#i really like how their designs turned out

[marciaillust]

I added some colours to her :)

[rafecameronssl4t]

Could you write about a phone call from Morocco between the reader and rafe the reader really misses him

Lonely in My Mansion || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @rafeyscurtainbangs

A/n: loooove this!!!

Warnings: none rlly

Word count: 764

MASTERLIST

The sun filtered through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the living room as the movers carefully set the velvet couch in place. You tilted your head slightly, stepping back to admire its placement. It was perfect, exactly how you’d envisioned it when selecting it from the showroom. A satisfied grin spread across your face as you clasped your hands together. “That’s perfect right there,” you said, your voice filled with approval as the movers carefully adjusted it into position.

“Where would you like this painting?” a woman asked, holding a canvas wrapped in protective plastic. Taking a moment, you scanned the room, letting your gaze settle on the wall just above the futon. “Right above that futon—” you began, gesturing toward the spot. But before you could finish your sentence, the vibration of your phone in your pocket interrupted you. Pausing, you slipped it out and glanced at the caller ID. A smile tugged at your lips when you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Rafe. The sight of his name alone filled you with a warm, familiar comfort. “Excuse me for a moment,” you said politely to the woman before stepping into the airy kitchen. Lifting the phone to your ear, you answered the call, your voice bright and eager. “Hello?” “Hey, baby,” Rafe’s smooth, familiar drawl came through the line, and you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “Hi,” you replied, your voice soft but brimming with energy.

As you spoke, you instinctively reached for the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of freshly made juice for the movers bustling about. “How’s it going? Settling into the house okay?” he asked, his tone warm but with a subtle edge of distraction. “Yeah, yeah,” you replied, glancing back toward the living room where the movers worked. “They’re moving in all the furniture and decorations. It’s coming together nicely,” you added with a light laugh.

“Good, good,” Rafe said, his voice softening for a moment before shifting slightly. “Hey, listen, I need a favour.” You paused, your brows knitting together. “What’s up?” you asked, your tone immediately shifting to one of concern. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine," he reassured you quickly, though the faint tension in his voice didn’t escape your notice. “I just need you to find a pen that Groff gave me. It should be in the kitchen somewhere, in one of the drawers maybe. ”

“A pen?” you repeated, setting the juice pitcher on the counter and scanning the room. You began opening drawers one by one, your eyes darting around for the item. After a moment, you spotted it in the second drawer, its sleek design catching the light. “Found it,” you said, inspecting it curiously. “Perfect,” Rafe said, his voice tinged with relief. “There should be a name of a hotel written on the side. Can you read it out for me?”

Turning the pen over in your hand, you squinted slightly to make out the embossed letters. “Riyadh Mimouna, Essaouira, Maroc,” you read aloud, the foreign words rolling off your tongue carefully. “Okay, great. Yeah, I think I saw a sign for that,” Rafe's voice dropped, the lightness from earlier replaced by something heavier. You leaned against the counter, a faint frown tugging at your lips. “Rafe,” you said gently, “are you sure everything’s okay?” There was a beat of silence on the other end before he let out a breath.

“Yeah,” he said, though the hesitation in his tone made you question it. “I’m just handling some business. Don’t worry, babe. I’ll get it all back with interest.” Your chest tightened slightly at his words, and you instinctively ran your thumb along the edge of the countertop. “Just… be careful, okay?” you said softly, your concern bleeding through your voice. “I will,” he replied, a low chuckle escaping that managed to ease some of the tension. “I promise. I’ll get this wrapped up and come home as soon as I can.”

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you decided to lighten the mood. “It’s so lonely here,” you said dramatically, your voice taking on a teasing lilt. “And the bed is way too big for just me.” You heard him exhale sharply on the other end, followed by a groan. “Babe,” he drawled, his voice rougher now, “don’t do this to me.” “Do what?” you asked, feigning innocence, your grin widening as you bit your bottom lip to stifle a laugh.

“I think you know,” he muttered, a strained chuckle following his words. You laughed softly, leaning more comfortably against the counter. “Maybe,” you teased, drawing out the word just enough to make him groan again. He sighed heavily, his tone reluctant but firm. “I gotta go,” he said, and you could hear the pull of obligation in his voice. “Okay,” you said quietly, your teasing fading into softness. But just as he was about to hang up, you stopped him. “Rafe?”

“Yeah?” he replied immediately. “I love you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. “I love you too, baby,” he said without hesitation, the warmth in his voice washing over you like a blanket. “I’ll come home as soon as I can, yeah? Can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.” “Please do,” you murmured, a soft smile gracing your lips as you held the phone to your ear, lingering for just a moment longer before the line went quiet.

[paradoxius]

The Baseball is Non-Diegetic, Probably

Each player describes a character with a name, a talent, and a drive. Divide characters into two opposed teams. Say what you're fighting over. Take turns batting. The bad guys bat first. The fielding team sets the scene. When your character is at bat, state your objective and what feat you attempt, then roll 2d6 and consult the table. You may always opt to take a strike instead of the listed call. Interpret the call according to the rules of baseball. Achieve your objective when you reach home. An out removes you from the action until you bat again or your team takes the field. In the case of a strike, roll the dice again. If you're attempting a feat within your talent, you may choose one die to keep and roll the other. 1, 1 | Double.......+2, +2 1, 2-4| Single.......+1, +1 1, 5 | Error........+1, +1 1, 6 | Walk.........+1, -- 2, 2-5| Out at first..X, +1 2, 6 | Foul out......X, -- 3, 3-6| Strike 4, 4-6| Fly out.......X, -- 5, 5 | Double play...X, +1 (most advanced runner | also gets out) 5, 6 | Triple.......+3, +3 6, 6 | Homer........+4, +4

Okay to archive off-site.

This is less of a game and more of a resolution mechanic really. And one that presumes a broad familiarity with the rules of baseball on the part of its players at that. At least it has some novel unstated assumptions about what roleplaying looks like. And a big stupid table. I copied the table from Our National Ball Game (1887) by E. K. McGill, who calls it an "Umpire."

This is an extremely stripped-down version of a draft I'm working on for a game based around this mechanic, but with like, other mechanics too. The premise of that game is that it's a hypothetical game from the alternate timeline in which H. G. Welles invented and popularized the tabletop RPG c. 1920. I'm imagining Welles's game as a speculative fiction naval adventure deal, and my designers as a group of era-appropriate theater kids who dislike all that and are hacking a boardgame to play swashbuckling adventure stories instead.

Anyway, I think you could have some fun with this, but it would require a lot of people and a decent amount of initial unguided creative input to get the ball rolling on who these characters are and what they're fighting over. On the other hand, if you have a setting and a conflict ready to go, I think this could be a really good little engine for some fast-paced team-based action.

My sincere hope is that this game starts at least one argument about how the rules of baseball apply to the specific gameplay scenario or, better, work in general.

200 Word RPGs 2024

Each November, some people try to write a novel. Others would prefer to do as little writing as possible. For those who wish to challenge their ability to not write, we offer this alternative: producing a complete, playable roleplaying game in two hundred words or fewer.

This is the submission thread for the 2024 event, running from November 1st, 2024 through November 30th, 2024. Submission guidelines can be found in this blog's pinned post, here.

[rue-isabelle]

rueee, i have a funny idea about the aphrodite series(?) tho it'll be a little bit different from how it goes so far... so... maybe let it be an au of it? like they(drivers) be like all into her but she's actually w toto n susie if you're into that 😂 lovelovelove the series and been reading it on repeat aaaa

No Part 2! This is not the ending, just a side idea

Aphrodite of Formula 1 (side story)

Susie and Toto had been quietly enjoying the chaos Yn caused among the grid and their partners. Their shared secret—that Yn wasn’t just Toto’s assistant but the third, cherished member of their relationship—made every stolen glance, every awkward encounter, and every dramatic meltdown far more entertaining.

For months, the paddock had turned into a soap opera, and Susie and Toto had front-row seats.

---

The day Alexandra had her infamous meltdown, Susie and Toto couldn’t contain their amusement. Watching the footage on their phones, Susie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.

“She’s throwing a tantrum like a spoiled brat,” Susie chuckled, showing the clip to Yn, who smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

Toto, always direct, smirked. “Ungrateful brat,” he corrected, his tone dripping with amusement. Later, when a journalist asked about the incident on live TV, Toto didn’t hold back.

“Well,” he said with a sly smile, “some people don’t know how to handle being second choice. Or third.”

The comment went viral within minutes.

---

Toto and Susie loved adding fuel to the fire.

One afternoon in the paddock, Kelly and Alexandra were lingering nearby, clearly irritated by the drivers’ infatuation with Yn. Susie nudged Toto and said loudly, “Isn’t it funny how Max and Charles always seem to be wherever Yn is? Almost like they forget they’re supposed to have girlfriends.”

Toto smirked. “You’d think they’d be more subtle.”

Both women bristled, glaring daggers at Yn, who was blissfully unaware of the jab.

---

It was Susie who came up with the idea to get Pierre and Kika to buy Yn something extravagant.

“Tell them you’re looking for new lingerie,” Susie whispered to Yn during a quiet moment in the motorhome.

“What? Why?” Yn asked, confused.

“Just trust me,” Susie said with a wink.

Later that day, Yn casually mentioned to Pierre and Kika that she was thinking about updating her wardrobe. The next morning, a luxurious box of designer lingerie appeared in Yn’s hotel room, along with a handwritten note: Only the best for you.

Susie burst out laughing when she saw the gift. “I can’t believe they actually did it,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

---

Whenever George and Carmen were nearby, Toto made a point of complimenting Yn loudly.

“You look stunning today,” he’d say, his eyes lingering on Yn in a way that made George’s jaw tighten.

Carmen would smile politely, oblivious, but George’s thinly veiled frustration was obvious to anyone paying attention.

---

It was during a quiet conversation between Susie and Rebecca that things got out of hand. They were discussing Yn’s flexibility, something Susie praised enthusiastically.

“She’s so graceful,” Susie said with a knowing smile. “Her yoga practice really shows.”

Rebecca agreed. “It’s impressive, really. She can bend like—”

Carlos, who had been within earshot, suddenly choked on his drink, his face turning beet red.

“Carlos, are you okay?” Susie asked innocently.

He muttered something incoherent, quickly crossing his legs. But when Susie and Rebecca started laughing, he stood up abruptly and left, muttering an excuse.

“Too easy,” Susie whispered to Rebecca, who was now in on the joke.

---

Eventually, though, Toto and Susie’s amusement began to wear thin. The drivers were monopolizing Yn’s time, and both felt the sting of jealousy creeping in. So, they decided to make a statement.

At the next Grand Prix, the three of them arrived together, and the paddock was stunned.

Susie held Yn’s hand tightly, her fingers laced with hers, while Toto’s large hand rested possessively on Yn’s lower back. The trio moved through the crowd like royalty, heads turning as whispers spread like wildfire.

When they reached the Mercedes garage, Susie turned to Yn with a mischievous smile and leaned in, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips. The kiss left no room for misinterpretation—it was passionate, intimate, and utterly unapologetic.

By the time Susie pulled away, Yn’s cheeks were flushed, and Toto was smirking. “Don’t be late,” Susie teased, winking at Yn before walking away, her confidence leaving everyone else in awe.

Toto, ever the gentleman, placed a hand on Yn’s waist and gently steered her into the garage. “Shall we?” he asked softly, his voice full of warmth.

The paddock was left stunned, the realization hitting them all at once: Yn wasn’t just Toto’s assistant. She was part of something far deeper, something none of them could touch.

[archivequinn]

What's your secret, envoy?

emperor geta x fem!reader

18+ only! MDNI

Summary: Desperation drives you to the gates of the Roman Empire when your brother is dragged away to fight as a gladiator in their blood-soaked arenas. With nothing left to lose, you strike a perilous bargain with the cunning Emperor Geta—your freedom and future in exchange for your brother’s life. But what begins as a desperate ploy turns into a tangled web of intrigue, betrayal, and forbidden ties. You never imagined that the ruthless emperor would become more than an adversary—and that the most dangerous risk of all would be losing him.

Chapter 1: Flare of Fire

You're in the castle. But it's not just any castle. It's the grandest, most magnificent fortress in all of Rome. The walls are made of solid marble, etched with intricate designs and adorned with golden ornaments. The halls echo with the sound of footsteps, and the air is heavy with the scent of incense and wine. Within the castle, there are dozens of rooms, each one more lavish than the last. The main hall features a ceiling painted with scenes of ancient Rome, while the floors are covered in intricate mosaics of animals and mythical creatures. The dining hall is fit for an emperor, with a long, polished table that can seat fifty guests, and a massive fireplace carved from black obsidian. And of course, there are countless bedrooms, each adorned with silken sheets, plush pillows, and tapestries depicting epic battles. The outer walls are twenty feet high and ten feet thick, made of solid quarried from the mountains to the north. It is a place of power and luxury, and only those who are worthy may enter.

You know all this because you've been trying to get in here for a long time. You did a lot of research, reading, talking to countless people, studying drawings, observing.

You close your eyes, reliving a memory of which you can't remember how long ago it was. Surrounded by isolation, so shortly after you lost your family and your brother was captured as a gladiator.

“How harmful can a barn full of straw be?” your friend said. “Straw can't hurt you. It won't harm you. In fact, it helps you to eat, it helps the animals to eat. Right?”

You knew where this was going.

“But what if you are standing in that straw-filled barn with a lighter in your hand, a spark, a little breeze of fire, will turn it into your grave. And these harmless straws will be the cause of your death.”

The straws here were our thoughts. No matter how bad the thoughts were, as long as they remained thoughts, they were harmless. All of us, even those who are not depressed, have thoughts of self-harm from time to time, thoughts of hurting someone else when we are angry. We are human beings and these are our instincts. Our straw.

And what was our fire? To put our thoughts into action.

If you do what you think, that would be your spark. You were holding a lit match in a barn full of straw. It was either going to go out or it was going to fall out of your hand and set the place ablaze.

Emperor Geta is standing in front of you like a violent storm that could cause the apocalypse to break at any moment. “Caracalla?” he growls. When you hear his full and annoyingly calm voice, you are brought out of the memories and back to the present reality, you are really standing in front of him. You're looking at Emperor Geta, a faint sneer curling his lips. “He is my twin, yes. But we do not 'run together', as you put it. We rule the empire together, but that is where our similarities end.” He takes a step towards you, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. 

“Caracalla is a weakling. A fool who spends his days chasing after servants and slaves, indulging in every vice known to man. I, on the other hand, am a true emperor. Strong, ruthless, and unyielding. My word is law, and any who cross me will suffer the consequences.”

You take a deep breath and the words you've rehearsed for so long dance out of your mouth.

“Your Majesty, I have been sent as an envoy from a distant kingdom to bring you an important message from my king, a message that was given to me to be delivered to you and your twin brother Caracalla, but…”

“No need.” Emperor Geta narrows his eyes suspiciously at your mention of distant kingdom. “It's just me,” he says curtly, “speak your message.” He gestures to a nearby table, and a servant quickly rushes over to pour him a goblet of wine. He takes a long drink, never taking his eyes off you.

You take a few steps and look out from the terrace. You take a deep breath, careful to not let your guard down in the face of his power, to hide how afraid you actually were of him. “It's about the gladiators...”

Emperor Geta raises an eyebrow at your mention of gladiators. “Go on,” he says, taking another sip of wine. “I am listening.”

“You are going to free them.”

A dark chuckle rumbles in Emperor Geta's throat at your proposal. “Free the gladiators?” he repeats incredulously. “What nonsense is this? The gladiators are our property. They exist only to fight for our amusement and profit. To free them would be to throw away a valuable resource, one that has brought us wealth and power beyond measure.” He takes another swig of wine, his eyes flickering with contempt. “Your king must be a fool if he thinks I would ever agree to such a ridiculous proposal.”

“But you have not yet listened to what is being offered to you in return, Your Majesty.”

Emperor Geta sets down his goblet, his gaze fixed on you. “And what do you propose in return?” he asks warily.

“My king will give you what you need most in exchange for freeing all the gladiators. Information. You may be rich enough to get worlds, you may have an army of hundreds of thousands of knights. But how sure are you of their loyalty to you? All of them, really, even the servants who wait on you at night while you sleep, how much do you trust them? I know something very important about the people closest to you, and my lips are sealed.”

Emperor Geta eyes you suspiciously, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. “What information?” he demands. “And how can I be certain that you will keep your word and not use this knowledge against me?”

“You can't be sure, you have to take some kind of gamble here.” This time you feel like you have the advantage and you grin, but you know that Emperor Geta is very clever.

Emperor Geta regards you skeptically, his expression inscrutable. “Very well,” he says finally. “I will consider your offer.” He stands up from his throne, towering over you like a giant. “But be warned, ” he says, his voice cold and menacing. “If I find out that you are lying to me or attempting to deceive me in any way, you will regret it.”

You fix your eyes on his brown eyes, are you afraid of him? Maybe. But will your fear stop you? No. If he knew that your brother was the one you really wanted to save among the gladiators, and that you were actually a simple villager and not a envoy sent by a king, he would kill you right now. You're sure of it. 

But you don't back down, You're almost sure you fooled him by pretending to be noble. “You don't have much time.”

Emperor Geta narrows his eyes at your sense of urgency. “What do you mean?” he says, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.

“You must inform me of your decision before tonight's game. That is my king's order.”

Emperor Geta glowers at you, his hand still hovering over the hilt of his sword. “I do not like to be rushed,” he growls. “But fine. I will make my decision before tonight's game.” He turns sharply on his heel and strides back towards his throne. “You may leave now,” he says dismissively, waving a hand in your direction.

As you leave the throne room, you are acutely aware of the weight of Emperor Geta's gaze on your back. You could stand up to him, but you were not stupid enough to get yourself killed. How far beyond your limits could you go to save your brother?

You breathe a sigh of relief as you finally step out into the sunlit courtyard, and make your way towards the edge of the city. As you pass through the bustling streets, your thoughts wander back to your brother, imprisoned in the gladiator pits and forced to fight for his life. You vow to do whatever it takes to save him, even if it means making a deal with the devil himself.

  The villagers are ready for the gladiator battle in the evening, everyone goes to the great arena. You look at yourself in the mirror, do your hair, put your pearl crown on your head, the only precious thing your mother left you, and put on the dress you made for yourself from quality and shiny fabrics left over from the dresses you made for some rich noble clients.

It's time to hear the emperor's final decision.

As you approach the throne room, you hear the sounds of muffled voices and clinking glasses coming from inside. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves before knocking on the door. “Enter,” comes Emperor Geta's imperious voice from within.

You push open the door and step into the dimly lit room, your eyes adjusting slowly to the flickering torch light. Emperor Geta is seated at his throne, flanked by his bodyguards and courtiers. He regards you coolly for a moment, before finally speaking.

“I have made my decision,” he says, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “I will release the gladiators, but only on the condition that you divulge the information you claim to have about those close to me.”

“I'll only say that if it's just you and me in the room, no one else.”

Emperor Geta narrows his eyes suspiciously, studying you intently for a moment before nodding. “Very well,” he says, waving away his attendants and courtiers with a flick of his wrist. Once the room is cleared, he gestures for you to approach.

“Now then,” he says, leaning forward on his throne. “What is this information you claim to have?”

A friend of yours, working in the palace under the emperors' orders, heard something she shouldn't have heard, something that would change the fate of Rome. You kept it a deadly secret in your heart until your brother was captured by them. Now this deadly secret would either be your antidote or your death sentence.

You take a deep breath. “Your brother, Your Majesty. He wants to kill you.”

Emperor Geta's eyes widened in shock at your revelation. “What?” he demands, his voice rising in anger. “Caracalla wants to kill me? How do you know this?”

You can see the fury building in his expression, and for a moment you fear for your safety. But then he seems to regain control of himself, sinking back into his throne with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“If what you say is true,” he says finally, “Then my brother has crossed a line that cannot be forgiven. I will deal with him myself.” He looks up at you with an intense gaze. “I am grateful for your warning, envoy. You have done me a great service.”

“Now will you release the gladiators as you promised?”

Emperor Geta nods slowly, still lost in thought. “Yes,” he says at last. “The gladiators will be released. Consider it a gesture of goodwill from me to you,” He stands up abruptly, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon. “But know this, envoy. If what you have told me is false or if I ever discover that you have betrayed me, there will be consequences. Severe consequences.”

Your heart beats so fast it seems to pierce your ribcage, you didn't think for a moment that it would work, but you had no choice but to take the risk. You had one shot and you won it, gaining Geta's trust is the key that will unlock the door to saving your brother. The only thing you have to do from now on is to do whatever it takes to make sure that the lie you told and who you really are doesn't get out, otherwise there is no chance for you and your brother to be saved. 

Geta looks at your face, studying you from head to toe, as if waiting for an answer from you. You feel as if he is looking into your soul, as if he can tell you are lying by the slightest gesture you make or the rhythm of your breathing. “Do you understand what I have said, envoy?” he asks you in a soft but threatening voice. You just nod your head and take a step back to leave. 

“I haven't told you that you can leave yet,” he adds, as he takes two steps towards you and closes the distance between you. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifts your head slightly, looking into your eyes, his amber eyes penetrating your soul. “You still haven't told me your name, envoy.”

After taking a deep breath, you open your mouth, but Emperor Geta runs his thumb along your lip. His gaze slides slowly from your eyes to your lips like a sharp knife, and you feel like a lion waiting to hunt its prey, and you are the gazelle he is about to hunt. 

“I will continue to call you envoy, you have my word, the gladiators will be released. After you prove that the information you have given me is true.”

You avert your eyes in surprise, this is definitely not what you expected and things are not going the way you wanted. How could you prove any of this? “But that's not what we agreed...” you whisper, surprised at how weak and quiet your voice sounds. 

Geta grips your neck with a condescending look, as if he's setting you up with the simplest equation in the world. “What did you expect me to do, kill my brother on the word of a envoy I don't even know where she came from and her king?” He grins as he shakes his head. 

“But I have nothing to prove it...” you whisper again, desperately. 

“There are other things you can prove.”

You try to figure out if he's playing a game in his sentences again or if he's trying to imply something, you feel like a trapped mouse, you feel your hands freezing cold and sweat running down your forehead. Finally you lift your eyes and meet his eyes. “What kind of things?”

“Your loyalty to me. Can you prove it?” He looks at you with eyes asking something he already knows the answer to.

‘’How can I prove my loyalty to you, Your Majesty?’’ Geta moves closer to you, closing the few inches between you, tightening his grip on your neck and gently running his thumb over your jugular vein, which is pumping blood like crazy. “Everything I say and everything I ask of you, you will do without question or doubt. Every word that leaves my lips will be your seal.’’

You nod timidly, Geta's lips curl upwards, he loosens the hand holding your neck and holds it out for you to kiss. When you grasp his hand with both of yours, the cold metal of his rings against your skin makes you flinch. You gently press your lips to his hand, you can feel the smile on his face grow even bigger.

“Now, you can go. But wait to hear from me. If it's true, you'll get what you want, but remember, if it's not true, I'll get what I want.”

  The hours dragged on, the days felt like weeks, even months. Day after day you wait for news from Emperor Geta. And waiting for fear was worse than fear. All this after you had lost your family and were the only one left to save your brother. The day the Roman knights took him captive, you thought all hope was lost. Despair kills a person, but vain hope makes them crawl. 

Your friend Atia, who served as a cook in the service of the emperors, brought you news of your brother from time to time. “He was not in the arena today, maybe tomorrow...” Every day you were waiting for bad news from him, and every day you were sinking deeper and deeper. 

The news that would brighten your dark hopes, trapped within four walls, came again from Atia. While serving Emperor Caracalla's meal, she overheard a conversation she shouldn't have. It was a conversation about how Macrinus had tried to persuade Emperor Caracalla to assassinate his twin brother Geta and rule the empire alone. Macrinus was very manipulative and clever, he was like water. He could easily take the shape of any situation he found himself in. He was looking for an opportunity to take his place in the Senate, or even to become the new ruler of the Roman empire, and he was playing with Caracalla like a puppet master plays with a puppet. Caracalla was easier to persuade than Geta. Geta was Macrinus' biggest obstacle. 

Atia was in the right place at the right time, she could no longer bear the burden of the news she heard that would change the fate of this empire, so she told you. And you had to come up with a plan, a perfect plan, to save your brother in the midst of all this chaos. Whoever you begged for help, people rejected you, saying that dealing with evil twins would get you nowhere. 

You were alone, all alone. Every time you remain silent in the face of evil, the goodness of the good diminishes a little more. Because to remain silent in the face of great evil is to be complicit. Sometimes injustice comes because we refuse to give up our comfort. Because we turn a deaf ear to the moans of those who are hurting so that we don't get hurt. 

Life is made up of stories. Good stories, bad stories, happy stories, painful stories... And life is not always just one of them. In every story there is as much joy as pain, as much hope as despair, more remedy than despair. You either live these stories and keep them to yourself or you choose to tell them. The news that would change the course of your story came a few days later, Emperor Geta finally wanted to see you.

  When you enter his room, you notice that he is standing with his back turned, looking at the gold embroidery on the wall, and you think that his dress and crown look more splendid than ever. But you can't tell if this is because he has grown more powerful in recent days or because you see yourself as less than you really are. The servants close the door after you step inside, and you are startled by the sound of the door slamming. 

“You were right,” he says quietly, slurring his words. “Caracalla has a plan to kill me, but it's not his plan. He's just a puppet.” You expect to hear anger in his voice, but it sounds more like frustration. As he turns around and walks back to his throne, his eyes meet yours for a second, and you see the disappointment in his tone in his eyes.

“How did you find out?” you ask, genuinely curious. “There are still dozens of guards and servants here who are loyal to me. And they are doing the best they can with the job I gave them. Don't forget that everything that is said inside this palace is somehow known to me. Whispers are heard like screams, your small steps shake the ground like earthquakes and my little birds tell me everything.”

You can only nod, a small glimmer of hope rising inside you. If Geta knows what you told him is true, he will keep his promise to you and release the gladiators. But before you can even smile, Emperor Geta sits on his throne and looks you in the eye.

“What I don't understand...” he says, grabs the arm of his throne with his hand and starts rubbing it. “How you and your mysterious king could have gotten this information. There are things that don't fit in what you say, envoy.”

He waits for you to answer for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath and continues. “Your king must have a lot of confidence in you to send you to the distant Roman Empire without bodyguards and knights, or you must be a good enough warrior to defend yourself on your own.  It's strange that he wasn't worried about any trouble on the way. You could have been robbed, kidnapped by bandits or captured.”

He emphasizes the tone of a few words mockingly, gnaws his lips for a moment and then draws the sword of the guard standing next to him. The sharp sound of the sword is enough to make your ears prickle, and as Emperor Geta walks towards you you think, “Okay, it's over. Now he's going to slit my throat, he knows everything.”

Sometimes you had to be very unhappy to be happy. Sometimes you had to let yourself go down to see the bottom. And sometimes you had to come close to death to feel alive.

You wish it were painless as you feel the sword pressed against your throat, the last thing you see before you close your eyes are the light brown eyes of Emperor Geta. You can feel the jugular vein in your neck becoming prominent and pumping your blood frantically for your life. Everyone and everything around you is blurring, you can't stop your legs from trembling rapidly, no longer responding to the commands of your brain. And Emperor Geta's hot breath hits your face like a desert breeze. “Tell me, who are you? Who sent you here? Do you work for Macrinus?”

The tears slide down your cheeks, one after the other, skipping down your chin and hitting the floor like bombs, and no matter how hard you swallow, the lump in your throat won't go away. Your mouth dries up and your hands sweat as if you have been without water for days in the desert. Your whole body is burning and freezing at the same time, yet not as cold as the cold, sharp tip of the sword. 

“My brother...” you say at last. Emperor Geta frowns, tightening his grip on his sword as he waits for you to continue. “He is my only family, the only one I have left... To save him...” You take great pains to choose the right words. “He was captured, fighting for his life every day among the gladiators and waiting to die every day. I was ready to do anything to save him. If it means I have to die to save him, I will do that too. Please, I may have lied about where I come from or who I am, but what I said was true.”

You get on your knees and take his skirt in your hands and kiss it. “Your Majesty, I beg you, I've already lost everyone, I've lost everything, I can't lose him. I can still smell my mother's scent at home, I can still hear my father's voice. If I lose my brother, I will have no reason to live. Punish me, but let him live.”

Emperor Geta cannot hide the surprise on his face as he looks down at you, obviously not what he wanted or expected to hear. He thought you were a spy, perhaps a collaborator, and he was ready to kill you. But he pauses. “Aren't you afraid? Aren't you afraid to die?” he asks.

“I am afraid, God knows I am terrified. But isn't that what sacrifice requires? If sacrifice was easy, it wouldn't be a real sacrifice.” you say as you wipe your tears on your arms and lift your head up to look into his eyes.

“You are ready to give your life for your brother and my brother is ready to kill me...” he whispers. 

His words of sorrow remind you of the words of a frightened child waiting to be loved, behind the mask he actually wears. Geta throws the sword across the room and turns around. “All right, envoy. I'll let you go. Go away with your brother, live the life you want to live.”

“And what about you?” you ask, do you really care about him? He is one of the reasons why your brother is trapped here in the first place, why do you feel sorry for him? Even worse, why do you worry about him? 

“I don't know,” he says, as if he's trying to dodge the question. You know he has something in mind, men like Geta always have a backup plan.

“I promised you my loyalty, if there is anything I can do for you...” you say, not sure how to finish the sentence.

Geta looks out, at the great Rome. You see his hand trembling as he holds the curtain. Is he afraid too? Sure, why wouldn't he be? The sword that's just been placed against your neck could at any moment be placed against his by his brother. Wondering if there's poison in every meal he eats, lying in bed at night with no guarantee that a dagger won't suddenly plunge into his heart, that scares the hell out of him. 

He says, “Macrinus has to die.”

He closes the curtain and walks slowly towards you. He rubs his thumb gently over the neck where he had just held the sword. “He is the smartest man in Rome. He can easily manipulate anyone, everyone. That's why anyone I send to bring him down can turn on me in an instant. I need someone who can do this for me. Someone who has complete loyalty to me.”

He brings his face closer to yours. “My brother is sick, a child who needs care and affection. I love him, I've always loved him, I can't hurt him. I can never let him be harmed. He's the only family I have left. And I want the head of the person who made him think of killing me.” He slides his hand up your neck and cups your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears under your eyes. He leans down slightly to look into your eyes. “Can I trust you, envoy?” he asks, desperately. 

Despair. Fear. The feeling of emptiness and nothingness. These are feelings from which it is difficult to extricate yourself once you are caught in them. It feels like you've fallen into a well with no water in it and you're sitting with your face buried in your knees. It feels like you are the most meaningless being in the world, like you are the only one having a hard time.

You know this feeling because you are this feeling, you have been fighting your worst enemy for weeks, despair. And the person who got you out of it was the same person who got you into it, how ironic could it be? Isn't the antidote to snake venom made from the venom of the snake? Geta was struggling for his life like a wounded and suffering animal. He wants you to lend him a helping hand, but if you take it, the consequences could be dire. You could die trying to carry out his plan, or worse, all your efforts to save your brother will be in vain and you may not be able to save him.

His piercing gaze fixes on you as he leans forward slightly, revealing his striking almond-shaped brown eyes. They are so dark they almost look black, but they hold an intense warmth that draws you in, and there is a subtle golden glow that seems to shimmer in the sunlight.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I will help you.” Your voice sounds confident, but also timid. 

Emperor Geta smiles, for the first time. His smile is mesmerizing, revealing perfect white teeth that shimmer in the light. His lips curve up at the corners, crinkling the skin around his eyes and making them sparkle with joy. But most of all, you could see hope in his eyes.

It was the relief of finding someone he could trust, a glimmer of hope that he had found a safe harbor. Maybe he was clinging to you for dear life, he didn't know if he could trust you, but it seemed he had no choice but to do so.

“If you do this for me, I will drown you in gold. As many servants as you want, as many jewels and houses as you want. You will have everything you want for life with your brother, envoy.”

You shake your head and hesitantly raise your hands, place them on his. “Accept this as thanks for saving my brother. And I fulfill my promise of loyalty to you.”

His gaze softens, perhaps for the first time in his life someone is helping him for nothing. Without expectation of power, without expectation of recognition, without wanting to rise to a position of importance. His gaze shifts from her eyes to your lips. 

“Where have you been all this time?” he asks, his voice so low and full that only you can hear it. “Are you really want to save me after I've caused you so much pain?”

“You and I... Your Majesty. We're not so different.”

“But you are different. You have something I've never seen before, I can see the courage in your eyes that bursts out in flames. There is no courage without bondage, I saw it in the eyes of all those gladiators. What I see in your eyes is different, there is something I can't make sense of.” Each word makes your heart beat faster, and for a moment you are angry with yourself for being so attracted to him. You realize that despite the great sacrifice you will make for him, he is still an Emperor and you are just a peasant. And you cannot ask for more. When he brings his face closer to give you an unexpected kiss, he makes you feel like you're holding a match in a straw.

‘’And what was our fire? To put our thoughts into action. If you do what you think, that would be your spark. You were holding a lit match in a barn full of straw. It was either going to go out or it was going to fall out of your hand and set the place ablaze.’’

But there was something you didn't know yet. Even if that lit match fell out of your hand and set the straw on fire, someone was about to enter your life to be your rain. And this was none other than Emperor Geta.

ao3 link Let me know if anyone wants to be on the tag list <3

[idolomantises]

that one mobster angel dust redesign you did is so fucking hot

LOL thank you. I actually thought about reusing it for a background character or something.

You know what’s so funny about that unhinged backlash I got from (I don’t even want to say fans because it wasn’t even fans specifically it was just Vivziepop fans that passionately hated me) Hazbin Stans is that I also had some issue with his design.

It was very rushed and while I really liked how his mobster form turned out, his pornstar form was a bit… eh. I didn’t love his hair or his outfit but Angel Dust was such an overloaded character that it was honestly difficult to really settle on a good design. I really loved @s3tok41b4 and lovesart’s take for example.

But instead their grievances was that he looked too much like a woman. Even though he’s supposed to be a drag queen and the pilot (which was the only thing that came out at the time) made light of that. Lets hope they don’t see Ciel then 🙈

[secriden]

Not to be a Style apologist, but I feel like some viewers haven't quite picked up that Style's brand of wooing Fadel is quite likely intentionally designed (by both the writers and the character) to be as annoying and frustrating as possible.

Lets consider:

Style thinks his bff is in love for the first time in his life. He thinks Kant is genuinely down bad for Bison: let’s not forget his clear surprise when Kant agreed to give up the car. As far as Style is concerned, Kant is acting really out of character and it's because Kant desperately wants to be with Bison.

He also thinks the only thing standing in the way of True Love™ is Fadel, who according to Kant is being unreasonably difficult about Kant and Bison dating. He doesn't know that Kant has a secondary motivation, nor does he know about the mind games that Bison is playing with Kant. Worse, he has no frame of reference or context to make any of Fadel's animosity towards Kant reasonable.

Moreover, while I think we all agree that Style made a terrible first impression on Fadel, the same has to be said of Fadel towards Style. Like, yes, absolutely Style was in the wrong, but Fadel came off as not only condescending and impatient, but unreasonable (and very weirdly cagey) when Style tried to immediately offer a resolution. Again, Style has no frame of reference for why Fadel would first demand that he take responsibility for his actions and then immediately after claim to have no time to entertain Style's attempt to take said responsibility.

Also, it doesn't help Style's wounded pride that Fadel keeps 'besting' him at every turn. So at this point I think a significant portion of that initial attraction (in ep 1) has shifted to annoyance when it comes to Fadel. By the time he gets his hands on Fadel's information, I think he's more than a little invested in some payback. While I think Style very much still wants to help Kant (and Bison) out, at least a part of him figures as long as he keeps Fadel busy, he kind of meets his goal. And if he gets to embarrass, frustrate and otherwise harass Fadel along the way, all the better!

You can see him start to have some fun with it. He ramps it up SO much in ep 2. He gets to lean into that wild, brash, playful personality because he doesn't really care if Fadel likes him. Style gets to be dialled up to extremes, and I love that for him because he's honestly kind of justified because he knows so fucking little about what's really going on. I think it's only fair if the other 3 are playing 4D chess while Style only has the Uno game rules in front of him, he gets to be the most Unhinged about it.

So, yeah, while I absolutely agree with all the posts out there that recognises just how reasonable and polite and tired Fadel is, I do think we need to give Style some credit here. He's absolutely SO extra, but he's also the one, arguably, that has been lied to the most and I feel that he deserves some slack for that.

I'm so glad he figures out some things in the next episode because my darling boy deserves to at least somewhat even the playing field.

[smokbeast]

"i loved you in ways you couldn't remember, but they followed you in different hues"

[insidekatmind]

Meet my sister P.7-Jude Bellingham

plot: Federico Valverde wants to introduce his younger sister to Jude, his teammate. He hoped that something romantic would be born between them seeing that their characters were perfect together but things take a different turn

Federico’s house had been transformed for the occasion: soft lighting, music playing in the background, and tables full of food and drinks. The party was the perfect way to unwind after an intense week, and Federico had worked hard to ensure everything was flawless.

As the first guests started to arrive, Federico took a moment to gather his teammates in the living room, determined to set a few clear rules. He crossed his arms and gave them a stern look while they, already holding drinks, watched him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Alright, listen up,” Federico began, his tone firm. “This party is for you guys, so have fun, but there are two things I won’t tolerate: one, anyone going overboard and causing a mess in my house; and two, anyone arguing with my sister.”

At those words, Vinicius, who was leaning casually against the couch with a drink in hand, burst out laughing. “Oh, Fede, you’re always the same! You sound like a bodyguard!” he teased, shaking his head. “No arguing with your sister, got it, Jude?” he added, throwing a pointed look at the Englishman.

Jude, who had remained stoic up until that moment, gave a sarcastic smile. “I don’t even know why you’re worried, Valverde. I’m not the problem here.”

Rodrygo, sitting next to Jude, couldn’t resist shooting him a mischievous glance. “Oh, really? You’re not the problem? Funny, because judging by how you looked at her at the restaurant, it seemed like the problem was all yours.”

“Rodrygo, shut up,” Jude muttered, shooting him a warning glare, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“See?” Federico interjected, throwing his hands up. “This is exactly the kind of behavior I don’t want to see tonight. I’m serious, Jude, don’t make me regret inviting you.”

Jude rolled his eyes. “Relax, Valverde. I can tolerate your sister for a few hours.”

“We’ll see about that,” Vinicius quipped with a sly grin. “But I bet the two of you will be clashing again before the night’s over.”

Federico sighed, shaking his head, but decided to drop the subject. “You’ve been warned. Now behave yourselves, or I’ll throw you all out.”

As Federico walked off to greet more guests, Vinicius sidled up to Jude, giving him a playful pat on the shoulder. “So, are you ready for another battle with the boss’s sister?”

“There won’t be any battles,” Jude replied coolly, though his expression betrayed a hint of curiosity.

Rodrygo chuckled softly, leaning on the armrest of the couch. “Oh, Jude, Jude… you and her are like fire and gasoline. I can’t wait to see what happens tonight.”

Jude flashed a mischievous smirk at Rodrygo’s comment, shrugging as if he didn’t care. But just as he was about to reply, his gaze wandered across the room and froze on you.

You had just walked in, chatting with one of your friends, wearing a short dress that accentuated every curve. The snug fabric and simple design highlighted your figure perfectly. Your hair was styled effortlessly, and your radiant smile caught everyone's attention. Jude couldn’t help but smirk as his eyes traveled from your head to your toes, lingering on your legs before shamelessly settling on your backside.

"Man, you're falling for it, and you don't even realize it," Vinicius whispered, barely suppressing his laughter.

Rodrygo, noticing Jude’s change in expression, nudged him on the shoulder. “Oh, look who’s completely lost his cool. Do you like what you see, Jude?” he teased, laughing.

"Shut up," Jude muttered, but the faint blush creeping up his cheeks betrayed him.

“Don’t tell us to shut up,” Kylian chimed in with a grin. “You’re the one practically undressing her with your eyes!”

Jude shot them an annoyed look but didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes drifted back to you, watching how effortlessly you moved through the crowd. For a moment, he wondered how someone could be so infuriatingly perfect.

Then, as if you sensed his stare, you turned in his direction. Your eyes met his, and Jude held your gaze with that arrogant smile of his, tilting his head slightly as if to challenge you. You raised an eyebrow, an expression you knew would fuel his irritation even more. With a faint smirk, you turned away, completely ignoring him, and resumed your conversation with your friend.

“Oh, it’s over,” Vinicius whispered, chuckling under his breath. “There’s no escape, Jude. She’s the one taming you.”

“Not a chance,” Jude shot back, shrugging as though unaffected. But deep down, he knew Vinicius wasn’t entirely wrong.

---

The music filled the air as the party continued, but you had momentarily moved toward the counter, away from the noise of the living room. You were sipping your drink, enjoying a few moments of peace, when you felt that unmistakable sensation: a gaze burning into you.

You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

Jude had gotten up from the couch, carrying himself with that confident air that seemed to be an integral part of his personality. He approached slowly, holding a glass in his hand and wearing that mischievous smirk you knew all too well.

“Nice dress,” he began, stopping next to you, close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne. “Though, I have to say, it seems more like a weapon for distraction than just a piece of clothing.”

You turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks,” you replied with a sweet but sarcastic smile. “I guess it works well for distraction, considering you seem to be the one who’s confused here.”

Jude chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Confused, me? No, I’m just observing. You know, it’s rare to see someone who enjoys provoking as much as you do without thinking of the consequences.”

“Oh, really? Because it seems like you’re the one who can’t stay away from me,” you shot back, your tone lightly teasing. “Don’t tell me you find me... interesting.”

Jude tilted his head, his eyes glinting with clear challenge. “Interesting? Maybe. Annoying? Definitely. But I’ll admit, you know how to grab attention—and not just mine.”

A laugh escaped you, genuine yet sharp. “Wow, what an honor! The great Jude Bellingham has noticed me. Too bad your ego is the only thing that’s taller than you.”

Jude narrowed his eyes slightly, holding back a smile as he stepped closer, further closing the distance between you. “And your attitude is the only thing sharper than your tongue,” he retorted.

“Well, someone has to keep you in check,” you replied with a shrug, looking at him nonchalantly.

“You? Keep me in check?” Jude shook his head incredulously. “You’re adorable when you try to dominate a conversation, you know that?”

That word, adorable, sparked something in your eyes, and Jude noticed, amused. It was a challenge he had no intention of losing. But you weren’t the type to let him have the upper hand.

His smile grew wider as he stepped closer to you, each step bringing him nearer. The distance between you was closing, and you could feel his warm breath brush against your skin. Jude wasn’t trying to hide his interest anymore, but he did it in that arrogant way that both annoyed and intrigued you.

“You’re always so hard to read,” he said in a lower voice, almost like he was whispering a secret just for you. “I don’t know if you like me, or if you’re just having fun making me lose my mind.”

You shrugged lightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips, but your gaze remained intense. “Maybe a bit of both,” you replied, “But I think you’re losing it more over your wounded pride than over me.”

Jude laughed again, but this time, it was less playful and more charged with something else. A game. A challenge. Without saying anything else, he got even closer, and with a sudden movement, ran his fingers through a strand of your hair, watching you intently as if that was the only way to truly understand you.

His eyes locked with yours, as if he wanted to read every thought passing through your mind. It was a casual movement, but you could feel the growing tension, and his gaze no longer slid over you like usual. He was studying you, savoring every moment of your reaction.

He looked at you again, this time without a trace of sarcasm. “Don’t you think I could make you do anything, if I wanted to?” he whispered.

His tone sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t back away. “Maybe,” you answered with a mischievous smile, “But I doubt you could keep me under control.”

He took another step closer, his body almost touching yours, and the air between you seemed more electric than ever. The challenge was now open, and Jude seemed ready to face it, but you had no intention of giving in easily.

“I like the way you think,” he said, his challenging smile not fading, “But let’s see if you’re just as good at not giving in… under pressure.”

Your mischievous smile left no doubt about your intentions. Your hand slowly slid over his chest, moving across the muscular lines of his abs, and you could feel his breath become heavier, his eyes changing expression, growing more intense and full of desire.

Jude was about to lose control, his grip slipping, but you knew. You could feel it in the tension of his body, in his hands ready to take you, but you had no intention of giving in so easily. In a moment, without warning, you gently pushed him back, making him step back with a firm move. Jude stood there, surprised, with short breath and his heart pounding in his chest.

"Not today," you whispered with an ironic smile, before turning and walking away, leaving him there, watching you as you left.

His friends, who had been watching the scene from afar, couldn't help but laugh. Vinicius shook his head, amused, while Mbappé chuckled softly. Rodrygo, with a mischievous grin, approached Jude, who still seemed to be in shock.

"She just put jude in his place," Vinicius said, laughing.

Jude stayed silent for a moment, then turned to his friends with a forced smile. "It’s not over," he murmured, as if making a promise, though he wasn’t sure what would happen next after that scene.

But one thing was clear: the challenge had only just begun.

[revelboo]

Ignore me-Not Transformers, I just like the angry boi and a friend reminded me of the Transformers/Overwatch crossover and that he was paired with Megs for it. Love his design and the Omnics in general, but so, so incredibly awful at this game. Also, title’s not a Motion City Soundtrack song

Anti-Gravity

Ramattra x Reader

• Heart racing, you run headlong down the street. Hearing the explosions and trying to guess how many streets over they are. You don’t even know where you’re going, just following the people in front of you. When they reach the intersection and start screaming and scattering, you’re shoved down by the panicked people ahead of you. Falling at the feet of an Omnic taller than any you’ve ever seen, seeing its head tip, ribbons on its head sliding against its shoulders. Unable to move as Nullifiers storm the street in a violent tide around him. And his arm lifts, a staff in his hands as you hear the scream of jets overhead.

• They scatter like insects before him and his followers, screaming in fear. Knows they think he’s a monster for what he’s doing, even though they’re the ones that drove him to this. He never wanted any of this, trying again and again for peace only to see his people cut down. Because to them, the Omnics are expendable. Things that can be used and thrown away, not living beings. But not anymore. Never again ignored, because he will be seen and heard.

• That head turns and you catch the faint glow of optics under that mask as the biggest Omnic sees you on the ground, time seeming to slow as his head turns away dismissing you, those ribbon like strands on his head stirring in the breeze as the jets turn. They wouldn’t dare attack, they have to know there’s civilians down here with those monsters. You want to believe that so bad, but when the first missile is launched, you’re frozen but not surprised. Not really. Null Sector makes the news all the time, its leader thwarting attacks repeatedly. Always slipping away before he can be brought down.

• Growling, his arm lifts and a barrier shield flickers to life as the first missile hits. They’re really desperate enough to not care about collateral damage like the human sprawled at his feet or the ones still running just to try and end him. His Nullifiers turning and returning fire as another missile hits a building overlooking the street. Seeing the damage, seeing the building lean over them all. Any cost to stop him, then. Because now they see him. Fear him. Swapping to nemesis form, he bends, dragging the human out of his way and slamming his fists down. Again. Street buckling under the force, aware of the building coming down as he falls and the human screaming as they go with him. Rending pain. And the building crashes down, entombing him in darkness. But they’d seen him.

• Something wet drips in your face, and everything hurts as you come to by degrees. Wherever you are is cold, dark, and wet. Shafts of light spearing down from above, dust dancing in the golden glow. Pain slices through you when you try to move, trying to remember details. The building came down on you, so how had you survived? You remember the tall Omnic getting bigger, looking at you and raising his fists. Falling. You’re below the street? Gingerly sitting up, you try to figure out how badly you’re hurt. And there, a flicker in the dark. That Omnic, the one you’d seen on the news. Ramattra, Null Sector’s leader. He’s right there, unmoving. One of his legs pinned under debris, an arm torn completely off. Much worse off than you are, though shifting sends a jagged lance of pain through your ankle. There’s a broken rebar near you and you reach for it without thinking, the metal bitingly cold against your palm. As cold as the realization that you could end this. Drive this twisted spike of metal through his head and the fear disappears. Optics flickering behind the broken mask, its head turns to stare at you. And snared by those awful optics, you drag yourself to your feet.

Next

[aziraphales-library]

Hi, hello! I remember seeing this really good one but I can't find it, if yall can turn the description to the public to take a look I'd seriously appreciate it!

Fair warning it's nsfw

It was, like, I think it counts as a pollen fic, technically? Crowley was cursed with an Asmodeus amulet of some kind (I believe the Metatron was the one to do it), and the curse was that if the afflicted individual engaged in lustful acts, they would die. But until then, they'd be consumed by an almost debilitating feeling in their body.

The only way to break it is, like, to sleep with someone whom they genuinely love, and who genuinely loves them back.

Crowley is too consumed by the pain of the curse, and is willing to die to get it to end. So he seeks out aziraphale practically and begs him to hook up. He knows it would kill him, because surely there's no way Aziraphale would love him back, but he can't take it anymore.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, stubbornly refuses. He thinks he's being selfish in doing so, because he doesn't want to lose Crowley. He's well aware of the type of curse this is, but according to his knowledge, demons can't feel love. To be with Crowley would mean his destruction, and Aziraphale can't even imagine it.

After stubborn argument from both parties, they confess their love for one another, and in utter relief, break the curse together.

I'm gonna make it an anon post so that it's not my main, but if anyone knows what it is you can reach my alt @dinoace-reblogs . If anyone can help me out please, I'd be super grateful! Have a lovely day :]

I believe you're looking for...

We Only Said Goodbye with Words, I Died A Hundred Times by ras_elased (E)

Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush pink. “Yes. Well. It appears to be a curse for a cheating lover. The design is to create an ever-increasing obsessive need for the person who—” “I’m well aware of what it does,” Crowley interrupted. Aziraphale glanced up from the book and took in Crowley’s stance, the apparent lax posture belied by the way he was clutching the edge of the countertop with white knuckles. Aziraphale swallowed. “Is it…” Aziraphale faltered, then tried again. “Is it…” painful is how he told himself he wanted to finish the question. There was no other possible word to end that question that Aziraphale wanted to know. “Don’t play dumb, angel. It doesn’t suit you.” Crowley’s voice was low, an edge of something to it that Aziraphale hadn’t heard since the Tadfield airbase, the moment Crowley was ready to give up and accept the apocalypse. He met Aziraphale’s eyes. “You know who I want.”

- Mod D

[hyperions-light]

A home in life, a berth in death, a house of many mansions: the Necropolis fucks

Before the game came out the Necropolis was one of the top five places I was hoping they would let us visit in Thedas and I'm so thrilled it did not disappoint! The architecture, the atmosphere is impeccable, the reactivity everywhere (cleansing the Vault of the Beloved, the secret room that appears, the skeleton workers that begin cleaning different areas as the game progresses), the detail in everything. Did you know that in the room where you get the codex entry about the flesh-eating beetles, you can look down and see them running across the floor? Love it!

But the environment itself is only an aspect of what makes the Necropolis so much fun; the insight we finally get into Nevarran culture is possibly the most important thing that comes out of it. The only Nevarran we've really met before was Cassie (love her, she was not very informative, though), so to actually get to meet people who serve as stewards to one of the most sacred cultural rites is incredible and exactly what I wanted from this game. I loved discovering their unique perspective on magic, and how they handle their Templar Order.

It's also a fascinating lore point to discover that Emmrich can speak to the dead; we've never actually encountered a REAL ghost in DA, I don't think. There have been things which appeared to be pieces of once-living people, but it could always be explained by 1) weird magic causing them to live past their normal lifespan 2) a spirit acting as a dead person. Emmrich makes a distinction between speaking with real dead people and imbuing a once-living body/articulated skeleton with a spirit. This is so cool and interesting! And they've been doing this consistently and regularly, to talk to the late King Markus! All the magic applications in this game make the South seem so boring lol (but that's for another post).

And I love that the Necropolis itself is considered alive by the Watchers! It moves and rearranges its own configuration in accordance with some sort of unknown will; is it partially built inside the Fade? Is it imbued with magical energies, like Arlathan was? How old is it? Is the reason it functions this way because it's so old that it predates the separation of the Fade from the material world, or is it just that the Veil is thin there? Are the Lichlords the ones directing the Necropolis? How? So many interesting implications and questions brought up by just the building itself!

I think my favorite thing about the Necropolis and the Watchers, though, is how they present death. Most of the cultures that we've encountered so far in Thedas view death as a universally negative thing, but the Nevarrans celebrate its place in the cycle of existence. In the gardens, which are such a beautiful, peaceful location, there's a puzzle you can do where you have to turn on a series of meditation bells in a specific order to get into a treasure room; when you put together the poetry accompanying each bell in the correctly, they describe (metaphorically) the movement of a person through life and into death. It's such a gorgeous little detail, and I love the way the Necropolis is designed to encourage the player to think about death (it also folds in so neatly to Emmrich's personal plotline!), especially since it is so integral to the game as a whole (yet another different post).

Visiting Blackthorne Manor and picking up mementos in the Necropolis shows that, this death positivity is, in fact, a pervasive cultural attitude. Nevarrans believe that they have a duty to each other that persists after they die; that the body can keep being useful; that the living should honor the dead. It's such an interesting perspective that was missing from the DA series; people die all the time, and, of course, it's intended to make the player sad, but DA has never seriously discussed death, its implications, what it truly means or how it affects those left behind. They've never really made you sit and look at it as the player. There are some sad lines after Leandra dies in DA2, but it's mostly in the narrative to give Hawke a reason to hate blood magic and stuff. There's no funeral. There's a few lines from Gamlen, Hawke, and your companions, and then the game moves on. It's always like that; the game gives you a moment to be sad, and then it moves on. There's no mourning. But this game is partially about mourning! It's about people being gone, and it being too late; it insists you look at death and deal with it, and the Necropolis is the epitome of this.

The game asks the question over and over what you think the characters should do in response to their own losses, and the Necropolis represents are really interesting, nuanced, answer to that question. They're not gone; they're right there. They're still with you. You can go and visit them and celebrate who they were in a place that honors and cares for them, still. It's so beautiful and interesting and full of love, for the living and the dead.

I didn't even talk about Emmrich's plotline or the class differences in the Necropolis, or how everyone there is a weird goth nerd and I love it so much, but I think that's really the important point: the symbiosis. The living; the dead; the spirits; the corporeal, all finding a way to be together.

[weltraum-vaquero]

i was scrolling through pinterest and i came across a prompt: “i can’t focus with your damn hand on my— ooh..” i IMMEDIATELY thought of jayce 🫢 can i request sumn like that? i love your work so much 😭😭

Hi anon, this prompt drove me insane. Thank you so much!

Play (dirty)

Jayce Talis x GN Reader

Summary: A fancy play at the Piltover Opera is a good excuse as any to deck out. And an even better excuse to have some fun with your partner.

Word count: 2.5k

MDNI. Mature content under the cut.

Tags: Sub Jayce, slight exhibitionism, dry handjobs, heavy petting, alcohol consumption

Jayce could never stand still. There’s something in him that’s constant, restless, relentless. Always the type to fiddle, to twirl his pen between his fingers, to scratch at his own scruff in thought, to chew the inside of his cheek, to bounce his leg. His mind is a hyperactive, brilliant thing; equal parts blessing and curse.

He does it now, too — bouncing his leg, that is, under the fine silk of his prettiest burgundy slacks (his ass, though nothing to write home about, never failed to look tremendous in those. Something about the thin, generously revealing material seaming to the humble curve of his ass in a salacious display). Jayce taps his fingers on the sturdy oakwood of the theatre chair as he stares at the still lowered curtain, crosses his legs, sighs, uncrosses them, bounces his leg again.

It’s the final stretch of the second intermission, though the play isn’t particularly doing it for you, mainly because you’ve seen this exact rendition before, with Jayce at your side. Just… not from up here: an opulently designed balcony, all to yourselves, just shy of the stage. Generous courtesy of Salo for a favor taken rather than given from Jayce, a situation that’s been stressing him out something fierce these past few weeks. You digress. That’s not what matters anymore — he’s earned a break. He’s earned something good.

It’s a lovely opportunity to spend some time with him outside of the confines of his lab or your shared home, which is growing increasingly rare. It’s a lovely opportunity to put on your shiniest clothes and make a pretty sight for one another.

Undeniably, that’s been the best aspect of it. Jayce has been sneaking looks at you the whole time — perhaps bored with the play, perhaps too enticed with you. And you can’t exactly blame him, because you’re not doing much better either. 

How are you meant to do anything when you have a much more captivating sight to take in, sitting tensely in the chair next to yours?

A dark shirt that hugs the proud swell of his chest just right (certainly something to write home about), a pretty burgundy jacket just the same warm colour as the fruity merlot he’s finished sipping on, lingering on his plump lips. Silk curling at the seams, stretching under the heft of his now thicker thighs as they rest on the seat, tie loosened just so, and he’s good enough to eat. 

You lay a warm hand on the inside of his leg, and Jayce, as he always does, yields. Less on thought, more on instinct, always so eager, before he turns to look at you with a question in amber eyes gone chocolatey dark in the low light of the room.

“Hm?” 

His cologne hits you in a peppery-sweet, floral wave as he leans in, leans closer, and gives you the attention you’re so clearly demanding.

“Should I get us more wine?” You make feeble conversation, more eager to hear his voice than his thoughts. He’s been sharing most of them in whispers throughout the play so far as is. 

Jayce shakes his head, flashes a conspiratorial, boyish little smirk. “If I have any more, I might um,” he breaks out in a short, clearly tipsy giggle, “do something I really shouldn’t be doing up here.”

His hand finds yours, pinkies twining together in a near juvenile but vulnerable display of his affection, a plea for affection. And, oh, his eyes, though his pupils are blown wide, glitter mischievously like a cat’s about to pounce. Two can play that game… 

“Mm. That would be a terrible look on you,” you emptily agree. “Think of the headlines… Man of Progress caught moaning during Winter Solstice play, Man of Progress bent over the railing on the opera’s most lavish balcony…”

Jayce nods, a little drunkenly. Leans in for a kiss before he breathes: “Terrible.”

You let him have it — how could you not? Let him sloppily lick at your mouth like an overeager puppy for a long, dizzying, smooth-merlot attempt at a kiss. He smiles into it, as if in thanks.

Before you give a gentle little push at the plush swell of his chest with your other hand, pacing him, pulling away to leave him in a dazed little stupor. His breath hits your now slick lips in a warm, wet brush.

“Intermission’s about to end.” You pat his thigh less sensually, more like you’d pat an obedient dog for a trick well done. “Better keep quiet and focus on the third act.”

It looks like it pains him to settle back into his velvet seat, so you leave your hand on the top of his now still thigh — a reminder, a promise. It keeps Jayce on his toes more than the narrative unfolding before you does. Well worked sinew draws so tight you can feel it vibrate even under the soft layer of plush fat on his thighs, and as the action in the play begins to find its inevitable build, you find your hand wandering. 

Just to the inside of his thigh, first, where he’s softer, which he gladly offers up to you. Fingers draw patterns more intricate than the paisley on his vest, until poor, tormented Jayce begins to shift in his velvet seat. Tilts his hips this way, then that, then readjusts his whole frame in the seat with an awkward clear of his throat when it creaks.

The rich tones of a singular violin crescendos in sync with the dip of your hand further, up, up, until you reach that tense tendon on the inside of his leg, where his thigh seams to his hip.

And further inwards, his straining cock nudges the back of your knuckles through the silk of his pants. Jayce jumps with the contact… Poor, poor thing.

“Aw, Jayce...” It’s both pity and reprimand, a whisper so low he can barely hear it. The flesh of his thigh spills from between squeezing fingers; it has him lowering his head in shame and trying to breathe through it. If not for the sacred quiet of the imposing room, for the performers playing their instruments as deftly as you’re about to play him, he would have at the very least whined for it. A low, pleading, dog-like sound.

Instead, he shoots you a look. Desperate and dazed and wide-eyed all at once in the dark of the room, before it turns into a kind of anger that does not and will not bite. Nibbles on you like an angry puppy, more like.

“How d-do you expect me to focus when your damn hand is—“ and you give him what he wants, “o-oh.”

Grabbing a handful of the straining outline of his dick through his pants, rubbing just once, from the wet patch on the tip to as far down as the silk allows.

“Better?” You ask.

Jayce breathes a terrified, shivering sigh.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“I can stop,” you remind. He knows it to be the truth intimately; though he aches to please to a fault, Jayce has learned a thing or two about respecting his own boundaries by now. You trust that if he needs you to, he will give you the word.

“Don’t.” Armrests gripped so tight they could splinter, eager hips raise off the theatre seat to chase your hand until your palm cradles his leaky tip once more. Wide eyes flutter closed and cherry slick lips part in a muted expression of bliss.

“Then don’t make a mess,” you breathe into his ear. “And keep quiet. Can you do that, baby?”

Jayce nods desperately, and does a surprisingly great job at swallowing another moan as you twirl your fingertips around what should be the crown of his cock, silk gliding under your hand akin to well oiled skin. He lets it happen gladly, spreads his legs in welcoming especially when you reach further down, until the dainty weight of his balls sits cupped in the groove of your palm. There, you linger, simply holding him where he’s most sensitive, unmoving.

Jayce exhales shakily, baby doe eyes flicking between you and the hand between his legs in questioning, in hope. The soft, still cradle of your palm turns greedy as you feel him up, fingertips curling around the heft of his bulge, his cock pressing into your hand. All of him trembles with how he stifles a gasp into the back of his fist.

You simply knead at him idly, the way a satisfied cat would as it purrs, and make a show of diverting your attention back to the play you couldn’t care less about. It gets him off, in some capacity, to be touched but not paid attention to. It had made him soil his pants so quick, once, simply letting him have his pleasure against your thigh while you were busy with a book, and it’s a technique you employ on occasion since. Coupled with the fact that Jayce, touchy and needy as he is, hasn’t gotten much chance at release lately, you know for certain he will find it now, and fast. 

The glossy silk has gone sticky wet at the very tip of his dick, so much so it even leaves your hand damp after an indulgent squeeze at it. Below, horns blare with the oncoming climax of the play, music daunting in its grandeur even from up so high. In spute of such an enticing distraction at hand, you can’t help but marvel at them as you palm Jayce’s cock. And you recognize the melody the very next moment, the thrill of hearing it for the very first time; just as you know the end Jayce is approaching with intimate familiarity, so do you remember the next part of the play. 

It will go quiet for a long, breathtaking moment to draw the audience to the edge of their seats, the calm before the storm — and Jayce, judging by the sweat on his brow, the way he almost tears into the back of his fist with his canines, Jayce will not, cannot be quiet.

The realization must hit him at the same time as it hits you, because his free hand grabs yours in a death grip, a decidedly desperate attempt at halting the inevitable. 

“S-stop,” he whispers, his lips meeting on the p just moments before the entire orchestra quiets. 

You can hear every bated inhale in the grandiose room — but none of them as sweet as Jayce’s. The whole room buzzes, alight with the anticipation of the audience. 

Jayce squeezes your hand vehemently, like the weight of his barely contained orgasm threatens to crush him. His thighs clench around your hand, his body curls, he exhales in a silent cry, before he presses his hand to his lips so hard it makes you wince. You lean in close enough to be able to hear his thoughts, let him hide his face in the fabric on your shoulder.

“Breathe,” you coo at him like he’s in pain, stroking your thumb up, then down the aching outline of his cock. It makes his hips jump. “Once the music starts again, I’ll take care of you.”

You can feel him nod his head against your shoulder, can feel his grip slacken, can hear the tension in the room crackling like lightning when a violin starts a short-lived solo that is soon joined by the rest of the orchestra in a tsunami.

Jayce lets go of your hand, spreads his legs as if to offer himself up on a silver platter to you — full, complete trust. You slip the buttons of his pants out of their eyelets fast, aided by the near oily slipperiness of the fabric, the press of his cock, which have the front flap popping open the rest of the way.

Your hand slides down the bump of his soft, fuzzy tummy, into his pants, his underwear, easily, because it’s warm, familiar territory. Cradling all he’s worth in your hand, you scoop both his cock and his balls from the confines of the silk, laying them out vulnerable and exposed to the cold air.

It forces a gasp from Jayce, fortunately lost to the music, instinctually going to cover himself with both hands at the sensation and the prospect of being at the mercy of such a grand, full room.

“I’ve got you,” you remind him. Deft hands reach for his breast pocket, stealing away his handkerchief from him. Even dazed like this, Jayce understands your intention easily, and wins another battle against his instincts as he lets his hands fall away from where they’re cupped over himself protectively. One hand fists the silk of his pants, and the other wraps around your forearm not in guidance, but in seeking, of your presence, of you, grounding himself.

Jayce goes perfectly still as you stroke his dry cock, from root to swollen tip. It can’t be satisfying, you know so by just the feel of your hand around him, the way his foreskin drags with the grip you have on him, up, over his leaky cockhead, then down, exposing him where he’s most sensitive. It can’t be good, but it’s enough, because Jayce whines, quiet and half-terrified as he hides his face against your shoulder, before he goes rigid with your next upward stroke. 

And you do that thing he likes so much — his tip’s smeared in enough of his precum to facilitate an overstimulating twist of your palm around just the ruddiness of his crown. His mouth falls open in a silent wail.

Jayce is so easy. Shoots his load into the handkerchief you bring up to his cock just in time, lets you milk all his overwhelming orgasm’s worth into the fabric until he can’t help but clench his thighs around your still moving hand. Trembles in time with his twitching cock as you wipe the strings of cum off his sticky, swollen cockhead and stuff the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.

The orchestra quiets once more, for good this time, and the audience’s applause roars. There won’t be much time until the lights come on, so you make quick work of tucking him back into his pants, and once Jayce regains some of his mental footing, he helps you button them back up.

Just in time — the lights blind you, but not as much as he does. Sitting low in his seat, slick with sweat, disheveled in his best clothes, and smiling at you so wide and dopey he shines, Jayce is brighter than any light, any sun. His chest rises and falls at a fierce, breakneck pace as he catches his breath.

You lean in to grant him a well deserved kiss to the cheek, one he chases with his mouth instead, and smiles into when you lick what remains of the by now long dried merlot from the ridges of his lips.

It makes him smile wider, a blush that matches his suit perfectly blooms on his cheeks. He takes the hand you’d stroked him with, intertwines your fingers like the lovesick fool that he is. You squeeze back, like the lovesick fool that you are, and can’t help but gaze into his eyes even as the eager applause slowly fizzles out.

“They clapped for the wrong performance,” you whisper to him. “You were far more glorious than any play.”

[witchtwig]

Costuming, Connections, and Constructing Meaning Agatha All Along Thoughts

This isn’t an essay. This is just rambling and plucking at the threads of thoughts I’ve had since the end of Agatha. Also apologies for the fact this is all over the place. I just really wanted to start sorting out some of the visual signifiers I was fixated on when looking at the Agatha All Along designs.

The costuming design, art, and choices made on Agatha All Along are phenomenal. And it is clear from just reading through Daniel Selon’s instagram how much thought and effort went into the work of making those looks stand out as strong as they did. In particular, I have been fascinated by two looks of Agatha’s—her witch’s look (first introduced in Wandavision) and her spirit’s look. In particular, I want to consider them through the lens of what they say about Agatha and potentially where she is going, but also, hypothetically, her relationship to the original Green Witch, Death, Rio Vidal. 

Agatha Harkness, Wandavision

As noted above, Agatha’s witch look was first seen in Wandavision. This is important in the context of Rio, because as a character she had not been introduced or even conceptualized yet. Despite that, I do think there are some interesting design choices on the costume that with the introduction of Rio, can be reanalyzed through that relationship (and to Nicholas, Agatha’s (and likely Rio’s) son). Specifically if we look at the neckline/chest design of the piece—there is a fascinating embroidery work. Tendrils of vines or roots mask off her chest, reminiscent of a scar. This is where her locket with Nicholas’s hair centrally sits (which, in episode 8, has fallen off and not worn during her battle with Rio). 

During episode 9, we see Agatha create a cairn over the burial of her son Nicholas. In this moment, she sings through tears that she “buried my own heart here with you, my child.” A central point of Agatha Harkness’ character throughout her journey in Agatha All Along, is that she is closed off to the point of using deceit to manipulate and obscure attempts to know or truly see her. And to turn back to the costume—this design work indicates the hidden nature of her heart. 

We can look too, beyond her witch’s costume, to her costuming within the fourth episode during the fire trial. Agatha’s heart is momentarily exposed, but she closes it off and hides it, specifically when her ex-lover, Rio, attempts to create a floor with her. It is interesting then to note that Rio has her heart on full display that entire conversation. 

Rio Vidal and Agatha Harkness, Agatha All Along episode 4

And to go further, we can also note that Rio’s costuming as Death in episode 8, quite literally exposes her obsidian heart. Where Agatha’s heart is hidden (scarred over, perhaps), Rio’s heart is on full display. Looking back at Rio’s episode 1 appearance near the end, she declares that her heart is black and beats for (you) Agatha.

Rio Vidal as Death, Agatha All Along episode 8

This is the fundamental crux of the struggle between these two characters in full display in the design choices of their costuming. Agatha’s heart is no longer on display or truly reachable (it has been buried, by Nicholas’ death, by Rio’s existence as death), versus Rio’s heart on constant display (open and yearning). To me, this is what makes the costuming and design choices of Agatha’s outfit as a spirit in episode 9 very interesting, because it suggests a shift, an evolution of her character (that may not have come into view fully yet, but can be explored moving forward).

Agatha Harkness, ghost costume behind the scenes

Agatha’s costume as a spirit has shifted from the closed, vine-covered design, to a more open space. Through death, through Death, accepting her lover, Agatha has found herself at a new point within her existence. One that allows light in, one where her closed off heart is no longer hidden under the weight, vines, and scarring of the loss of her son (and I would argue the trauma of her struggle to accept and feel comfortable in her love of Rio). 

The costuming change between her witch’s outfit and her ghost outfit also has a shift in the overall patterning of the upper portion of the design. As a spirit, the bodice now has an intricate line pattern, which could be argued to be reminiscent of Rio’s branching patterns.

Agatha and Rio's looks side by side

Daniel Selon noted on his Instagram the ghost design for Agatha that the costume’s letting in of light was her letting go of the weight of those she had taken the lives of over the years, I think too it more importantly could indicate the potential for her to begin to actually emotionally connect again with her heart no longer hidden. And if we look to the fact she both pointed out that she did not kiss Rio for Billy’s sake (further pushed by Jac Schaffer in an interview), and the fact she noted it was not Billy who released her from the hex (he merely loosened the lid), on top of her understanding that “sometimes… boys die”—this all could allow for her and Rio to reunite in the future on better footing. 

This of course hinges on the fact Agatha does begin to do some of the emotional work on herself that she has been avoiding, by helping Billy and giving herself the thing she felt she lost when she lost Nicholas. But the possibility for her to do that work is now there. She took a step in no longer denying her own emotions through her kiss with Rio, and has the possibility to work through her grief more fully through Billy. 

It should also be noted again that by and large, Agatha is not a very communicative person when it comes to her emotions. This is even more so true when acknowledging her feelings around Nicholas and Rio. She only calls Rio by her name once throughout the show, and not even to her face. She never divulges the truth of what happened to Nicholas to Billy, despite the youth seeking that knowledge. So, it is important then for her to wear visual markers of both on her, even where she will not voice their story—she is wrapped up in them all the same, still. 

It will be interesting to see where these characters go from here, because it is doubtful this is the last of any of them. And either way, symbolically, I think there is a lot of positive potential, tucked away into the costuming and design choices. Thanks for reading my weird little ramble!  

[zhouzouzhouzou]

In case I can’t finish drawing the entire story, I’m providing some background details and a rough outline of the plot in text form. This is directly copied from messages I previously sent to someone in a private conversation.

I’ve been reading Jedi Apprentice recently and noticed that Obi-Wan has an intense obsession with becoming a Jedi, to the point where he was willing to give up his life once he believed he could never achieve that goal. For a thirteen-year-old Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon Jinn represented the lofty ideals of being a Jedi. As a result, Obi-Wan likely developed a special fascination—perhaps even an infatuation—with Qui-Gon. He sacrificed so much to become Qui-Gon’s apprentice, yet Qui-Gon was willing to defy the Jedi Council to train Anakin Skywalker as his Padawan, based solely on an unproven prophecy. This even happened before Obi-Wan had completed his own training. Later, Qui-Gon’s death dealt Obi-Wan a severe blow. At the same time, during his years as an apprentice, Obi-Wan may have realized that the Jedi Order wasn’t as great or sacred as he had imagined in his childhood. In fact, on some planets, the Jedi were even seen as symbols of chaos. This led to cracks forming in Obi-Wan’s faith, and Qui-Gon’s death—representing the shattering of Obi-Wan’s idealized view of the Jedi—became the true spark that drove him toward the dark side.

He resented the Chosen One prophecy. He also hated Anakin.

Young Obi-Wan didn’t realize that Anakin wasn’t the root of the problem. He failed to understand that his negative emotions stemmed from his crumbling faith in the Jedi Order. However, pain always needs a target, an outlet, and unfortunately, Anakin bore the brunt of it. Obi-Wan was still young at the time and couldn’t fully conceal his emotions, which allowed Anakin to sense that “Obi-Wan doesn’t really want to be my master.”

Another reason Obi-Wan despised the prophecy was that, if a Chosen One could save the entire galaxy, then it essentially dismissed the sacrifices and contributions of other Jedi. What did the Masters who died on missions count for? Were they less real than a baseless prophecy? Obi-Wan, already dissatisfied with the corrupted and inefficient Jedi system, came to believe that the Council was blind—or that the Jedi who believed in the Chosen One were blind.

Then, when Dooku reached out to him in the darkness, Obi-Wan accepted the gift of the dark side. It wasn’t because he enjoyed chaos or evil, but because he wanted to construct a better world using more efficient methods—methods forbidden by the Jedi Code. In Obi-Wan’s eyes, the world was never black and white; at the very least, the line between them was never clear. Can you really call someone evil if they use immoral means to accomplish good deeds? As a Sith, Obi-Wan took the name Darth Sanctus, meaning “the Fallen Saint.” This philosophy might have been somewhat similar to Dooku’s, which is why, after Qui-Gon’s death, Dooku became another hidden mentor for Obi-Wan. The rest is predictable: when Anakin killed Dooku, it deeply hurt Obi-Wan and planted the seeds of his rebellion against Sidious.

With his dual identities, Obi-Wan trained Anakin while simultaneously nurturing the darkness within him. How could Obi-Wan not understand what Anakin needed? After all, he had been a young apprentice who longed for recognition and feared loss. But Obi-Wan’s goals extended beyond simply securing the Chosen One for Sidious; he wanted to destroy both Anakin and Sidious. Every complaint Anakin had about Obi-Wan’s actions—these were deliberate manipulations designed to make it easier for Sidious to seduce Anakin.

Obi-Wan may have even deliberately done things that could be misinterpreted, only to turn a blind eye to Anakin’s feelings for him. As a Council member, Obi-Wan could interact with Padmé under the guise of duty while secretly using mind tricks on her, exploiting her to deepen Anakin’s weaknesses, making him easier to control.

Every hurtful thing Obi-Wan ever did to Anakin in the movies, series, and novels can be interpreted as part of his carefully laid trap. Every step was calculated to push Anakin into the abyss. The confrontation on Mustafar was Obi-Wan’s final act as a Jedi. He could have revealed his true identity to Anakin but chose not to. Instead, he defied Sidious’ orders to have one last fight with Anakin as a form of release. Once Sidious had Vader, Obi-Wan was no longer necessary. Moreover, Obi-Wan’s “mistake” was so grave that Sidious would have killed him immediately if not for one thing: Sidious knew about Anakin’s unhealthy attachment to Obi-Wan. As long as Obi-Wan was alive, he could be used to manipulate Vader until Vader was completely under Sidious’ control.

One key point to note is that Obi-Wan was never entirely consumed by hatred. During his interactions with Anakin, he developed feelings he shouldn’t have had, but he didn’t dare accept or acknowledge them. He feared that his own weakness would destroy everything he cared about. But love and hate don’t simply disappear; these emotions tangled together until they became something utterly twisted.

———This is basically the comic’s backstory. Below is what I might draw next:

⚠️⚠️Explicit content: Includes genital modification. Do not continue if uncomfortable.⚠️⚠️———

During a mission, Obi-Wan discovered a unique lifeform on a certain planet—an insect (or microorganism) that fed on necrotic tissue. These creatures secreted a protective layer over wounds, promoting tissue and nerve regeneration. For Force-sensitive beings, the creatures could even resonate with the patient to enhance the healing process. Obi-Wan secretly studied this organism for one specific moment: when he wanted to kill Anakin yet had to keep him alive. Because Obi-Wan had kept this research hidden from Sidious, the technique was known only to him, making it impossible for Sidious to execute him immediately, no matter how furious he was.

During Anakin’s treatment, Obi-Wan ordered modifications to Anakin’s reproductive organs. His original male anatomy had been irreparably burned, so he was given a surgically crafted female vagina instead.

Since Sidious was eager to deploy Vader as quickly as possible, Anakin was pulled out of the recovery tank before he had fully healed and placed into his iconic armor. The suit functioned as a rudimentary mobile recovery chamber, still housing the organisms that facilitated his healing. However, Obi-Wan regularly removed Anakin’s armor to tend to his wounds and assist in the recovery of his female anatomy. Using vaginal dilators, Obi-Wan ensured the new organ could adapt—gradually moving from smaller to larger sizes until he could “truly possess Anakin.” All these post-surgery procedures were carried out by Obi-Wan himself, creating extended periods of time for them to be alone. As a Sith, Obi-Wan took a starkly different approach to manipulate Anakin—he gave him the love, approval, and trust he had always craved. Obi-Wan knew exactly what Anakin wanted and hated, but the timing of when to offer these became key to training him, like taming a dog. As a master manipulator, Obi-Wan’s mastery of the dark side allowed him to completely control Vader, who repeatedly failed in his attempts to kill him. Vader was entirely in Obi-Wan’s grasp.

Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t escape death, but his goal was never to die by Anakin’s hand, nor was it to sacrifice himself in vain. If the prophecy of the Chosen One was true, and the scales tipped toward darkness, the next step would be the destruction of the dark side itself. Obi-Wan’s ultimate plan was for Sidious to destroy the Empire with his own hands. After successfully “breaking in” Anakin, Obi-Wan would orchestrate his death at Sidious’ hands, knowing that Sidious’ leash on Vader would snap—and the first to be attacked would inevitably be Sidious himself.

Post-Death: Supplemental Ending

Obi-Wan didn’t truly create the utopia he envisioned. The wheels of history keep turning, and sacrifice and destruction are inevitable. Yet the Force guides its course. Like a forest consumed by flames, it will eventually regrow, vibrant and full of life. The Jedi controlled the galaxy for too long, stagnating its flow until it became a lifeless pool where Sith Lords could fester. Even without Anakin or Sidious, the Jedi Code had long lost its essence through generations of tradition. Its fall was inevitable. As the ancient Chinese text Tao Te Ching states: “道可道，非常道；名可名，非常名（The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name.）” This implies that truths lose their purity when they are spoken or named. Similarly, the essence of the Jedi was eroded over time. Perhaps it was better to dismantle the Order and let the Force guide the galaxy’s evolution naturally. Life always finds its way; excessive intervention is the real destroyer. This might feel a bit scattered since I haven’t thought it through in detail yet—just some overarching ideas before bed.

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞-𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐡!𝐎𝐛𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐧(𝐎𝐀)(1/2)

This is my first attempt at making a comic—it’s just a prologue for now. If I have the time, I’ll try to keep going, but I’m not sure I can see it through to the end! It’s been super tough as a beginner, so please go easy on my messy dialogue and paneling!

[idolomantises]

Have you watched Murder Drones, and if so what’s your opinion on it?

Also your art is great, keep it up.

Thank you!

And uh. Man. I may make an enemy out of another indie fandom because I don’t really like this show.

I actually loved the pilot and thought episodes 1-3 were incredible, if a bit too fast paced. But episode 4 was kind of a breaking point for me and I dropped off after that.

I don’t think it’s very funny. I think it relies too much on Bathos and it makes it hard to take its cast seriously. As a black comedy it mostly worked for episodes 1-3, but 4? No.

It does this thing I really despise in media where it has themes of genocide but like… heavily deprioritizes it and often portrays it like a comedy. It’s supposed to be funny when innocent characters are murdered because they’re just goofy side characters but when it’s a major character suddenly we have to care, and I don’t like that at all. The main character has a meltdown over finding out that murder drones are sent to kill her people at the end of the pilot, and then in episode 4 she’s murdering her classmates and crying because a boy she likes might think she’s weird. I actually find it pretty frustrating that the robots are portrayed as incredibly cowardly because they’re slowly dying off and scared to die and then they’re hanging out with V who casually murders random children and nobody reacts to it.

I actually do like the idea of a character who’s not reformed but is kind of forced to stick around but when I see her murder characters, traumatize children and then go “haha I just have mental problems” and everyone just… moves on, I just cannot bring myself to care. It causes such a massive dissonance and not in a fun way.

I think it’s very frustrating and unengaging when a story about people doing the right thing and trying to help others has no interest in helping those they’re trying to save.

I think the female cast is solid but I did kind of raise my eye a bit when the only major female character that was killed off was a victim of genocide while the other genocidal characters, two of which gleefully murdered her fucking parents, are just allowed to hang out with the rest of the cast. Uzi especially lost a lot of sympathy for me when she was more emotional about freaking out N than murdering her classmates. Like yeah, they weren’t the nicest to her but it’s weird to establish a character wants to end genocide and then… barely reacts when they also indulge in that genocide.

I don’t really like the characters at all. I don’t like Uzi, I found N irritating and boring (and gives me anime harem protagonist vibes), I thought V was a tryhard and I couldn’t really care for the rest of the cast. I liked Doll but lol, you know how that turned out.

It also has this problem of having an overloaded cast with very little breathing room. I really wish the show just had one, low stakes episode, so we can actually get to know these characters and collect their thoughts. It’s actually one of my concerns for TADC, because as much as I do like that show, I think “no filler” with constant story is going to make or break the show for me. It’s too fast paced and no, I don’t think it’s good that you have to rewatch an episode 4 times to understand what’s going on. I don’t watch indie shows to play where’s Waldo, information should be explained to the audience in a way that feels digestible and natural.

The animation is incredible and the stuff that came out from the finale was insane, but at times it just felt like jangling keys in my face. Like don’t pay attention to rushed story, underdeveloped characters and bizarre tonal whiplash, look at the cool fights. I dont think it does horror well either. In fact I kind of cringe a bit when characters a big wide grins and giggle evilly and it’s mean to be intimidating and it just. Doesn’t work. Feels a bit juvenile honestly.

And. This is a very personal thing. I don’t like the robot designs.