#he is evil. If he wins and rules the world | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aenramsden · 1 year ago

Text

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

#d&d #face-biter mike #I want this #writing #gaming #advice #funny #criticism #fandom

2K notes · View notes

norrisradio · 24 days ago

Text

REDLINE

⚡︎ PAIRING: lando norris x drag racer! reader ⚡︎ WC: 5K ⚡︎ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: sports car, tate mcrae • fast lane, bad meets evil • earned it, the weeknd • the hills, the weeknd • partition, beyonce • swim, chase atlantic • into you, ariana grande • all mine, brent faiyaz • come thru, summer walker & usher • kiss it better, rihanna ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: mannnn this was supposed to be a 1K drabble | also max fewtrell makes an appearance | thank you thank you @haologram for crossing fandom lines to beta this for me lol

⚡︎ SUMMARY: "You drive like you’ve got something to prove.” // "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

Lando already knows he’s going to hate this.

The underground racing scene isn’t his thing. He’s spent his whole career perfecting precision, shaving milliseconds off his lap times, pushing his car to the absolute limit within the rules.

This? This is chaos. The air smells like burnt rubber and cheap gasoline, headlights casting sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. Too much noise, too many people trying way too hard to look cool, and Max is grinning like an idiot because he loves this shit.

“Tell me this isn’t sick,” Max says, practically bouncing on his feet as he takes in the scene.

Lando scoffs, shifting his weight against some random car, arms crossed. “This is something, alright.”

Max elbows him. “C’mon, mate. Live a little.”

“I do live. I just prefer my races with less cigarette smoke and, y’know, rules.” Lando gestures vaguely to the chaos around them. Some guy in a hoodie is revving his engine like it’ll make his car faster. Someone else is already getting into a screaming match over a bet. It’s all so—

Then he hears it.

Not the shouting, not the music blasting from someone’s half-broken speaker—this cuts through all of it. A low, aggressive growl of an engine, shifting into a sharp screech as tires fight for grip against the pavement.

The kind of entrance that makes everyone turn their heads.

Lando feels it in his chest before he sees it.

The car whips into the lot like it owns the place, sliding to a stop in one perfect, controlled motion. The scent of burned rubber lingers in the air as the headlights cut through the crowd, casting sharp, fleeting silhouettes before they shut off.

And then the driver steps out.

You move like you belong here, like the entire night revolves around you. Fireproof gloves tugged off finger by finger, jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the glint of a chain at your throat. There’s a confidence in the way you walk—calculated, effortless, like you already know you’re the fastest person here.

Lando straightens up before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Max catches it immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate.”

Lando swallows. No—he’s seen something much more dangerous.

The night feels different now. The air still hums with conversation, music thumping in the background, but Lando barely hears any of it. His world narrows to the sound of your boots against the pavement, the faint scent of fuel and heat trailing behind you as you pass.

Max is saying something, probably chirping at him for looking interested for once, but Lando ignores him.

You toss your gloves through the open window of your car, barely sparing the gawking crowd a glance. Someone claps you on the back in greeting, another shoves a wad of cash into your hands—winnings, no doubt. You take it all in stride, movements smooth, practiced.

Lando has seen confidence before. It’s in the way Lewis carries himself in a press conference, in the set of Max Verstappen’s jaw before a race. But this—this is different. It’s not posturing, not bravado for the sake of a camera.

It’s knowing, certainty.

Then, just as easily as you arrived, your attention shifts. Your eyes flick across the lot, landing on him like you had already known he was there.

Lando doesn’t look away.

Your mouth curls, amusement flickering across your face. You don’t say anything—don’t need to. There’s a challenge in your gaze, a silent, well?

Max nudges him. “You’re staring.”

Lando exhales through his nose. He pushes off the car, tilting his head slightly, meeting your challenge head-on. “Yeah?” he mutters, just loud enough for Max to hear.

“Yeah,” Max confirms, grinning. “And I think she just clocked you as a rich boy who doesn’t belong here.”

Lando rolls his eyes but keeps his gaze locked on you.

You smirk, like you heard every word. Then, without a second glance, you turn away, walking toward a cluster of racers by the starting line. Someone hands you a drink, another shouts something about a rematch, and just like that, you’re gone.

Lando feels something settle low in his stomach. Not quite annoyance, not quite intrigue—something in between.

Max claps him on the back. “Told you this was sick.”

Lando doesn’t answer. He’s already moving, drawn in before he can stop himself.

The crowd swallows you up, but Lando doesn’t lose sight of you. You move with purpose, cutting through clusters of people with ease, exchanging nods and half-smirks like you own the place. Someone tries to throw an arm around your shoulders—some guy in a too-tight jacket, riding the high of a recent win—but you sidestep him smoothly, barely sparing him a glance.

Max is still talking beside Lando, but it’s just noise now.

The engine of your car still ticks with heat, the scent of burned rubber sharp in the cool night air. Up close, the machine is a beast—low-slung, built for speed, every inch of it tuned for performance. Lando recognizes the modifications immediately. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.

Another race is forming, drivers lining up, engines roaring to life. Someone leans into your space, gesturing toward the starting line, voice eager—challenging. You tilt your head, considering, and Lando catches the quick flick of your fingers against the side of your car—absent, instinctive, like checking the pulse of a living thing.

Then, just as you look up, your eyes catch his again.

This time, you don’t just smirk. You look at him.

Lando lifts his chin slightly, closing the space between you with a few easy steps. He’s aware of the weight of eyes on him, the way a few people glance between you like they’re already anticipating something. He’s the outsider here—money, privilege, rules.

But speed is speed. And if there’s one thing Lando Norris knows, it’s how to race.

"You drive like you’ve got something to prove," he says, voice just loud enough to carry over the rumble of engines.

Your smirk deepens, slow and sharp. "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

A flicker of something hot sparks in his chest. "Wanna find out?"

It’s reckless. Stupid. He doesn’t even have a car here—his McLaren is miles away from this cracked asphalt, from these makeshift start lines. But none of that seems to matter when you step in closer, tilting your head just enough for the streetlights to catch in your eyes.

"You any good?" you ask, low, almost teasing.

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "I guess you’ll have to find out."

Max’s car is a piece of shit.

Lando realizes this the second he slides behind the wheel, adjusting to the low-slung seat, the stiff clutch, the god-awful steering. It’s not that it’s bad—Max has clearly thrown a stupid amount of money into tuning it—but it’s nothing like what Lando is used to. The weight distribution is off, the gearbox isn’t nearly as tight as it should be, and the brakes? Terrible.

He flexes his fingers against the wheel, rolling his shoulders. It’ll have to do.

Across the lot, you lean against your car, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that says you’re already picturing his loss.

Lando sets his jaw.

Someone shouts, "Bets in! You know the drill!"

Money changes hands fast. There’s no doubt where the majority of the bets are going—you, the undefeated, the local legend. Max, the bastard, doesn’t even hesitate before handing over a few bills against Lando.

"You’re actually the worst, you dick," Lando mutters.

Max grins, slapping the roof of the car. "Love you, mate. Don’t die."

Lando exhales hard, focusing on the street ahead. The makeshift track is barely marked—just a stretch of cracked pavement, a sharp corner past the old warehouse, and a long straight where the finish line is drawn in neon chalk. Simple.

Someone stands between the two cars, arms raised.

Lando grips the wheel tighter.

You rev your engine once. A sharp, cocky sound.

Lando’s pulse kicks up. He should win this. He’s an F1 driver. Speed is in his blood, his muscles, his bones. He can read a car better than anyone here—feel the road, sense the grip, anticipate every slide before it happens.

The starter’s arms drop.

Lando slams the gas.

The tires screech, struggling for grip. For half a second, the car stutters before it launches forward, and Lando immediately feels the difference. It’s not the precise, weightless acceleration of a single-seater. It’s rougher, heavier—less forgiving.

But he adjusts fast.

First gear. Second. He watches the revs, the way the car shudders slightly at the shift. Max’s tuning is decent, but Lando has to fight it, keeping the car straight as he pushes through the first stretch.

Then he glances to his left—and you’re gone.

No, not gone. Ahead.

His stomach twists.

You’re already taking the first turn, and fuck, you’re fast. Not just in speed, but in reaction—the way you throw the car into the curve without hesitation, without a hint of fear. Lando should be gaining, but your car barely loses momentum as you swing around the corner, back tires skimming the edge of the line.

Lando grits his teeth and follows.

The back end of Max’s car wobbles slightly as he pushes it harder, forcing the tires to grip through the turn. It’s recoverable, but it costs him time. Precious milliseconds.

You don’t make mistakes.

Halfway through the lap, Lando knows he’s losing.

He’s not slow—he’s never slow—but he’s playing catch-up, watching the way you control the car like it’s a living thing. Every movement is effortless, a perfect balance between aggression and calculation. You brake just enough, accelerate at the exact right moment. There’s no wasted motion, no second-guessing.

Lando has never lost a race like this before.

On the final straight, he pushes harder, shifts faster, coaxes every ounce of speed out of the car. The finish line rushes closer, and for a brief, wild second, he thinks maybe—

But you’re already there.

You cross first, smooth and decisive, engine growling in victory as you ease off the throttle.

Lando slams the brakes harder than necessary. The car skids slightly before stopping. His pulse is roaring.

The crowd erupts. Cheers, laughter, money exchanging hands. Someone claps him on the back, but he barely feels it, still gripping the wheel too tightly.

Then you step out of your car, pulling your gloves off finger by finger. You don’t even look winded.

Lando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before climbing out. The night air is cool against his skin, but he still feels overheated, heart hammering against his ribs.

You approach slowly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

"Not bad, rich boy," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe next time you’ll actually keep up."

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. He should be annoyed, frustrated, pissed, but instead—

He grins. "Next time," he echoes. "You better watch your back."

You tilt your head, considering. Then, with a smirk, you toss something toward him.

He catches it without thinking.

Your gloves.

His fingers tighten around the worn leather as you turn away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Max appears beside him, whistling low. "Well, that was humbling."

Lando lets out a breath, still staring at the spot where you stood.

Yeah.

And he’s definitely coming back.

The following month, Max barely gets a word out before Lando’s already moving.

"—the race," Max starts, grinning like he already knows the answer.

Lando doesn’t hesitate - grabbing his keys, shrugging into a jacket, barely listening to whatever chirpy remark Max throws his way.

"This time," he says, twisting the McLaren fob between his fingers, "we’re taking my car."

Max hoots, half-laughing as they step out into the night. "That’s what I like to hear! Rich boy’s got a grudge."

Lando doesn’t respond. He just flicks open the door, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine.

This time, he’s coming to win.

Max barely has time to park before Lando’s door swings open. The hum of the engine hasn’t even settled when he steps out, shoulders loose, expression unreadable—but there’s an edge to him tonight. Something sharper.

The underground lot is exactly the same. Same flashing lights, same heavy bass thumping through cheap speakers, same mix of cigarette smoke and burnt rubber lingering in the air. But Lando feels different.

Last time, he was just an outsider, an F1 driver slumming it for a night. This time, he’s here for you.

The moment he steps out of the McLaren, people notice. Conversations dip, eyes flick his way, nudging and murmuring. They remember. The rich boy who lost. The one who had no business stepping into your world and thought he could keep up.

Lando doesn’t care. He doesn’t belong here, not really, but he walks like he does, like he’s already claimed his place.

He scans the crowd, searching—

He spots you before you see him.

You’re leaning against your car, arms draped over the open window, deep in conversation with someone. The streetlights cast a glow over your skin, catching on the curve of your jaw, the glint in your eyes as you laugh at something said just under the roar of an engine revving in the distance.

Your gaze slides over, meeting his like you expected him. And there it is again—that flicker of recognition, the slow curl of your mouth as your gaze drags over him, lingering just a second too long.

Lando smirks.

Your attention shifts downward, toward the car he brought this time.

It’s sleek. Aggressive. Built for this.

When your eyes flick back to his, he catches something new in your expression. Intrigue.

He takes a step closer, watching as you push off the car, unfolding yourself from your stance with the kind of ease that says you already know how this is going to end.

"Didn’t think you’d come back," you say, voice lilting, teasing.

"Didn’t think you’d lose," he counters smoothly.

Your brow lifts, amused. "Lose?"

Lando tilts his head slightly, nodding toward your car. "We both know I wasn’t racing at full capacity last time."

You hum, considering. "So this time," you say, voice lower now, "you’re actually planning on giving me a challenge?"

Lando exhales a quiet laugh. He takes another step forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of fuel and adrenaline clinging to your clothes. "This time," he murmurs, "you’re gonna have to work for it."

A slow smirk tugs at your lips, something almost dangerous flickering in your gaze.

"You in?" he asks.

You lean in, just slightly. "Always."

The way you circle his car is almost predatory.

Lando watches, arms crossed over his chest, as you trail a slow, deliberate path around the McLaren, fingertips grazing the hood, barely-there touches that send something electric down his spine. You’re not just looking—you’re assessing.

"720S," you murmur, half to yourself. "4.0L twin-turbo V8. 710 horsepower. 0 to 60 in 2.8 seconds. Top speed of… what, 212?"

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "Done your homework, have you?"

You glance up, and that’s when he feels it. The shift.

The streetlights catch the glint in your eyes, something unreadable, something sharp enough to cut.

"No," you say simply.

His breath catches for half a second.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not bluffing. It’s something worse.

You don’t need research. You don’t need specs. You don’t even need to think about it. You just know.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most terrifying and arousing thing he’s ever seen.

"That’s cute, though," you add, stepping back to admire the car from another angle. "Bringing something that might actually stand a chance this time."

Lando exhales, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to shake off whatever the hell that was. "I’d be worried about you keeping up, but we both know that won’t be a problem."

Your smirk deepens. "Guess we’ll see, won’t we?"

The crowd thickens as people catch on to what’s happening. The air shifts, charged with something electric, something inevitable.

The last time, Lando didn’t stand a chance.

This time, though—

He flexes his fingers once before sliding into the driver’s seat, pulse steady, jaw set.

This time, it’s different.

Lando's fingers tighten around the wheel, his eyes narrowing as the starter counts down. The engine purrs beneath him, responsive, eager. The McLaren hums with potential—his car. His edge.

He’s done his homework this time. He knows every curve of the track, every bump in the road, how the tires will react. This is his race to win.

Max’s voice still echoes in his head, teasing. "Don’t embarrass me, mate. Seriously."

Lando doesn’t need the reminder. He’s already way past that.

The second the starter’s arms drop, Lando slams the gas.

The engine roars to life, and for a fleeting moment, he feels invincible. This time, he’s ready. The 720S surges forward, an animal on the prowl, the weight of the car shifting smoothly under his control. He’s quicker, tighter around the turns, feeding it power where he’s sure the road will grip. The crowd’s energy pulses like a drumbeat, the sharp hum of your engine just behind him.

But then—

You’re there.

Lando doesn’t hear you. He feels you.

The growl of your car is like a whisper in the wind at first, and then—then, it’s a presence. It’s too close, too precise. You slip through the corners like water—no hesitation, no doubt. You’re there when he shifts too late, when he lets a tire drift too wide. There’s no room for error with you.

He feels it, that knot in his gut, that constant pressure at the edge of his focus. You’re pushing him, making him work. He’s sweating, feeling the limits of his car, pushing it to the edge, just like he knows you are. The finish line looms.

A fraction of a second.

His pulse thunders in his ears. He punches the gas. The McLaren leaps forward, tire squealing as he tries to find the last of its power, but it’s too little, too late.

The line.

You’ve crossed it.

Lando watches as your car passes, just a breath ahead of his. The roar of the crowd crashes over him, the cheers fading into a dull buzz as his eyes snap to the space where you’ve already slid into a slow roll. You’re casually pulling off the track like you’ve just taken a stroll through the park.

He doesn’t even get the chance to stop fully before you’re there.

You lean down, leaning in close, close enough that Lando can feel the heat of your breath brushing his skin, warm and steady. You meet his gaze, eyes glimmering with a quiet triumph, and the edge of your mouth curves up.

"Nice try, pretty boy," you whisper, voice low and playful, but there’s something in the way you say it that makes his heart skip a beat.

Then, just as fast as you appeared, you’re gone. Turning on your heel, slipping through the crowd like a shadow, the sound of your laughter hanging in the air like smoke.

Lando stays in his car for a long second, fingers tight around the wheel, pulse racing. Pretty boy.

Fuck.

The air smells like burning rubber and gasoline, thick with heat. Lando should leave—he knows that. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lingers.

Leaning against the hood of his car, he watches you go again. Three more races. Three more wins. Each one more effortless than the last. It’s surgical, the way you move, how the car bends to your will, how you make even the most aggressive drivers look like amateurs. There’s no mercy in the way you drive—just raw, controlled chaos.

He swallows. Fuck, that’s attractive.

Lando’s eyes track every move you make, and Max is none the fool. He notices the way Lando doesn’t even blink when you leave your latest challenger choking on the tailpipe of your car. He notices how, with every second that ticks by, Lando’s grip on reality slips a little further, watching you move.

"You know," Max says, voice laced with teasing, "if you stare at her like that any longer, you might actually catch flies."

Lando doesn’t respond, just shifts his weight, a half-hearted attempt to hide the fact he’s still watching you as you walk toward the starting line again. Max grins, unbothered, leaning on the hood of the car.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, mate,” Max drawls beside him, nudging him with an elbow. “You look like you’re about to start drooling.”

Lando shoves him off the hood, ignoring the sharp bark of laughter that follows. His attention is already back on you. The race starts, but it’s like the world slows, distorting as he watches you go, your movements fluid and effortless, the hum of the engine a symphony beneath you. His fingers itch to feel the wheel, to push something that will give him the same kind of power, the same kind of presence you carry so effortlessly.

Then, as if on cue, you finish, once again besting your opponent with ease. The cheers of the crowd are distant, drowned out by the beat of his pulse. But when he glances back, you’re already looking at him.

And then you’re walking toward him.

It’s deliberate—the sway of your hips, the way the dim glow of streetlights glints off the sweat at your collarbone. You reach out, the condensation on the glass cold against his fingers as you press a bottle of beer into his hand.

“Enjoying the show, rich boy?” you ask, smirking as you crack your own bottle open.

Lando lifts a brow, fighting the way his stomach tightens at the sight of your lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle as you take a slow sip. He swears you do it on purpose.

You lean in, close enough that the heat from your skin warms his. The air between you crackles with tension.

"You know," you murmur, teasing, "you really do look out of place here. Rich, pretty boy F1 driver, surrounded by all these… real drivers."

Lando’s lips twitch, amusement flickering in his chest. "Careful now," he says, his voice dropping, "that’s the second time you’ve called me pretty. I’ll think you’re flirting with me."

You cock an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in your gaze. Slowly, you lean in, fingers brushing his chain, the cool metal cold against your warm skin as you trace it with an almost deliberate slowness.

"And if I am?" you ask, the question soft, but the implication sharp.

Lando swallows, his pulse quickening despite himself. He should have an answer to that. Something cocky, something that will let him walk away from this with at least some semblance of control. But he’s coming up empty.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, you settle next to him, the beer bottle cold between your palms as the two of you watch the next set of races. This time, Lando isn’t just watching from the sidelines. He’s with you, standing close enough that the heat of your body feels like a magnet, pulling him in without effort. You’re right there beside him, close enough that every time someone messes up—a late brake, a slip on the curve—your eyes flick to him, and the unspoken agreement hangs in the air.

At some point, Max disappears—not that Lando notices. Not when you’re murmuring under your breath about a driver’s lazy cornering, not when you hum in agreement at his observations, a quiet acknowledgment that shouldn’t make his chest feel as tight as it does.

For a second, Lando feels like he’s on the same level as you, and the rush of that—of being in sync with you—is more thrilling than anything else in the night. His breath catches as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Watch the way he enters the final turn—if he doesn’t fix that, he’s gonna lose that spot."

You don’t even glance at him, but he sees the small twitch in your fingers as you tap your bottle lightly against your lips, clearly holding back a smile. That hum again. It’s a low sound, the kind that stirs something restless in his chest.

The game continues.

Your eyes never leave his when you take a sip from the bottle you share, your fingers brushing his as you pass it back. A drop of beer spills onto the back of your hand, and before he can even register it, you’re licking it clean, slow and deliberate.

Lando swears under his breath.

The bass from a nearby car suddenly pounds heavier, reverberating through the asphalt. You push off the hood, stretching your arms above your head, body moving like liquid as you cock a finger at him in invitation.

He should hesitate.

But he doesn’t.

His feet move before his brain catches up, like you’ve got some invisible tether wrapped around his ribs.

You dance like you drive—effortlessly. Like you know exactly where to be, how to shift, how to move. Lando tries to keep up, tries to match your rhythm, but you make it impossible. The way your body brushes against his is teasing, the heat of you just out of reach, and it’s fucking maddening.

Then, he gets too close.

His fingers graze the stripe of bare skin at your waist, a feather-light touch, but he feels the way your breath catches, the slight arch of your body pressing into him before pulling away just as quick.

You laugh, low and intoxicating.

“You wanna kiss me, pretty boy?”

Lando nods before he can think better of it.

He doesn’t trust his mouth not to say something stupid. So instead, he leans in, closing the space between you, heartbeat hammering—

Only for you to pull away.

His breath stutters.

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, voice all sugar and sin.

“Then earn it.”

Lando has always been the good guy. The golden boy. The one who follows the rules, the one who does what he’s told—strict diets, early nights, training regimens that dictate every inch of his life.

But you?

You’re the kind of chaos that should come with a warning label.

Every glance, every smirk, every casual drag of your fingers along his chain only coils that tension inside him tighter, until common sense isn’t just slipping away—it’s fucking disintegrating.

His hands find your hips, grip just shy of bruising as you move together, bodies pressing and pulling like a tide he can’t escape. The bass thumps in his chest, or maybe it’s his own heartbeat, the sound of it nearly deafening.

"I think I've earned it already," he murmurs, voice rough, head tipping down until his lips nearly brush yours.

You grin, teeth flashing, eyes dark and dangerous. "Is that so, pretty boy?"

His breath hitches, pulse spiking at the way you tug his chain just enough to make him stumble forward, make him feel the heat rolling off your skin.

"Flirting again, are we?"

You hum, tilting your head, considering. And then—

The sharp nip of teeth against his earlobe sends a full-body shudder through him.

"Did you earn it?"

Lando's never understood the phrase weak in the knees before, but suddenly, it's painfully clear. His legs feel like jelly, his stomach like free-falling through Eau Rouge in the rain. Your breath, warm against his skin, sends heat lashing through his veins, makes his fingers tighten their hold on you, makes the last thread of his restraint snap clean in half.

"Fuck earning it," he groans, hands sliding up your back, tilting your chin up as he crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s reckless. It’s unhinged. It’s like taking Eau Rouge at full throttle without knowing if the car will stick to the track—but fuck, it’s heaven.

You taste like beer and danger, and when you press even closer, molding yourself against him like you were meant to be there, he swears he could die like this, and it would be worth it.

Your laugh—low, indulgent—vibrates against his lips, and it damn near ruins him. You kiss like you drive, all confidence and sharp edges, fingers tangled in his curls like you already own him. And maybe you do.

Lando’s hands trace the dip of your spine, pulling you closer, needing you closer. The crowd, the pounding bass, the scent of burning rubber in the air—it all fades. There’s only you, the press of your body against his, the way your lips part just enough to let him taste you, to let him sink deeper into whatever madness this is.

Then, just as quickly as you gave it, you take it away.

You break the kiss, but you don’t go far. Your lips hover, teasing, a breath away. Lando’s chest heaves, fingers flexing at your waist, fighting the urge to pull you back in. You grin against his skin, breath ghosting over the corner of his mouth as you murmur, “Not bad, pretty boy.”

Lando swears under his breath. His pulse is a wild thing in his throat, his grip tightening. “Not bad?” His voice comes out rougher than he expects, something raw under the teasing edge.

You tip your head, eyes flicking over his face, searching for something—maybe an opening, maybe just amusement. Whatever it is, you must find it, because your grin turns lazy, all feline satisfaction as you drag a single finger down his chest.

“Could use some work,” you say. “But I suppose you’ve got potential.”

Lando exhales sharply, half a laugh, half something that aches. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You smirk, stepping back just enough to give him air but not enough to let him breathe easy. “Come find me when you think you can do better.”

And just like that, you’re gone, disappearing into the crowd, hips swaying, leaving him standing there, heart hammering, tasting the ghost of you on his lips.

Max reappears at his side, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking. “So,” he drawls, “we’re coming back again next time, huh?”

Lando runs a hand through his curls, still reeling, still burning.

“…Yeah.”

369 notes · View notes

misayani · 3 months ago

Note

I LOVED UR SE-MI FIC! i was wondering if u could do another where the reader is homesick and has nightmares/ dreams about her friends and her home life and just going to se-mi's bed for comfort? (I hope this isn't too much trouble!!)

LOVE, MY WORLD IS FULL — SE-MI (PLAYER 380)

◜ pairing ... se-mi / player 380 x fem reader

◜you wouldn't know what to do without se-mi.

𔗨 author's note — had so much fun writing this <3 kinda unleashed my inner william shakespeareness in this one [lowercase intended]

♡ upcoming fic — g!p no-eul + reader

— comfort

you thought the games were harmless—bright colors, cheerful instructions, and an unassuming entry form. yet underneath all that promised fun lay a rather horrifying truth. you were blinded, not by sight but by your own naivety.

how could you be so dumb? you should've known this game was sketchy ever since from the start, where they somehow made you all unconcious to bring to this place. where even are you?

life is full of shit, you were fully aware of that, but you didn't expect it to be this shitty. tears started to form in your eyes as you thought of your dog, sparks, who's the reason why you're here. you didn't have any owe anyone money, you don't drag yourself to shit like that. but sparks was the dog your grandmother left you before she died, and unfortunately, sparks was recently diagnosed with congestive heart failure— he needed medical help.

if someone can hear your thoughts right now, they'd probably laugh and tell you that it's just a dog, stop overreacting. but sparks wasn't just a dog. he grew up with you, he is family. he was the reason you kept going after your grandmother died, you could remember it—you locking yourself inside your room and not coming out for days, until you heard whines outside your door. shit, the dog. it annoyed you that you still needed to feed that dog. what's the point? he's gonna die anyways. just like everyone.

a quiet sob escapes your mouth as your tears finally fall, from your eyes and onto the white sheets underneath you. you couldn't sleep, you were too bothered as to how so many people voted to stay in this game. you couldn't even even consider it a game, games were supposed to be fun.

you voted to go home right after the first game, the staying team won. this night was after everyone voted for the second time, once again, the majority voted to stay. you find it funny— how money can have such an affect on people, but also at the same time, you couldn't blame the people who wanted to stay. maybe staying here was somehow better than their lives outside. they just had voted for their own 'lesser evil.'

you needed someone right now. after being alone for 14 years, living independently, it was hard for you to bottle your feelings to yourself. the first person you can think of right now was se-mi. you had started talking to her before any of these games started, when the masked men just started explaining the rules and regulations.

she was different, she understood you. she had asked you your reason to be here, you hesitantly told her, slightly embarassed but she didn't laugh or anything like that. she, in fact, smiled at your eagerness to win this game so you'd finally have some finance for your dog. well, that was before the games happened and before shit went down.

you sniffle as you sit up and slip out of bed, every footstep quiet to not bother anyone sleeping. se-mi was just stairs ahead from you and you were surprised but relieved to see her still awake. she was laying on her back, staring towards the ceiling before she notices you and sits up to make room for you to sit down.

"hi," you start, gently sitting yourself down on her bed.

"hi." she repeats, her eyes softening at the sight of your puffy eyes, "sparks?"

you glanced at her, eyes wide as she managed to immediately caught onto whatever you were thinking. you nod, "i'm sorry for bothering you, just needed someone. and i thought you're the right person to approach."

se-mi's heart swells, she never had anyone tell her that before. you trusted her enough to see you vulnerable like this? she clears her throat before reassuring you, "it's no worries. i like talking to you anyways."

she scoots closer to sit beside you, planting her feet on the stairs beside the bunk bed. you fiddled with your fingers as you look down, before you hear her speak up. "i'm sorry for voting to stay."

you snap your head to look at her as you shake your head, "no, no. i don't— you don't have to say sorry for having freedom to choose whatever you want." you mutter.

"still, it was shitty for me to do that. i knew about your situation but i still vo—" you cut her off, "stop. it's not your fault. it's nobody's." she locks eyes with you as her lips part as if wanting to say something, until it closes again.

you sigh, "who cares if you were shitty. everything is shitty. life is shitty." you murmured, "life is shitty." she agrees, staring at your side profile. you noticed her in your peripheral vision and you get flustered, tipping your head down.

"it's hard." you glance at her again, seeing her eyes now staring forward as she spoke, "life outside. it's no different from here. some people say that life outside of here is easier, since you're not trapped in some unknown place. but i don't see how that is any different, aren't you still somehow trapped? not literally but figuratively." you hum, prompting her to continue.

"it's ironic how the ones with the heavy debts say that, as if they're not trapped in their own mistakes." se-mi chuckles beside you as you carefully listen to every word she's saying. talking to someone have always made you feel at peace— something that you don't feel often since you've never really communicated with anyone until now.

"it's not about being physically imprisoned, but about feeling constrained in many ways, whether by circumstances, expectations, or some shit you dragged yourself into. in the end, no matter where you are, you can still feel confined. that's how i see it, atleast." she finishes.

you grab her hand that was closest to you, and started fidgeting with it instead of fiddling with your own fingers. her hand was warm but rough, in contrast to yours which was cold, but soft. "i understand." you murmur.

you both understood each other, and that alone was enough to provide you comfort. you admired her mindset, not just how she thinks but how she embraces her own perspective with peace— her ability to see things from a different angle, yet still find peace in it.

even if you both had casted your votings to two opposing things, there was an underspoken understanding between the two of you. despite the differences, se-mi and you shared a mutual respect, and that makes you so close to her.

"thank you." you whispered, se-mi snaps her head to look at you, "for what?"

"talking to me." you reply, "it feels nice to talk to someone like you, understanding but aren't scared to state their own opinion. i appreciate that so much. i haven't felt so understood in years." you feel tears well up in your eyes from getting emotional.

se-mi's lips form into a smile, "well i guess thank you too. you somehow make this place even more tolerable." she squeezes your hand that was holding hers.

"cmon, stay with me tonight. i don't want to make you go back to bed like this." she tugs at your hand before leading you under her blanket—which started to smell like her— lifting the cloth over the both of you.

you wanted to cuddle with her, but were too shy to initiate anything. lucky for you, se-mi opens her arms, pulling you towards her. your body relaxes as you feel her warm body spoon yours. you heard her mutter something on top of your head, "keep on being brave." she pauses before continuing, "for sparks and me."

your once empty heart started to feel full again after this.

@misayani

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game season 2 #se-mi x reader #୭ ୨♡୧ ৎ misa writes ...

357 notes · View notes

galaxymagitech · 9 months ago

Text

Dick: What matters is the family—wait, I sound like a mafia guy, don’t I? Uh…I have a duty…not to kill? Sure, Bruce, I’ll go with that.

Jason: You’re either with me or against me. Uh, I mean…you’re either good or you’re evil. I’m not Anakin, I promise. Anyway, I protect good and get rid of evil.

Steph: I go with my gut. That’s all the morals I need. You’re just a spoilsport, B. But unfortunately it’s not worth fighting your stupid code.

Tim: Morals are so confusing. I’m just gonna outsource. *snatch* Batman’s code is mine now.

Cass: Everyone is a person. Every person is a world of feelings. The worst crime is destroying that world. No killing.

Damian: Father is an idiot. However, he is also my father. Following the code of one’s family is honorable.

Duke: I didn’t sign up for murder. I signed up to kick ass.

Barbara: Look, any moral code is, by nature, arbitrary. For our own sanity, which is already lacking, we don’t kill.

Kate: We need to win this war. Unfortunately, I’m part of Batman’s army family, which means that I need to play by the rules.

Bruce: Sunk cost fallacy. Uh, I mean…justice not vengeance? Plus I’m like one loophole away from falling off the deep end.

479 notes · View notes

cellarspider · 20 days ago

Text

Rambles in Star Wars History: The extreme shenanigans that changed an Empire

Bioware games can absolutely fascinate me, in part because of their worldbuilding, and in part because of where the worldbuilding ends. I mean, I did a whole long series of posts on the grammar of Qunlat and I have at least a dozen essays worth of material of exegetical analysis of religion in Dragon Age kicking around in my brain, which I keep threatening to actually manifest.

But since I'm here with my worldbuilding hat on, I'm going to ramble about Star Wars: The Old Republic, focusing on some of the sometimes-hilarious drama that's implied by the plot, and the implications for how these shenanigans remade a major galactic society in the process. Involved will be a man who faked his death to get out of going to meetings, a wine uncle who might become emperor, a living scowl with dangerous shoulders, and other assorted animals.

Expect a lot of bonus rambles in the image alt-texts, which is where I store commentary and jokes that I can't fit into the flow of the main post.

———

Before I dig into the topic at hand, I have to set the scene for those who don't know the game, or have forgotten in the fourteen years since the game launched.

Spoilers in the post below for Act 3 of the Sith Warrior and Inquisitor storylines, Act 1 of the Jedi Knight and Imperial Agent storylines, the post-Act 3 Battle of Ilum flashpoint, and for various expansions including Rise of the Emperor, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Onslaught, and Legacy of the Sith. Assume that all reference links to Wookieepedia contain major spoilers.

SWTOR is an MMO set 3600 years before the Skywalkers crashed through the ceiling tiles of the galaxy, though it's not to say anything was less chaotic back then, just different chaos.

(Pictured: Anakin Skywalker, circa 32 BBY-4 ABY)

In this time, the titular Old Republic is opposed by a Sith Empire, which is precisely as functional as one might expect. After a decades-long conflict that ended with a Sith victory but left both sides exhausted, a state of cold war began. The Jedi, their Grand Temple destroyed, left Republic space to settle on an ancestral world. The Republic, battered and reeling, tried to recover its stride through use of its superior size and resources, and producing a truly unhinged number of superweapons.

The Sith Empire, in some ways, tried to pretend everything was fine for quite a while. They had successfully forced the Republic into a favorable treaty to end the war. They'd gained territory, they had a lot of work to do there.

…But as things started to look more and more like war again, they were left with the uncomfortable realization that they had sorta kinda killed most of the Sith in the last war, and Imperial citizens in good standing weren't producing enough Force-sensitive kids fast enough to rebuild the losses. Might've had something to do with most of them being dead.

The Empire, of course, is an absolute clusterfuck of a society. Slaves toil to maintain its power. Children of a slave and a citizen will be citizens themselves—unless they're "aliens", a category that includes everyone that isn't a human or a Sith pureblood, the original Sith species.

Being a citizen isn't great either: The Force-blind face mandatory conscription into the military, and can never rise to the highest echelons of society. Above them, the Sith act as a semi-hereditary aristocracy of evil space-wizards that serve an immortal, eldritch Emperor, their living god who has also kiiiind of gone AWOL for reasons only a few of them understand. He's torn between doing his job or staring at a living paperweight, and the paperweight has been winning. He also recently got trapped by an evil hole in the ground, it's complicated.

With the Emperor incommunicado, the duties of the state fall to the Dark Council, a ruling body of up to twelve Dark Lords of the Sith. Each have their own sphere of governmental influence, which are, one can only assume, very dark as well.

Presumably, the Dark Council had something to do with the inevitable yet still surprising solution to their space wizard deficit: over a thousand years of laws were suddenly overturned. Slaves, aliens, and prisoners were not only permitted to become Sith, it was now mandatory that they report for induction into training programs if they possessed any hint of Force-sensitivity.

This is how one of the eight protagonists of the MMO gets their start: if you play the Sith Inquisitor plotline, you begin as a former slave who has survived basic training and made it to the Sith Academy, where your teacher dearly wants to kill you. Your first mission: survive school.

I'm sure this is very relatable to quite a lot of you.

Now that I've got my PhD with only a few gray hairs, I'm looking back at this premise and thinking: This would completely upend the social framework of the Empire. You'd have every established Sith Lord in the Empire scrambling to kill these threats to their power, or harness them against their enemies, or both.

This is actually canon, but canon never touches on the broader, systemic implications of what the new Sith would do, and who they were before—Sure, the overseers of the training programs seem to be doing their damnedest to kill and undermine the newbies while maintaining plausible deniability, but enough of them survive to reshape the Empire. We know that. You play as one of them.

How in the fuck did the Dark Council ever manage to get this policy implemented in the first place? Obviously they did somehow, but the specifics are never mentioned.

But the specifics have the possibility to be hilarious.

The Dark Council itself is composed of Sith who either killed their way to the top, or inherited their seat from their Sith master—who they probably murdered. Turnover on most Council seats is incredibly high. The Spheres of Ancient Knowledge, Technology, and Military Offense each have three different Councilors within a single year, for example.

This also means that whoever ends up in charge of a Sphere might be entirely unsuited for it. Who heads up the Sphere of Expansion and Diplomacy? The least diplomatic guy on the Council, naturally. He goes by Darth Ravage, which fits in well enough with the three different Darths whose names mean 'death' (Thanaton, Mortis, and Rictus). The player can even end up as Darth Nox--'Darth Night'. You get the title by killing one of the Darth Deaths.

So, which of these barely-domesticated evil goths probably voted to allow 'inferior' beings to become Sith, overturning a fundamental tenet of imperial sith philosophy? Probably not the guy in charge of Sith Philosophy! We never see him, but he seems to have been a traditionalist. On the other hand, Darth "Murder has no rules" Ravage might not be huge on tradition, so we can mark him down as a "maybe". But he doesn't seem to be an instigator for something like this.

But on the subject of instigators: Darth Jadus.

Darth Jadus is an experience. While many of the other Council members make it quite clear they're angry enough to chew on the furniture, Jadus unnerves all of them by being utterly calm and composed, as long as you don't count how intensely fervent and irrational he sounds when he starts talking about the Dark Side. He's unhinged in a distressingly hinged-seeming way.

Heading up the Sphere of Intelligence, Jadus is a noted iconoclast on the Dark Council, using his authority to open Imperial Intelligence positions to aliens. He chooses slaves and Force-blind citizens to be his advisors and agents, ignoring the traditional power structures of the Sith. He prefers his literal cult following of fanatical adherents instead, who see him as a visionary savior, a terrifying inevitability, or both.

This means he seems to have basically no interest in elevating other Sith. In fact, he hates the way the rest of them run the Empire. Making more of them might potentially be against his interests.

Or at least it would be, if he didn't have some long-running secret plans that he wants to keep the other Dark Council members from catching wind of. Advocating for slaves, aliens and convicts to become Sith would superficially fall in line with his philosophy, and just raising the idea in public could cause such social chaos that his true plans would benefit from it. Jadus is also the most genre-savvy sith in the entire game: he seems to almost be aware at points that he's neither the protagonist nor main antagonist, and thus his evil plans involve not messing with either of them. When he jostles up against the main plot and realizes he has no plausible means to derail it, he responds by leaving the plot entirely.

Given the tactical chaos and uncomfortably fourth wall-touching strategies Jadus makes use of, let's mark him down as a "yes".

But Jadus is an unpopular one on the Council. He's creepy. Sith HATE feeling creeped out. That's supposed to happen to other people, dammit, not them! And with his disinterest in politics and his deep interest in foisting his manifesto on everyone, he's not the most effective Dark Councilor.

He might be able to pull in a few—Darth Decimus, head of Military Strategy, seems to have been quite willing to exploit any advantage he might be able to squeeze out of a situation. Fun side note, his voice actor also played the First Order officer who was just so done with Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi.

youtube

[Video Description: A compilation of Mark Lewis Jones as Captain Moden Canady from The Last Jedi, with the video quality partially encrunchified by YouTube. This includes all of his shots from the film, from arrival of the Seige Dreadnought Fulminatrix, to the extremely annoyed look he gives the fireball that kills him. Sound supervisor Matt Wood was apparently pretty sure "FIRE ON THE BASE!" was going to be used as an EDM drop, and I can confirm, I've heard it out in the wild.]

Who else have we got rattling around in this Council, who might have extremely ridiculous reasons to vote yes? Well, we have Darth Vengean, head of Military Offense, was all about the Offense. Who needs defense? That nerd Darth Marr? HA! No, Vengean wanted to restart the war with the Republic. More bodies for the war machine would probably be fine with him.

Speaking of that nerd Darth Marr, Darth Marr.

Apparently he designed this armor himself. Solid effort, my man.

Marr is in his sixties by the time the game happens. He's one of the longest-surviving Dark Councilors, and he sounds so tired of his coworkers in every scene he's in. Heading up the Defense of the Empire, Marr also is the de facto leader of the Dark Council, by dint of being the only adult in the room.

Much like Jadus, he distances himself from the backstabbery and rivalries among the Council members. Unlike Jadus, he 100% means it, and has been focused on not making the Empire explode. He eventually ends up as the unofficial leader of the Empire until he gets one-shotted so hard it makes his ghost chill out a bit. He keeps the spikes, though.

So, if there's anyone on the Council who might vote for this on purely practical grounds, and has the power to push others into agreeing with him, because so help him if they don't stop holding duels in the conference room he's going to turn this Empire around—

Nobody listens to him on that, by the way. Both the Sith main plots involve duels in the conference room.

In fact, one of those duels is egged on by our last suspect. Marr might be a contender for longest-running Dark Councilor, but there is another candidate: Darth Vowrawn, who seems to be having a much better time being on the Council than Marr. I suspect the only reason why he doesn't have a bucket of popcorn with him in the Council chambers is because somebody made a rule that he had to stop doing that.

Vowrawn is a surprisingly cheerful old bastard who seems to have turned his hobby into his job. He shows up 'fashionably late' to someone else's attempted coup, after lamenting he can't sell tickets to the clusterfuck that's about to commence. In the expansions to the game, he can outmaneuver and outlive all of the competition and end up becoming the Emperor, at the age of 87.

Vowrawn is also indifferent to against the Empire's policies--he supports the ascension of a Zabrak to the Dark Council, and takes one as an apprentice as well. Beyond that, Vowrawn would have to support this move, because he's instrumental in any large project like this, both politically and practically. While the others I've mentioned all have roles explicitly to do with the aggressive expansion or protection of the Empire, Vowrawn heads the Sphere of Production and Logistics. In essence, he's the one who can decide whether all these other bozos get to eat or not.

If Vowrawn didn't accept this change, then it would have failed. So, he's a definite "yes" by default.

Speaking of bastards who are still active well into their eighties, we have one last major figure who isn't on the Council that likely advocated for this: Darth Malgus.

youtube

[Video Description: The "Deceived" trailer, set ten years before the game. God, I love this thing. This was the first trailer I saw for the game, and it got me, it really did. The Sith are just as ridiculous as they should be, combined with choreography that feels a lot more crunchy than lightsaber combat had been before, with distinct combat styles for the two main fighters. It's quick, it's impactful, and it's got a memorable conclusion. Love it.]

Malgus is as anti-racist and anti-classist as Jadus is, but without the insane transcendental Dark Side philosophy. Instead, he has an insane philosophy of bettering the Empire through eternal war, which he believes everyone should have an equal ability to participate in. He is what would happen if a Warhammer 40k character had an inside voice.

youtube

[Video Description: The "Disorder" cinematic trailer, set before the Legacy of the Sith expansion. Malgus is 75 here. Man's held together by spite and screws and whatever nutrients you can absorb by being thrown through walls. He's fully given up on the Sith Order at this point and is trying to do his own thing, and he makes it look rad. The choreography has only gotten better, goddamn. Why did it take me three goddamn years to watch this. IT'S REALLY GOOD.]

Malgus is a big deal in the military, with a lot of support from both the Force-blind soldiers and earning the loyalty of a surprising cross-section of Sith. We know this, because he nearly hijacks the Empire at one point in the early expansions. He'd be into this idea, and he probably advocated for it. While he'd have the most direct interaction with the military-related Councilors we already have in the "yes" column, he also has a history of annoying the bejeezus out of other Sith on "his" turf, so who knows! He may have been more persuasive to the others we haven't dug into.

And we can't really dig into all of them at the depth we have with some. Despite how bogglingly huge SWTOR is and the two thousand four hundred and ninety-five named characters and "Additional Voices" credits in IMDb, we never meet some of the Dark Councilors. If you don't play all the eight main storylines, you won't see all of them in the game. I'll admit, I've never seen Darth Hadra, because I've never gotten that far in a Republic-aligned storyline! The Sith you encounter in their stories can often be more one-note, because they're purely there as antagonists rather than people you are legally required to hang out with, and thus have more opportunity to pester mercilessly.

[Video Description: A clip from my own Warrior run-through, featuring my big lad Rejalgar, his coolest friend Vette, and his boss, Darth Baras, who is presently having a screaming tantrum, which Rejalgar makes worse with the most delightfully straight-faced "Is there a problem here?". The Warrior plotline lets you play things sincerely evil, sincerely noble, or sincerely hilarious. Do you want to see Jedi bluescreen when a Sith just straight-up refuses to be violent? Do you want to sidestep a boss fight by offering a family a government pension, something your boss commends as being very devious and evil? Do you want to break up a fight between gangs by threatening to eat them? Come play the Sith Warrior storyline, and be the chaos you want to see in the galaxy!]

youtube

[Video Description, from a clip I uploaded to YT specifically for this post after I found out you can only upload one video per tumblr post wtf: A clip from my Inquisitor run-through, featuring my extremely shirtless lad, Sericus, playing coy and a little airheaded when called up by his Sith master, Darth Zash. Back in the day, Purebloods weren't supposed to be played as canon for this storyline, but there were tweaks later made to dialog that provided a canon explanation for how someone with visible Sith ancestry could end up in this situation. The storyline, however, unfortunately does not fully account for a character whose ideal job description is 'villain's beautiful and deceptively intelligent consort, the true power behind the throne'. It assumes you're playing a character who wants to go conquer and/or do mad wizard-science. Bonus points for eventually letting you marry your eight foot tall razor-faced cannibal thrall though, that's very fun.]

Why don't we see all of the Dark Council? Well, because they're ultimately not important to the story as a group. Events keep you locked tightly under the purview of just one or two of them on the Sith side of things, before the post-game and expansion plots launch you into the experience of being a major player in Imperial affairs, and Imperial affairs launch themselves at you in return.

Everyone realizes the Emperor wants to eat them. Then he dies, except he doesn't. Malgus takes over the Empire for a few weeks. Marr takes over, but half the Council is dead and the rest are still in orientation and are probably also dead, because their would-be successors assassinated them. The Emperor, only mildly inconvenienced by also being dead, eats a planet. Then things go completely off the deep end, and the Dark Council is no longer your concern at all.

It's economical storytelling to not belabor the rest of the Councilors, and playing through as an ex-slave Inquisitor, you continue to face enough challenges directly linked to your background that the resistance feels systemic, even if you don't actually see all that many others who are facing the same issues.

But I think there's a lot of potential for some really wild storytelling in there. Your character receives some level of basic training before they reach the Sith Academy, along with a whole batch of ex-slaves. What did that entail? How was it organized? What happens when folks from abolitionist movements start being trained as sith, gaining all the attendant legal authority over the life and death of others?

And what about the prisoners who were released for training? While one canon option is to play a character who was facing immediate execution for participation in violent anti-Imperial resistance, at least a fair chunk of Force-sensitive prisoners were probably serving longer sentences. What happens when prison gangs start gaining a foothold in the Sith Academy, where they're too dysfunctional to even form Mean Girl cliques? What happens when some of their members become full Sith? How many of them might have Hutt backing, or even funding from the Republic Secret Intelligence Service?

These are the sorts of things the Sith themselves are terrified of. This earns a very sarcastic thoughts and prayers to them, of course. Yet it truly is wild to think about the decision-making process that went into this massive societal shift that the game treats as simply a piece of inciting incident for two plotlines out of eight: Twelve unhinged people sat down in some extremely high-backed chairs one day and voted to give everyone equal access to lightning.

I love Star Wars, it's just the funniest shit imaginable sometimes.

#star wars #star wars: the old republic #swtor #swtor meta #darth jadus #darth marr #darth vowrawn #the sith empire is held together with only chewing gum and bad vibes #and it's hilarious #love these terrible idiots

153 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 6 months ago

Text

Writing Notes: Villains

To create a villain your readers will care about, you’ll need to define how he is the hero of his own story. If you reduce the villain to a bad guy without taking time to understand from his/her perspective, you’ll cheat your reader.

To create a convincing villain, your villain must have the following:

Motivations that the reader can understand

Moments of relatability that make the villain vulnerable and tragic

7 "Key Ingredients" for your Villain

Consider giving your villain the following:

An obsession

A secret

A wound

A personal connection to the hero

A worthy match for the hero

The villain thinks he or she is the hero

An Achilles heel

Consider the following:

The reader needs to understand the motivation of the villain.

The villain should have moments of vulnerability that make him/her relatable (even if that’s in the backstory).

No villain should be all evil all the time. That makes for a flat character. Don’t create a caricature.

Give the villain characteristics that are desirable, too.

Make the villain the hero of his/her own story.

Use the villain to develop your protagonist.

Use abstract villains sparingly. Try to assign a person to an antagonistic force.

Make the villain a foil of the protagonist. He/she should be opposite to bring out characteristics in your protagonist.

Give the villain a moral code.

Allow the villain to have small wins through your novel to increase tension.

Create a backstory for your villain.

Create an entire arc for your villain. He/she should not just pop up when it’s convenient for your story.

Don’t give the villain unnatural, overly-eloquent language unless there’s a good reason to do so.

Other Qualities for your Villain

Two other qualities that make for a good villain are:

A great name: The Friday the 13th movie franchise proves that you can call your villain “Jason” and get away with it. But that’s the exception that proves the rule. Give your villain a name as memorable as the rest of the character, and the character will stick around in their minds forever.

A cool costume: Even if your villain doesn’t inhabit a sci-fi or fantasy world, spend some time developing a key aspect of your villain’s appearance that makes him or her instantly recognizable and memorable.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Writing Notes & References Worksheets & Templates: Villain & Antagonist ⚜ Morally Grey Characters

#villain #on writing #character development #writing tips #writing advice #writeblr #dark academia #writing prompt #writing reference #spilled ink #character building #literature #writers on tumblr #light academia #fiction #novel #creative writing #ivan kramskoy #writing resources

309 notes · View notes

radio-fmm · 10 months ago

Text

A princess armor

Zoro x princess!reader

afab reader, fluff, mentions of misogyny in reader’s past

1.5k words

Tagging: @alucardsdaddyissues

When you heard about some group of pirates docking on your island you didn’t quite expected them to rescue you, after all, you hated to be seen as a damsel in distress

Nonetheless,there was nothing wrong in asking for help. And hell you needed it

Being born a woman and the only heir to your fathers throne had turned your life into a living hell since you can recall; overlooked, treated like a decoration only expected to marry rich and powerful, your father ever cold and absent hated your mere existence, a remainder of his failure to continue his strong lineage because no matter what you did you were never enough

And hell you had worked so hard to impress that old man; you were a remarkable fencer, excelling in every topic of conversation you had been educated in, always being praised by your strategy abilities and expected to be the perfect queen by this alone. The list of your achievements was long, an overachiever if you will… but he never cared, what can any of that be of use in the body of a woman?

You hid your emphatic and kind heart under a strong cold armor to protect yourself from the cruel world around you; still, Monkey D. Luffy was able to tear trough it, offering him and his crew a sympathetic hand

You thought you were helping them, turns out they were helping you. The moment the colorful crew heard about your life behind the walls of the castle and your fathers evil empire, they didn’t hesitate in taking you in, after all you had been more than helpful and kind

So you escaped joining them as the strategist and diplomat for the crew, finally free from expectations, slowly taking your armor off before it had rusted into you forever

“What can a princess know about fighting anyway?” Zoro’s voice is sharp and quick to ambush you, you wished his opinion about you didn’t mattered, but as you are about to set sail by his side you can’t help the need to defend your case climbing quickly to your tongue

“I’ve been educated by the greatest warriors and strategist in my kingdom as I was expected to rule my nation one day”- every single word leaves your mouth like butter, an ease and confidence the swordsman perhaps didn’t expect from someone with your background, you stand proud with eyes that pierce right trough his being and eyebrows scrunched down without a drop of a doubt making him shiver.- “Believe me Mr. Roronoa, I am more than capable”

And that was no lie. Every since your arrival to the crew, the strawhats found themselves winning their battles with much ease and organization; the number of injuries after battle dropped immensely, your time in the battlefield reduced in half and no one was getting lost, the latter being resolved by planting you beside the stubborn green haired swordsman that was obviously not happy about this new routine

“Stop following me, princess” he grumbled, your step quickening at the same rythm as his which was quite the hassle from your part considering one step from Zoro was two of your own

“Stop calling me that”- your hand flies to grab on his shirt, your touch stiffening every muscle on his back and his heart skipping a beat, a feeling unwelcome and alien. As uneasy as he felt, his step never falters leading you behind him as you trot around the streets, annoyance clear on your face.- “As much as I want to continue my errands without you, I don’t want you getting lost around here, this is not a welcoming place for pirates and your face is quite recognizable”

His walking finally comes to a halt, making you quite literally crash behind him a yelp of surprise escaping through your lips.- “Fine” he finally relents

Zoro replays that evening in his head over and over as he peeks down from the crows nest, it was the first time you made his stomach turn and this strange warmth extend trough his body, and he still wonders why. While Usopp and Luffy play cards, he watches as you take the cards that the sniper was hiding on the back of his overalls making Luffy get up and bash on him as you laugh. The sound even tough muffled by the glass makes him smile, that same feeling he recalled moments ago blooming in his being once again, but he now welcomes it

So he wonders what would it take him to impress you, to make you want him as much as he wants you, you’re royalty after all. The stories of the suitors that had knocked at your door with gifts and promises still on the back of his mind sour and venomous, he compared himself to them and it dawned on him the act that he had nothing to offer you, other than his own life, was that enough for you?

Little did he know you were trying to impress him since day 1 on the ship, training day and night to earn his respect and admiration which best believe you already got more than that, yet you seemed to find yourself repeating the same pattern of your old life

“You did great back there” Zoro commented one time, before taking a swing from his beer. You turned your attention to him, admiring the way his earrings glistened with the light of the bar, a smile quick to spread on your face that you erased as fast as it came, not wanting to give yourself away

“Really? Thanks” even though your tone was nonchalant and casual your insides did a 360, relishing on your victory, after spending the last few months over training like a maniac and studying more fencing techniques had finally earned you a compliment, his compliment

Zoro’s eyes go over and over your form, as if trying to keep it in his memory to admire you even when you weren’t there which could be much easier, since the mere thought of you made him stumbling. As if in command, you look up to the crows nest, your gaze locking with his for a fleeting moment that makes Zoro loose track of thought, you offer him a sweet smile and a tiny wave which he answers by freezing for a while, then scowling and turning away from the window

Oh god

The thing about this whole tangle of gazes, feelings and smiles was that Zoro could not figure you out; you were a mystery, a concept that he can’t quite grasp even after months of knowing you and quite literally living with you on the sea. You had the elegance and gentleness of a princess out of a romance book, and the bravery and might of a warrior, all of that wrapped around your wit and beauty that had him losing his breath

He felt useless

His mind drifting to images of you while he trained, dreams by your side slipping on his sleep, his eyes glued to you in the battle field, his heart singing your name at any change it got

What can he could possibly give you that you don’t already have?

“Boo!!!”- Your voice startles him pulling him out of his daze, something he was certainly not used to, his eyes jump to your face painted with a big smile as you giggle at his expense.- “Got ya”

You sit delicately by his side, still giggling while he clicks his tongue to express his annoyance.- “That’s not really princess of you to do” you frown at the title just as he expected, his scowl turning into a proud smirk

“Stop calling me that” you turn to face the window behind both of you, looking over the deck

“Hiding from someone?” Zoro comments although he already has an idea

“Let’s just say Usopp doesn’t quite like being called out on his cheating” a honest loud laugh rumbled from the bottom of the swordsman chest, eliciting a bright smile from you, It is this moments that you treasure, moments that feed on your heart that had long belonged to him without even knowing it

The sunset beams that color the sky crash on your features, brightening your presence making Zoro’s mind wonder once again. He couldn’t understand how could you take him out of it by simply being, his eyes take another round around you, stopping at your plump lips. A new feeling takes over him, it makes his chest heavy and his breath erratic as he stops himself from crashing into them. Suddenly his doubts puddled as you sink at his side, a playful glint in your eye as his heart clenched at the thought of you seeking him while looking after a safe place

He may not be royalty, have absolutely nothing but his katanas to his name but he’ll bend the world backwards for you, and something tells him you don’t want all that fancy shit other men could offer you, you want genuine love, real love. So he savors the quiet in your company up on the crows nest, slowly letting both of you guards down to embrace each other, the armor that you once hid behind long discarded leaving you bear and free

Because whats more romantic than that?

Masterlist

#one piece #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro x you #zoro x y/n #zoro x you #zoro x reader #one piece roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa #op zoro #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #x reader #zoro fluff #one piece one shot #zoro one shot #one piece imagine

327 notes · View notes

devdozes · 6 days ago

Text

♣ Whatever happened to the Hayloft? (pt.1)

wohooo modern au! anyways uh reader is part of kremnoan national agency and epos is the enemy EDIT: PART TWO IS POSTED!!

The world always had a way of discarding those who had completed their given role, and You learned that lesson the hard way.

You weren’t born in Kremnos, but you had carved a space for yourself in its investigation unit. It wasn’t out of loyalty or duty but because Eurypon had given you something—an offer, that too an undeniable one. You hunted the rot lurking in the shadows, the kind of filth that thrived in places where the law looked away. Because the offer was a mutual win, To absolutely destroy Epos.

Your last mission should have been a victory. You eliminated the threat, wiped out the infection before it could spread further. You expected gratitude, recognition—at the very least, acknowledgment that you had done the right thing.

Instead, you were met with silence. Then, whispers. Then, a sudden decision was handed down as if it were carved in stone: your removal from the unit, the same unit to which Eurypon himself added you in. And then, you were removed by your superiors, and that same decision was approved by that bastard Eurypos himself.

They told you it was protocol, that your methods were reckless, that you had overstepped. But you weren’t stupid. The target you eliminated had been a benefactor, slipping money into the right hands to stay untouchable. The same hands that had signed off on your expulsion.

Disgrace. That’s what they called it. An exile disguised as procedure. You weren’t arrested, weren’t silenced permanently—just thrown out like something inconvenient.

Your badge was taken. Your access revoked. The work you dedicated yourself to, gone in an instant.

No goodbyes. No allies. Just you, standing at the threshold of a city that no longer wanted you.

The mission played over and over in your mind. "Observe the enemy's intentions and eliminate them." That had been your directive. You did exactly that.

You spent weeks following him, watching him slip through the cracks of Kremnos’ justice system, paying his way out of every accusation, every crime. You watched him destroy lives, snuffing out the weak like they were nothing more than pawns in his personal game. And yet, no one ever stopped him. No one ever tried. He wasn’t just another criminal—he was protected. A necessary evil, they called him. Essential to the city’s survival.

You knew better.

The night of the mission still clung to you, vivid in every detail. The air had been thick with rain, your coat heavy with moisture as you pressed into the shadows of the alley. The target had been cornered, his options dwindling with every step you took forward.

"You don’t want to do this," he had said, voice shaking but still laced with arrogance. "You think you’re doing something noble? I keep the wheels turning. Without me, this city crumbles."

You hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of anger. Did he truly believe that? That he was untouchable, that he could buy his way out even now? That the rules didn’t apply to him?

Your grip on your weapon had been steady, your mind clear. "Then let it crumble."

A single shot. A clean execution.

The silence that followed had been deafening. The city continued on, indifferent. No sirens, no rush of justice arriving too late. Just the sound of rain washing away the blood.

You had fulfilled your mission. You had done what you were told.

And yet, they cast you aside like you had betrayed them.

Confusion twisted in your gut, warring with the certainty that you had done the right thing. Hadn’t you? Or had you simply played the role of executioner while the real enemies remained seated in their offices, drinking their fine liquor, counting their bloodstained money?

As the weight of their betrayal settled in, there was no regret.

But the anger remained, burning beneath your skin.

You had done the right thing.

Even if no one else would admit it. They were all money-hungry cowards.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!". You threw a pillow at the screen with a frustrated groan. The TV show had been a mindless distraction, something to drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of your mind, but now it was just fueling your frustration. The female lead—who had spent the entire season developing chemistry with the actually interesting, funny, and devastatingly handsome second lead—had just thrown it all away for the blandest, most insufferably boring male lead imaginable.

"Oh, sure! Pick the emotionally constipated guy with all the personality of an unseasoned mashed potato! That makes so much sense!" You snatched the remote, furiously hitting the rewind button just to glare at the scene again. "This man wrote you poetry, He made you laugh! Meanwhile, your so-called true love hasn’t smiled once in twelve episodes and the ONLY thing he did was to accept you and give you flowers, which is the bare fucking MINIMUM!"

You slumped back against your pillows, glaring at the ceiling. Maybe it was the betrayal, the unfairness of it all—both in the show and in your own life—that made your blood boil. The second lead had done everything right. He had been there, had supported her, had actually put in the effort. Your fingers curled into the blanket, irritation and something heavier twisting in your gut. The familiar weight of injustice, of being discarded despite doing exactly what was asked of you.

"Ridiculous," you muttered, reaching for the half-empty bag of chips beside you and stuffing a handful into your mouth. "I swear, if they make him attend her wedding in the finale, I’m going to go batshit insane."

And then the finale aired.

The second lead sat in the audience, watching with a wistful smile as the female lead exchanged vows with the brick wall of a main character.

You stared at the screen, jaw tightening. The remote was in your hand, the power button just within reach.

Click.

The TV screen went black.

Without hesitation, you tossed the remote onto the couch, grabbed your bike keys, and swung on your jacket. Enough of this nonsense. You needed something to cool your frustration before you did something drastic—like throwing your TV out the window.

"I am not dealing with this bullshit anymore, isn't tv supposed to calm you down? why is increasing my already high blood pressure"

You quickly stomp out the door, put on your shoes, and run down the stairs quickly, and jump on your bike. from rage or excitement idk

The ice cream shop was nearly empty when you arrived, save for the cashier—a familiar silver-haired young man with a bright grin that immediately screamed trouble. Caelus.

"Well, well, well! If it isn’t my favorite brooding customer!" Caelus leaned dramatically over the counter, resting his chin on his hands. "What’ll it be tonight? Let me guess—something bitter, to match the look on your face?" that zesty bitch

Before you could retort, the door swung open violently, and a blur of motion tackled you from behind. "[Name]!" Stelle practically jumped on you, clinging to your shoulders like an overgrown koala. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she stuck her tongue out at Caelus. "Beat you to them first!"

Caelus gasped in mock horror. "Betrayal! I was just about to offer them a special ‘overdramatic protagonist’ discount!"

You groaned, trying to pry Stelle off. "I just wanted ice cream, not sibling chaos."

"Too late!" Stelle grinned. "We come as a package deal!" Caelus scoffed, dramatically flipping an imaginary cape over his shoulder. "Excuse you, I am the main event. You’re just the annoying sidekick."

"Excuse you," Stelle shot back, finally releasing you only to jab a finger into Caelus’s chest. "I am the superior sibling here. I was born first."

"You both are twins." You say with the most tired expression on your face while rubbing your temples.

"And yet I’m still more mature," Caelus countered clearly ignoring your words, flashing a smug grin.

"You literally tried to eat a rock yesterday!"

"It looked edible!"

"It was glowing blue!"

You sighed, rubbing your temples as they continued bickering like children fighting over the last cookie. "Can I please just order my ice cream before you two kill each other?"

Caelus instantly straightened, clearing his throat and putting on his best ‘professional’ expression—though the effect was ruined by Stelle making faces behind his back.

"Of course! What can I get you, dear customer?" He batted his long-ass eyelashes exaggeratedly, voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Before you could respond, Stelle leaned in. "They’ll have the saddest, most depressing flavor you’ve got. Something that really screams ‘I got kicked out of a corrupt government unit and now I’m having an existential crisis over fictional characters.’"

Caelus nodded solemnly, stroking his chin. "Ah, yes. That’s a classic order. I recommend the ‘Betrayal Blackberry’ or the ‘Melancholy Mint.’"

"Or," Stelle added, grinning, "we could go for full self-pity mode and get the ‘Cold and Alone Cookie Dough.’"

You glared at both of them. "You two are the absolute worst."

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Caelus said cheerfully. "So, which depressing flavor will it be?"

"...Cold and Alone Cookie Dough."

They high-fived.

"You guys suck," you muttered, grabbing your ice cream and biting the waffle cone and ice cream with unnecessary force.

"Oh, don’t be like that," Stelle cooed, flopping into the chair across from you and stealing a bite of your ice cream before you could stop her.

Caelus leaned on the counter, watching with the grin of someone who lived purely to be a menace. "So, tell us—was it a TV show or real life that caused this spiral into frozen dairy despair?"

You debated throwing your ice cream at his face.

As you stepped out of the shop, the cool night air wrapped around you, the taste of cookie dough and vanilla lingering on your tongue. The ridiculous bickering between Stelle and Caelus still echoed behind you, but for once, instead of irritation, it left a small smile on your face.

"Try not to get arrested!" Caelus called after you with a cheeky wave.

"And don’t die!" Stelle added, throwing in a thumbs-up.

"You guys act like I can’t handle myself," you scoffed, waving lazily over your shoulder as you stepped onto the sidewalk.

The moment lasted exactly three seconds before someone slammed into you.

Your grip on the ice cream loosened, the cone slipping from your fingers in slow motion, the pale brown-dotted biege scoop tumbling unceremoniously onto the pavement.

You barely registered the loss of your dessert because the person who bumped into you—a hooded stranger—was already darting away, their head ducked low. A second later, shouts erupted from down the street.

"Hey! Stop that guy!"

"He stole my bag!"

"Someone grab him!"

You blinked, staring after the retreating figure.

Then, slowly, your gaze dropped to the fallen ice cream, the way it lay pitifully on the ground, melting into a sad puddle.

Your eye twitched.

Alright. The theft? Definitely a problem.

But ruining your ice cream? That was just personal.

"HEY, YOU SON OF A—" You took off in a sprint, instincts kicking in before you even thought about it.

The stranger whipped his head around in alarm, realizing that not only was he being chased—but that his pursuer was very, very angry.

"Oh, you better start running!" you yelled, pushing forward with even more speed.

"WAIT—WHAT—WHY ARE YOU CHASING ME?!" the thief shouted over his shoulder, dodging past pedestrians.

"YOU RUINED MY ICE CREAM, YOU COWARD!"

That seemed to genuinely throw him off. He stumbled slightly before regaining his pace, muttering something under his breath about lunatics.

Behind you, Stelle and Caelus had stepped outside just in time to witness the scene.

Caelus let out a low whistle. "Aaaand there she goes."

Stelle crossed her arms, grinning. "Do we help?"

Caelus hummed, pretending to think. "...Nah. This seems personal."

You took a sharp turn into the alleyway, cutting off the thief’s path before he could escape into the maze of side streets. He skidded to a stop, looking around frantically like a trapped rat.

"Alright, asshole," you panted, rolling your shoulders as you stepped forward. "You made me drop my ice cream. Now I have to kick your ass on principle."

The thief let out a high-pitched laugh, one that sounded more nervous than anything. "L-Let’s not be hasty now!"

You blinked.

That voice.

That infuriatingly familiar, weaselly voice.

Your eyes narrowed as the thief slowly turned around, hands raised in mock surrender.

Purple hair. Cocky grin. Shady coat.

"Sampo?" you deadpanned.

"Ahahaha... surprise?" Sampo Koski grinned, but the sweat dripping down his forehead told you everything.

You stared at him. Then at the stolen bag slung over his shoulder. Then back at him.

"...You stole someone’s bag?"

"Hey, hey, hey, let’s not use such harsh words!" Sampo waved his hands, stepping back. "I prefer ‘borrowing without permission’—"

Your glare intensified.

He coughed. "Temporarily relocating belongings—"

You cracked your knuckles.

"—IT’S A MISUNDERSTANDING, I SWEAR!"

Before he could bolt again, you lunged, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him close. "You owe me ice cream, you rat bastard."

Sampo held up his hands in surrender. "H-How about I get you two? Three! Three ice creams! My treat!"

"You are so lucky I don’t punch you right now," you growled, releasing him with a shove. "Now return the damn bag before I make you eat pavement."

Sampo chuckled nervously. "Right, right—of course! No problem! Consider it already done!"

Just as he said that, the original owner of the bag—an angry looking woman—came sprinting up, flanked by two security officers.

"There he is!" she shouted, pointing directly at Sampo.

He stiffened. "Ah. Well. This is awkward."

You smirked. "Oh no, please go on. I’d love to see how you talk your way out of this one."

Sampo shot you a pleading look before sighing dramatically. "Alright, alright, no need for handcuffs! It’s all a big miscommunication, I assure you!"

As the officers descended on him, you simply stood back, arms crossed, enjoying every second of his downfall.

. . . .

As the security officers reached for Sampo, he shot you one last desperate look—the kind that screamed "Help me, oh great and merciful person whom I may have slightly inconvenienced!"

You rolled your eyes.

"Hey," you called out to the officers, stepping forward. "This dumbass already realized he messed up. No need to rough him up."

The security guards hesitated. The woman, now clearly an elderly lady with sharp eyes, frowned at you.

"Are you vouching for him?" one of the guards asked, skeptical.

"Pfft— No." You snatched the bag from Sampo’s hands before he could protest and turned to the woman. "Here. Safe and sound."

The old lady blinked, surprised. Then, with a warm smile, she took the bag. "Oh, bless your heart, dear!"

Meanwhile, the guards turned their attention to Sampo again.

"Hey, would you look at the time!" Sampo chirped, already inching away. "I must be going—"

You stuck your foot out.

Sampo tripped but recovered quickly, casting you a betrayed look.

You sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright, he’s harmless. Just let him go."

The officers exchanged glances but ultimately relented, grumbling as they backed off. The elderly woman gave you another grateful nod before walking off, leaving you alone with the notorious conman.

Sampo, ever the opportunist, dusted himself off with a wide grin. "Wow! You actually helped me! Didn’t know you cared so much—"

Your fist cracked against his head lightly—a warning tap, really.

"Ow!"

"You owe me ice cream, Koski." You grabbed his collar before he could escape. "And a damn good explanation."

Sampo chuckled nervously. "Ehehe… w-well, you see—"

You dragged him back toward the ice cream shop.

"Talk. Now."

As the bell chimed upon your return, Caelus and Stelle looked up from behind the counter—only to immediately burst into laughter.

Caelus nearly collapsed onto the register, wheezing. "Oh my god."

Stelle clutched her stomach, barely able to breathe. "What— what is that look on your face—?"

Because, standing at the entrance of the shop, you wore the most dangerously peaceful smile imaginable. A smile that promised violence.

And in your grasp, Sampo Koski dangled half-dragged by the collar of his coat, groaning dramatically. "Mercy! Mercy, I say!"

Caelus wiped a tear from his eye. "Did you adopt a stray, [Name]? Or—wait—did the stray adopt you?!"

"Shut up," you said sweetly, before unceremoniously dumping Sampo onto the floor.

"Oof—!" He sprawled out like a ragdoll. "Rude."

You turned to Caelus, still smiling. "Another one of my usual. On him." You jabbed a thumb at Sampo, who gave a weak thumbs-up from the floor.

Stelle snickered. "You got a sugar daddy now?"

"More like a debt-ridden weasel who owes me for ruining my first ice cream." You crossed your arms. "And I will be collecting."

Sampo scrambled up, brushing himself off. "Now, now! Let’s not be hasty—"

Caelus grinned, already scooping your ice cream. "Oh, no. We love hasty."

Stelle smirked. "So, Koski—" She leaned over the counter. "—care to explain what the fuck just happened?"

Sampo let out a nervous chuckle, straightening his coat as he glanced between you, Stelle, and Caelus—all three of you wearing eerily expectant expressions.

"Now, now," he started, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Surely there’s no need for such hostility! Let’s all take a deep breath, relax, and—"

You grabbed a chair and turned it around, sitting on it backward like you were about to interrogate him. "Talk."

Caelus, ever the opportunist, slid a cup of water across the counter like he was in some kind of detective movie. Stelle leaned in closer, grinning.

"Spill."

Sampo sighed dramatically. "Ahh, what a cruel world! A man can’t even do a little bit of freelance item relocation without being hunted down like a criminal—"

"Because you are one?" you deadpanned.

"Details!" He waved you off. "See, my dear friends, it’s all about perspective! To you, I might look like some shady—albeit handsome—fellow running through the streets, but to others, I am simply a humble entrepreneur!"

Caelus snorted. "Humble, my ass."

You tapped your fingers against the chair. "So what, you just happened to rob an old lady in front of a crowd?"

"*Whoa!*Whoa! Let’s not throw around words like ‘rob,’" Sampo said, looking genuinely offended. "She was the one who had something very valuable, and I simply liberated it for a bit! Then I was going to return it—eventually!"

"Eventually my ass," you muttered.

Stelle grinned. "So, what was in the bag, huh? Stacks of cash? A top-secret government file? The legendary lost treasure of—"

Sampo groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, it was a bunch of handmade scarves!"

There was silence.

Then Caelus burst out laughing again. Stelle doubled over, wheezing.

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Sampo slumped over the table. "I thought it was something else!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "You—stole scarves? From an old lady? And got chased down the street for it?"

Sampo threw his arms in the air. "I panicked!"

Caelus wiped a tear from his eye, grinning. "Man, you really are the worst at this."

"I’m usually so good at this!" Sampo groaned, before giving you the most pitiful look possible. "You believe me, don’t you?"

You took your freshly made ice cream from Caelus, making a show of enjoying the first bite. Then, without breaking eye contact, you reached out and grabbed Sampo’s wallet right from his coat.

"Hey—!"

You flipped it open, pulled out enough to cover the ice cream, and slammed the cash onto the counter. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Caelus let out an exaggerated "oohhh!" while Stelle outright clapped.

Sampo sighed, defeated. "You wound me, [Name]. Truly."

You smirked. "Next time, watch where you’re running. Or maybe don’t steal from old ladies."

Sampo pouted. "Lesson learned… probably." that fucking whore

With the sweet taste of victory (and ice cream) on your tongue, you leaned back in your chair, savoring every bite while Sampo sulked dramatically across from you. Stelle was still giggling every now and then, and Caelus had taken it upon himself to reenact Sampo’s very ungraceful escape attempt using napkins and straws.

You took another slow, deliberate spoonful, making a show of enjoying it just to rub salt in Sampo’s wounded pride.

"Mmm. So worth the trouble."

Sampo groaned, slumping over the table. "This is cruel and unusual punishment. Watching someone else enjoy what should’ve been mine."

"You paid for this," you reminded him.

"And yet, somehow, I feel robbed," he sighed.

Stelle grinned. "Now you know how that old lady felt."

Sampo shot her a betrayed look, but before he could get another word in, you set your spoon down, stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Alright, I’m heading home before something else drags me into its nonsense."

"Awww," Stelle whined. "You sure? You could stick around and watch Caelus keep clowning on Sampo."

Caelus, who had been dramatically dropping a napkin “thief” off a table ledge, grinned. "I’ve got at least ten more skits in me."

Sampo groaned louder. "You’re all terrible people."

You laughed, standing up. "I’m sure you’ll survive, Sampo. Or not. Either way, not my problem."

With a final wave to the chaotic duo, you exited the shop, stepping into the cool night air. Your bike was parked nearby, and you swung a leg over it with ease, the quiet hum of the streets a welcome change from all the chaos.

For the first time in a while, a genuine smile settled on your face.

As you settled onto your bike, ready to head home, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention.

A hooded figure stood near the alley across the street, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting for something—or someone. The dim glow of a nearby streetlamp barely illuminated his features, but for a split second, you caught a glimpse of something familiar.

Ash-blonde hair with red tips.

Your grip on the handlebars tightened slightly. A strange sense of recognition stirred in your chest, but you pushed it down. You were tired—you’d had enough surprises for one night.

With a shake of your head, you dismissed the thought. Probably just some random guy. Not your business.

You revved your bike, the engine’s low hum filling the silence. The hooded figure didn’t move, didn’t react.

And so, you turned your attention back to the road and rode off into the night, leaving the stranger—and whatever trouble he might bring behind because you had enough for one fucking night

. . . . .

The ride home was uneventful, the cool night air doing little to wash away the lingering irritation from earlier. You parked your bike, stretched out your sore limbs, and stepped inside. The dim glow of your apartment welcomed you, quiet and still—just the way you liked it.

You tossed your jacket onto the couch, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and were about to collapse onto your bed when your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller.

You stared at the screen, debating whether to pick up. Something about it felt… off.

Against your better judgment, you answered.

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. "…[Name]?"

You froze.

Aglaea.

It had been months since you last heard her voice. Since she let you walk away without a word. Since she didn’t defend you when you needed her most.

Your grip on the phone tightened. "What do you want?"

There was a pause. A hesitation. Then—

"Eurypon is dead."

The words settled over you like a thick fog. Cold. Heavy.

You blinked once. Then twice.

Dead?

Eurypon—the same bastard who removed you from the unit, who framed you as reckless, who ensured you’d never work in the investigation unit again—was dead?

You weren’t sure how to feel. Shocked? Maybe. But there was no grief. No sadness. Just an empty sort of understanding.

People like Eurypon made enemies. It was only a matter of time.

You exhaled, voice steady, emotionless. "I'm not in the investigation unit anymore, Aglaea. Don’t contact me."

A beat of silence. Then, Aglaea’s voice softened. "I know," she murmured. "I just thought… you should hear it from me. Not the news. Not anyone else."

You didn’t respond.

Another pause. Then, quieter—almost hesitant—she added, "Save my number, [Name]. Even if you don’t want to talk to me. Just… save it."

You sighed, fingers hovering over the screen.

Then, without another word, you declined the call.

But you did save her number.

. . . .

You groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch before grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV. After the chaotic mess of the night, all you wanted was some mindless background noise.

Flipping through the channels, you paused at the news. Maybe they had an update on something actually interesting.

"Breaking News: Former Investigation Unit Director, Eurypon, Found Dead."

Your brows raised slightly. So it was real.

The reporter droned on about the details—Eurypon’s body found in a private residence, a single bullet wound to the head, no signs of forced entry. But what really caught your attention was the next segment.

A figure appeared on the screen, standing at a podium in a sharply pressed uniform, flanked by two other high-ranking officials. His face was one you recognized instantly.

Ash-blonde hair with red tips, slightly messy yet unmistakable. Cold golden eyes staring through the camera with that same unyielding intensity.

Mydei.

Your former teammate.

No. More than that.

Eurypon’s son.

Your lips curled into something between amusement and curiosity. So he was the one stepping into his father’s shoes now?

Then, before you could process anything further—

BZZZT.

Your phone vibrated against your stomach. Another unknown number.

You groaned, throwing a pillow across the room in frustration. "Are you kidding me?"

Swiping the call open, you pressed the phone to your ear. "Whoever this is, I swear—"

"[Name]."

You blinked.

That voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

You glanced at the TV again, and there he was—Mydei, standing there like he owned the damn world.

Slowly, you sat up, adjusting your grip on the phone. "You killed Eurypon, didn’t you?"

There was a beat of silence.

Then, calmly, Mydei responded, "Yes."

No hesitation. No guilt. No unnecessary justifications. Just a simple, undeniable confirmation.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. "Well. Can’t say I’m surprised."

Eurypon was a bastard. A snake who sold out his own people for power. You weren’t about to shed any tears over him.

"That’s not why I’m calling." Mydei’s voice was clipped, professional. "We need you back in the investigation unit. There’s a mission that requires your expertise."

Your amusement faded.

And then you laughed.

Loud. Sharp. Unbelieving.

"You think I’d ever go back to that corrupt mess?" you asked, a grin stretching across your face. "You’re funny, Mydei. I don’t do favors for free, and I especially don’t work with the people who threw me out like trash."

There was silence on the other end.

Then, a sigh.

"I expected you to say that," Mydei admitted, his voice still composed. "But it was worth a try."

"You seriously thought I’d agree?"

"I thought you might consider it."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Hard pass."

Another pause. Then, softer than before—barely noticeable—he said, "…I see."

You almost laughed again. Even now, he was as restrained as ever.

"Tell you what," you said, stretching lazily against the couch. "How about next time you call, you don’t ask me to clean up the investigation unit’s mess? Try something fun for once."

A quiet breath from the other end, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Then, his voice returned to that same controlled, unreadable tone.

"Just wait till 25th April."

And with that, the call ended.

You exhaled, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you.

So Mydei was pulling the strings now.

And he had no qualms about getting blood on his hands.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

April 25th

Your phone buzzed.

You barely spared it a glance, still sprawled out on your couch, half-asleep from last night’s late ride. The screen flashed with an unknown number again.

A groggy sigh left your lips as you grabbed it. "This better not be another waste of my time."

"[Name]."

You sat up instantly.

That voice—steady, composed, unmistakably Mydei.

"You're calling me again?" you said, rubbing your eyes. "What, another mission offer? I already—"

"Check the news."

You blinked.

Something in his tone made you pause. He sounded… amused? Smug, even.

Your brows furrowed as you reached for the remote. The news channel flickered to life on your TV, and within seconds, you were wide awake.

"Investigation Unit Officials Exposed in Widespread Corruption Scandal—Mass Firings Underway."

Your breath hitched.

The screen displayed a list of names, each one making your pulse quicken.

People you used to work with. The same bastards who threw you under the bus. Who framed you, lied, and made sure you'd never step foot in the unit again.

Now? They were gone.

Some were getting arrested. Others were being dragged out of their offices, their faces pale as reporters bombarded them with questions. Their crimes—bribery, evidence tampering, illegal dealings—were being laid out in broad daylight for everyone to see.

You sat there, stunned.

And then, from the phone pressed against your ear—

A quiet chuckle.

"So?" Mydei drawled, clearly enjoying this moment. "What do you think?"

You let out a slow breath, still processing everything.

"You… really went and did it, huh?"

"You sound surprised."

"That’s because I am." You shook your head, watching as another corrupt official was led out in handcuffs. "I knew you were stepping in, but I didn’t think you’d actually clean house."

A hum from the other end of the line. "I said I would handle it."

Your lips twitched. "Didn’t think you’d be this thorough."

There was a pause, then, with that same unwavering authority, Mydei spoke again.

"Come to the Investigation Unit tomorrow at 7 AM. ASAP."

You stiffened. "Wait—what?"

"You’ll be leading the next mission," he continued, completely ignoring your reaction. "Highest-ranking officer. No one above you. No one to control you. You do things your way this time."

Your heart skipped a beat.

"You’re serious?"

"Have I ever wasted my time with jokes?"

He had a point.

Before you could respond, the line cut off.

You lowered the phone slowly, still staring at the news, but your focus had already shifted.

Tomorrow at 7 AM.

You were back in the unit.

And this time, you were the one in charge.

A quiet chuckle slipped past your lips.

It felt good.

HI GUYS ITS ANTOHER SERIESS and ts tension wohoo!! @leonsnewadventures

PART 2!!

109 notes · View notes

randomfandoms234 · 5 months ago

Text

I think Grian should be evil more in life series fanfiction

I just think it’d be neat, don’t get me wrong I like Grian as a good or morally gray character! Their fun to read and I greatly enjoy fanfiction like this.

But they often forget that Grian willingly joined the watchers!, and often say ‘oh Grian may be the admin but he doesn’t have a lot of control’

But what if Grian did have control? Like he does in Wildlife,

Grian as a villan can be done so well I imagine him being possessive of his players. They’re his so he gets to decide what roles they may have

Being turned into watcher makes it so his moral code is mucked up he decides what roles fit his friends better based on their mental states

Some examples of this are Scott and Jimmy

Scotts good at the game but defied the rules so he gets the blessing ability this is not a blessing it’s a curse because the blessing allows him to know all the torment that is happening and never being able to defy the rules again.

Jimmy is the canary because Grian believes that he wouldn’t be able to handle the bloodshed (this assumption is wrong of course ) and that he has the ability to make others care for him quickly, but Jimmy also has the ability of prophet (predicting the life winner twice) however this future can change if something in what the watchers deem to be right changes Joel was originally meant to win Secret life but because Scott caused Jimmy and Scar not to win Scar was able to. (This is why I often think of Jimmy and joel with the song no longer you from epic ) The timeline expected changed so the winner was no longer Joel.

What if he does the games because Watchers are naturally possessive of players? He likes his friends so he makes sure he can keep them forever

What I’m saying is Grian can make a compelling villan in life series fanfiction

He can still care for his friends and everything but his way of looking at the world is so twisted that they are forever tormented

He’s like a bird owner who broke their birds wings so they could never fly away.

He injures them and torments them cause isn’t that how a watcher shows their love

Grian can work as both a hero and a villan or even a antihero but evil Grian gets underutilised

#life series #traffic smp #grian #watcher grian #again I love Grian as a character is the smp #I just think he’d be a cool villan #jimmy solidarity #scott smajor

130 notes · View notes

phoward89 · 1 year ago

Text

Banner by me, dividers by @saradika-graphics

Based on this ask

Young!President!Coriolanus Snow x Innocent!Reader

Coriolanus Snow was the youngest president in Panem’s history. He was cunning, charming, and very, very smart. Which is why he's the youngest man to hold the presidential office.

But that's not truly the reason why he's President Snow at the tender age of 25.

No….

He's the youngest president because he's a ruthless man. An evil man.

A snake that strikes both friend and foe with poison.

Nobody was safe from Coriolanus’ poisonous fangs.

Well, nobody, except his First Lady.

And you just happened to be First Lady Snow. The president's sweet, innocent wife who never saw his true colors.

Coriolanus, who you often called Coryo and even Snowflake (he'll kill anyone if they giggle, laugh, or snigger if in ear shot of you using the term of endearment for him), made sure that you viewed him as a loving gentleman. He never wanted you to see the cruel side of him.

You met him when you were both kids, before he became tainted and corrupted by the harsh cruelness of the world. You never experienced the cruelness of the world, being a bit sheltered by your family.

You were innocent, like a little dove.

And that's what drew Coriolanus to you. Your innocence enthralled him, memorized him even.

He made it his mission to keep all the horrors of the world away from you, to keep you innocent and naive.

Hell, you truly believed that he helped Lucy Grey win during his mentorship because he cared. You had no idea that he was thinking with his wrong head; wanted to get under her skirts.

You didn't know that he was sentenced to 20 years as a peacekeeper for his crime of cheating during the 10th Hunger Games. You truly believed his bullshit lie of wanting to follow in his father's footsteps (his father, Crassus Snow had been a general).

So, sweet, innocent, naive little you always believed what your Coryo told you. He was your perfect gentleman, your Snowflake, and you had no reason not to trust him.

President Snow, for all his faults and evil deeds, loved you with every fiber of his overly obsessive being. It's why he's done everything in his power to keep you from being corrupted by the world.

It's also why he had, nicely, forbid you from entering his office. Coriolanus gave you the excuse that he didn't want to be distracted from his duties of ruling over Panem, but in reality he couldn't risk you walking in on him while he had business meetings.

Some of which almost always ended with his visitor slumped over a teacup.

Dead.

Today tho, well, you didn't heed his warning and decided to visit him in his office instead of waiting for him to return to the living quarters.

You found out very exciting news and wanted to share it with him right away.

You put on a pretty pink dress, pulled your hair half back into a large bow (the way he preferred it), and picked some roses from the prized rose garden for the special announcement.

You happily made your way down the hall towards his office. His staff ignored you, knowing better to even look at you twice.

The staff wanted to live to see the next Yule season, thank you very much.

When you opened the door, you saw that your husband had a guest in his office. The man, who was stout with black hair; wearing a powder blue suit, was slumped over on your husband's desk.

President Snow wiped at the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief (his beloved one that you made special for him, embroidered with a light blue snowflake and his initials in maroon red thread) his icy blue eyes flickering up to the door to see who had walked in. He gave his staff specific orders not to be disturbed. He was ready to chew out whoever had walked it, but any and all retorts he had in the tip of his tongue had died when he saw you.

His precious, innocent, little dove.

Before he could ask what’s wrong (he knew something was wrong because you knew his office was off limits and wouldn't just walk in unless it was an emergency), you pointed to the man slumped over the desk and asked, “Coryo, is he passed out?”

“Oh, my little dove, don't worry about him. He just can't handle his liquor.” Coryo told you, even though the glasses on the desk were teacups and not rocks glasses typically used for liquor.

But of course, you believed your husband. He has no need to lie to you, has he?

Coriolanus stood up from his desk, only to walk over to you. “You know you're not allowed in here while I'm working, Y/N.” He reminded you as he stopped right in front of you. Your husband towers over you, taking in how you were all dolled up and had a bouquet of roses in hand. Arching a brow, he asked, “Is something the matter?”

“Oh, Snowflake, I know I'm not supposed to bother you while you're doing your presidential work, but I was so excited to tell you something.” You honestly told him, a bright smile on your face, as you handed him the roses.

“I'm usually the one who presents you with roses, my love.” Coriolanus chuckled, only to take the offered bouquet. “What's this exciting news that couldn't wait?” He asked, placing his large, calloused hand on your cheek only to caress your cheekbone with his thumb.

“I'm pregnant!” You joyfully smiled up at him.

“That's wonderful news, my little dove.” Your Coryo cooed, pressing a kiss to your lips. He grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together, and suggested, “Let's go celebrate this happy news with lunch in the sunroom.”

“Okay, but what about your guest? Shouldn't we wake him up?” You innocently asked, gesturing to the man lying dead on your husband's mahogany desk.

“I'll have one of the staff tend to him, Y/N.” Your husband assured you while leading you out of his office.

Little did you know what he really meant by that. But why would you, your husband's only ever showed you a soft, loving, gentleman. He's never shown you his true nature of being an evil, cruel, manipulative, murderous man.

Coriolanus is a snake, but to you he's Coryo, your Snowflake.

And he'll always be that to you since you'll forever be his sweet, innocent, little dove of a wife.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere ,@savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans, @sudek4l, @wearemadeofstardust0, @mashiromochi, @gracieroxzy, @belcalis9503, @shari-berri, @aoi-targaryen, @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1

732 notes · View notes