#but it was much lower stakes for the people and the rats

[teddy-bear-d]

I’ve been seeing some people being a little disappointed in how the vibes are different this season of rats compared to rest (a lot more attic time and less quests) and imma put my two cents in (unlike my usual lurking lol)

I think we are going to be seeing a very different trajectory in terms of when the rays do what this season. Because it’s the second season there isn’t as much of a learning curve when it comes to bits building (season one no doubt me new what they were doing but Snifferish and they ended up not being able to get on often at the beginning; now season two more than half have experienced with it and are working to teach each other every time they learn something new). If I remember correctly, we saw a lot of infrastructure forming in the attic towards the end of season one when people got used to it, but in the beginning they did a lot of quests to spice up that learning.

I think this season we’re are going to see a lot of building in the attic for a while as they are having a lot of fun with it (eg. Martyn, Sausage, and Eloise are all doing major building/art projects right now).

But do not worry if that’s not your thing! There are other rats doing more lore and exploring and once those projects start wrapping up we are going to likely see a lot more questing!

[warping-realities]

Life Adjustment (Repost)

“Did you want to see me, Jack?” said Stu, throwing himself onto one of the armchairs in his brother's enormous office.

Jackson, Stu's brother and the current president of the construction company founded by their father, looked at his younger brother with piercing eyes.

"I'm glad you could make it to our meeting, Stuart, considering you've been busy doing nothing every day for the past few years." Was the response given by the obviously less than happy older brother, as he looked in disgust at his younger brother's paint-stained clothes that had just ruined an expensive armchair.

"Come on, Jack, that's not fair; you know everything I've been through!"

"Everything you've been through? Please, Stuart, being dumped by your college girlfriend is not an excuse to let yourself go and become a bum still living in your parents' old basement. You're 25 years old and haven't done anything useful with your life."

"I wasn't dumped, Jack. She died, you idiot!"

"Yes, very sad, but it's been almost five years, five years during which I've supported your filthy habits, your gym routine, your entire lazy life as a talentless artist. That's enough!"

"I have a stake in this company..."

"Then take responsibility!"

"... and you don't understand, Jen was the love of my life," Stu concluded as if he hadn't been so rudely interrupted.

"Jen? Who's Jen, Stuart?" Jackson asked with a slight smile.

"Who's Jen? You must be kidding, Jack!"

"You know I don't tolerate childish habits, especially in my workplace, Stuart. So I ask again, who is Jen? I've never heard you mention any Jen, brother."

"Jen, Jeniffer, my girlfriend who… wait, no, I don’t know… who is Jen?"

"Precisely," Jackson replied, his sly smile widening but never reaching his cold eyes. He watched an impossible transformation unfold before him. In the blink of an eye, with a flash, instead of the brother he knew and had come to deeply detest over the years, there was a better-groomed version, with a smoother beard and shorter hair, with more defined muscles in workout clothes. Still, far from what Jackson considered ideal.

"So, Jack, why did you call me here? I have a client scheduled at the gym, so I don't have much time."

"A client... at the gym?"

"Yeah, what else would a personal trainer be doing?"

Absorbing this information, Jackson decided to make one more correction.

"I don't understand, why waste a college degree working as a personal trainer, Stuart?"

"Maybe because I studied sports science, Jack."

"But your major was in business, Stuart."

"Business, no way... or... maybe..."

Another flash and another Stuart stood before Jackson. Much better, he thought, seeing the figure before him, dressed more appropriately, with a toned physique belonging to someone who clearly took care of himself but didn't scream "gym rat." Still, there was certainly room for improvement, but he decided to let this new version of his brother speak.

"I imagine you want to talk about the status of the new building downtown; I can assure you I'm in direct contact with the team, and everything is going according to plan, Jack."

"Team? What team, Stuart?"

"Our construction workers, of course."

"And why would you be in direct contact with them, Stuart?"

"Oh, maybe because that's my role in the company? Overseeing the progress of the projects, making sure everything's right, walking among the guys and knowing if they're satisfied with their work."

"Maybe that was the case a few years ago, before you went to college, when our dad wanted to test your abilities. But since you graduated and returned to the company, you begged me to take a position in the office because you couldn't stand being around lower-class people."

"What? No, I would never be that snobby, no, or... did I... ask? No... ask?"

Another flash, another Stuart. Almost there, Jackson thought as he saw this version of his brother. He was wearing a sports coat and khakis, but that relaxed attitude needed a few more adjustments...

"So, tonight I'm having another business dinner with some clients; I'm thinking about hitting up a club with a few of them; you should come along for an hour, bro."

"Actually, I called you here precisely because I wanted to discuss your outings, Stuart. I understand social connections are important, but we have employees for that, plus it's a waste of your MBA. So I'm moving you to the head of financial control, right below me."

"MBA? Jack... no, I... financial department? I don't want that... or do I?"

"Of course you do; you accepted the position last year."

"Last year?"

A new flash and a new version of Stuart. This time, Stuart was wearing a proper suit, although still regrettably without a tie, and despite the neatly combed hair, there was still that beard. This kind of carefree attitude was not ideal.

"The acquisition of the land in Arlington was a success, Jack, so much so that I organized a dinner with the responsible team, along with the bonuses they'll be getting."

"If they're already getting a bonus, why organize a dinner, Stuart? Besides, you've never been one for such frivolities; your life has always been extremely rigid and regimented. Taking care of your body to present a powerful and assertive image, dressing appropriately and behaving with dignity at work, keeping the right distance from the employees; after all, you are the boss. And I don't think I've ever seen you smile at them, let alone go to dinners with them. It's not in your nature; you know how to be sociable when you want to, of course, but only when there's a benefit for the company; after all, profits and the company's image are your biggest concerns," Jackson concluded, thinking that finally this time the result would be as expected.

"I... don't... smile... of course I smile... no... image... profits... yes... knowing how to behave..."

A new flash, and finally, the perfect version of Stuart was before him, Jackson thought. Still sitting rigidly in the armchair with a clean-shaven face and the hint of a sly smile, with the same cold eyes as his brother, impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a tie that made him look like a younger version of Jackson.

"Staff cuts have been made, Jackson; there were some tears from others about the increased workload, but I told them they'd manage or be replaced by someone who would."

"Excellent, Stuart, and how do you feel about that?"

"Sorry, Jackson, but I don't understand your question."

"Don't you feel bad about firing all those employees?"

"Why should I feel bad about that? My role is to think of what's best for this company, and that's what I did."

"So cold, brother. I have to be careful; otherwise, you'll end up taking my place."

"If you lower your standards, brother, I won't think twice."

Thinking quickly that he might have overdone it, Jackson intervened once more.

"I would believe that if I didn't know that since we were kids, I've been your biggest example, and above all, you are loyal to me, Stuart."

This time there was no visible flash, but a clear change in Stuart's eyes, which now showed a glimmer of admiration toward his older brother.

"Sure, brother, if I'm who I am today, it's thanks to you!" Stuart replied, standing up and speaking in a tone of voice that, though cold and distant, still displayed immense reverence for the figure before him.

Jackson couldn't help but display the closest thing he could muster to a smile that his nonexistent emotional skill would allow while responding to what, in his opinion, was a much-improved version of his brother.

"Indeed, brother, and I'm glad you recognize that."

[houseofhyde]

i. a game of westerosi whispers.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the five rumours about you that made the rounds amongst the court and the five times your uncle taught you to use them as a weapon. read part two here!

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, canon misogyny, mentions of infertility and starvation, attempted rape (not daemon), kinda manipulative behaviour from daemon ig, angst, fluff, smut (heavy petting, fingering, dry-humping). disclaimer!! reader + rhaenyra's age may not be accurate to the time of events but i don't feel comfortable writing about daemon going after a minor, so just roll with it.

word count. 5.5k 

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde's input. i wrote this on a whim with no clue what the actual plot was gonna be other than the last sentence, so enjoy whatever this clusterfuck of words is. ngl, i felt a little iffy writing targcest but hey, at least it serves as a reminder that i’m 100% not into this shit irl. also, thank you so much for the reaction towards my first (and only other) daemon fic, dressed in white, i'm completely shocked at how many people actually read it and enjoyed it. you're all cute for giving it notes :(

bearing the targaryen name was as much a burden as it was a blessing.

while on one hand it came with dragons and power, on the other it came with prying eyes and hushed gossiping. it was a fact of life: as sure as the sun would rise come the morning, a targaryen’s name would be the centre of the capital’s gossip.

so, why on earth would you ever have believe yourself exempt from this rule, solely on the grounds that you were the second born daughter and not the apple of your father’s eye?

the first rumour was always the worst.

“i heard she threatened to feed herself to her dragon after the king named her sister as his heir.”

“no doubt that’s how she claimed inheritance over dragonstone!”

it hadn’t mattered that you’d never wanted, nor asked, for dragonstone, just the same as it didn’t matter that you’d happily cheered your elder sister’s future ascent to the dreaded iron throne. the ladies and lords who filtered through your father’s name-day feast had staked their claim over the truth, all so humoured by the thought of you, screaming like a small babe and stomping your foot like a spoilt brat, threatening your father with violence against yourself, that they failed to search for the source of such gossip, blindly believing it for the sake of a laugh and fuel to strike up a conversation within the great hall.

like wildfire, the rumour did spread.

lords whispered it into the ears of their dance partners, ladies who would then make their way back to their tables to share the news amongst those sat around it, all of whom would retire to their chambers and muse upon your supposed temper tantrum with their maids and knights, who’d filter out into the streets of king’s landing and spread the word like it were a plague, till even the rats in the sewers were aware of your untrue outburst.

by the next morning, you were branded the scorned princess.

“gossip is where truth goes to die.” he’d startled you out of your own self-pitying thoughts, back pressed up against the tree in the godswoods and book laying open across your knees, not a single page turned in what had to have been well over an hour.

“uncle,” clutching at your heart, your dizzied fright had blinded you to the way the man above you burned his eyes into what little he could see of your developing bosom. with the summer heat in full-swing, you’d taken to lowering the necklines of your dresses and the prince had taken to despising that you’d once dared to hide such a delectable sight beneath layers of clothing. “’tis not wise to sneak upon a woman armed.”

a charming smirk branded his face as you tugged the hem of your dress half-way up your leg, shamelessly letting him gaze upon your supple skin and the dagger sheathed in it’s own miniature scabbard against your calf.

a gift, on the name day in which you had turned ten and seven, from the very man who casted a shadow over you now. (”you told me you wanted a piece of old valyria, little dove. so there you go, your very own valyrian steel.”)

“just the same as it ‘tis not wise to sulk in public spaces, niece.”

“i was not sulking!” the book snapped shut as you rose to a stand, defensive in the way you held it pressed to your chest. his jaw clenched, what little morals he owned swallowing down whatever undesirable comment he had for you newly covered breasts.

his attention redirected itself to your mouth, lips red from the way you'd shamelessly gnawed upon them through all your distressing thoughts, the bottom one jutting out against your own consciousness.

“my brother’s new born babe aegon pouts less than you.” daemon mused, hand reaching out to swipe his thumb over your puckered petal, teasing himself with what they’d feel like pressed against his own. “if your concern is the whispers, ignore them. the cunts in your father’s court mean only to make themselves believe you are lesser than them. they’ll tire by the morrow and move on to someone else in our house to discuss, nyke kivio ao bisa.” i promise you this.

daemon was glad you’d never read into his words too much that day, least he’d have to admit to feigning a drunken state and causing a scene in a brothel that very night just to get your name out of their mouths.

the second time you found your name floating the keep’s halls was a few years after the first.

“they say the princess scarcely bleeds. barren, that’s what the grand maester called her.”

“regardless, she lacks the shape of a proper woman. i’ve seen men with hips more apt for childbearing than her’s.”

once more, no one took notice of the times your handmaidens had stripped your bed clean of bloodied sheets, nor did they pay mind to the fact you’d rushed out your father’s wedding to alicent hightower, dress sporting a bloodied stain and eyes filled with tears of embarrassment.

the scorned princess being also the barren princess? it made for a better story than the truth: a combination of stress induced starvation and lack of sleep had lead to an irregularity with your moon’s blood.

the room around you had long ago emptied itself of guests, those who remained behind either too drunk to make it out of their seats or in too high a spirit to retire to bed.

you were one of the former, head resting against your crossed arms which had found purchase on the table. never having been fond of drinking, it had only taken a few cups of dornish wine to render you inebriated, and thus your pity party had began, lamenting your own withering reputation to whichever poor, unfortunate family member had been a great enough fool to sit themselves next to you.

“father thinks me ruined, hic,” your sentence paused to make space for your drunken hiccups, which served to cover up the little sobs your body shook out. “i heard him speaking to the hand about how he’ll never, hic, find someone to marry a, hic, princess who can not, hic, give any heirs. ziry emagon daor gīda eptan issa, hic, lo ziry iksos drēje!” he has not even asked me, hic, if it is true.

“ao gīmigon skoros ao jorrāelagon naejot gaomagon, byka dove?” you know what you need to do, little dove?

you shot up straight, no longer caring that your face was stained in tears, mind too busy wondering why daemon had been sat next to you and was not off with some whore, indulging in a victory fuck to mark the end of the celebrations for his return as king of the stepstones.

you voiced your curiosity, hand instinctively curling around his own as he reached out for you, the scraping of his chair ringing in your ears when he inched himself closer.

“can i not want to spend time with my niece?”

“yes but we, hic, already broke our fast together this morning.”

“and yet i never managed to speak with you, your father was too busy with his gloats on my return.” he spoke no word of lie, the king had been an unstoppable force of laughter and joy ever since daemon had given him his crown and the crabfeeder’s sword. a part of you had been endeared, watching how he reminisced on his and his brother’s younger days, filling daemon’s cup with wine every time it had emptied, a smile on his face like no other you’d seen since the passing of your mother. “now, you’ve yet to answer my question.”

“your, hic, question?”

“you make for an endearing drunk, little dove.” giving your hand a gentle squeeze, there was nowhere for you to hide from the fondness in his eyes as he brought your intertwined fingers up to his lips, brushing them over the expanse of your knuckles. a chill ran down your spine and a fire lit within your loins. “my question was regarding those who speak on your fertility, or supposed lack thereof. do you know how you must handle this?”

“if i did, do you believe i’d have, hic, made myself so familiar with the wine this evening?”

the prince laughed, you smiled. something sinful flowed through your veins as you took note of his posture, how his whole body was pointed towards you, how his back hunched over enough for him to lean down and level his eyes with yours, how he didn’t seem to take notice- or, if he did, didn’t seem to care- of the remaining guests stares being glued to you both, analysing each detail of your interaction.

“and here i thought you’d turned to drinking to cope with the absence of your favourite relative in these past years.”

“i accepted corlys', hic, absence years ago, kepus.”

“just for that,” he pushed his chair back, hand dropping your own as he stood and straightened out his wrinkled clothing. “i shan’t be telling you what to do about these rumours.”

before he could walk away from you, your hand shot out and grasped at his wrist, foolishly believing you carried the physical strength to hold him in place.

“no!” you were certain everyone who remained in the hall had heard your panicked exclamation, but it mattered little as the desperation to have him near, to have him guide you, to have him tell you how to make everything better took over your sanity. “please, i only, hic, jest! tell me what to do.”

for what felt like an eternity, and was only a mere few seconds, daemon stared down at you, blank in the face. his eyes narrowed in on the tear tracks down your cheeks, and an unspoken- and impossible- vow was made in that instant: he’d pay any price to ensure you’d never cry again.

“what you need to do, niece,” he leaned down, till his lips were near pressed against your ear, ghosting over it with his hot breath and the faintest brush of his moving mouth. “is make sure your future husband fucks you so full of his seed that no one dares question your capability of carrying on the targaryen lineage.”

there still remained plenty a drunken fools and dancing buffoons by the time you decided to retire for the evening, yet you payed no mind to their wandering eyes as you let daemon guide you out the hall and escort you back to your chambers.

you’d awoken the next morning to an aching head and a burning cheek, unsure of whether daemon had pressed his lips against it before bidding you goodnight or if that was but a drunken dream.

the third rumour came not shortly after.

“did you hear about the princess and ser criston? apparently she’s requested he train her in combat.”

“the only combat she wants is within his bed.”

no one cared to enquire on the truth of why a young princess would request to be trained in the arts of the sword, just the same as no one cared to address the fear you’d been left with after an attack on your life within your own chambers, when a knight, angered with his dismissal from the city watch after breaking his vows of chastity, had decided to seek revenge on the king on a personal level, a fatherly level: stripping his daughter of her purity.

your night dress was nothing but torn rags and his breeches were halfway down his legs by the time ser criston had burst into the room.

and though he may have failed at stealing your virtue, he’d succeeded in stealing your safety.

the first few nights, you found no comfort in your own bed, seeking out your elder sister and crying into her welcoming arms till your body grew tired from the sobs and your eyes had dried up. your return to your own chambers had been under certain conditions, your father unwilling to risk putting you in harm’s way again, and thus a collective of knights stood post outside your door at all hours of the day.

none of it made any difference when you fell asleep, however, your slumbering mind taking to bombarding you with nightmares of sweaty palms on your skin and the putrid smell of the knight’s breath as he forced himself atop your helpless body.

when you’d asked ser criston to educate you in manning a sword, he’d taken no interest in asking for a reason, understanding what had been ailing you without you having to relive it through verbalising it.

he was surprisingly patient with his teaching, not caring for the number of times he’d need to repeat himself, nor the plethora of time you’d struck him in the face with the wooden training sword he’d bestowed you with.

but ser criston did not go easier on you, did not lessen the blows he’d deliver your way on account of you being smaller, frailer, nor for the simple fact that you were the princess. he pushed your face into mud, he bruised your skin with his blows, he worked you till you were short of breath and drenched in sweat. all in all, you’d believed him to be a great teacher. perfect, even.

until you found yourself disarmed, a boot digging into your shoulder to keep your back pinned to the ground below and the end of a sword barely gracing the skin of your neck.

“ziry kostagon daor hīlagon nykeēdar gīda lo ziry ropatas hen hen nykeā lōgor.” he could not hit water even if he fell out of a boat.

the heel of daemon’s boot dug further into your shoulder, unknowingly grinding into a bruise you’d earned two days prior, a fair price you’d payed to at last disarm ser criston for the first time.

the man above you glared down in your direction as a series of giggles erupted from your chest, the man already irritated from hearing how you’d taken to training with the cunt in shiny armor.

“ziry kostagon’t sagon sīr quba, lo ziry pyghagon ao isse se tourney.” he can’t be so bad, if he beat you in the tourney.

“urnēbagon ziry, byka dove, ao kostagon find aōla zālagon lo ao tymagon rūsīr perzys.” watch it, little dove, you may find yourself burnt if you play with fire. as if to punctuate his threat, he pushed the edge of dark sister harder against your skin and you felt the unmistakable sting of skin prying itself apart under the sharp pressure. the faintest line of red trickled down the back of your neck, staining your skin and straining daemon’s breeches, much to your own unawareness.

“īlon’re zaldrīzoti, keepus. perzys kostagon daor ōdrikagon īlva, mērī excite īlva.” we’re dragons, uncle. fire can not harm us, only excite us.

the next few moments passed in silence, save for the occasional screech of a bird or the rustling of leaves in the wind. and all the while he was gazing down at you, eyes hooded and chest heavy with each breath. he was contemplating something and you longed to know what.

it went far beyond a longing to know, you wanted to be in his mind, wanted to split his skull in two and burrow yourself in whatever space he may have left for you, taking up as much of his mind as you physically could.

meanwhile, he thanked any god who may exist that you had no insight into his maddening thoughts, safe to imagine you laid out atop his bed and with his hand around your throat rather than the blade of his sword, every rise and fall of your chest punctuating another delicate whine for him to swallow with his own deranged grunts.

only after he’d sheathed dark sister once more did he speak.

“i will inform ser crispin of his dismissal from training you.” it was not a request but, rather, an order. the kind of thing you’d typically quarrel with your father over, yet with daemon you were too busy melting into a puddle under the warmth of his stern tone to care.

“and why,” as he interrupted your own efforts to stand, hand grasping your arm and swiftly pulling you to your feet like you weighed no more than a bird’s feather, you lost your footing, sending you barreling against his solid chest. he stood taller this way, your head having to tilt further back to hold contact with his eyes. “would you be doing that, uncle?”

“because you’ve no need for two swordsmen to train you. it’ll only lead to conflict in training methods.”

“how so?”

“ser crispin is a technical man, commanding the style in which you move and the strategies you must implore to predict his next blow.” his face inched lower, closer to yours and invaded your space in a way only he could. “my training is more... hands-on.”

the fourth rumour was the one you cared the least to disprove.

“i suppose it is only expected that she follow in her family’s tradition.”

“still, i do find it odd how she can lust after her own kin, her uncle! i guess not even the rogue prince’s niece is blind to his charm.”

perhaps the spiders around you were finally beginning to use their countless eyes, staring the truth in it’s face and choosing to spin their web of lies around it, a step forward from their usual habit of spinning straw into gold and staking barbarian claims against your honour.

if they were going to talk, least it be with some truth.

because while no, you had not begged daemon to bed you like the ladies claimed, nor had you followed him out of the castle and spied on his depraved actions in fleabottom as the lords had said, you certainly could not deny there was something going on.

from touches that lingered on the training grounds, your hands clinging onto him long after he’d pulled you back to your feet and his hands remaining on your cheek long after he’d whipped away the traces of dirt.

to public interactions deemed far too intimate for an uncle and his niece, even for the house of dragons. countless feasts passing where neither one of you were keen to take your eyes off each other, whether your bodies were pressed right up against one another in a dance or a sea of people stood between you both on opposite ends of the hall.

two tourneys, one for prince aegon’s first name-day and another for the upcoming marriage between rhaenyra and your cousin, laenor velaryon, and in each the events had played out the same: daemon would stride in on his steed, dressed in the most ridiculous armor one could find, and request your favour, boldly and unabashedly before every gossiping housewife and envious lord, only to defeat his opponents and ruffle some more feathers when declaring you as the queen of love and beauty.

which lead up to this moment in the throne room, the king looming large over both of you from the pile of swords despite his visibly worsened health, anger decorating his features as he spied the wreath of flowers upon your head, still present hours after the rogue prince had crowned you for the second time.

the first time, he’d overlooked it, laughed it off.

the second time, he’d felt his blood boil, shoved his second wife’s hands off him as she whispered in his ear of how his brother meant to ruin his daughter in the eyes of potential suitors.

if the king were half as smart as he was kind, he would have seen the truth in queen alicent’s worries.

“please, father, don’t be so ridiculous! daemon has merely been training me.” you had the nerve to smile at him after he lay the allegations of your indecent meetings at both your feet, trampling them under your pretty words as though they were far too implausible to even entertain with anger.

“i thought ser criston was aiding you with your sword skills.” your father replied, his full-fingered hand curling over the edge of his armrest and supporting his weight as he leaned forward, as though to get a closer look at you.

“there was a conflict of interest.” daemon answered in your place, to which viserys scoffed and kept his eyes on his daughter.

“how so?”

“his methods, i did not find myself... responding as well as i do to daemon’s.” it was only a half-lie, for while you would still argue that ser criston was just as skilled with a sword as daemon, there was no competition when it came to who could hold your focus. in ser criston’s lessons, you’d counted down the minutes till you were free to rest, while with daemon you would often implore him to skip whatever small council meeting required his presence and remain with you on the field. “i have grown good enough to disarm him, though my uncle denies it happening.”

“‘tis my niece who negates the truth of how the rain that soaked us both lead to my sword slipping from my grasp.” the king watched, disgruntled, as daemon spoke towards you, holding you captive in his gaze in a way that was dangerously easy, a power the monarch could recall his beloved first wife held over him. “what she showed was an act of luck, not good swordsmanship.”

when neither three of the targaryens spoke, the echoes of celebrations within the gardens began to travel through the air, as if to mock the king, reminding him that he should be out there celebrating the union of not only his daughter but the realm’s alliance with the lord of the tides becoming stronger than ever, instead of trapped within the seat that brought him nothing but gripe and before his two political headaches- his brother the original, and his daughter the most recent.

the king heaved a sigh.

“very well, you’re dimissed.” he waved what remained of his hand, the stump where fingers once lived a sickening reminder of how his body was slowly falling apart. with a nod and a curtsy, you both made to leave the king’s presence, only for his voice to ring out once more. “not you, daemon. you and i need to discuss something.”

with you bidding them both goodbye, dress trailing behind you as daemon allowed himself to glance back just once, the doors slammed shut and trapped the two bother’s within.

viserys pulled himself off the throne, hardly feeling as a blade sliced through his decaying palm. while the king grew closer, daemon grew bolder, traveling up the steps and meeting his brother midway.

perhaps an act of kindness, to spare him the trouble of exhausting himself.

more likely a show of disregard, to remind him that he wasn’t one of the puny the lords who sat within the small council, ready to be pushed and pulled in whatever direction the king sent them.

“pray tell, brother.” the younger doned a smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “what is it we need to discuss?”

“my daughter.”

“i’m fairly certain it’s rude to discuss a lady when she is not pres-”

daemon was cut short, words dying as a sense of shock took over him upon viserys’ hands clasping the collar of his doublet.

“if i so much as hear of you putting your hands on my daughter without her permission, i’ll-”

“kill me? have me sent to the wall? turn me into a eunuch?” all sounded like awful outcomes, yet the prince wondered if getting his hands on you, even if it was just once, would make it all worth it. he decided not, for he was certain he would find no antidote to the poison of tasting you other than to taste you again and again and again, till his blood ran dry and his skin melted off his bones. “and if she permits me to? what if she is the one to put her hands on me?”

“then i will see to it that you both perform your duties as servants to the crown and have your affairs in order under the eyes of the seven.” he spoke like a king, distant and unfeeling, a man who’s only job was to lead the realm.

and so daemon graced him with an answer fit for a king.

“are you saying what i believe you to be, your grace?”

“yes. i’m saying i would wed you to her.”

the fifth rumour is when you decide enough was enough, the time had come to use their own love of gossip against them.

“the king’s expected to announce her search for a suitor soon.”

“i do pray for her future husband, whoever he may be. it’s doubtful he’ll find any joy married to such an ungrateful, infertile harlequin.”

every step you took that evening was calculated.

from the seat you sat at the royal table, trading your usual post beside rhaenyra for one next to daemon, to the number of lords you entertained with a dance and a laugh, three to be exact: one of them your soon-to-be brother by law laenor velaryon, another the son of the hand, ser harwin strong, a fierce knight and the object of your sister’s desires, and, lastly, cregan stark.

the stark was by far your father’s most favoured suitor when it came to your hand, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see. where his first born’s marriage had secured the relationship between the crown and the sea, his second daughter's would secure that of the capital and the cold, unfeeling north.

only, your father had made one fatal flaw in his game of chess: he’d mistaken you for a pawn, when in truth you were a rook, unwilling to be moved so easily.

betrayal was your initial reaction to the news of your father’s meeting with the starks, an encounter he had not even the good graces to include you in.

your second reaction was defiance.

and, so, you laughed with the stark lord, you let him refill your goblet as he spoke tales of his travels south to the capital, you danced with him before the entire court and stepped on his toes enough times till he politely dismissed himself, claiming he was in need of relieving his bladder before he left you in the centre of the dancing pairs.

just in time for him to swoop in.

“ao jāhor mazverdagon nykeā sȳz ābrazȳrys, byka dove.” daemon wrapped you in both the safety of his arms and the use of your ancestral language, guiding you into the next dance. you will make a fine wife, little dove

“nyke pendagon lo issa valzȳrys jāhor agree rūsīr ao.” i wonder if my husband will agree with you.

matching the other couples, daemon commanded you to spin in his grasp, hands firm as one held onto yours and the other made repeated contact with your waist, spinning you faster and faster, till you tumbled over your own feet and had nowhere to turn to but his strong, dependable hold, hands splaying out on his chest as his own found rest upon your lower back.

even that was not enough for the man, who squeezed you closer to his own bod.

“you’re tired, niece.” the swirling pairs around you turned their heads at his voice, exaggerated in it’s volume as he at last addressed you in a way they understand.

“so very tired, uncle.”

“then i shall escort you to your chambers. the dark hallways of the keep are no place for such a defenceless lady.”

the weight of your father’s stare followed you out of the banquet halls, lungs only refilling with air when you round the corner that leads upwards, the steps to your own chambers lit with torches and manned by several guards who stood guard at your door.

the same guards who payed no mind to how you welcomed your uncle into your chambers.

the same guards who likely felt against their back the vibration of your own body slamming against the shut door.

daemon was a force to be reckoned with, hands coming down to cage you against the wooden surface and render you defenceless to the incoming attack against your mouth.

there was no patience in the way he kissed you, mimicking a man starved for weeks who’s at last been handed a morsel of bread. neither was there gentleness, lips moving with yours in a frenzy of clashing teeth and knocking noses. it was nothing like the books you’ve read, where a pretty princess at last convinces the honourable knight to kiss her, pulling back immediately to stare in bewilderment.

nor was it how rhaenyra had explained kisses to be: boring, unexciting, a waste of time.

daemon licked his tongue into your sweet mouth, chest shaking under your palms at the satisfied groan he released. you caught up with his pace, lips finally moving to the rhythm he’d set, no longer being lead but rather fighting to lead him in the dance of your mouths.

when he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes could only be levelled by that of his dragon’s as it flew into battle, thirsty to burn everything beneath it.

“ao issi tolmiot tolī gevie naejot sagon jurnegēre rȳ issa raqagon bona.” his voice lulled you out of your trance, confused, even if just for a moment, as he spoke to you in your blood’s tongue, instead of one the guards outside your door would understand. it dawned on you slowly that he spoke only for you in that instant. you are far too beautiful to be looking at me like that.

“raqagon skoros?” like what?

“raqagon nyke mazverdagon ao biare.” like i make you happy.

the prince wasted no time in stripping you bare, knowing he’d lose the ounce of little control he had left if he were to gaze upon your heaving breasts and your glistening cunt.

he settled for sneaking his hand under the layers of your skirt till he found his holy grail.

“you’re soaked, little dove.” he spoke in pure awe, as though he hadn’t lay with a thousand whores and tasted every kind of woman the realm had to offer.

daemon was no stranger to maidens nor the feeling of touching them, yet none had ever welcomed him in as much as you, no fear in your darkened gaze as you spread your legs further apart while the middle finger stroked over your velvet lips which dripped with honey and ached to suck his digit in between them.

it was as though you were made for him alone, body trained to take anything he’d offer, and he tells you so as he made contact with your aching bud, calming the buzzing nerves with slow strokes.

“is that nice, niece?” you nodded your head and were met with a disapproving look, quickly correcting yourself with a loud moan. “is kepus making your little cunt wet?”

“yes!”

he rewarded your precious reply with the breeching of your hole, his finger forcing it’s ways into your tight walls as he released his own noises of satisfaction.

the descent into madness was swift from then onwards, with daemon knowing only the feeling of your sticky walls clamping down on him as your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell slack would be enough to sedate him. one finger became two and he watched you mold yourself into the perfect little whore for him, unabashed to call out his name and beg for more.

“have you touched yourself before?” his breath was haggard, as if he was the one having his insides toyed with by you, chasing his inevitable peak with wanton groans and sporadic kisses to your throat, collarbones, chest. “or are mine the first hands to touch this precious cunt?”

when you hit your crescendo, it was with shaking limbs and desperate cries, hands having found home in the tresses of his hair, pulling on their roots as he kissed over your chest, fingers continuing their repeated assault on your entrance till your essence dripped down to his elbows and you shook your head in protest to his touch, his pretty baby too sensitive from her first peak.

he let his resolve slip moments after bringing his soaked fingers up to his mouth, the taste of you sending him to all seven hells and back for all the things he longed to do to you. arms caging around your frame, he lay his forehead to rest against yours as his hardness began to grind against your waist.

“just wait, my little dove.” even as he put on a show, he was mindful to sweet talk you with the names he called you, aware you were not ready yet for all the things he longed to call you, preferably as you lay face down in his sheets, your sweet flower on full display and ripe with honey for his taking. “wait till i paint your insides with my seed, filling your little womb up till it swells with my babe.”

much to his own preference, daemon shortly spilled within his breeches, soiling his clothing in an uncomfortable manner he'd need to clean up later.

in all his years he’s never fought as hard a battle as the one to lead you to bed, all the while you begged in your mother tongue for him to take you, for real this time, to fill you with his cock even after the sun had risen and the royal guards stormed your room demanding answers for the king.

as he finally parted ways with you, this time for sure pressing his lips to your cheek, daemon nodded curtly at your guards who refused to meet his eyes and he swallowed down his amusement, the walk back to his own chambers filled with only one topic: how long till the news reached the king's ears.

after all, the ladies of the court never were good at whispering.

[joshthewalkingtrainwreck]

An open letter to right-wing Tumblr

Nobody owes you a debate. Their refusal to interact with you isn't an attack on your free speech. Rights exist in the third-person perspective in ways just as solid and just as established as in when they are expressed in the first-.

What makes your right to say whatever you want without government penalty for having done so (except in a few, well-established, well-defined precedents that any reasonable citizen would agree with) any more sacrosanct than my right to exercise free assembly to say "fuck you, fuck this, I got a better life to live than to spend it listening to the same horseshit being argued over and over again?"

The court of public opinion holds a lower standard because it's ultimately the lowest stakes in anything we have the gall to call 'justice' in this nation-- every case is presented to every individual juror who sorted out their findings based on what they had available to them, and judged them one way or the other. Sometimes the cases reach conclusions like (as an example), "the right is more bent out of shape about trans people while also being really fuckin unwilling to do anything about the chimos operating within their own ranks" and found a reasonable consequence for that finding to refuse to consider conservatives in any other relationship besides adversarial.

If you don't like that, either present better info or find better beliefs. Nobody will hate you for changing your mind, everybody does it. It's okay to admit mistakes, and it actually shows a degree of maturity to accept that and take accountability for them.

(and before you try; fuckin don't. Democrats are just as fucking terrible-- y'all don't think Palestine is being raped hard enough while liberals try to tell everybody a little of it is necessary. Harris lost more than Trump won. Their best idea to run against a brain-damaged rapist was to find a brain-damaged rapist of their own and then bury #MeToo because sometimes presidential candidates are allowed little a rape, as a treat. Don't explain to me how democrats are bad, too, motherfucker, I actually chaired for the shiftless pieces of shit. the point is to be better than the other assholes, not to be even bigger assholes. They keep trying to muscle in on your brand and y'all keep sliding right in response. The matter of Epstein's death matter less than the idea that several powerful people availed themselves to his hospitality and nothing will ever be done about that because Republicans and Democrats both were involved. The majority of CSA cases are by people who the victim knew and trusted but y'all wanna tell everybody you think is too ugly to shit in a public restroom that you know better-- considering how much nuance Jim Bob Duggar found about child molestation when the world discovered he raised his own flesh and blood to be a serial toucher, are y'all just oblivious or trying to smokescreen your own predation? Half of y'all get real bent outta shape about age of consent laws for some reason)

The fact that you feel it in cumulative is on your own fuckin heads, assholes. You don't blame the people for the idea of messages spreading farther, wider, and faster than the time it took you to think not at all about it before you pressed 'post' any more the Democrats can try to blame voters for not supporting someone more unpopular in 2020 than a sociopathic racist CIA Blacksite dickhead (the rat-faced fuck) who tried to force the most cringe-worthy fucking meme of the election cycle before Hillary Clinton's fight song horseshit (no, seriously, look up the high hopes dance and tell me that ain't fuckin pathetic).

I would say better politics start with you, but taking the law of averages and the current state of the Overton window in American politics into consideration, some of you won't make your best contribution to American politics until you leave this world.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Four (Astarion's POV)

TW: violence, blood, very brief allusions to Astarion's time with Cazador, short instance of Astarion's gnome racism

That smirk would be handsome on someone taller.

Astarion shakes off the errant thought as Wicket leaps from the tree, landing noiselessly in front of him.  He takes a wary step back, realizing there is more to this necrobane than initially meets the eye.  The vampire stumbles over a rock, losing his footing as Wicket lunges at him with a speed that rivals his own.  Astarion manages to deflect the first blow, hissing as one of the stakes gouges into the pale flesh of his forearm.  Wicket dodges behind him, driving his fist into Astarion’s lower back as his heel makes contact with the back of the elf’s knee.

Astarion crumples to the ground and makes an attempt to crawl away, but Wicket snatches his ankle and pulls him closer before pouncing on top of him.  Astarion begins to panic at the weight pining him down as Wicket straddles his waist and raises a stake over his heart.

Groping hands in the dark… foul breath… rough, unwanted touches… the smell of unwashed bodies and sour ale…

Astarion bucks beneath Wicket, attempting to throw him off, and the stake misses its mark, stabbing into the soft dirt next to his head.

“Hold still, abomination!” Wicket snarls, scrabbling for the second stake and struggling to hold him down.

Not again, not again, not again, not again…

Astarion struggles wildly, caught in his memories like an insect in amber, barely aware of Wicket’s rough voice cursing in Gnim as he fights to retain his hold on him.  Then… a blinding light and indescribable pain…  Astarion is forcibly pulled from his memories and thrust into another’s. 

Fire surrounds him, the smoke thick and choking… the wails of the dying mingle with the screams of children… Blood soaks the forest floor, glowing in the firelight… A single voice rises above the din – a small child crying out for her father…

“Get out of my head!” Wicket screams, drawing Astarion back into the present.  The gnome is wild-eyed and sweating, silver-streaked hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his skin nearly as pale as Astarion’s.  Taking advantage of his distress Astarion shoves him away and rolls to his feet, drawing his dagger.

Wicket staggers to his feet, still disoriented, with a stake in his hand and clearly still ready to fight.  “What’s wrong with you?” he slurs.

“What?” Astarion asks, dumbfounded.

“Hands are shaking… scared… felt it with the worm…”

Astarion scowls.  Apparently the tadpole had allowed Wicket a peek into his mind too.  “Most people tend to be shaken when someone attempts to assassinate them, darling.”

The necrobane snorts, clearly not believing the lie.  “As you say.”  A pause.  “Why are you so weak?”

“I beg your pardon?” Astarion stares down at the gnome in disgust.  “Weak?”

Wicket stares back at him, expressionless. 

Astarion lets out an annoyed huff.  “If you must know, my master kept my diet very… controlled.”

“Explain.”

“Rats!  Vermin!  The occasional kobold!”  The vampire throws his hands up in exasperation.  “And only in small amounts, just enough to keep us alive but not strong enough to rebel.”

Wicket hums in contemplation and thinks a moment before darting off to his tent.  His back before Astarion can object, goblet in hand. 

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, taking a wary step back.

Wicket tilts his head to the side and takes a moment to collect his thoughts.  “I don’t know what is going to happen or what potential dangers we will face as a result of our tadpoles.  And leaving you alive could prove to be useful.”

The elf narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“If,” Wicket holds up one finger.  “And only if you can keep your fangs to yourself… I’m willing to forgo my oath.”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion replies with a charming smirk.  “This little venture will be so much easier if we’re all friends.”

But the very moment it appears you’re going to turn on me I will drink you.

Wicket grunts, looking like he already regrets his decision.  As a curious Astarion watches he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, then draws a small dagger from a hidden sheath in his boot.  Wicket grits his teeth and braces himself, then slices a deep gash across his forearm.  Before a drop of blood can hit the ground, Wicket has the goblet beneath the wound, catching each gloriously enticing drop.

The heady smell of the gnome’s blood has Astarion’s eyelids fluttering, and a small gasp escapes his lips.  He briefly considers crossing the few feet that separate them and licking up the blood that drips down Wicket’s arm; finally gorging himself on the sustenance he’s so long been denied.  Then his lip curls in disgust at the very thought.  Gnomish blood is acceptable, but to actually press his lips to the flesh of one of the little beasts?  He shudders at the very thought.

No, better to wait and see exactly what he’s up to.

After several long minutes the goblet is nearly full.  Wicket whispers a few words of healing, and his wound closes up as if it were never there.  He’s pale and clearly lightheaded from the blood loss, but somehow manages to remain standing.

“Here,” he mutters thrusting the goblet into Astarion’s eager hands.  “We’re going to need you at full strength if you’re going to be any use to us.  Don’t make me regret this.”

[eroguron0nsense]

Eustass Kidd in Modern AUs

I see this trend in fics where Kidd isn't part of a main ship depicting him as either a weird rival to one of the characters or a genuinely disgusting person, and don't get me wrong, I like rat bastard aggro asshole Kidd who's either genuinely unpleasant to be around or truly execrable as much as the next guy–I think it's true to his character in many ways–but I also have a soft spot for modern AU interpretations of Kidd just being Luffy or Law's kinda annoying buddy? Like very much their friend or at least someone they're okay with hanging out with even though they snipe at each other constantly, or just like, an annoying ex you can't help but argue with, rather than a truly shitty person. Egotistical and confrontational and definitely pushes some people away, but in a way that doesn't make it impossible to be his friend

I think it might just have something to do with me scaling down a character's negative traits in my own modern AUs just because their circumstances are less drastic, the stakes of living in a modern world are generally lower (unless it's like, a very action packed thriller or horror thing that's as drastic/requires a similar level of suspension of disbelief to the anime) so I tend to avoid things like having someone be genuinely murderous, and canon Kidd's tendency to annihilate everything in sight and kill people who upset him doesn't translate well to the comparatively low stakes of coffeeshops or college settings. Generally I scale a character's level of potential shittiness to match the world I construct for them, and it throws me sometimes when I'm reading a perfectly cute modern au and people keep certain really drastic plot elements (e.g. Kidd's extreme violence, Doffy killing Cora in front of Law, elements of certain other backstories etc) or interpret the character's evil in ways that feel less plausible in that context (e.g. making an antagonistic character a sexual predator or physically aggressive/dangerous person, especially in bashing fics). This is fine, but again, it can feel out of place if other plot elements aren't similarly drastic in scale or if it's just a minor part of the AU and we get back to regularly scheduled pining or wish fulfillment right after.

[ms-scarletwings]

Out of all small mammals that have been domesticated as pets, hamsters are one of the most interesting varieties.

And when I say interesting, I mean because they’re so unique, and there is a lot of complexity to them that often goes overlooked even by the owners taking care of them. Naturally, they aren’t well understood by most people, and it’s a strange kind of scary how that misunderstanding can lead to a lot of pain and tragedy for both keeper and pet.

Out of everything there is to know, the most distinct thing about hamsters is probably how downright antisocial they are to other small animals.

When you take a look at other household rodents, you usually see incredibly social creatures which can actually suffer when kept alone. So much so that there are countries outlawing the keeping of single guinea pigs, under the scope of broad animal cruelty regulations.

Take rats, or mice, for another example. Very common subjects of study and experimentation, and renowned for their ability to form bonds and bustling communities.

It’s common knowledge to any rat or mouse owner worth their salt that these animals thrive best when kept in the company of their own, and they naturally prefer to live in groupings.

Your average hamster? Not so at all. In fact, the majority of hamster breeds harbor so much potential for aggression with their own that the previous husbandry advice goes completely out the window when caring for them. And all of this goes extra for anyone with a Syrian hamster on their hands.

The absolute largest of domestic breeds, Syrian hamsters (also referred to as golden hamsters) are an exemplary variety for demonstrating this point. Make any remote suggestion of cohabbing two of these and forums and experts alike will be quick to tell you stop, do not pass “Go”, do not collect $200, because failing to consider the risks might end well… gruesomely.

Some people get the wrong impression that two Syrian hamsters can share a space because, well, they see that pet shops are getting away with housing juveniles together for a time.

It is true that when they are still young and developing, they will tolerate cage-mates much easier, and it’s been shown that you have the best chances when pairing some hamsters with a same-sex sibling they have been raised together with.

Despite however swimmingly this situation seems to be going for now, it is ultimately not so sustainable in the long run. For see… Syrian hamsters eventually mature into highly territorial, solitary creatures by their nature.

Inevitably, that nature will bleed through, creating tensions of dominance struggle between the two that could escalate into more violent fighting.

And as some former pet owners can anecdotally attest to, these fights can and occasionally do end in serious injury for one or both of the animals. Often enough, the victor will turn to cannibalistic actions as well, killing (and eating) its cage-mate in the worst case scenario.

And what of those who are still surviving, and maybe even adapting to the presence of another hamster? Interestingly, when one of the Syrians doesn’t end up devouring the other, these lower stakes conflicts have a stark impact on the psychology and behavior of both combatants involved. After a fight is concluded for Syrian hamsters, something of a pecking order between the two begins to form when the loser cannot get away, where the winner actually adjusts to become more aggressive and dominant over the shared territory. Studies have shown that the hamster at the short end of the stick can start to lose its own willingness to behave dominantly following a hard social defeat. After repeated abuse of this fashion from a cage-mate, the submissive will become more docile and appeasing to the dominant partner over time- a phenomenon known as “conditioned defeat” which appears similar to a kind of learned helplessness.

All in all, the social inclinations of golden hamsters with same-species companions are, at best, quite unpredictable, but in a morbidly fascinating way, me thinks. End of the day, there’s still just something both extremely entertaining and endearing about them, and their quirks.

[octolingo-writes]

JRWI VYNCENT FOR ASK GAME!! :D

oooo okok!!

First impression: I liked him okay, but I wasn't super attached to him. I thought he was very funny to the point of me having second-hand embarrassment about it--

Impression now: gonna be real, he is the PC I am the least interested in (besides Ashe but that's a different story for another day, love you Ashe) but he's really been growing on me, I've grown to appreciate that he can be funny and heartfelt at the same time, and Condi has amazing monologue skills. I also liked the development of the Greats as characters, and his dynamic with Jason is hysterical I love it so much

Favorite moment: "Come here rat so I can cut off your skull and eat cereal out of it!" That's not the exact phrasing but you get the idea, that was so funny to me

Idea for a story: I want to explore some sort of cultural barriers between Fauna and Prime for something lower-stakes than like... murder, maybe like how people greet each other or how you cook a certain meal

Unpopular opinion: I don't think I have an unpopular opinion about him because to be perfectly honest I don't have a lot of opinions about him--

Favorite relationship: I like ghostknife well enough, but honestly I'd have to say polypd, if he has to be in a romantic relationship at all (I'm a platonic found family person myself)

Favorite headcanon: I love it when people use ae/aer or fae/faer pronouns for him, it tickles my brain and it fits really well!! Also when they make him a little bit of a creature :)

Thank you for the ask!!

[deathfavor]

No one asked for this but i really want to talk about why this song is so good for LIng Wen.

I came up from nothing / the streets were my playground / i belong to the city / And was raised on the stakes I claimed.

   Ling Wen did not grow up wealthy or even middle class. While growing up , the kingdom of Xuli was already in an extreme situation of unease. Many people weren’t in great positions, poverty and conflict had greatly escalated. As the civil gods CONSTANTLY bring up with Ling Wen as an insult, she was a shoe seller on the streets when she was mortal. Not even with a shop , but on the streets. She came from nothing in many respects. No family honor, an absent father ( she doesn’t know if he died or left and never bothered to check ), and a mother that abandoned herself for the sake of trying to get a husband from any man that showed interest. There was a lot of her barely scraping by and being resourceful on the streets and lower sections of town. Surviving was based on the stakes they made and risks they took, both literally in regards to streets like those performers that Feng Xin and Xie Lian encountered in their banishment, and to what Ling Wen claimed as her own. For example, she was also famous for writing letters, sonnets, and general scribe work for other people , even the wealthy. That was her claim , her stakes. Women WEREN'T supposed to do that in her time. It's also why she's still the ONLY female civil god and a big reason why the other civil gods hate her. ( As discussed some in this post )

I’ll talk about this later in the post or another post, but this fact she came from nothing also plays a large part in why she pushes so hard in what she does, because she has ALWAYS had so much against her.

I let the rumor turn me into a legend. A good myth is hard to kill.

This phrase has multiple meanings and times it is applicable. First, as a mortal. Ling Wen wrote the piece of literature that beat the (at the time) #1 literature god ( even if no one knew at the time because he was disguised as a human to compete). HER piece in that competition was a political piece that basically ripped apart the Kingdom of Xuli, her kingdom. She submitted it anonymously, but one of of her clients recognized the style and ratted her out, which led her to be thrown in jail. Naturally this caused rumors to explode. A woman competed in the competition AND she won AND she did it while opposing the kingdom. Of course people were going to talk. And it certainly made her a story and legend in people’s eyes even before she was brought up to be a middle official. At the heart of the matter, it doesn't matter if you're the hero or a villain. If you're a famous enough rumor, you become a legend. And those are hard to kill.

   Even after she fully ascended, she had and still does have plenty of rumors about her. I’ve said it plenty of times , but females make up a very small population of the Heavens according to TGCF ( and many stories in the belief themselves ). As far as we know, Ling Wen might be the only fully ascended female civil god, as juniors/middles aren't quite there yet. As Ling Wen became rose and became the top civil god , many gods and humans made accusations that she seduced her way to the top. She absolutely did NOT, but many men felt threatened by a woman in higher position of power than they were. Even within her own palace there’s rumors and insults about her when they think she doesn’t hear or know ( but she does - even Hua Cheng makes mention that Ling Wen has eyes and ears everywhere). It’s what led to many of her followers on earth changing her stories and statues to being a man and why her male form is stronger but she can’t retain it as long since its not her real form. However, there ARE still places that worship her female form , especially since there was the play about Ling Wen and Pei Ming at the banquet. As she says “ People will talk. “ No matter what she does , because she’s a woman , because she’s in essentially the highest spot besides the emperor , people will talk with rumors or insults no matter what. But at the same time , that just keeps her around..

WHICH leads to the point on Jing Wen. Ling Wen completely destroyed him. Both literally in terms of causing his downfall and hundreds of years destroying the last pieces of him , but his stories. People forgot there was a literature god before Ling Wen despite the fact Jing Wen had once been well established. Even XIE LIAN forgot Jing Wen had ever existed despite Jing Wen being the reigning god when Xie Lian first ascended. But Jing Wen's myth , his legacy , wasn’t good enough because she destroyed him in a matter of weeks , maybe a couple months at most. People may have controversy over her , but all those rumors just solidify her place in legends. SHE WON'T BE FORGOTTEN. And THAT is the lifeblood for gods and goddesses. It’s why people still debate over if Lucifer is heroic or a coward in Paradise Lost or how people feel about Guinevere in Arthurian legends or if Beowulf is good or not. To this day people still argue over it. The same thing is happening with Ling Wen and as a literature goddess , as much as some may frustrate her , ultimately it benefits in the long run.

The odds are stacked against me / I keep my cards close to my chest.

   Short paragraph for this because I talked about a lot it above. She’s a woman in a male-dominated society. Of course the odds are stacked against her. It’s what has driven her so hard to push so hard for what she wants. She keeps all her skills close to her chest. Another line related to this is ‘ I have a way of find out their sins and secrets / bringing them to their knees. ‘ which is very applicable for Ling Wen. She CREATED the communication arrays , she knows people’s sins and secret and she holds them close to her because she can bring them down when she chooses. ( Headcanon related to that  HERE  )

Why do I need friends when I’ve got plenty of enemies.

Again , covered on earlier. The Civil gods explicitly HATE Ling Wen. Even her own palace has men saying they could do better if given the chance ( spoiler alert : they don’t , not even anywhere close. Everything falls apart the moment she's not there ) Her own god group hates her , she doesn’t get along with the goddesses , its only the martial gods that welcome her and embrace her. And among them her only real friends are Shi Wudu and Pei Ming. Even that wasn’t planned or expected. Ling Wen doesn’t NEED friends to succeed , she’s proven that. She's proven a willingness to sacrifice. She is just fine enjoying proving her haters wrong. But she does like having her boys.

The world owes me a debt / and now I’ve come to collect /  so don’t get in my way.

Listen the world has had it out for he , mortal or goddess. But it doesn’t matter to her, because Ling Wen will continues to climb opposition and reach higher no matter who tries to stop. But sometimes she does show up to collect, be it from blackmail on information she knows to force someone to obey, or to simply call in a few favors. The real important to her is don’t get in my way.

She will tear you down and kick you out of her way. With maybe 2 or 3 exceptions , Ling Wen has no problems with crushing someone or flat out removing them if they’re in her way. After all, she’s heartless as she says. She doesn’t care. She does what she needs to to succeed. Even those exceptions she can confront like being on the enemy’s side if its best for HER. Albeit she will not go to the same extremes for those exceptions that she would for anyone else. As a person though ? Getting in Ling Wen’s way is a VERY BAD spot to be. You think she won’t kill you or bring your ruin ? Cute. She will. And she will do it without hesitation or remorse.

By the time you’ve figured out the rules I broke / I’ve already won the game.

This ties into the last section. Ling Wen is EXTREMELY intelligent , cunning , and ruthless. In the case of Jing Wen’s downfall , he didn’t realize what was happening until it was far , far too late. She’d literally already won. In the case of the Brocade Immortal , NO ONE realized it was her initially. It was her secret till it eventually got out. But by then she already has the Brocade Immortal and was carving her way to success ( and in some ways had because she took down the whole communications array in the Heavens and sent everyone into disarray. THAT'S how essential she is, she's made HERSELF into the heart of the game board basically. ).

Basically, if you are an enemy of Ling Wen, you won't realize anything until its too late. She doesn't play fair but she plays smart, and rewrites the rules to her own will.

[draculaspawn]

@werewlfwithin

Things were changing. It would have been obvious to even the least attuned out there. As loathe as she was to use the word 'something' as a descriptor — it was too vague & inarticulate — the general unexplainable nature of the current state of affairs prevented specificity. As a result, the world was stuck in a perpetual limbo where 'thing' became the greatest descriptor in the human languages.

But how had it began? When had things gone south in the first place?

It was hard to say. The draw to New York City had been sudden and unsettling. Lilith had been somewhere in Eastern Europe — don't ask her where specifically (at her age, it could be hard to determine due to the way that years and places began to blur together) — when she had first felt it. The flight the States had been instantaneous. Never had the thought crossed her mind that once she got there, she'd be blocked from leaving. Trapped like a rat in a coffee can or however you wanted to phrase it. It was completely and totally infuriating.

Acclimating to a new environment was taking a moment. Unlike most vampires, bloodlust didn't dominate Lilith's thoughts and dreams. Her feedings were a choice spurred on by a fondness for the taste and subsequent feelings that a feeding would bring. Angered by the circumstances she was stuck in? Feed. Bored? Feed. For a normal vampire, caution would need to be exercised in order to avoid a stake to the heart. The daughter of Dracula had less to fear; a stake to the heart could kill her, yes, but as long as her father plagued the world she would as well. Her life being tied to his was a security blanket no matter how much she despised the root of her troubles. Besides, most looked or vampires after the sun had set. Although Lilith was no daywalker, she could enjoy the rays of sun on perpetually chilled skin.

Teeth were firmly latched into what had been an unsuspecting neck only a few moments before, the flesh supple but bending easily against the sharpened point of practiced fangs. The woman had succumbed without so much as a whisper, lost to a mesmerization she'd never stood a chance against. Lilith kept the victim pinned against the wall, her body helping keep the other woman upright. When she felt the telltale tremor move through the meal, it was time to disconnect. Today, there would be no draining or body left discarded for the NYPD to identify.

Today, however, it seemed there would be an extra set of eyes of her. The blood had briefly consumed her mind and distracted her from her surroundings. It didn't normally matter. People were temporary, trivial. They were fleeting and easy to deal with. Pulling the handkerchief from her coat pocket, Lilith carefully blotted at her lips. Scarlet glittered on the white fabric when she lowered her hand. Her gaze remained trained on the intruder who had witnessed the moment, her meal momentarily forgotten.

"Are you lining up to be next?" A flippant question almost challenging in nature. Then, a pause. What she was getting from the stranger was... conflicting to say the least. Undead blood was nothing she desired. The heart needed to pump something fresh if it was going to be a meal. A frown tugged her lips downwards. "Never mind. You won't do. Just don't bother asking if I'll share. I won't."

[thetrinitarianmystery]

The Frog and the Wren: On Authenticity and Becoming

The Frog and the Wren

I’ll make myself a character

if it enhance our storytimes.

(Authenticity is not-being; 

it’s only not-to-do.

The being is your game;

It’s ultimately up to you.)

This sort of divination

is our duty and our right:

to seed ourselves by inclination

and build by day as dreamt by night.

So I’ll be a frog and you’ll be a wren;

and we’ll decide what that means.

We’ll live in a cottage with a little smoke

whirling gently round the beams.

And if it please to be a rat,

we’ll squeeze together in our den.

And in our deepmost ratwrought dreams

we’ll sing a song of frog and wren.

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

Well, the day has finally come when I put my blog on my “main” social media profile.

To any new viewers, if you’re interested in my content, consider subscribing here if you’re on Tumblr, following me on Twitter @TriuneMystery, following this same blog on Wordpress, or just checking in every now and again by clicking the link in my Instagram bio. It’s a pleasure to have you here.

Now, to some reflections:

What does it mean that authenticity is “not-being”, or “only not-to-do”?

Let’s examine it in contrast to the usual advice about authenticity: “Be yourself.” What does this advice mean? How can I concretely practice “being myself”? Aren’t I myself no matter what I do? If not, then how do I discover the “true self” that I’m meant to be? People spend a lot of time and money on trips and spiritual exercises to “find themselves.” Respectfully, I think this is a little misguided.

I think authenticity is not so much about trying to find a “core” of your “self” to live out, but is rather about relaxing into an abandonment of that search.

“Be yourself,” means, “Don’t try to be anyone or anything in particular,” and by (not) doing that, you will be free. There isn’t anything to do. There’s only not-to-do—that is, there is the process of unlearning the habit of trying to be something in particular.

This doesn’t preclude commitment to actions or to relationships; rather it is to acknowledge that there is no ultimate truth of the matter of what you are, and it is not to seek it. You are ultimately ineffable: you are irreducibly individual, beyond linguistic capture and categorization.

My own act of sharing this blog on my personal social media profile is an act of authenticity in my own becoming. By keeping it hidden away, I was trying to be something in particular: professional? Tough? Ordinary? I’m not exactly sure what the best word is; but I came to realize it was contrived, so my action was a letting-go of this effort.

In a sense, I am ceding control to you, the reader, who can judge me as you will.

If you’d like to join me in this letting go, I’d love submissions of poetry or longer-form writing at trinitarianmystery@gmail.com. I can post anonymously or with credit, with or without my personal reflections on the piece.

If you ever wanted a low-stakes way to get your poetry out there, this is it! Can’t get much lower-stakes than my current follower count! But stay tuned 😉

[theodora3022]

Playing tricks with the trickster

Summary: Failed escape attempt from yandere Childe. He lets you play your cards, even playing along, just for his own amusement.

Notes: My first genshin piece yay... I had a sweet and terrible dream of me running from Childe in the woods. Also some inspiration was drawn from @cinnamonest‘s this post, one big virtual hug to her! I hope I did Childe justice, what can I say I love manipulative smiling boys. It has become a pattern as I dash from one fandom to another. This is had turned out to be longer then I expected...Ginger boy demands my time and energy too much omg. Mind the warnings, although there is nothing extreme in this.

Fun fact, I was looping to Nintendo game by Alessia Cara when writing this down. I believe it fits the theme of this fic quite well.

Tagging: @akutaguagua a great friend who patiently beta-read this mess of a horror dream and gave me lots of kind praises! 

(Offical art belongs to miHoYo! This is a cover page of this video, if there is any issues, contact me and I will remove it at once)

Warnings: Implied past abduction,dub-con touching, mild degradation, drugging(not on reader), implied non-con/dub-con at the end, this is not healthy love and I do not condone this irl.

It has been nearly a month since the youngest Fatui Harbinger had “taken you in”. After a few tries, you were too horrified by the punishments to continuously fight him. You learned on the first day that Childe’s smiling, the friendly mask would come off towards you. Your behaviour would decide if that is a curse or a “blessing”.

So you had quieted down, struggling to restrain yourself from yelling or screaming, carefully not to provoke his anger. Despite being compliant to his orders, you never truly showed him any affection either. Sure, you would sit on his lap if he asked, but you never initiated anything intimate with him. No matter how much Tartaglia spoiled you with clothes, books, jewelry or other luxuries, he is still the one who holds the commanding end of your shackles. It’s the best not to get used to all of that when your sight is set on the door.

Although he has taken your freedom away, you are not kept in a windowless room. On the contrary, you have too many outings now. Wherever he goes, you have to be present in a 2m radius, including meetings. Being a Harbinger is no easy job, so he prefers not having to worry about your safetly during buisness hours. The best way to do that is never let you out of his sight.

“Love, no one should witness our little problems. Well, no one alive that is.” Of course you wouldn’t want to put innocent people's lives at stake. You never dared to act out when you two are in public, and no one would bat an eye if a Fatui had taken a lover. 

You had taken an emotionless approach towards him. If Childe wants a kiss on the cheek, you’ll give him a quick light peck. If he wants breakfast, you’ll go make some pancakes with the topping he likes. Luckily, Childe had not done anything too extreme yet. If cuddling to sleep does not count as extreme that is. The only time you slipped up is when he suddenly hugs you from behind when you’re cooking.  

You thought maybe, just maybe, by being as boring and dull as you could, this bastard might just get tired of you and let you go. Childe only loves the fun of it right? Or maybe it could lower his guard.

Oh, how naive you are. You should have known better than to underestimate a Fatui harbinger. See, this is exactly why he needs to keep you around. Yes, unfortunately for you, Childe loves you, so very much. Speaking to him with a monotone voice isn’t going to alter that fact.

You have been devoid of emotions as of late. While Childe does appreciate fewer screams for the sake of his eardrums, this schemer can sense you are up to something. Perhaps this is the peace before your “storm”(he thought of it more like a drizzle)

You want to play a game? Okay, why not? Childe cannot wait to see what tricks you got on those sleeves. Are you ever getting away? Does an amateur ever win when they play a game with a professional trickster? Never.

Still, nothing bites like a cornered rat. You are no airhead, and he is fully aware of that. Just not as cunning and observent as him, that’s all.

The way you just kept your emotions sealed up is impressive, even to someone like him. Even when he got hansy, you did not flinch and just stared at the corner. Childe can only catch faint glimpses of anger when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Hm, when are you pulling your trigger? Tonight, or tomorrow night? Not that Childe is impatient, anything from you is worth waiting. But he would need to dismiss his patrolling underlings in the nearby woods beforehand. No extras would be allowed to disturb this game.

There is no chance during the day, a somewhat mutual understanding for you two. Night time in comparison, is a different story. 

Anyone’s sleeping hours is their most vulnerable time of the day, Childe is no exception. You do not plan to harm him, not that you don’t want to. But you are willing to swallow the pent up frustration towards him if you would never see his face again after this. Maybe beating up some slimes would help with the release?

You somehow managed to slip a mixture of herbs into his tea. Since he would buy cooking ingredients for you from time to time, you had requested a bunch of herbs along with the ingredients of a sleep inducing medicine you remembered. Although Childe does all he can to keep you near him, there are inevitable hours that he needs to be somewhere without you. He cannot jeopardize your safety with troublesome monsters. On a side note, he loves showing you off to anyone, his colleagues, acquaintances, business partners, anyone he does not deem a threat.

Enough time for you to make those herbs into powder and cover it up with a few spoons of milk. Tea with milk has become quite popular in Liyue as of late. Childe has grown to love them, so you have learned how to mix it up. He always let you handle his food and drinks, saying that he “trusts you”. What you do not know is this is one of the openings he exposed on purpose. It’s not like you can aquire anything deadly under his suffocating supervision.

Your plan will work, or so you think. Childe will not wake up when you wiggle out of his grasp, because dreamland will keep him occupied. All you need is a glider and a usable sword from Liyue and you’ll get your life back. Bottling up extreme emotions has certainly taken a toll on your mind, but it will be worth it if that is the prerequisite of being free.

Something about this being so easy sits ill with you. Have you really been with the youngest Fatui Harbinger this whole time? But that was brushed off your shoulders by the sheer excitement of regaining your long lost freedom. You know Liyue is in walking distance, all you need to do is cross these woods and-

The moment you dive into the forest, you think you heard an amused chuckle. 

That smooth voice terrifies you to no end, the same voice you took orders from for the past month.

Oh, how Childe loves seeing you happy. It’s priceless, both literally and figuratively. No matter how many things he buys you, you had not shown him even one small smile. Enjoy your sweet freedom, because it ain’t going to last. You certainly will know your place after this right? If not you are just dumber then he give you credit for.

That glow of relief in your eyes is worth every last bit of this intense dizzying feeling to Childe. To make sure your plan go through, he had drunk the tea without hesitation, quick enough to catch the momentarily excitement you expressed. He knows the game is on, therefore he had given the night patrol guards the entire evening off. Forcing himself to stay concious by digging his nails into his palms, Childe followed you into the woods.

Your potion is quite strong. Excellent, you’ll have to give him the recipe for informational purposes later. Especially how you managed to achieve such effects with a few herbs you had. He never took you to be anything less than a smart girl, but this has exceeded his expectations. Where’s the fun in a game without challenges?

How you storm through the forest wearing that cute terrified expression looks so endearing, it’s surely not his fault if he wants to enjoy this sight to be longer right.

So, each time you feel the slightest at ease due to whatever reason, expect Childe to make some sound to send you running like your life depends on it again. The sadistic man is hunting you down playfully, like a cat chasing a stray mouse to the inevitable corner.

You know he is toying with you. There is nothing you can do to make him shut up though.

“Love, you had scratched your leg. Must hurts by the looks of it.”

“Liyue is that way, you know.”

“Are you tired? If you want to jog in the middle of the night, you should have called me to come along!”

How can he say those things nonchalantly while you are trying to escape from him?  Here he is, daunting you with that signature smile he wears so very often. That is when reality slaps you right in the face. No matter how hard you plan, no matter how fast you run, there is no getting rid of him.

When your stamina runs out, a simple pull and push on your left wrist is enough to let you fall onto the ground panting. Even now, you still refuse to beg for mercy. You would take the cold grounds to the warmth of Childe’s embrace anyday. 

“Aw, burnt out already? Pathetic. Looks like we need to work on your stamina more. But this is not the place for exercise.”

“Look at me.” His slender but forceful fingers tilt your head up, making you look into those ocean blue orbs. There is anger present in his eyes, but those emotions are more a mixture of delight and that. His smile had also been replaced by a mocking smirk. “You, trying to leave me? Your sense of humor is...well, let’s just call it unique. Lucky for you, you amused me nonetheless.”

“I know what you’re thinking. How I’m a selfish jerk and you hate me. Why be so ungrateful? You get to live in luxury thanks to me, you know. I am selfish, yes, but look how stupid you are. I know you added something extra in my evening tea, my beloved.”

“Come now, we are going to do some exercises suited for a night like this once we’re back home. It is our one month milestone, after all. You had already given me your gift, it is only fair for you that I do the same.”

Childe is not making a sarcastic remark. The thrill of that chase was the best fun he had in months. And you are going to love his gift too, maybe not right away, but surely sometimes after. 

You have to mentally prepare yourself for the worst as he dragged you back to the prison, hopefully you’ll still be able to walk properly after whatever Childe got in store.

[cluescorner]

have any opinions on part 4 of JoJo?

It's the best one in terms of writing, plot consistency, and actually being coherent. The relatively lower stakes (trying to find 1 serial killer instead of trying to save the world) lends itself very well to a story set in a small town and also allowed for more character moments. One of my favorite parts about Part 4 is that we get to see the characters just...being kids together. Like, one of my favorite episodes is the Harvest one where Josuke and Okuyasu are just being dumbasses together constantly.

Josuke is probably my favorite JoJo so far, but I haven't gotten past Part 5 yet so that might change. He really feels like just some guy who happened to be born into the Joestar family and now has to deal with this crazy new world. He makes a lot of mistakes because he's inexperienced and also a LITERAL TEENAGER, but he also is his father's son. He is extremely clever and can quickly manipulate the situation to his advantage. He's like a Joseph who's also a decent person and not friends with a LITERAL N*ZI so that's nice. He also wears his heart on his sleeve and he see him get visibly upset and happy and angry and just overwhelmed throughout the Part. He feels like a real person that I can relate to, not just a badass punch man with 3 personality traits. So he's the best JoJo so far imo.

I also think the general main cast is also all solid. There really aren't any that ruin the show for me, even of the ones I like least. Okuyasu is such a good character and I honestly feel like he was underutilized both as a fighter and as a character. The Hand is so overpowered and literally could neutralize Kira in the span of like 5 minutes, so I feel like giving that overpowered Stand to Okuyasu, a character who isn't exactly bright enough to understand the full capabilites of his Stand and how to utilize them, was a good decision. Even if it was ultimately underutilized a LOT.

And the potential behind his character, a kid who has been only with his brother and his father (who are both kinda monsters in their own right) for as long as he can remember who then LOSES his brother after trying to fight Josuke, who then becomes friends with Josuke DESPITE all of this and quickly works his way into his friends' lives, who has a power related to taking EVERYTHING AWAY IN ONE TOUCH (Stands are a reflection of their user's soul so...), AND who is shown to be extremely kind-hearted despite his trauma but is also likely suffering in silence?? I think Okuyasu had the set up to be the best character of the part but Araki just didn't follow through. This kind of stuff is why I enjoy fanworks so much, I have already read so many that explore Okuyasu and they're all fantastic. I absolutely adore Okuyasu and his 'death' was the first moment in JoJo that I almost cried real tears.

Koichi is...fine. I like him and I get why everyone else likes him. In any other season I'd likely have way more to say about him, but every single character is pretty good in this season so I don't really have that strong of feelings about him.

Rohan is so funny to me. Like, this man only cares about his manga and does NOT care about being a good person and he doesn't try to hide it. One of the first things he does is try to fight our heroes because...he wants Koichi for his manga. He was about to force Okuyasu to kill himself and Heaven's Door is such an OP ability that I feel like I don't have to say anything. And the only reason he loses is because Josuke doesn't like manga and he insulted Josuke's hair. This is the kind of stuff that I love about this part, the ways our heroes win are so weird and clever that it makes the battles feel more real. Rohan is also a pretty well-written character and he contrasts very well with the other characters to create some very fun dynamics.

Part 4 Jotaro is better than Part 3 Jotaro. A major reason why I didn't really love Part 3 is because I didn't like Jotaro as a protagonist. He's too disinterested and stoic for me to enjoy as the LEAD OF AN ENTIRE PART but I always thought that he would work better as something else. And apparently, that something else was a genuinely amazing mentor character. He has seen the worst that Stands have to offer and he's very familiar in dealing with them, so he makes for a great contrast to our extremely inexperienced team. And he's also given less screen time, which means I don't get tired of his stoicism and OP-ness as often. I actually enjoyed that he only uses Time Stop when it's absolutely neccesary, since that's the ability that killed SO MANY OF THE PEOPLE HE KNEW. But Part 4 Jotaro also isn't infallible. He almost dies to a FUCKING RAT and that was honestly one of the most human moments Jotaro has ever been given. He's just waiting for Josuke to figure out what to do while he keeps getting turned slowly yet slower into a pile of fleshy goop. And he also cannot handle Kira on his own like he could handle DIO because Kira is a far more subtle opponent. You can't just beat Kira by punching it until it dies, you have to actually think about what you are and aren't doing. It makes Jotaro feel more like an actual character and less of 'Protagonist Syndrome'.

On the subject of Kira, HOLY SHIT KIRA IS SUCH A GOOD VILLAIN. I still think that DIO is the best villain so far, but I flip flop on him and Kira more often than I'd like to admit. Kira is the perfect 'low stakes' villain. He's a serial killer with a fetish for hands and a desire to live a 'normal' life, which prompts him to stay hidden as long as possible. I tend to dislike whodunnits where the audience knows who the killer is, but Kira's inability to actually stay hidden for long makes sure it never feels like it goes on for too long. I also adored his ability, it's a far more 'planning' based one than any ability we've seen up until this point. You need to know what you're doing with your ability and Kira, though he's also a dumbass at times, knows Killer Queen inside and out. Bites The Dust is also a great ability for him to have and his weird sort of relationship with Shinobu also made him very fun.

The Bites the Dust arc is the best JoJo has to offer. In the same vein that many told me that the DIO's world arc +the final battle was worth every minute of the rest of Part 3, I am telling anyone who is still unsure of whether they want to watch Part 4 that the Bites the Dust arc is worth every minute you spend on Part 4. Though, if you really aren't feeling it, you can start when Kira first shows up and just watch from there. The other episodes are great, but if you don't like low-stakes slice of life stuff then just start when Kira shows up. Because the Bites the Dust arc is so good. It's just so good. It feels like a culmination of everything we've built towards throughout the season with crescendoing character moments and an impossible situation that only desperation and preparation (funnily enough the two traits Kira is most defined by) can solve. Really, the Bites the Dust arc is so good that I'm not even gonna talk about what happens during it explicitly. I refuse to spoil this arc, watch it yourself please. But try to find a Trigger list for it, because it gets DARK. Be safer than I was while watching it, lol.

So yeah, I love Part 4. It's probably the best part so far. Is it my favorite part? IDK, gay italians and women are real in Part 5 so I think I'm still more about that part so far. Part 5 is my favorite, but Part 4 is the best and it's honestly not even close. Even if you don't want to watch JJBA (entirely valid, I hate this show sometimes and if you aren't a fan of sausage fests...this show isn't for you probably) I still recommend Part 4 or at least the Bites the Dust arc. It's the best JoJo part, hands down.

[queensconquest]

No  one  asked  for  this  but  i  really  want  to  talk  about  why  this  song  is  so   good  for  Ling  Wen.  But  not  necessarily  going  in  lyrical  order.

I came up from nothing / the streets were my playground / i belong to the city / And was raised on the stakes I claimed.

   Ling  Wen  did  not  grow  up  wealthy  or  even  middle  class.  While  growing  up  ,  the  kingdom  of  Xuli  was  already  likely  in  a  situation  of  unease.  Many  people  weren’t  in  great  positions.  As  mentioned  ,  while  mortal  ,  she  was  a  shoe  seller  on  the  streets.  Not  even  with  a  shop  ,  but  on  the  streets.  She  came  from  nothing  in  many  respects.  No  family  honor  ,  an  absent  father  (  she  doesn’t  know  if  he  died  or  left  and  never  bothered  to  check  )  ,  and  a  mother  that  abandoned  herself  for  the  sake  of  trying  to  get  a  husband  from  any  man  that  showed  interest.  There  was  a  lot  of  scraping  by  and  being  resourceful  on  the  streets  and  lower  sections  of  town.  Surviving  was  based  on  the  stakes  they  made  ,  both  literally  in  regards  to  streets  like  those  performers  that  Feng  Xin  and  Xie  Lian  encountered  in  their  banishment  ,  and  to  what  Ling  Wen  claimed  as  her  own.  For  example  ,  she  was  also  famous  for  writing  letters  ,  sonnets  ,  and  general  scribe  work  for  other  people  ,  even  the  wealthy.  That  was  her  claim  ,  her  stakes.

   I’ll  talk  about  this  later  in  the  post  or  another  post  ,  but  this  fact  she  came  from  nothing  also  plays  a  large  part  in  why  she  pushes  so  hard  ,  because  she  as  so  much  against  her.

I let the rumor turn me into a legend. A good myth is hard to kill.

   This  phrase  has  multiple  meanings  and  times  its  applicable.  First  ,  as  a  mortal.  First  of  all  ,  Ling  Wen  wrote  the  piece  of  literature  that  beat  the  #1  literature  god  (  even  if  no  one  knew  at the time ). But  it  was  a  political  piece  that  basically  ripped  apart  the  Kingdom  of  Xuli  ,  her  kingdom.  She  submitted  it  anonymously  ,  but  one  of  of  her  clients  recognized  the  style  and  ratted  her  out  ,  which  led  her  to  be  thrown  in  jail.  Naturally  this  caused  rumors  to  explode.  A  woman  competed  in  the  competition  AND  she  won  AND  she  did  it  while  opposing  the  kingdom.  Of  course  people  were  going  to  talk.  And  it  certainly  made  her  a  story  in  people’s  eyes  even  before  she  was  brought  up  to  be  a  middle  official.

   Now  ,  even  after  she  fully  ascended  ,  she  had  and  does  have  plenty  of  rumors  about  her.  I’ve  said  it  plenty  of  times  ,  but  females  make  up  a  very  small  population  of  the  Heavens  according  to  TGCF  (  and  many  stories  in  the  belief  themselves  )  ,  and  extremely  few  in  the  Civil  section.  As  Ling  Wen  became  #1  ,  many  gods  and  humans  made  accusations  that  she  seduced  her  way  to  the  top.  She  absolutely  did  NOT  ,  but  many  men  felt  threatened  by  a  woman  in  higher  position  of  power.  Even  within  her  own  palace  there’s  rumors  and  insults  about  her  when  they  think  she  doesn’t  hear  or  know  (  but  she  does  ).  It’s  what  led  to  many  of  her  followers  changing  her  to  being  a  man  and  why  her  male  form  is  stronger  but  she  can’t  retain  it  as  long  since  its  not  her  real form.  However  ,  there  ARE  still  places  that  worship  her  female  form  ,  especially  since  there  was  the  play  about  Ling  Wen  and  Pei  Ming  at  the  banquet.  As  she  says  “  People  will  talk.  “  No  matter  what  she  does  ,  because  she’s  a  woman  ,  because  she’s  in  essentially  the  highest  spot  besides  the  emperor  ,  people  will  talk  with  rumors  or  insults  no  matter  what.  But  at  the  same  time  ,  that  just  keeps  her  around.

   WHICH  leads  to  the  point  on  Jing  Wen.  Ling  Wen  completely  destroyed  him.  Both  literally  in  terms  of  causing  his  downfall  and  hundreds  of  years  destroying  the  last  pieces  of  him  ,  but  his  stories.  People  forgot  there  was  a  literature  god  before  Ling  Wen  despite  the  fact  Jing  Wen  had  once  been  well  established.  But his  myth  ,  his  legacy  ,  wasn’t  good  enough  because  she  destroyed  him  in  a  matter  of  weeks  ,  maybe  a  couple  months  at  most.  People  may  have  controversy  over  her  ,  but  all  those  rumors  just  solidify  her  place  in  legends.  It’s  why  people  still  debate  over  if  Lucifer  is  heroic  or  a  coward  in  Paradise  Lost  or  how  people  feel  about  Guinevere  in  Arthurian  legends  or  if  Beowulf  is  good  or  not.  To  this  day  people  still  argue  over  it.  The  same  thing  is  happening  with  Ling  Wen  and  as  a  literature  goddess  ,  as  much  as  some  may  frustrate  her  ,  ultimately  it  benefits  in  the  long  run.

The odds are stacked against me / I keep my cards close to my chest.

   Short  paragraph  for  this  because  I  talked  about  a  lot  it  above.  She’s  a  woman  in  a  male-dominated  society.  Of  course  the  odds  are  stacked  against  her.  It’s  what  has  driven  her  so  hard  to  push  so  hard  for  what  she  wants.  She  keeps  all  her  skills  close  to  her  chest.  Another  line  related  to  this  is  ‘  I  have  a  way  of  find  out  their  sins  and  secrets  /  bringing  them  to  their  knees.  ‘  which  is  very  applicable  for  Ling  Wen.  She  CREATED  the  communication  arrays  ,  she  knows  people’s  sins  and  secret  and  she  holds  them  close  to  her  because  she  can  bring  them  down  when  she  chooses.  (  Headcanon  related  to  that  HERE  )

Why do I need friends when I’ve got plenty of enemies.

   Again  ,  covered  on  earlier.  The  Civil  gods  explicitly  HATE  Ling  Wen.  Even  her  own  palace  has  men  saying  they  could  do  better  if  given  the  chance  (  spoiler  alert  :  they  don’t  ,  not  even  anywhere  close.  )  Her  own  god  group  hates  her  ,  she  doesn’t  get  along  with  the  goddesses  ,  its  only  the  martial  gods  that  welcome  her.  And  among  them  her  only  friends  are  Shi  Wudu  and  Pei  Ming.  Even that  wasn’t  planned  or  expected.  Ling  Wen  doesn’t  NEED  friends  to  succeed  ,  she’s  proven  that.  She  is  just  fine  enjoying  proving  her  haters  wrong.  But  she  does  like  having  her  boys.

The world owes me a debt / and now I’ve come to collect /  so don’t get in my way.

   Listen  the  world  has  had  it  out  for  her  ,  mortal  or  goddess.  But  it  doesn’t  matter  ,  because  Ling  Wen  will  continues  to  climb  opposition  and  reach  higher.  But  sometimes  she  does  show  up  to  collect.  The  real  important  to  her  is  don’t  get  in  my  way.

   She  will  tear  you  down  and  kick  you  out  of  her  way.  With  maybe  2  or  3  exceptions  ,  Ling  Wen  has  no  problems  with  crushing  someone  or  flat  out  removing  them  if  they’re  in  her  way.  After  all  ,  she’s  heartless  as  she  says.  She  doesn’t  care.  She  does  what  she  needs  to  to  succeed.  Even  those  exceptions  she  can  confront  like  being  on  the  enemy’s  side  if  its  best  for  HER.  Albeit  she  will  not  go  to  the  same  extremes  for  those  exceptions  that  she  would  for  anyone  else.  As  a  person  though  ?  Getting  in  Ling  Wen’s  way  is  a  VERY  BAD  spot  to  be.  You  think  she  won’t  kill  you  or  bring  your  ruin  ?  Cute.  She  will.  And  she  will  do  it  without  hesitation  or  remorse.

By the time you’ve figured out the rules I broke / I’ve already won the game.

   This  ties  into  the  last  section.  Ling  Wen  is  EXTREMELY  intelligent  ,  cunning  ,  and  ruthless.  In  the  case  of  Jing  Wen’s  downfall  ,  he  didn’t  realize  what  was  happening  until  it  was  far  ,  far  too  late.  She’d  literally  already  won.  In  the  case  of  the  Brocade  Immortal  ,  NO  ONE  realized  it  was  her  initially.  It  was  her  secret  till  it  eventually  got  out.  But  by  then  she  already  has  the  Brocade  Immortal  and  was  carving  her  way  to  success  (  and  in  some  ways  had  because  she  took  down  the  whole  communications  array  in  the  Heavens  ).  

   Basically  ,  if  you  are  an  enemy  of  Ling  Wen  ,  you  probably  won’t  realize  your  death  or  downfall  until  it’s  far  ,  far  too  late.

[luvlyrv]

Naughty | pt. 5 | Irene x F!Reader | Mafia!AU

Summary: Two crime bosses entangled in a deadly and tension filled rivalry start to find themselves entanglesd in a different kind of relationship

Not without going through a lot of death, pain, fighting and teasing first of course.

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: Considering how long this chapter is it took a while to rewrite and get my footing again haha. Hope you guys enjoy :)

Date: 1/16/21

Series Masterlist

Part 5: A Blossoming Affair

Date. Date. Date. The word rang in your head, every second of the day, ever since the idea was brought up. It's been a bit over a week now, and you've been restless.

You groan as you stop looking at the map in front of you and lean your head back on your chair. You raise your hands and pull on your eyes, trying desperately to keep yourself awake. You're tired. Tired of it all. Ever since that day you've been living in paranoia of Irene's next move. Or was it anticipation? Every time you turn a corner your heart races, it races in fear that maybe you'll meet your end, it races at the thought of seeing Irene again. Wait, what were you talking about? Why would you want to see her?

Just to kill her of course. Your train of thought ends there.

All of a sudden you hear a knock coming over from your door and a deep muffled voice comes after.

"It's me, Taehyung." The voice says. You sigh back a response.

"Yes, come in."

The door creaks slightly as the man opens the door and makes his way to your desk. He pulls out the chair across from you, bringing it over to your side as he sits down on it. He looks over at you, eyes glistening with worry as he strokes your back. You look away from him.

"Y/N, you've been working a lot more than usual… " He begins to say. The thought jolted you, because it was true. You've been doing nonstop planning and organizing recently, which meant that nearly everyone else was working more too. You look back at Taehyung, an apology already quickly escaping your mouth.

"I'm sorry, have I been putting too much on your plate? I'll try to pick up more of the slack, just rest Taehyung, don't worry about it." You say, worrying about the health of your friend.

"No no!" Taehyung half-yells. "What I meant was that you have been working too much. Why don't you rest or something? I can take care of it." You shake your head at his offer.

"No, I can't. I'm close to finishing everything anyways. I'll be fine, I swear." You retort while Taehyung just shakes his head. Silences falls over the two of you before he talks again.

"How about I get you a coffee then?" He suggests and offers you a small smile. You just nod while spacing out.

"That sounds good, thanks." At this he jumps out of his seat. Carefully, he places it back across from your desk and leaves your office on the upper floor, descending to the lower parts of the warehouse to get you coffee from god knows where. After a few moments you also decided to leave your office, expecting coffee to be at your desk by the time you finish your little task at hand.

You watch your step going down the stairs until you reach the bottom floor of the warehouse. You walk towards the section of the warehouse where all your vehicles were, watching as people bustled to secure and transport items. There you scanned the heads bobbing around, finally seeing the man you had been communicating with more than usual lately.

Vincent, one of your caporegimes, was seemingly scolding one of the soldiers. You couldn't tell what it was about, but when Vincent raised his head and his eyes met with yours he patted and pushed the soldier away. You approach him and he bows slightly out of respect as you near.

"So, how is everything?" You ask.

"Everything is fine, ma'am." He responds and continues. "We have the strategy down and everyone has been briefed. Men are armed and readied." You nod after hearing this.

"That's good. I already arranged several drivers with vans. Use them to stash and go. They'll be taking a different route from you and will deliver things to a different safe point from here." Vincent hums while thinking before asking you a question.

"Again, are we taking anyone for interrogations?"

"Well I specifically wanted to attack these points since they're considerably more vulnerable than Irene's other bases. Although she has built a highly centralized and well-knit network, this area is newer, leaving it disconnected and weaker. I don't know if she sent out experienced members or inexperienced members to secure the area. I would say take them for interrogations if possible, but don't be surprised if you end up taking rookies who don't know anything valuable."

"If that's all then we can proceed to attack after nightfall, ma'am." Vincent says. You thank him for his time and go upstairs. A subtle weight was lifted off your shoulders after knowing the arrangements you toiled over for the past week would be executed well, but the dread of what was to come was still sitting in your stomach. At the very least though, after checking up on Vincent you could rest for the rest of the day without worry.

You open up the door to your office, the smell of coffee making your body loosen and relax. You walk to your desk and reach for the cup of coffee, taking some big gulps as the warm liquid ran down your throat and heated your hand. When placing it back down onto your desk your eyes spotted something you swore wasn't there before.

You go around your desk and sit on your chair while reaching out for the letter lying in front of you. You pick it up, realizing it was cardstock. You traced your fingers over the gold patterning on the borders of the cardstock, bringing your eyes to the center of it there were large golden letters. Everything about it was akin to a fancy wedding invitation. You stopped admiring the beauty of the piece of paper as your heart stopped. The center read "TO: Y/N".

You quickly flipped over the paper to the other side only to have your worst fears confirmed.

Dear Y/N,

Meet me at my place at 9:00 pm. Be timely. This is not a request.

Wear something nice, why don't you? Don't wear a mask, I want to see your face for myself.

Don't bring any weapons or anyone to accompany you. Wouldn't you like some alone time with me?

Sincerely,

Irene

You raggedly let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. What the hell were you supposed to do now?

You decided that certainly you had to go. The entire letter that Irene had left for you had a sinister tone in it. You didn't want to even imagine what Irene could possibly do if you enraged her at this point. Another part of you though, one that you didn't want to admit, was wanting to go just to see her again. Just to see what would happen.

Nothing about this screamed safe though. Your foot rapidly tapped the floor as you rested your elbows on your desk. Your hands supported your head as you thought. You couldn't bring anyone with you directly to Irene, sure, but you could easily have Taehyung stake out in a car a block or two away. He'd be able to arrive in case of an emergency in a suitable amount of time.

Bringing a weapon would be a sign of aggression, a sign that you didn't trust her. How in the world could she expect you to trust her though? Did she take you for a fool? You came to the conclusion that you'd have to bring something small and concealable. A pocket pistol would come in handy in this situation. Easy to conceal, and although it wasn't the highest caliber weapon out there it would do the job in the presumably close quarters you'd be in with Irene.

There was also the problem of how. How did this invitation just appear on your desk? At this point you could only assume the worst. There was a rat amidst your family. Disposing of traitors was always costly. It's a procedure that's hard to do in a timely and effective manner. It's a procedure that usually meant a large loss of numbers in an attempt to weed them all out.

You sigh. It was just too much to think about at the moment, and so you saved that worry for the backburner, because a much more pressing one was appearing at the moment. Why now? Why would Irene send out the invitation now?

You jump out of your desk and run down, hurriedly finding Vincent again. His eyes widen in surprise as you suddenly appear in front of him and blurt out an order.

"Cancel everything. Don't attack tonight and get in touch with the other capos to tighten security everywhere." You say breathlessly.

"What, why?" He talks back confused.

"Hard to explain, just do it." You order and he complies, rushing to his men and informing them. You run out of the warehouse and find your car to drive home. As you speed down the road the sky is painted in hues of blue and pink. You can't waste time admiring the site though as you quickly send texts to cancel the drivers that were supposed to be sent out later that night.

You park your car when you reach your house, opening your doors and rushing upstairs. You call Taehyung as you swing open your closet door. The phone only rings twice as he immediately answers.

"Hello?" You hear him ask.

"Taehyung, come to my place right now. I'm meeting Irene soon." You don't give him the time to respond as you end the call and throw the phone onto your bed. Your attention is now fully focused on the clothing in front of you. Wait, why were you trying to look good? It didn't matter what you wore as long as it was considered fancy. You picked out a suit and tie with matching dress pants and shoes. You quickly change into it, sighing as you looked in the mirror.

You do your hair while staring at your eyes, the dark discoloration becoming more noticeable the more you stared. Just as you finished you heard your doorbell ringing. You went downstairs and opened up the door for Taehyung. He steps inside, looking at you with a surprised face.

"What's going on with Irene?" He asks you as he closes the door behind him. He goes over to your couch in the living room and you sit across from him.

"I was sent an invitation today." You cross your legs while looking at him. His eyebrows furrow as he continues thinking. "I'm meeting her at 9, just two hours from now. This causes a lot of issues and we need to address them now."

"Talk." You've fully piqued his interest as he tilts his head and quietly fidgets with his hands.

"First, I need you to accompany me. I can't bring you with me to her place, but I need you to be there in case of an emergency. Stay in the car a block or two away so you can come if needed. Second, there's a traitor among us who Irene used to deliver me that invitation. Third, I have a really bad feeling about all of this." You can't help but to chuckle a bit at the last statement.

"Alright, I can come with you. I guess you want to talk details about the traitor before we head out then?"

"Yeah." You take a pause before asking one more question. "And by the way, do I look fancy enough in this?" Taehyung bursts open in laughter.

"Of course you do, don't you always?"

*

*

An hour passes and you decide to freshen up a little bit. You were going to be going on a 'date' with Irene after all. You also carefully tuck a pocket pistol into your back pocket. Meanwhile Taehyung continues writing down in small notebook, scribbling down notes from the conversation the two of you just finished.

"Ready to go?" A couple seconds pass before Taehyung stops his writing. He mumbles out an mhm in affirmation and then walks out of your house with you. The cold night air nips at your skin when you open your grand doors. The sound of your nervous heartbeat and your shoes hitting the pavement seemed to merge as you got closer to the car.

With the soft whirr of the car engine, the occasional bump on the road, and the warm seat you were sitting on, the fatigue that clouded your mind seemed to take over as you fell asleep. Apparently the coffee from earlier wasn't enough. It felt like you had only blacked out for a second before you felt your body shake from Taehyung's touch urging you to wake up.

"Sorry sleeping beauty, but we're already here."

You force yourself to get up, and soon enough you're back in front of a familiar penthouse door. You notice that Irene had installed a new, very much not broken, handle. You also see that there's a door buzzer off to the side and you press the button.

"Who's there?" A voice rings from the device in front of you.

"Your date." The response is blunt and hopefully emotionless. You don't need to give any clue about your exhaustion or nervousness about your encounter with her.

"Come on in."

Soon after you hear a soft click, likely the door unlocking itself. You turn the handle. Wanting to be cautious you decide to open the door slowly, peering into the small sliver of space you opened. The lighting of the penthouse is dim… romantic, even? As you continue to open the door bit by bit, looking at more and more of your surroundings, you feel relieved that at the very least you aren't walking into a squad of people pointing guns at you. You decide to open the door fully and walk in, closing the door behind you.

"Welcome." It's a curt welcoming, but it's said with such a sultry voice. You move your eyes to the small figure sitting across a small dining table in the middle of the vast living space. You walk to the table, pulling out the chair across from the woman and sitting down, seeing a plate of already prepared food waiting for you. Irene looks down at her wrist.

"9 o'clock sharp. I'm glad you're responsible enough to be on time." She looks back up from her watch with a smirk on her face and a glint in her eyes. She takes the opportunity to look at you up and down. "I didn't expect such a pretty face, albeit you seem quite tired. The suit looks nice on you, although…" Irene leaves her seat and approaches you.

You turn your body to look at her, noticing how Irene is wearing a dress again. This time it was a long-sleeved blazer style dress that gave her an angular, sharp form. As she nears you, your left hand subtly crawled towards your back, anxiously awaiting a moment where drawing a firearm would be needed.

That moment doesn't come though, as Irene's cold fingers ghost your neck and finish buttoning up your shirt for you. She finishes off by gently tightening your tie around your collar. Your exhaustion must've made you overlook some small details.

"Better now." She mutters, seemingly dissatisfied with how messy you looked earlier.

"Excuse you, that was a stylistic choice." You try to let go of your nerves and attempt to joke. Just like last time, Irene doesn't seem to laugh much, but she gives you a quick exhale and a continued smirk. She returns to her seat and picks up her silverware. She looks down and begins slicing into a cut of meat.

"Well, since you're in my home, on a date that I invited you to, about to eat a meal that I prepared," Irene looks back at you and tilts her head. "I think you should humor me and the stylistic choices I prefer." Then she continues on with her meal.

You look at your own plate, taking in the appealing colors and appetizing smell it gave off. Did Irene really make this for you? She went through all of that effort just for this? You can't help but feel something off about your chest. You pick up the silverware set on your side of the table, picking spoonful of food. You almost eat it until you remember the type of situation you're in.

"How do I know you didn't poison my food?" Irene stops eating and looks at you.

"I guess I can't blame you for worrying about that." She responds. Suddenly she leans forward on the table. "Feed me. I wouldn't eat it if I knew it's poisoned right?" She opens up her mouth. You can't tell if she's bluffing anymore.

Hesitantly, you bring the spoon to her mouth, and she eats it and stops leaning forward. As if nothing happened she looks off to the side, reaching for a wine glass. It was at that moment that you decided Irene was a weird person, you were in a weird situation, and that you actually weren't quite sure how to feel. After Irene's strange way of proving that your meal wasn't laced with anything deadly, you ate.

You're glad you ate, because honestly if this was what caused you to die you would've died happy.

"Were you a chef in a past life or something?" You ask before going in for another bite. Irene's smile seems to widen.

"No, although I am very much flattered." Before you could further compliment the woman's cooking Irene's phone rang.

"Hello?" As she answers her phone her gaze turns from the floor to your face. She nods her head as she responds to the other person on the line. "Alright then, I'll deal with it later." Irene's face is serious as she looks at you and tucks away her phone.

"What happened?"

"You happened."

"Could you further elaborate?"

"Let's just say I'm impressed." Irene admits while giving you her undivided attention. Although her face looks stern, she seems to be brimming with curiosity at the same time. "How did you know?"

"Once again, you're gonna have to stop talking so vaguely." You complain and Irene sighs.

"How did you know my men would attack?" She finishes the question with a short laugh. It scared you a little bit to see her reaction. Instead of being mad at her defeat she seemed rather entranced. Excited, perhaps?

"Isn't it obvious?" You don't look at her as you begin to explain, instead opting to focus on your food. "I mean, you can't just give me a physical invitation without someone being there to place it on my desk, right?"

"Right."

"So obviously you have a person in cahoots with you that's also in my circle." You pop a piece of a crispy potato in your mouth. Damn could Irene season like a goddess. "If you have someone that's there in that warehouse with me, they could easily know my plans, and the timing of when you wanted this date to happen was just too weird, don't you think?"

"I suppose you can look at it that way."

"So really, I think you already knew my plans. I think you wanted me here in front of you as I receive news of you raiding me when I've moved my soldiers to raid your bases. That's how I decided to reinforce my defenses tonight." You look back at her, and once again you're astonished at the fact she wasn't angry. She hums in contentment before speaking further.

"You know, this leads me to what I truly wanted to talk about tonight."

"And that would be?"

"I think we should form an alliance." As her words leave her mouth you immediately freeze up in confusion. Your eyebrows furrow. This wasn't the direction you expected things to go. Honestly, you just thought Irene would continue trying to weirdly play and analyze you, not suddenly suggest allying with each other when the last time you had met you both admitted to wanting to kill each other.

"Why?"

"I've been thinking ever since we last met." Irene reaches for the wine glass at the side of the table again. "I think you're interesting." She plainly admits. Again, there's a strange feeling in your chest and you begin to associate it more and more with Irene. "Tonight, I think you really proved that you're capable."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because, Y/N, we're both women. We're both women in a world that's dominated by men who underestimate us to a fault. If we work together we're both going to benefit and rule the criminal underground. Besides…" Her voice seems to falter as she lifts the wine glass close to her face, swirling around the crimson liquid. "This isn't just a business decision. This is a selfish decision, because I'm selfishly interested in you. I want to know you better." She stretches our her arm, bringing the glass high at the center of the table. "So, do you accept, Y/N?"

This is a bad idea.

Your hand slowly reaches for the relatively untouched glass that was set for you.

Didn't you swear to kill her just a week ago?

You lift it to your mouth, lips making contact with the glass and taking a sip of the wine.

Would it be weird to admit that you want to know more about Irene too?

The clink of the two glasses making contact creates a smile on your face.

"Deal."

[pollylynn]

Title: Prototype WC: 1100 Episode: Murder Most Fowl (3 x 08)

She thinks of him as dealing exclusively in heroes and villains. Drama queen doesn’t begin to cover it, and from her vantage point it seems that humans in between don’t exist for him. She’s not sure how he maintains it—this investment in absolute polar opposites—given that they spend their days and nights sifting through the details of the lives of people who are mostly fair-to-middling when it comes right down to it.

Most of the time, she supposes it’s just a writer thing. It’s his job, in some sense, to be that drama queen, to blow up the banal misdeeds and petty motivations of the everyday person until they’re fit to keep the pages turning until the very last.

Today, though, she has to consider the possibility that it’s a dad thing. The villain of the day is, of course, The Boyfriend.

“You can’t tell me a rat isn’t a red flag,” he huffs as he tries to keep up with her. It’s a struggle, given how much breath he’s expending on his scenarios where Ashley falls somewhere in between the Gilgo Beach Killer and The Manson Family—Yes, Beckett, all of them—in terms of murderous depravity. “A rat with a ‘special diet’?”

She’s not listening. She is definitely not listening, and still it’s almost a relief when he moves on to The Falcon Killer. This second villain springs forth, fully formed, from the writer part of his brain, so it looks like his hero–villain complex is a both/and situation. The Falcon Killer is not one bit less annoying than Ashley the Rat King, but being imaginary he at least has the virtue of having no financials someone might try to demand that she run, and there’s a lower likelihood that she’ll find herself on the receiving end of pointed questions about how to file an order of protection on behalf of someone else.

By late morning, things have swung around to the hero end of the spectrum. It’s all working class hero Lightbulb Len all the time. Arthur Sansone, she supposes, is the exception that proves the rule. He’s neither hero nor villain.

“He’s Sancho Panza to Lightbulb Len’s Don Quixote!” The grimy tiles of the subway reverberate as he waxes rhapsodic, and she wonders what city she’ll pull up stakes and move to, because she can clearly never show her face on New York public transit ever again. “Samwise to his Frodo!”

She’s thinking very seriously about being Michael to his Fredo even before he sets to work on special guest villains, Mario Rivera and Byron H. Singer, to say nothing of the shadowy figures behind the conspiracies aligned against Len Levitt.

“It’s a blood pact.” She, like everyone else in the bullpen, hears his stage whisper to a nodding Ryan. “It’s so much bigger than bulbs—it’s bulbs and birds.” He slaps a palm down on whatever evidence it is he’s spread out on the desk. “Lightbulb Len never stood a chance.”

She’s got a pinching headache right between her eyes the next morning when he rousts her practically at dawn to spend another day seeking justice for his latest Campbellian hero. The coffee he hands her is hardly enough to counteract the way he’s pin-balling between singing their vic’s praises and contemplating how he can get Alexis out of the country before Ashley returns and fully commits himself to a Count of Monte Christo–level revenge scheme. He’s crossing the writer–dad streams and it’s too early for any of it.

It all falls away, though, when the case breaks in a terrible, unexpected direction. Len Levitt’s last act on earth was to turn his camera on a man abducting a child, and damned if that isn’t the most heroic thing any of them has heard in a long while.

He’s all work from that point on. There’s no talk of heroes or villains. Lightbulb Len, it’s sad to say, is all but forgotten as lead after lead on the abduction turns up absolutely nothing.

Heroes and villains are forgotten entirely. All his dadly, all his writerly energy is focused on every single thing he can remember about Alexis’s life just four or five short years ago—everything that might give them a lead.

Even when they have their hands on Dean Donegal and he’s goes after the man hard, there’s no villain across that interrogation room table. It’s obvious, even as they take turns grilling him about Indianapolis—about everything—that he sees a mirror for his own desperate fear. It’s clear he sees a father facing the worst pain of his life.

Before long, she feels like the villain—she sees herself through his writer’s eyes when someone has to be the rational, not-a-parent in the room when the Captain decides that they’ll back Dean as he goes to meet the kidnappers’ demands. She imagines how he’d cast her on the page right now—implacable, ice water in her veins. She has all too easy a time imagining Nikki Heat’s villainous turn, but what can she do when no one else will say what needs saying?

She feels like something worse than a villain in the subway for the second time in as many days. Adrenaline is running the show when she kicks in the door and gets her shot off. Her momentum carries her on a beeline for Tyler Donegal, but somehow he gets there first. Somehow his body is between hers and the boy’s, and he’s crouched down, two careful feet away, talking in a low, absolutely calm voice.

She doesn’t hear what he says at first. She’s too busy re-running the last minute-and-a-half, complete with what was very nearly yet another traumatizing event for Tyler Donegal with her in a starring role. When she catches back up with real time, he’s standing up. He’s reaching a hand down patiently to help the boy up from the filthy floor in his own time.

“Your dad told us you were smart,” he says. “But save yourself smart? That’s hero smart.”

She can only just make out Tyler’s wide eyes in the dim light, but she feels the tension slowly trickling out of him. She sees his pale skin moving through the shadows to grip Castle’s hand as he staggers to his feet. He places a careful palm on the boy’s shoulder and flashes her a grin that’s exhausted and triumphant all at once.

“Wouldn’t you say that’s hero smart, Detective?”

“I would.” She returns the grin. “I definitely would.”

A/N: This has no morphousness in its flabby, flabby end, but I am so very tired.

images via homeofthenutty