do so but he'd rather cower into his shell lol.

In hindsight, I don’t think Marinette should’ve become Ladybug—not because she lacks the capability, but because the role itself seems to have worsened her as a person. Instead of growing into the hero I though she was meant to be, she’s devolved, losing some of the humility and self-awareness she had at the start of the series.

Let’s be real—we’re in Season 6 now, and we all know the writers aren’t going to make Marinette face any real consequences. The whole universe bends over backward to accommodate her. If you’ve seen Season 5, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

That said, I’ll give credit where it’s due: the special was fun. Yes, despite all my ranting, I actually enjoyed it because it was funny in its own way.

At this point, though, I’m only sticking around for Adrien and Lila. Honestly? I’m rooting for Lila to be the one to drop the truth bomb and expose everything. It would be chef’s kiss poetic if she ended up being the one to set things straight. Lmao.

P.s For anyone who thinks there is a dilemma to be had about the whole thing its really not lol rip the bandaid off.

It reeks of a megalomaniac in the making, making her come off like a gaslighting psychopath. Ironically, it reminds me of Gabriel—especially with the way he used similar wording. Honestly, are we sure Marinette isn’t Gabriel’s true daughter? Because the parallels are man.

I’m genuinely angry that she is the one everyone feels sorry for, and it’s only because the show is stuck in her perspective. If we spent even a fraction of the screen time on Adrien’s pain, it would make for a far more compelling story. It’s infuriating. Marinette isn’t some helpless sheep/damsel victim here—no one forced her into this role at gunpoint. She made her choices, knowingly and willingly. How dare she act like the weight of the world was thrust upon her without her consent? When she very much messed with a grieving kid here?

And yet, Adrien’s pain—real, tangible, and far more tragic—is constantly sidelined. He’s an orphan, being lied to by nearly everyone around him, adults and teens alike, and his suffering is treated as a subplot to Marinette’s endless drama. Why should the audience feel more for her than for the boy who’s lost everything? Why is his pain has to be centered to her??

This isn't a small mistake this has far reaching consequences if the show had the balls to do it to lie to the entire world over a man who terrorized on people fear.

If Adrien ever became a villain, I wouldn’t blame him. In fact, I’d understand and give him the free ticket to go ahead and cataclysm and burned the world .

[morverenmaybewrites]

Masterlist of My Works

Morveren | AO3

This is a personal blog, but I do take the occasional ask/requests. SFW asks only, please.

Genshin Impact

Stories:

✸ Someday, Somewhere (Xiao x Reader) (AO3)

You meet Adeptus Xiao under strange new skies.

✸ Speak (Xiao x Reader) (AO3)

Learning to love him is like learning a different language.

✸ Silk Flowers (Xiao x Reader) (Tumblr | AO3)

It was the silk flowers.

In summer time, they are practically given away: to seamstresses, to scribes, or perhaps, woven into the hair of a well-known customer. The token of a bargain well-struck.

Xiao claims not to be bothered by them, that adepti are above petty mortal concerns like jealousy.

Perhaps he is right, and you are reading too much into it.

But perhaps, as you are slowly learning, adepti are closer to humans than they’d like to admit.

You decide to test this theory.

"Xiao, if you hate the flowers so much," you say, smiling. "Why not take them off?"

✸ A Crown of Bone (Zhongli x Reader) (Tumblr | AO3)

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank.

Imagine a lifetime of secrets: your first memories are of a spring that does not belong to the mortal realm. You dream of golden eyes gleaming at you from the darkness as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine keeping these things to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. Secrets that are half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.

And you hope that one day, they will find you again

Headcanons:

✶Imagine Zhongli as Your Reincarnated Lover (Zhongli x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine Being Kaeya's Childhood Friend (Kaeya Alberich x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Diluc x Fatui Reader (Diluc Ragnvindr x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine sliding your fingers underneath Dilucs glove (Diluc Ragnvindr x Reader) (Tumblr)

Batman: Arkham and DC

Stories:

✸ The Pizza Delivery Girl's Survival Guide to Gotham City (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

People who lived outside of Gotham City would most often think of it in terms of its heroes and villains. About Batman and Robin, Joker and Harley Quinn.

People who actually live in Gotham City would only think of one thing: surviving.

Who cares about the people in costumes when your house has been bombed for the fifth time, or your wife has been taken hostage just because she worked in a bank?

Or, in your case, when you have to make regular deliveries to places where even Batman feared to tread?

Because let's face it. In a world full of superheroes and costumed villains, the real heroes are the ones who make sure that people get their pizzas in forty-five minutes or less.

✸ His Father's Son (Jason Todd x Reader, Dark Fantasy!AU) (AO3)

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous. One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange new curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

✸ Rules of Vanishing (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

Here are the rules to survive as a civilian in Gotham City:

The first rule is to keep your head down. Don't draw attention to yourself. Don't make eye contact. Walk briskly and with purpose. Don't wear anything flashy that can be stolen and most certainly do not walk down that dark alley.

The second rule is don't be a hero. Avoid confrontations. Walk the other way when you see a standoff. Don't try to help that man getting beat up in the alley, because odds are you'll get killed right along with him. Gotham City has Batman for a reason.

The third and most important rule is this: Don't get involved with superheroes.

Or in your case, gun-toting vigilantes.

✸ Next to Last (Jason Todd x Reader) (AO3)

After Batman’s death, Jason is left to pick up the pieces.

✸ Revenant (Creature!Jason x Reader) (Tumblr)

✸ Imagine Early Mornings with Bruce Wayne (Bruce Wayne x Reader) (Tumblr)

Headcanons:

✶ Imagine Dark Fantasy!Gotham City (Tumblr)

✶How would Jason react to having his face traced (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Domestic Headcanons (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Eurydice! Jason Todd and Orpheus! Reader (Jason Todd x Reader (Tumblr)

✶ Jason Todd's life outside of work (Gen) (Tumblr)

✶ Jason Todd's day to day life (Gen, mild Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Imagine Wayne Manor as a Haunted House (Bruce Wayne x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Sleeping Arrangements (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What kind of praise/compliments Jason would be fine with? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What freaks him out most in a relationship? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ Jealousy and Insecurity Headcanons (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ What lesson about love are they still trying to learn? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

✶ How has their understanding of love changed? (Jason Todd x Reader) (Tumblr)

Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

✸ Stolen (Hawks | Keigo Takami x Reader) (AO3)

He is five years old when he decides to be a hero. It is not as simple learning to fly nor is it as easy as saving people.

But he does not know that yet.

Snapshots of Hawks’ life from child to hero to something else in between.

Jujutsu Kaisen

✸ Made New (Kento Nanami x Reader) (Tumblr) (AO3)

Your husband, Kento Nanami, comes back home after Shibuya. Only he isn't quite the same.

[floweycidal]

the whole thing's devastating in itself, but would you guys believe me if i told you this part specifically makes me so super sad

flowey doesn’t allow himself to feel the snow. not really. he won’t talk about how the cold steadies him, or how it stirs memories of simpler times. he avoids thinking about the quiet. the way the world slows down under the weight of winter, how everything feels softer, almost bearable.

the peace feels too close. too easy.

thoughts like that aren’t for him. perhaps they never were. they belong to someone else. and flowey doesn’t get to be him. not anymore.

so, instead, he ignores it. kills it in its infancy. turns away from the idea before it drags up pieces of a life he refuses to remember. he acts like happiness isn’t something that should happen to him. a mistake. an error in the system that needs to be corrected.

there’s always this jaggedness to his words, something sharp enough to keep anything tender at bay. if something feels good, he cuts it down to size—turns it bitter, spits it back out as cruelty. it’s instinct by now, as natural as breathing.

that’s what flowey does. he tears things apart before they can convince him he deserves more. after all, it’s much easier to laugh at the world than to feel it.

this is just the way things are. the way they have to be.

the softness never feels right anyway. it’s awkward, like trying to cup water in clenched fists. like touching something delicate with hands meant only to destroy.

he’s flowey. he has to be flowey. and flowey doesn’t get to savor things. he doesn’t stop to enjoy the way the snow hushes the world or let the cold bite just enough to remind him he’s alive.

he knows better.

there's almost comfort in that. in shutting things down, in turning them brittle before they can take root. it’s neat. predictable. safe. no dangerous hope worming its way into places it doesn’t belong. no warmth overstaying its welcome. just the same old ache he’s carried for as long as he can remember—steady, familiar, dull.

manageable.

because if he let something good in… what then?

would it stay? refuse to leave? would it start to matter?

would he start to matter?

flowey knows exactly who he is. the villain. the failure. the one who tried to make things right and only made it worse. if there was ever a chance to be anything else, it’s long gone. whatever good might have existed in him has been buried beneath years of mistakes, smothered by everything he couldn’t save.

he had a plan once. a way to undo it all. make things right again. but it didn’t work. he didn’t work. he couldn’t save chara. couldn't save the monsters.

couldn’t even save himself.

and this… this is what’s left.

flowey. the version of him that learned to survive by not needing anything. the one who gave up on hope, joy, and peace because letting them in would mean the walls he built were never needed at all.

it would mean that somewhere inside, there’s still something soft. something worthy.

and he doesn’t know how to live with that. he’s not even sure he wants to.

control is all that makes sense anymore. he decides when the pain comes, how much, and from whom. he decides. no one else.

he’s built everything on that control—this image of who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to feel. but what if he stopped? what if he let the bitterness go? what would be left?

just asriel?

and what would that mean? that there had always been another way?

no. he can’t let that be true.

so he copes. he compartmentalizes. keeps things boxed up neatly. flowey and asriel. good. evil. pain. hope. life. death. they don’t touch. they’ll never touch. he’d lose control if they did. and control is all he has left.

he makes sure to break things down before they have the chance to become anything real. he’s always the one to close the door first—better to leave than to be left behind.

if not, he might remember what it’s like to be exposed. vulnerable. weak.

and that’s something he cannot accept. the possibility that asriel is still in there. that there’s still a way back.

that maybe… he was never as far gone as he wants to believe.

it’s almost funny, in a way, because he’s already changed, whether he knows it or not. the fact that he’s still here, still witnessing the world after everything that’s happened, proves he’s not as detached as he wants to believe.

the fighting stopped. the cycle ended. the monsters are free. and even if he won’t admit it, even if he’s not ready to come to terms with it—there’s a quiet kind of peace in that.

even so, he will dig in his heels. even so, he will play into the role in a war that’s long over. even so, he won’t let anything awaken the barest trace of what it once meant to be asriel.

he is flowey.

the snow will keep falling. it’ll land on his petals.

it doesn’t stay.

neither does he.

because it’s easier that way.

[ripplestitchskein]

Let’s talk about miscommunication in narratives for a second because I think it’s a point that gets missed based on comments I see in various social media platforms and on the episodes themselves.

Bad writing of miscommunication between two characters is usually down to a few things:

- Two characters who would normally talk about the issue just…aren’t. There is no narrative explanation as to why the two characters are not discussing whatever The Issue is and it’s purely to create an artificial conflict. Usually the lack of communication is wildly out of character and there are many examples of the characters discussing similar issues previously without issue but because the writer needs two people not to talk about it, they don’t.

- The miscommunication is caused by an easily cleared up misunderstanding. A missed phone call. A missed note. This does not include plot devices like another character deliberately orchestrating the misunderstanding by deleting a call or throwing away a note but is usually just a lazy way of inciting a miscommunication through pure coincidence, and it would be easily solved by a “Didn’t you get my note/phonecall?” If there has been previous established character anxieties or a history of a character being flakey or not following through this can also be used effectively to create a plausible reason for The Issue that could be rooted in real conflict, but if it’s just a simple happenstance it’s usually just laziness on the part of the writer to drive conflict for conflict’s sake.

- Two characters are given information by someone the narrative has already established as being untrustworthy but for plot reasons they believe them anyway. Again, on its own this isn’t necessarily bad writing, if some effort has been made to give the characters a reason to believe it, such as a doctored image or other proof, even if the credibility of the messenger is shaky because they are a villain or otherwise untrustworthy, that is enough to dodge the bad writing accusation in most cases. If there is no reason to trust the information they just do because that’s what the plot needs that is bad writing.

So let’s talk about when miscommunication is NOT bad writing or why two characters can’t simply say what needs to be said to resolve the issue based on comments I’ve seen for HB:

- A character has been previously established as having difficulty opening up or discussing The Issue. A good example is Stolas and Octavia. A commenter said “If Stolas had just told her he was depressed/unhappy they wouldn’t be at odds”. Well yeah. But we saw in LooLoo Land that he has difficulty discussing it with her. He had difficulty discussing it with Blitz as well. It’s a well established character trait that he does not discuss these things. It’s a critical part of his character arc so it makes sense that he wouldn’t just say it, and where they are now it’s been established that even if he HAD she wouldn’t believe it. The writing covered it from both angles.

- Two characters are avoiding a conversation because of circumstance or a character conflict. For Stolitz they still haven’t just come out and said how they feel. But we also spent a bunch of episodes showing why these two characters wouldn’t just do that, we’ve shown they have trouble expressing those feelings verbally, and we also have several situations where it simply wasn’t appropriate to have that conversation. Right after the trial wasn’t a good time, Stolas was still reeling from losing everything and at best it would read as Blitz saying he loved him because he saved him. And it wasn’t a good time after Octavia because obviously that’s a bad fucking time to broach the subject of a relationship that is the root cause of a major family upheaval. We the audience have both sides but as I’ve said before from Stolas’s perspective the last contact he had with Blitz that we know he remembers was before the party. He also just went through an entire season where he was shown that he shouldn’t trust his own judgment or choices. There is a whole song where he questions his own perceptions and that was NOT resolved. Before Stolas saved him the last Blitz had was Stolas going off with BTB guy, and Stolas is an emotional mess from the moment they meet again until the end of Sinsmas. All perfectly valid and established reasons they can’t just say the thing.

-Two characters are manipulated into not speaking by outside forces. While I do think Octavia and Stolas teeter between believability when it comes to Stella and Andrealphus’s machinations enough has been established to make it at least credible that Octavia would still doubt her father even though her mother is blatantly keeping them from speaking in Sinsmas in front of her. I don’t think the BEST choices were made there writing wise, but I think they established enough to make it at least tolerable. I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was bad writing, maybe a little rushed but not bad. We’ve had enough shown of Octavia’s insecurities and Stolas’s probably neurodivergence and trauma driven Out of Sight, Out of Immediate Mind to make it credible.

A major reason why two characters can’t simply “talk to one another” is simply that the plot demands it. There’s no story otherwise, especially in a largely character driven narrative like Helluva Boss. The external threats are secondary to the character’s own issues with this show, there wouldn’t really BE a show without them, at least not an interesting one. And I do think this lack of understanding of what comprises good miscommunication based on established characterizations and events from bad miscommunication that is forced for plot convenience drives a lot of the misinformed takes I see.

Just because two characters aren’t communicating does not automatically = writing bad, you have to consider all the factors and where the characters are to make that determination.

[ffleurist]

🕸️ 030 . in the shadow of betrayal

synopsis as you followed the 'nurse' who disguised as the green goblin, the truth finally comes to light—you now know who’s really behind the mask. wc 1617

tw— violence, kidnapping, knifepoint

the uneasy feeling lingers long after you leave mihya's hospital room. something about the nurse’s stare, no, the goblin’s stare sticks in your mind like a splinter. you shake it off and make your way out, but the nagging sense that something is wrong refuses to fade.

as the night air hits your face as you step outside, crisp and sharp, but it does little to calm your nerves. your steps quicken, an instinct pulling you towards the alley beside the hospital.

you need to save mihya.

you freeze when you spot them.

two figures stand in the shadows, tension crackling in the air like static. one of them is unmistakable spider-man, his posture tense, shoulders rigid beneath the familiar red and blue suit but however, he wasn’t in his suit. the other figure looms before him, clad in dark green, the mask reflecting the dim light with an eerie gleam.

the green goblin, still marked with blood and bruises from the earlier fight.

your breath catches in your throat. for a split second, you consider turning back but then you hear mihya’s voice, low and strained.

“who are you and why are you doing this?” his usual sharpness is gone, replaced by something quieter. something broken.

you inch closer, heart pounding in your chest. you’re still hidden, but from this distance, you can make out the tension in mihya’s clenched fists and the subtle tremor in his voice.

the goblin chuckles a cold, empty sound that echoes through the alley. “isn’t it obvious spidey? no, should i say kaiser?” his voice is rough, bitter. “you left me behind.”

a chill runs down your spine. this isn’t just some villain with a grudge, this is personal.

mihya takes a step forward, fists still clenched. “the fuck?” he says, but there’s a crack in his voice. “i don’t even know you!.”

for a long moment, the goblin says nothing. then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches up and pulls off his mask.

your stomach twists into a knot at the sight of his face. he’s young, around mihya’s age. someone you don’t recognise, but mihya clearly does. his face pales beneath the streetlight, the usual arrogance gone, replaced by something raw.

“ness,” mihya breathes, the name barely audible.

the weight of that single word hangs heavy in the air, and your heart breaks a little at the vulnerability in his tone. whoever this ness is, did he meant something to mihya? and now he’s the one threatening everything.

you barely notice the phone trembling in your hand as you dial emergency services, forcing your voice to stay steady as you report the scene. but your focus never leaves mihya, and the fragile way his mask of confidence seems to crack with every second.

the police will be here soon. you just hope they make it in time.

but the sudden loud ring of your phone breaks the moment, loud and unforgiving. you curse under your breath, knowing ness heard it.

shit. why didn’t you silent your phone? he’s definitely going to find you now.

suddenly, a sharp noise cuts through the tense silence. the sound of the blade flicking open. your breath hitches as ness turns to face you. his eyes gleam with malicious intent, his grip on the knife firm as he presses the cold steel to your neck. the blade’s edge feels too close, the sharpness too real, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“not so fast,” ness snarls, his voice rougher now, eyes glinting with madness. “i’m not going to let you ruin this, too.”

you freeze, fear taking root as you feel the blade graze your skin. mihya doesn’t move, his fists clenched in rage, but he’s too far away to act quickly.

ness’s grip tightens on the knife, and you can feel the cold metal pressing against your skin, a constant reminder of the danger you’re in. his eyes are wild now, his breath quickening.

he jerks your phone from your hand before you can even react, throwing it to the ground with a violent crack. for a moment, you’re disoriented, but then your mind snaps back into focus. the police are close. they have to be close.

you can hear mihya’s voice strained, but still defiant. “ness, stop! this isn’t you! whatever this is, you don’t have to do it!”

but ness isn’t listening. his eyes flick to mihya for the briefest moment, then back to you, his expression hardened. "you think i don't know? i know exactly who i am now. and you..." he pauses, his voice dripping with venom. "you took my everything from me."

your heart races. his words are like daggers, and you can see the depth of his pain, twisted into anger but there’s something almost fragile in the way he holds the knife, like he’s about to lose control at any moment.

mihya moves, but slowly, cautiously. he knows one wrong move and it could all go south.

“you don’t have to do this, ness,” he says, his voice calm but with an underlying urgency. “put the knife down. you don’t want this. this is between you and me, let her go!”

ness only laughs, the sound harsh and bitter. "too late! you think i want your pity? i don't need it!"

he turns back to you, his grip on the blade unshaken, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. "this is your fault too. if you hadn’t come here, none of this would’ve happened."

the seconds stretch into eternity. your heart pounds in your ears as you wait for the police, praying they arrive before things spiral even further. you feel the weight of the moment, the sharpness of the blade, and the desperate tension in the air.

then out of nowhere, you hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. the arrival of help.

ness’s expression changes in an instant, his eyes flicking to the sound. the knife wavers in his hand, but he doesn’t lower it. his shoulders sag, and for a brief, fragile moment, it seems like he’s about to surrender.

but then

mihya lunges forward.

in one fluid motion, he’s at your side, pulling you away from ness and into his arms, just as the sound of police cars blares through the alley. ness stumbles back, eyes wide with panic. 

he’s cornered. desperate.

“don’t make this worse,” mihya warns, his voice sharp as he steps toward him. “you know what you’ve done. let’s end it now.”

ness, visibly shaken, drops the knife at his feet, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. the fight has left him, and with a shaky surrender, he collapses into the arms of the approaching officers, his head hanging low in defeat.

as the police moves in to secure him, you let out the breath you didn’t realise you were holding. you lean into kaiser, the rush of relief and adrenaline mixing into a strange fog.

you glance up at him, who’s still holding you close, his eyes distant. in that moment, you realize just how much you’ve both been through and how much further there is to go but for now, at least, you’re both safe.

the sirens still echo through the alley, their blaring wail a strange relief after the suffocating tension. as the officers move in and cuff ness, the weight of the situation slowly begins to settle around you. the world seems to slow, everything blurry except for the frantic beat of your head.

“are you two civilians alright?" one of the police officers asked. "miss, could you please escort him back to the hospital? he looks like he needs some rest, you too. thank you for your bravery tonight."

mihya’s hand brushes against yours, but he doesn't say anything at first. you find his presence grounding, but his silence speaks volumes. he’s torn between relief that the danger is over and the rawness of everything that’s unfolded tonight. the officers are finally securing ness, leading him away towards the car. as they do, mihya takes a slow, steady breath, his eyes never leaving the scene. It’s as if he’s trying to piece everything together, the betrayal of his friend now sinking in.

“mihya, we’re safe,” you murmur, though it feels hollow. you’ve never been more terrified, yet something inside you keeps you from breaking down and the adrenaline hasn’t fully worn off yet.

kaiser glances at you and his eyes soften just a little, as if he’s seeing you in a different light. a moment of vulnerability, one he’s not used to showing. it’s enough to let you know that, no matter the mask he wears, there’s a man behind the spider-man who’s still healing too.

he steps closer, his voice low and guarded. “are you okay?”

you nod, though you’re not sure you fully believe it. “i think so. just… shaken.”

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looking at you as if trying to decide whether or not to let his guard down. finally, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of your palm. “you did good back there. i don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t—”

the words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. you don’t want to acknowledge what could have happened. not now. you glance at him, who’s still watching the police car driving away with ness. you sense that he’s too far gone to be comforted right now.

“let’s get you back to the hospital.” you say quietly, glancing around the alley. the streetlights flicker, casting long shadows, and the world outside feels like a foreign place after everything you’ve just witnessed. the moment feels oddly final.

“it’s over. at least for now.”

series MASTERLIST

notes from lily ❦⋆ : i’m crashing out on both my work & this chapter oh my god / i didn’t even proofread lol bye. # highkey hate engineering

TAGLIST

@mixolya @x3nafix @96jnie @tamashithe2nd @cookielovesbook-akie @yuiearyi @noomimi @stargirljas @jhsluvv @lotusofia @livelaughloveshidou @swagkittybear @axquella @passw-0-rd @hwaassaa @saeglazer @tofumiarchives @justanotherweeb666 @metaphorically-here @ravenbc @levihanmyotp @rybunnie @adrnmyknight @etherealrin @shosuki @90s-belladonna @wwastro @shr00mfairy @pan-kojiwa @pctterheadd @shumeow-h @deadlydollsstuff @renchai @nomyimi @beomn @heartmaddie @orphicarchive @sky-casino @8x9d @hanmastattoos @biscuitsx [tell me if i missed out anyone]

© ffleurist 2025 do not plagiarise, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[the-broken-pen]

Hi! I love love LOVE your writing so much!!!❤️❤️(it’s the only thing sometimes that can help me reorient myself when life sucks)-

Idk if you’ve already written a work like this- but could you write about a villain who fakes being in a relationship with hero to get information. Hero absolutely loves them and thinks that they can finally be happy….but then Villain breaks their heart- while saying they never loved them and that it was all a lie.

and then later on Villain regrets it and realizes they are actually obsessed with hero and go full psycho?

The hero had spent their childhood watching as their parents fought viciously with one another. Slamming doors and breaking plates, and then sullen, withdrawn and nearly silent conversations illuminated only by the dying lamp in the corner of the living room. Whatever the hero’s parents had, it wasn’t love, and never would be. The hero had no way of knowing if it ever had been. 

And then the hero had watched as time after time, their sister loved someone with her whole heart and was left shattered on the hero’s doorstep at the end of it. Fairytales that ended with no happy ending, ripped up love notes and a hundred playlists made for people their sister could no longer bear to name out loud.

The hero had watched their entire family reach for love and fall flat every time, and had resigned themself to a fate of the kind of heartbreak you cannot escape. The kind that hangs over heads like a cloud and fogs mirrors.

And then–

The villain. The hero had met the villain, and the villain had smiled, and they thought maybe, just maybe, they had beaten the curse. That they were meant for the soft kind of love they had only imagined when they were young, before the pain of it got too great.

The hero had let the villain intertwine themself into the hero’s life, and they had thought they were okay. They had thought they had made it. 

Which was why, now, they couldn’t seem to make themself think anything sensical at all.

The villain settled the file in front of the hero gently, on the table they had picked out together with as much care as one was capable of. They almost, almost, looked like they regretted it, face soft and breakable.

The villain cleared their throat in the silence. “If you just read it–”

“What, can’t say it yourself?”

The villain stopped, swallowing. This was the first time in a very long time the hero had seen them look unsure.

The hero scoffed at them. “I know about Project Pegasus.”

The villain went very, very still. They looked down towards the folder.

“So then–”

“This?” the hero picked up the folder, waving it once. They tossed it onto the floor without looking. “I’ve already read it. Two weeks ago.” They stared at the villain, and did their best not to blink. “I just hoped it was fake.”

The hero wondered if maybe, this was what had happened to their parents. If they had spent all of that time fighting and hating one another and crying in darkened rooms just so they could spend the rest of it constantly reaching back towards one another. Pretending that the file wasn’t real. That the fights were nothing more than a blip in existence and not the roots of a rot so deep it would never be fully cut out of them. 

They had wondered about a lot of things, curled on the bathroom floor around that wretched file, but mostly they had wondered if they had always been meant to end up here. If this was what being doomed felt like. 

The villain blinked.

“You hoped it was fake.”

The hero felt a little like they couldn’t breathe. They sucked a shallow breath in through their nose anyways. 

“If you–” their voice broke. “If you were me, would you want to believe it?”

The villain’s shoulders, almost imperceptibly, slumped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes,” the villain said, but in the space where they should have explained themself, where they should have said it was fake, and that they loved the hero more than anything, and that this little apartment meant everything to them–they said nothing.

“So, what,” the hero snapped, voice wet with barely held back tears. “You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean for me to fall in love with you? That this was an accident? That you’re sorry again? That you never meant to hurt me–”

“No,” the villain corrected gently. “You were always meant to fall in love with me.”

A tiny sob wormed its way out of the hero’s throat before they could stop themself, and they pressed their shaking fist to their mouth before anything else could follow, turning away.

“It was just about the information,” the villain said, and the hero shoved themself back from the table, just to get further away from the love of their life.

“You knew what you were doing,” the hero said bitterly. “You know me. You knew. You knew I would never be able to get over this, and you did it anyways–”

“It’s my job,” the villain protested, and it took the hero everything in them to remain standing. “It wasn’t personal.”

“You made yourself my world, you made yourself into my everything, you made me fall in love with you–”

“I never made you do anything.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that. This was your goal, wasn’t it? Own up to your accomplishments. Go on. Tell me how proud you are. Do it.”

“Hero.”

“I loved you,” the hero was screaming, maybe.

And there it was. Past tense.

Loved.

The villain stepped back like the hero had slapped them.

“Hero,” their voice was barely a whisper.

The hero picked up the file. Rifled through it once more.

“Hero–”

The hero held out the file. The villain didn’t take it, hands remaining limp at their side.

“Take it.” They gestured with the file. “Take it, and get out.”

The villain sucked in a breath.

“Hero,” the villain said again, uselessly. 

“Tell me you love me, then. Tell me you meant it.” They gestured to the file once more. “Tell me that this is the lie.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

The villain opened their mouth, and for a second, the hero hoped–

“I don’t love you.” 

The hero wished the villain had just killed them. 

“I never loved you. It was all a lie. A really, really pretty lie.”

The hero wanted to say something elegant to that. Something biting and vicious and jagged in the same way the inside of them felt right now. They wanted to say everything they had felt earlier, every thought that had cut them so that it could cut the villain too.

Instead, all they managed was a choked, “Get out.”

They threw the file at the villain.

The villain didn’t bother to catch it, letting it slam into their chest. It thudded against the floor, papers spilling out in a halo around the villain’s feet.

A part of them wanted the villain to argue further.

A part of them just wanted the villain dead.

“I’m sorry,” the villain said once more, and then they were gone.

The villain had known as soon as the hero had thrown that file that they wanted the villain dead. 

That they were more likely to claw their own bones apart than willingly reach for the villain’s hand again, and the logical part of their brain was viciously pleased about it.

It made this whole thing easier. No lingering attachments to further butcher. Just a field, burned so badly nothing would ever grow in it again, and god, wasn’t that convenient for their mission. 

A tiny, smothered part of their brain, however, wouldn’t stop screaming.

They drowned it.

But then the villain would catch themself glancing to their side in search of a smile. They would wait a beat too long after they said something, would wait for laughter, and then there would be none, and they would curse themself for it, and that little part of them would come gasping back to life and start screaming again.

Possibly it was that little part of them that had made them send a message to the hero, offering the apartment. It was the least they could do, right? Fuck up their life and then get the fuck out of it. 

But the texts had said delivered, but never read, and three days later when the villain used their key to open the lock, they found themself stepping into a mausoleum and not a home. 

They weren’t sure what they were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Dust hanging in the air. Blank squares left on the walls where pictures had once hung. Empty cabinets, empty floors, empty rooms; no, whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

For a reason they couldn’t name, they went from room to room, searching for something without quite understanding what. It wasn’t until they had come full circle back into the living room, fingers coated in dust and an aching chest, that the villain had realized. Ghosts. They were looking for ghosts. 

Because there was nothing better to describe the way they felt right now other than haunted. And if there was something, anything, of the hero left in here to burn, to destroy, to exorcise, they could use it as an excuse–

There was nothing left of the hero. There were no ghosts. This place was just dead.

The villain made a shuddering little sound, and slammed the front door closed behind them when they managed to stumble into the hallway. 

This was an easy mission, it was–

–two years and dates over ramen and houseplants–

–something even a new recruit could do–

–i love you’s in the dark and the scent of the hero on all of their clothes and–

–something the villain was trained for, countless hours spent–

–laughing and crying and rainy days and sunny ones–

–learning how to fake love, and somehow–

–the villain had forgotten it was fake.

The villain couldn’t breathe.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love, too.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love too, and they had just set their entire world ablaze around themself.

Fuck.

It really only made sense, then, that they found themself standing on the roof of their old apartment building as it burned. And when that didn’t work, they moved onto the next, until a third building went up in flames beneath their feet. They knew the kind of message it would send, and they knew exactly who that message would get sent to–

The hero landed on the other end of the rooftop, as far away from the villain as they could possibly get. 

“Stop,” the hero hissed, teeth clenched. “Stop lighting things on fire to get my attention, just stop–”

“I’m in love with you,” the villain said, voice wrecked, and the hero reacted like the villain had shot them. They stepped away, feet bumping against the edge like the fall was a better option than the villain.

“No,” the hero said. They shook as they said it. “Stop it. You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I love you,” the villain said again, and the hero pressed a hand over their own heart.

“Stay away from me,” the hero managed after a moment. Another deep breath, and their hand dropped back down to their side. “Go do whatever it is you need to do, go ruin anyone else’s life, and stay out of the wreckage of mine.”

“We have a life together,” the villain tried. If the hero could just see, could see that they could fix it– “I’m sorry. I was stupid, I was so, so stupid. But you can’t just leave, please, just let me fix it–”

“I told you to get out,” the hero said, and there was nothing soft in their eyes as they looked at the villain. “What about the way I said it made you think it was temporary?”

“Hero, please, let me fix–”

“Villain,” the hero said calmly, voice sharp. “Some things aren’t meant to be rebuilt.”

All of the air left the villain’s lungs in a pathetic sort of wheeze.

“You’re my everything,” the villain choked out. “My whole world, and I’m so sorry. I was–I made a mistake, but you can’t just throw us away–”

“No,” the hero spat, and the villain flinched. “You burned that world to the ground. You’re standing in the ashes of it. You don’t get to come to me begging for it back.”

The villain felt unmoored. Like the world had shifted one step to the left and they had no idea what to do with their limbs anymore, no idea how to keep existing.

“But I love you.”

“The only person who feels anything when you say that is you.”

This time, it was the villain who stepped back.

“Please,” the villain whispered, and the hero closed their eyes.

“What were you expecting to happen. That I would forgive you? Would fall back into your arms? You could tell me that you’re sorry in every language for the rest of your life and that wouldn’t make what you did hurt me any less. So why would you think you could light a building on fire, tell me you love me, and then make everything go back to the way it was?”

“I–I don’t–”

“There is no back,” the hero said firmly. “There is no undo.”

“I don’t know what to do,” the villain said. A tear dripped off the edge of their chin.

The hero appraised them.

“Learn to live with it.”

The villain sucked in a shuddering breath.

“I can’t live without you, okay, I can’t–”

“Then die.”

The villain froze. They waited for the hero to take it back, but the hero just stared at them, face stony and cold. An avenging angel on the edge of the rooftop, firelight flickering at their back and smoke rising into the air, not an ounce of sympathy left in their bones for the villain.

And before the villain could say anything, say that the hero couldn’t possibly mean that, the hero spoke again.

“I mean it. You are not my problem.”

The villain was choking. They were drowning on air and the hole they had left inside of themself when they ripped the hero out of their life and the hero was just watching them–

“Please,” they said pathetically, and even as they said it they knew it was futile.

The hero didn’t bother to give them another response.

They watched the hero leave without saying anything, smoke beginning to sting their eyes and nose as their hands shook. 

It felt terminal. It felt world-ending. It felt deserved.

They wished the hero had just killed them.

[lullabyes22-blog]

In FbnF, out of both his 'son in laws' who does Silco hate more? Viktor or Ekko?

Given Silco's mile-wide possessive streak re: Jinx, it's hard to imagine him reacting well to anyone at all getting within 20 ft of her…

That said, it's ironically Viktor.

There are a lot of similarities within their differences - former orphans, men with disabilities + limited lifespans, a visionary drive to change things for the better. The way they see Jinx is also through an ironically similar lens:

What a dynamo of potential. What a fascinating anomaly.

What a perfect catalyst.

All of this, taken altogether, triggers a very real "you think you can keep her from me?" instinct on both sides. Viktor believes, strongly, that Silco eclipses Jinx's full capacity to shine bright and improve the lives of thousands. In FnF, he's very much coded as the visionary martyr (contrasted with Silco's visionary villain) - willing to sacrifice himself in pursuit of the greater good, knowing that that, in the end, is the true definition of legacy.

Naturally, Silco sees, in Viktor, the same self-destructive tendencies and the same unflinching belief that the ends justify the means. He also has every reason to believe that Jinx, by pure accident, could end up a casualty of Viktor's single-minded pursuit for a purer, more perfect world - which, to Silco, is anathema as for him freedom is rooted in shades of gray and the ugliness of the real.

It is the latter, specifically, that leads Silco to resent Viktor. He understands the desire to build and protect something, he understands the willingness to do whatever it takes. But a martyr always dies in a ring of blood and is forgotten within a generation.

The only ones who will remember his loss are his enemies, and the children who have inherited the burden of carrying on his mission.

Jinx, in contrast, is a survivor. She must outlive them all and, in a sense, must carry their memories long after their bones are dust.

Jinx, therefore, must walk among the living.

With Viktor, she will walk into an early grave.

Which is where Ekko comes in. And it's a pity that fandom seems unwilling to examine how many similarities Ekko and Silco share as foils, largely because it's subsumed by the more immediate parallels of Timebomb and their teenaged dramas.

(Sssh, I live for their drama <3).

Ekko is, in a sense, the prodigal son who never came home. He is the living ghost of Silco's past: the drive to do good, the impetus to protect, the fierce, desperate desire to leave a lasting impact. They're both revolutionaries, and rebels with a cause, and leaders of their communities. And perhaps the greatest similarity between them is their fixation on Jinx, and how that throws them off their game and makes them second-guess their choices.

Ekko, like Silco, is fiercely protective of Jinx. But unlike Silco, who understands the complexity and danger of Jinx's nature, Ekko sees the childhood friend in her infinite potential for sweetness and goodness, as well as the capacity to use both gifts for the better.

Silco wants to nurture Jinx's barbs and whet her teeth. He wants to prepare her for the long march and the dark times that will inevitably come.

Ekko believes, strongly, that if he can get Jinx to open up and let him in, then there's every chance of her relearning to trust the softer sides of herself. There is every chance she can come home, and be, if not Powder again, then someone Powder might've been, if trauma and fate had allowed.

Silco is deeply afraid, on a fundamental level, of what Ekko will bring to light. He's afraid that his own perceptions of the world will be proven untrue and, with it, all of his carefully crafted snares to keep Jinx close. All his efforts to make Jinx strong; undermined by the boy who will revert her to a needy weakling - except that weakling is happier.

Weaker, yes, but happier.

(What he really dreads is being shown that reliance on others - a community to support you, a family to love you - is not weakness, and that his own terror of abandonment are what ultimately trapped him on the very pinnacle of power he cut throats and trampled ideals to climb. That there is hope for Jinx and, with it, his own redemption).

But Ekko is not a martyr. He's a dogged survivor, and that, if nothing else, Silco respects.

In that sense, I'd say Ekko might actually have a shot of being welcomed past the front door. Viktor would be given an RV and told to stay in the backyard.

Because fundamentally, Silco knows that, in time, his hold over Jinx will falter. He knows his own death is not a possibility but an inevitability, and he knows that, when he goes, she will be lost for a time.

And he wants, above all else, to keep her alive and whole and safe.

In his gut, he knows that Ekko, not Viktor, can give her that. Because where Viktor can only give Jinx the bright but unyielding scaffolding of a new future - Ekko can provide the foundation to build a home upon it.

(And in FnF, Silco is subconsciously prone to gravitating toward 'stabilizing' partners to temper his own volatility. Or, if not stabilize, then at least serve as anchors: Vander's down-to-earth sense of warmth, Sevika's bluntness and practicality, Nandi's unapologetic embrace of his messiness, Mel's mercy and her faith in a greater destiny.)

(It's not a stretch to imagine him recognizing a like-minded partner for Jinx in Ekko)

tl;dr: Silco projects all his sharpest edges on Viktor, and therefore can't see him as a positive partner for Jinx. Whereas in Ekko, he sees sunnier roads untraveled, and can't help but wonder if that's the sort of life she should've had, in the first place.

</3

[k0nanharv3y]

OKAY I CANNOT LET THIS DIE

Robin Hood AU Part 2

Part 1 of this bullshit

"Hero? Villain? or misunderstood mind?", "Has he done more good for Gotham than its own inhabitants? What Wayne has to say about it", "The reality of the situation; Statistics of the recent attacks on Wayne Enterprise and Gotham City"

Tim didn't read the newspaper, it was boring, he didn't like it and he didn't have time to read the latest gossip from Gotham when he was most likely there. And he didn't need a piece of paper for that, that was contamination, he could get all the information he needed with just one search. So, yeah, Tim didn't read the newspaper

But then Riddle was imprisoned without even knowing it thanks to the newspaper and so Tim set himself the task of checking every single newspaper that ever mentioned him. And damn... Reddit was a thing when it came to twisting things, but this? This is blatant show-telling

Some called him a villain who didn't know how to do his job (in the first cases, really understandable, Tim barely knew what he was doing), but he had never set out to harm Gotham and apparently some people got angry...? Because... because he didn't kill anyone? (Joker doesn't count, he wasn't anybody) ...???. Others dared to lump him in with the Bats (And God bless the spilled coffee he spat out while choking reading that) saying how come; Apparently Tim was seen as a good guy and the explosions and cyber attacks on Wayne Enterprises had not been him but another rogue who was defeated by Tim???. But the others called it "The Evolution of Batman" and refuted his statistics. Batman's way was to go out and beat them until they calmed down, Tim's way was to cut them off at the root (Joker exploding in a building was nothing more than poetry. But the trafficking networks were eradicated by giving legal and stable jobs to those who distributed it, Tim didn't take their lives, not the literal ones at least, Tim changed them)

He finished high school early and dedicated himself to helping Gotham. It wasn't even illegal (stealing from the rich isn't illegal, their mere existence is illegal and unjust) Tim wasn't a villain, the citizens of Gotham seemed to love him just like they loved Batman; and if some building had to be blown up, at least nobody lived there and it was only to piss off the Bats

Batman's attempts to stop him seemed to cease... But Tim was greedy once... just once, and that led him to mess with forces he couldn't control. And then there was a price on his head, and Shiva and Deathstroke were after him. Because Ra's doesn't find it funny that a 14-year-old kid hacks into his systems and steals money to give to the poor. Shiva ended up being kind of... weird? She didn't kill him, but she threatened him that she would sooner or later, when Tim is a real threat to her (Tim learned to fight, thanks Shiva, but fuck it, it hurt) and Slade let him live because...??? I mean, he slit his throat and gave him enough trauma to last a lifetime, but he let him live... Tim doesn't think he's that lucky, this was already playing god

And then Ra's killed his mother

///

The irony is that Tim didn't WANT his mother, of course, she was his mother and he loved her deeply, but... it was like, a love out of responsibility, Tim was a child who was presented with, look, these are your parents and you must love them and respect them because they are your parents. That Janet's death hurt him so much... it was more a matter of pride, Tim didn't want revenge because Ra's killed his mother, he wanted revenge because Ra's killed his mother

And now he wasn't going to stop Gotham from burning. He was going to create the fire for Ra's to burn with whatever it took

If Batman stopped him, he didn't care, Tim had nothing to lose. His mother was dead and Ra's would pay for it

///

This is... actually before Batman's death, but after Damian became Robin, I'm working on this as I write, I don't have anything planned so...

Someone: Oh! Plot Hole!

I throw a brick at them and make sure they don't move anymore

Me: You didn't see anything.

Part 3 because i forgot to mention it

Part 4 i just did it

Part 5 wth am I doing?

Part 6 im actually thinking of making this a fic tho

Part 7.5 cuz it was too long

Part 8 have i told u im Canadian?

[samwisethewitch]

What Non-Pagans Need to Know About Fiction Featuring Pagan Gods

In light of Marvel's Loki show dropping a second season and a new Percy Jackson series on the horizon, I want to say some things about how fandom spaces can be respectful of real-life pagan religion.

Let's get one thing out of the way: literally no one is saying you can't enjoy fiction that uses pagan gods and heroes as characters. No one is saying, "Stop writing stories about our gods." In fact, many ancient cultures wrote fiction about their gods -- look at Greek theater or the Norse Eddas. The act of writing fiction about the gods is not offensive in itself.

But please remember that this is someone's religion.

The gods are not "just archetypes." Their myths are not "just stories." Their personalities are not a matter of artistic interpretation. For many pagans, the gods are very much real in a literal sense. I don't think Thor is a metaphor or a symbol -- for me, Thor is a real, autonomous spiritual being who exists outside of human perceptions of him, and who I have chosen to build a relationship with. Even if you are a hardcore atheist, I would hope you could at least be respectful of the fact that, to many modern pagans, the gods are both very real and very important.

When authors are not respectful of this fact, they reduce the gods, these very real objects of worship, to fictional characters. And here's the thing about fictional characters: they are fundamentally tools for authors to use to draw a desired emotional response from an audience.

Dracula's personality and behavior is wildly different depending on who is writing him, because different authors use Dracula to create different reactions in their audiences. In the 1931 film starring Bela Lugosi, he's equal parts alluring and disturbing, a symbol of America's mixed desire and disdain for foreigners. In Nosferatu, he's more strictly frightening and disgusting. In Francis Ford Coppola's movie, he's a tragic, romantic figure clinging to the last scraps of his humanity. In Netflix's Castlevania, he's an incredibly powerful being who has grown bitter and apathetic in his immortality. All of this is Dracula, and all of it is fine, because Dracula is not and never has been a central figure in anyone's religion.

Let's take a look at what happens when authors give this same treatment to real gods:

In Hellenic polytheism, Apollo is one of the most beloved gods, both historically and today. Apollo loves humanity, and humanity loves him back. He is the god of sunlight and of medicine, but also of poetry and song. He is one of humanity's most consistent defenders when one of the other gods gets wrathful. And while he does have dangerous or wrathful aspects of his own (he's also the god of disease, after all), he's also kind and soft with humanity in a way other gods often aren't, at least in some historic sources.

In the Lore Olympus comic series, Apollo is a villain. He's characterized as an abuser, a manipulator, and a violent man child. LO!Apollo is downright hateful, because the author wants us to hate him. Lore Olympus is a retelling of a myth about an abduction and forced marriage. Lore Olympus is also a romance. In order to get the audience to sympathize with Hades and root for his relationship with Persephone, Rachel Smythe needed to make someone else the villain. Apollo is the most obvious and extreme character assassination in Smythe's work, but several other gods (notably Demeter) also get the asshole makeover to tell the story Smythe wants to tell.

Here's where this becomes a problem: Hellenic polytheism is a fairly small religious community, while Lore Olympus is a massively popular webtoon with 1.3 billion views as of August 2023, print books available from major retailers, a TV adaptation in the works, and a very active online fandom. Rachel Smythe currently has a MUCH bigger platform than any Hellenic polytheism practitioner. Smythe and other authors are shaping how modern culture views the Hellenic gods, and that has a very real impact on their worshipers.

This means "Apollo is an abusive asshole" is becoming a popular take online, and is even creeping into pagan communities. I've personally seen people be harassed for worshiping Apollo because of it. I've seen new pagans and pagan-curious folks who totally misunderstand the roles Apollo, Hades, and Persephone play in the Hellenic pantheon because of Lore Olympus and other modern works of fiction.

There are tons of other examples of this in modern pop culture, but I'll just rattle off a few of the ones that annoy me most: Rick Riordan depicting Ares/Mars as a brutish asshole hyped up on toxic masculinity; Rick Riordan depicting Athena as a mother goddess; Marvel depicting Thor as a dumb jock; Marvel depicting Odin as a cold, uncaring father; DC depicting Ares as purely evil; whatever the fuck the Vikings TV show was trying to do with seidr; the list goes on.

All of these are examples of religious appropriation. Religious appropriation is when sacred symbols are taken out of their original religious context by outsiders, so that the original meaning is lost or changed. It requires a power imbalance -- the person taking the symbols is usually part of a dominant religious culture. In many cases, the person doing the appropriation has a much bigger platform than anyone who has the knowledge to correct them.

When Rick Rioridan or Rachel Smythe totally mischaracterizes a Greek god to tell a story, and then actual Hellenic pagans get harassed for worshiping that god, that's religious appropriation.

Religious appropriation is a real issue. This isn't just pagans being sensitive. To use an extreme example: Richard Wagner and other German Romantic authors in the 19th century used the Norse gods and other Germanic deities as symbols in their work, which was a major influence on Nazi philosophy. Without Wagner, the Nazis would not have latched onto the Norse gods as symbols of their white supremacist agenda. To this day, there are white supremacist groups who claim to worship our gods or who use our religious imagery in their hate movement. We are still reckoning with the misinterpretation of our gods popularized by Wagner and other German Romantics almost 200 years ago.

Again, no one is saying you can't enjoy fiction based on pagan mythology. But there are a few things you can do to help prevent religious appropriation in fandom spaces:

Above all else, be mindful that while this may just be a story to you, it is someone's religion.

Recognize that enjoying fiction based on our gods does not mean you know our gods. You know fictional characters with the same names as our gods, who may or may not be accurate to real-life worship.

Do not argue with or try to correct pagans when we talk about our experience of our gods.

Don't invalidate or belittle pagan worship. Again, this mostly comes down to recognizing that our religion is totally separate from your fandom. We aren't LARPing or playing pretend. Our sacred traditions are real and valid.

If you see other people in your fandom engaging in religious appropriation, point out what they are doing and why it isn't okay.

Please tag your fandom content appropriately on social media. Always tag the show, movie, book, etc. that a post is about in addition to other relevant tags. This allows pagans to block these fandom tags if we don't want to see them and prevents fandom content showing up in religious tags.

For example, if I'm posting about Athena from the Percy Jackson books, I would tag the post #athena #athenapjo #percyjackson #pjo. You get the idea.

And if fiction sparks your interest and you want to learn more about the actual worship of the gods, you can always ask! Most pagans love talking about our gods and trading book recs.

If you are writing fiction based on real mythology, talk to people who worship those gods. Ask them what a respectful portrayal would look like. If possible, include a note in your finished work reminding audiences that it is a work of fiction and not meant to accurately portray these gods.

[eevees-hobbies]

Your Killer Client - NSFW (Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou)

Synopsis: You need to ask for a raise because not only do you regularly have to deal with tom-foolery as a sports agent to egoist soccer players like Shoei Barou, but he also moonlights as a murderer. Girl, send the invoice now! Wait, you're into it...?

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Shoei Barou. DEAD DOVE WARNING. If you are uncomfortable with disturbing themes like murder, you should not read this. Murder w/no remorse & def. Not taken seriously by Reader (you and Shoei are NOT normal), Knifeplay, DubCon to be safe, Deification (treating someone as if they are a God), Unprotected Sex. Cursing. Minors Do Not Interact. || Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: Heavily inspired by American Psycho, Scream, and Hip to Be Scared by Ice Nine Kills, so some quotes are nestled in there! This is for the "No, You Hang Up" Kinktober Ghostface Collab event. Reblogs & comments always appreciated.

Banner by me. Divider by @sister-lucifer

Why do all my clients have to live on the top floor of skyscrapers? I’ve been on this elevator for seven fucking minutes!

As one of the top sports agents in the industry, you’ve grown accustomed to the eccentricities of your clients: lavish penthouses, all-weekend sex parties that end up with a few broken hearts–never your clients, of course, and some not-so-flattering stories in the tabloids.

But right now, your focus is on the most unique client on your roster: world-renowned striker Shoei Barou. Sure, he often refers to himself as a “King,” which is odd and speaks to a deep-rooted ego problem, but the man is a force on the field. The endorsement deals never truly stop–being the villain is currently en vogue–and he pays really, really well. So to you, it’s all hail King Barou every fucking day.

As you step into his condo using your personal key after giving a few warning knocks but getting no response, you aren’t met with a simple hi, a gruff hello, or even a measly fucking grunt. No, you’re met with something far more exciting for a Wednesday!

“I fucked up bad.”

“I fucked up real fuckin’ bad.”

Shoei has his face buried in his palms; his bare shoulders are hunched tightly at his neck, and dried blood coats his hands and lower arms. 

That can’t be good for his posture, you think to yourself as you take inventory of the scene. Tipped-over cans of beer litter the pristine carpet, pizza boxes lay ajar, and the half-eaten pies are on the brink of becoming inedible as they sit out and harden from exposure to the cool air in the condo.

The mess is unlike him, but even more jarring is the body that’s splayed out, thick pools of dark-red blood coalescing around the nobody–god, you’re internal monologue sounds like Barou–and staining his pristine carpet. He doesn’t even let you wear shoes in his condo, but bleeding all over the place is fine apparently. 

“Y/N, you know I’m a bit fucking psychotic, but I’ve crossed the line, and I don’t think I’m going to get away with it this time.”

This time?

You find yourself oddly at peace with the scene. Sure, RIP to the poor sap laying in his own guts on the floor, but you’re actually more surprised Shoei hasn’t hurt someone sooner with his temper, and truth be told, you’ve seen much worse from some of your other clients. 

A sudden sniffle breaks you out of your thoughts, and you turn your head to the Barou, who looks so pitifully tiny hunched over as he sobs into his hands. “You aren’t crying, are you?” 

Your tone is rather harsh, and you mentally chastise yourself for your blunt delivery, but it’s too late–the question is already hanging laboriously in the air. Regardless, this is Barou! He curses you out practically every day and sends you a check with an obscene amount of dollar signs the next week! 

Barou peels his face out of his hands, his expression shifting between disturbance and disgust at your question.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who committed murder, not me.”

Shit. Maybe that was a beat too far because Barou rises quickly, his muscles rippling under his skin, tension coiled dangerously as he moves toward you with his hands clenched into tight fists. 

You don’t move because well, if this is your time to go, this is your time to go–you always knew it would be one of your clients, but you had clocked Ryusei as the one who was going to end you, not Barou. 

Huh, the universe is funny like that.

But Barou doesn’t swing or wrap his large hands around your throat; no, instead, he stops in front of you and sinks to his knees, those same hands that were used to take a man’s life grip at your dress in desperation.

“Please. I don’t want to go to jail. I still have championships to win and people to destroy.”

Of fucking course.

But fuck, seeing him on his knees like this stirs something in you–maybe it’s that you want to protect him or maybe you want to demand he lick a long stripe from your inner thighs to the seat of your panties since he’s already down there.

Focus.

You reach a pretty pedicured hand down, your nails digging into that well-defined jaw that’s justifiably earned him a full page spread in GQ magazine, and tilt his head upwards.

For a moment, you bask in the feeling that he’s looking up at you as though you’re someone to pray to–someone who can grant mercy and absolution for his sins. It’s fucking intoxicating being in this position and feeling like you hold his life in your hand because you undeniably do.

“Do you see what I am for you?” you whisper.

Crimson eyes stare up at you–big, pleading, desperate.

“I’m salvation,” you breathe in finality with only yourself, Shoei, and the dead nobody to bear witness.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks up at you. “You can help…?”

You give him a sideways glance, knowing that you’ve got him right where you want him. “Oh, I can do more than help, sweetie. I can fix it.” You let the word ‘fix’ sit weighty in the air, a silent understanding passing between you as he sighs, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll give you a massive bonus if you can, well, you know.” He motions to the body, his eyes darting away quickly.

You, being a person who takes initiative, are already reaching into your pocket to make a call to a ‘cleaner’ that you keep on retainer. But as your finger hovers over the call button, you spot something peculiar not too far from the body. When you came in, you thought it was a tarp, Shoei’s poor attempt at cleaning up the evidence of his crime, but as you croon your neck to get a better look, you realize that it’s too small to be a tarp. 

On the floor, discarded but an obvious eyesore in the perfectly curated space is a cloak, a knife, and a….what the fuck? Is that a mask?

You walk over to the discarded costume, being careful to step over the body because you’ll be damned if you’re implicated in this mess, and nudge the mask with the toe of your heel. It’s a fucking Ghostface mask. How….macabre.

Shoei must feel the judgment flowing from your pores because he’s instantly sneering and hovering near you, his arm brushing against yours in what feels oddly intimate, considering the circumstances.  

“I didn’t want to kill him and get his blood all over my clothes, so I put on my Halloween costume to finish him off.”

“Do I want to know what you fought over?”

“Would it matter?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you pause because you realize that it doesn’t matter–even though you’re standing over a dead body and unreasonably close to his killer, you’re also painfully aware of the heat emitting from Shoei, the scent of his sweat–because killing someone is undoubtedly hard work–and the soft node of his cologne as it fills your nostrils.

And strangely, you’ve never been more turned on.

“What was it like? Killing him, I mean?”

Shoei turns to you, a flicker of surprise and something else–lust, perhaps–shining in his eyes. He pauses for a beat, studying your face to gauge your intentions before he answers. 

“I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.”

As he continues to speak, you notice the way his jaw clenches slightly, his adams apple bobbing as he recounts how he felt during the murder, and the distinct tent growing in his sweats.

“I thought being the king on the field, crushing people’s dreams and making them realize that I’m actually the main character in their own pathetic lives was fucking amazing, but slicing him up and seeing him choke on his own blood as I fucking finished a slice of pizza was the best I’ve felt in ages.”

And to the best of your knowledge, Shoei isn’t a liar. That answer was so honest that it was almost endearing.

Your eyes wander to the knife at your feet. The blood is thicker than what you’d imagine it to be–not that you spend time sitting around imagining blood-stained weapons. You bend down, pick up the knife, and examine it, holding it only inches from your face.

“It’s heavier than I expected,” you muse aloud. You bring the knife up to your neck, holding the blade to your throat, tilting your head back to avoid any knicks but still enough to feel the sticky, cold liquid smudge against the thundering pulse located in the column of your throat.

“That’s not how you hold it. If you aim the blade too high, you risk hurting them, but they won’t bleed out. You gotta hold it down; it gives you the best chance for a clean kill. Let me show you.” 

He wraps his hand around yours, guiding the knife in a way that does make sense–the new angle gives you a far better grip, and you realize that if you move even an inch, you risk cutting yourself.

“You know an awful lot about cutting throats, Barou.” 

He stiffens behind you. In that moment, something in the room shifts–as though the mask of sanity he was wearing, and has always worn, has slipped off to reveal something far more dangerous.

Shoei’s lips press against the shell of your ear, and his husky purr reverberates through your very bones. 

“Maybe a little.” 

You feel his other hand travel to your hip as he removes the knife from your palm and holds it in front of your face. It doesn’t exactly feel like a threat, but just as much as Shoei’s pulse beats slow in high-stress situations, so does yours because you’ve always been a bit different, too.

Your phone still in your hand feels like lead, heavy but useless, as he pulls it from your grip and tosses it to the couch. 

“I don’t think you understand how much I like my freedom, Y/N. I don’t think you understand how important it is to me that you appreciate the sanctity of our relationship and not make any assumptions about what I have–or haven’t done–before.” He brings the knife closer to your lips, smearing the blood across them as if you’re wearing candy-apple red lipstick.

“Discretion is my specialty,” you whisper, tongue darting out to taste the blood.

Shoei groans, his large frame pressing into you as he guides you to the arm of his couch, bending you over and splaying a large hand across the small of your back. 

“You’ve always been so good to me. Why have we never…?” As he speaks, he’s hiking up your skirt. His touch feels strangely reverent, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the nature of your relationship or because you now know way too much about each other. 

Shoei’s eyes narrow as he spots your underwear–a pesky barrier he plans to eliminate in the most efficient way he knows how. He brings the knife up to the cool cheeks of your ass, dragging the tip of the blade against your skin and leaving red whelps that threaten to bleed if he uses a bit more pressure.

“We’ve never fucked because you’re kind of a dick.”

“True,” he mumbles as he pulls the fabric of your panties and cuts through them until the garment sits against your skin but no longer covering any inch of you that matters. 

You let out a breathy moan as you can feel the tip of his cock nudging against the ring of your cunt, stretching you out deliciously until he snaps his hips, fully sheathing himself into your heat. His hand reaches under you as he presses at your pelvis, feeling where he can feel himself pushing inside of you.

He’s not gentle as he takes you, but you don’t need him to be. You want him as he is: perfect, godly, everything. 

“You’re not going to scream? Most people would call me inhuman for what I’ve done.”

“No, I actually think you’re more in touch with your humanity than you think, Barou. You’re just capable of doing what others can’t because you’re a God.”

And you’re not just saying that because there’s an alleged–because innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz–serial killer deep in your guts right now. You’ve known it for some time–that Shoei is everything that he says he is–a king, a God, the main character in everyone’s world, including yours.

You can’t take your eyes off the body on the floor as Shoei guides your hips in the way he likes–angling his own to drag his cock against your walls, verbally praising your cunt for how she’s gripping him. “You’re a fucking freak. You’re so fucking wet; I’m not going to last long with her sucking me off like this.”

His fingers thread through your hair, forcing your head back so he can look at your face as he molds your cunt into the shape of his cock. “Fuck, look at you taking care of me like a good little sports agent.” He throws his head back with a low, guttural moan, lost in the feeling of you and how you make him feel–powerful.

His thighs tense, his abs flexing as he gets closer to the edge, but at the last minute, he pulls out warm thick ropes of his cum, shooting onto your ass. After a few low groans, he smacks your ass and tucks himself back in his pants.

“So, you going to call those people to come and fix this?”

“Yeah,” you say as you stand up, straightening yourself out. “But I’m going to need another bonus for that.”

@interstellar-inn @pixelcafe-network @hayatoseyepatch

[lalithemidnightmuse7]

People love Kendall Roy for the same reason they hate Alicent Hightower—because they both show weakness. But in our modern society, weakness in a man is romanticized. It makes him human, someone to sympathize with, to “cuddle” because he’s just so babygirl. That’s why people love Aemond and Daemon too. But weakness in a woman? Unacceptable. You are not to be welcomed into the club. That is misogyny—loving and forgiving men for the exact same things we shame women for.

Kendall and Alicent have so many similarities, so many parallels, yet the fandom perceives them completely differently. And the fandom is dominated by women!

You say Alicent was a horrible friend to Rhaenyra, that she betrayed her by not telling her about being sent to Viserys. And yeah, that was awful. But what did you expect to happen? PEOPLE RELATE TO THIS THINKING OF HIGHTSCHOOL DRAMA IT'S NOT. They were ladies in a court ruled by men. Alicent was a 17-year-old girl whose only family was her father—a father she feared. She had abandonment issues. And you think she was going to say no to him? That she was going to stand up for herself when she had never been allowed to before? When she knew that hating it wouldn’t change a thing? She had no power. She wasn’t a princess. She was a girl trapped in a situation she couldn’t escape, and yet people have zero real sympathy for her.

Why? Because she should’ve stood by her friend? The same friend who had firsthand experience of how powerless women were but still chose to blame her? Who knew Alicent’s nature, knew she wasn’t power-hungry like Otto, and still turned on her? But somehow, that same friend found it in her heart to forgive Daemon—a man who had been nothing but monstrous for years.

All the hate for her because she was horrible to Rhaenyra—when Rhaenyra left her alone when she needed her the most.

And then there’s Kendall. A man who, like Alicent, was put into an oppressive system, struggled with loyalty and duty, and made morally complex choices that could be seen as betrayal or survival. But he gets forgiven. He gets pitied. Because he sheds a few tears. Because the show lets us see his suffering. But Alicent’s suffering? Her self-blame, her low self-esteem? Completely ignored.

Alicent was a bad mother? Sorry, when? Where is the scene that makes that obvious? Was she a great mother? No. How could she be? She couldn’t even protect herself. Her first enemy was her own father. Then her husband. Then her only friend in court, who saw her as nothing more than a political obstacle. She spent her whole life being treated as a piece of meat, and now she has to watch her eldest son turn into a monster.

Ignoring his crimes—yeah, that was horrific. But you really think telling someone in court would’ve changed anything? This was a world where such crimes were brushed off and forgiven when committed by commoners. You think they would’ve imprisoned a prince? That Viserys would’ve done something? That the other lords would’ve cared? His reputation was already known all over the kingdoms—and nothing happened.

Meanwhile, Kendall, a man who is also not a great father—who barely sees his kids—is still given the benefit of the doubt. Because he’s trying, right? He’s struggling. But Alicent? No, she’s just a failure.

And Rhaenyra? Was she a great mother? Did she not worsen her sons’ claims by leaving the court? Did she not use them as pawns in her political games? Did she not marry Daemon knowing how that would look? Knowing exactly the kind of person he was? A murderer. A Targaryen supremacist. A man who requested blonde virgin girls in brothels.

But sure, tell me more about how Alicent is the real villain here.

And of course, you would hate Alicent. She doesn’t align with the vision of the loved women of today’s society. It’s so much easier to root for Rhaenyra—the rule-breaker, the tragic feminist icon. And I agree. But can’t you see? Didn’t it mean anything to you to see Alicent dead in that bed with her much older husband who cared nothing for her? Who used her for the sole reason of having children? Who would’ve cut her open too to take what he wanted?

Didn’t it mean anything to you to see the blood on her fingers, knowing exactly what that meant? To see her selling the only thing she could barely call hers—her body—to Larys? No sympathy? Nothing at all?

Also...if you really want to stand morally , you should only stand with kids, smallfolk and heleana.

[h7jfangirl]

TGS UPTADE

So...

EVIL JEKYLL!!!!!!

But really evil? What are Henrys main intentions here?

Save the society reputation, so the logders can keep working on their dreams. That was the reason

But that might be just a facade of his real motivation

Self hate? Its the main root of his motivation, Jekyll become his own anatgonist, because he always was

If you have to say who is tgs main villain, the enemy our lovely Dr Jekyll has to fight to save the day... you would say its Hyde

Dr Monroe only appear once and had nothing to do with jekyll nor Hyde, Frankestein was a temporary antagonist but it only stop because Jekyll stop treating her as such and also she already had her redemption arc, the opposition of the conservatives in tgs never mattered because they dont have the power to destroy society, they are not a real threat

On the other hand, Hyde is a threat for the society, he has the power to destroy it if he wanted to, but for the simple fact that he is also Jekyll

Henry Jekyll its the hero as the villain in his own story

Hyde, if we take him as a seperate character, he is just the main antagonist but not the ultimate bad guy of the story. You normally get rid of them by destroying them or redeem them

But despite claming Hyde as his dark side we never see Jekyll actually trying to destroy him, or even heard a mentioned that he tried in the past. Sure, he took the formula, but he didnt got rid of Hyde and just kept him there existing inside his brain, barely resisting him and let Hyde do whatever he pleased as he adopted this ¨Hopless Prince behavior¨ that actually, Jasper called out in Chapter 11

We dont know why yet, maybe he didnt want to do something risky back then but at this point Hyde never really meant to destroy Jekyll himself nor the society, until Chapter 12, when he is about to sacrifice thier lifestyle just to feel in control over him again, because he felt atrap and literally fading away

He never wanted to destroy the society because he hates it or the logders, he was a threat because he was after Henry, and Jekyll is angry cause despite how many times he tried to explain Hyde that the society well-being depends completely on him, he just dosent care and keeps going until he shall set free

Im not saying that Hyde is not responsable for his actions, but in the end, he is also a part of Jekyll

One way or another it always ends in Henry, and he knows that very well

"Give in to my dark side" it not only means jekilling himself out this world and let Hyde have all the control, but also means reconogzing himself as evil too

I think that at this point, Henry dosen´t see himself as good and evil anymore, but just evil, In Henry´s perspective there is a very strong black and white mindset;

¨I just wanted to be good¨ Jekyll always feared being bad, and saw himself as evil. He tried to be good, but instead he made things worse. So to make things better, he shall embrace his dark side

Today´s page its not only Jekyll being suicidal but also being suicidal as he is aware that he is doing it for evilness, as letting his hate for Hyde wins over his love for Laynon and the society, just to have the satisfaction of seeing Hyde suffer

Remenber, Jekyll rather considers Hyde as another being, so techinically he has the desire to see someone else suffer....

He didn´t say; ¨It will be worth it because they´ll be better without me¨ or ¨It will be worth it because you´ll get what you deserve¨

He said; "It will be worth it to see you suffer¨

Its obvious that he was refering to Hyde, but what if this also applys to Laynon and the logders too?

This desire hides under a fake nobel action with the feeling of ¨this is for a greater good" something that he is aware of

It might be not all fake, he thinks he is doing this sacrifice for a greater good, but also aware that, at least, he´ll has Hyde desesperation as comfort (And he recognizes the action of finding comfort in someone else´s agony as evil)

Its like Jekyll seeing himself as pure evil but still wanting to make things right once for all. You can see it in his eyes, he dosent want this to happend but cant see another solution or a thing that changes his perspective

Inside Jekyll´s pespective, all his self is evil, so he is getting ride of himself entirely to solve the problem, as letting himself had a little plasure in seeing Hyde suffering and finally be stop. A hero´s sacrifice to finally bring peace and justice to those who loves

What in reality, its just a poor man atraped in a delusion where he is only hurting himself until death.