#objectively his character must look wild to other people

[spectrum-color]

We all as a fandom talk about Fitz’s trust issues and difficulty letting people get close to him, but Beloved manages to fly under the radar despite the fact that he only told one person his first name for the entire 50 year span of the story

[spider-stark]

THE BRIDGE

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Your wardship with House Blackwood was meant to bridge the chasm between your families. Years later, you return to Stone Hedge as the whispers of war spread—only for Lord Tully to call for a hunt.

Warnings - fem!reader, complicated sibling relationship, fighting, (probably excessive) mentions of blood, talks about hunting/killing wild animals, !angst!, adult language, reader def suffering from identity crisis, probably deviates from canon some, kieran burton fan cast for benji, all characters 18+

Word Count - 5.6k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

When Grover Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, sent word for each of his bannermen to send forth a handful of their finest House members to a most desolate area of the Whispering Woods, no one thought it wise to object. 

“Lord Grover is an ornery old crow,” your father, Humfrey Bracken huffed as you readied the horses. “But you would do well to earn his respect.” He clamped a hand on your brother’s shoulder, pride gleaming in his eyes as he said, “Whatever he’s planning, I want you to show him that House Bracken stands strong. Understood?” 

Keeping his chin held high, Amos hesitantly mutters, “If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her.” 

Even with your back turned, you could feel the weight of your brother’s stare, his eyes boring a hole into the back of your head. 

Your father shrugged, a disinterested gesture. “Grover said to send our best,” he said, “and when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one's a better shot than her.” 

For the next day-and-a-half, you rode at a distance from the group your father selected—your brother, Amos, and two of your male cousins. And while they laughed and jeered and yapped, you remained stuck in your own thoughts, playing your father’s words on a loop. 

It’s the only compliment he’s ever paid you. The closest he’s ever come to acknowledging you as Bracken. 

You hate him sometimes, you think. For agreeing to peace all those years ago—for sending his only daughter to ward with his rival of all people. He must have known it was futile. Must have known that one girl could never bridge such an ancient chasm. 

He must have known—and yet he sent you anyway, only to call you back years later, tearing you away from the only home you had ever known and leaving you to feel like a stranger in your House. 

Grover said to send our best. 

Are you a Bracken, then? Is blood all that determines a House? 

No one’s a better shot than her. 

But your skill is that of a Blackwood, born under their tutelage. 

Deep within the Woods, a steady mist of rain falls from the sky, leaving your skin uncomfortably damp. In the distance, a low hum of chattering voices signal that the four of you are drawing close to Lord Grover’s camp—and that the other House’s have already arrived. 

Your thoughts shift, wondering who Lord Samwell sent to represent House Blackwood—fearing that you might already know the answer. 

A strange tightness floods your chest, coiling around your lungs. 

It’s been months since you last saw the heir to Raventree Hall. Many, many months—and you can’t help but think any reunion might end in bloodshed with Amos by your side. 

As if he heard his name ring through your mind, your brother slows his horse to gentle trot beside yours, cocking a neatly groomed brow at you. “Tell me, sister—were you always this dour?” He asks, feigning intrigue. “Or did half-a-decade with the Blackwoods simply drain the joy from you?” 

You don’t pry your eyes from the path ahead, refusing to look him in the eye as he continues without waiting for an answer. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised—a mere day with those insipid cravens would have me wishing to swallow my own blade.” Removing a hand from the reins, he pantomimed the act—gripping an invisible hilt and shoving it towards his lips, letting a dramatic choke rip from his throat. 

Riding a bit ahead, your cousins chortle at his jest, shooting amused glances over their shoulders. 

“No need,” you answer without thinking, your tone impassive. “Aly would have an arrow in your eye before the day was up.” 

Your cousins fall silent. 

Amos stiffens, jaw clenched tight. “She could try.” 

You know Black Aly would try if given half the chance—and you have no doubt that she would succeed, too. She was the one who taught you how to string a bow and sharpen arrows, how to aim and never miss. 

When you don’t respond, Amos pulls his horse in closer—as close as he can get without spookings yours. “Look,” he utters, low enough that your cousins can’t overhear, “I don’t know how things were done at Raventree—but you’re home now, and you would do well to remember where your true loyalties lie.” 

Again, you don’t speak. Don’t think, either. 

Amos sighs. “Your blood runs gold, sister. You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that—and don’t bring shame upon our name. Understood?” 

Strange. 

You had seen your own blood before—more times than you can count, actually. Scars mottle your skin like stars in the sky, a reminder of the years spent training and the memories of nights spent with friends who were supposed to be enemies. 

Never once had it looked gold to you.

Only red. 

“I understand–” a pause, a breath, a heartbeat– “brother.” 

Nausea twists your stomach. The familial title curdles on your tongue even as Amos grins at you. There’s nothing affectionate about the gesture—how could there be? He doesn’t know you. Not really. 

Blood or no, you’re little more than strangers to each other—and yet, even so, you can see he’s trying. Trying to know you. 

Ahead, the camp comes into view. Banners hang above tents: white for the Mootons, blue for the Pipers, purple for the Mallisters. 

And red—for House Blackwood. 

Amos gives you one last glance, a pall mimicry of what you believe is meant to be love in his eyes. “You’re home now,” he reminds you again, as if you need to hear it,“be glad for it.” 

With the Tully’s guards now in earshot, Amos doesn’t bother with waiting for a response. He snaps the reins, urging his gelding back to the head of your group, already bellowing his greetings. You watch him go, transfixed on the yellow-gold of his tunic—identical to yours. 

Approaching the guards, you tell yourself that your brother is what home is supposed to look like. That if you were to slice your veins, gold would pour from your wrists. 

Not red. 

After checking in with the guards and tying your mare up in the makeshift paddock, there was no time left to freshen up before you were expected to join Amos and your cousins. With all the Houses now gathered, Lord Grover wasted no time in calling you all to the heart of the camp. 

Still, you try to make yourself presentable—using your fingers to comb through tangled, windswept hair and smoothing the wrinkles from your gold tunic, careful not to disturb the ornate brooch pinned above your heart. 

According to the guards, everyone was given one upon arrival. “All Houses are required to wear them,” they explained when Amos pressed them on it, “Lord Tully’s orders.” 

They were all different, it seemed. Yours was a delicate thing, fashioned from silver and pearls in the image of a blooming dahlia, while Amos’s was clunky and shaped like the sun. He’s still fumbling with it when you finally push through the small crowd, taking your place at his side. 

To your left, separated only by a group of five Frey men, you feel the wary glances being cast your way. You almost turn your head—almost glance back at them, if only to see what they might do. What he would do. 

Would he even acknowledge you? Or simply look away? 

The answer, thankfully, is one you don’t have time to learn. A servant garners attention, dragging a simple, plush chair to the group’s center. Following suit, another two servants assist the aged Lord Paramount from his tent, guiding him into his seat. On his right stands his eldest grandson—and your favorite Tully. Tall and dark-haired, Elmo looks more fearsome than he actually is, sparing you a quick, discreet wink when he spots you. 

“You may all be wondering,” Lord Grover wheezes, his lungs fighting for breath, “why I have called upon you all today—the many great Houses of our land.” 

As he speaks, old, gnarled hands punctuate his words, gesturing out to the many men gathered ‘round. His fingers shake with effort, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his many, many years. But his chin remains high, and his tone commanding—if a touch quavery. 

“I hear rumblings,” he continues, “from the South-East.” 

Lord Grover’s eyes, milky with cataracts, shift in the direction, staring blindly into the towering trees of the Whispering Woods. Beyond them, even. 

“Whispers of a great danger brewing in the Crownlands—within the King’s own court, if rumors are to be trusted.” 

Your spine turns to steel. 

Those rumors, you know, are as true as they come. Over the past several months, they had moved through the realm like a venomous serpent. Slithering from mouth to ear, hissing tales of the two factions that now divide King Viserys’s council. 

The Blacks and the Greens. 

The rightful heir and the first-born son. 

And the very reason your father had called you home. 

“War is coming,” a deep, foreboding warning, “and should it reach the Riverlands, I wish to know that we might stand united in its wrath. That we will not allow petty rivalries–” a pointed glance at your brother, and then to your left where, without looking, you know the Blackwood heir stands–“to tear us apart from within.” 

A heartbeat passes. Then another. 

The forest holds its breath. Cradles the Lord Paramount’s words in the air, weaving them around the many great Houses of the Riverlands. 

You wonder if this is what strength looks like. What it sounds like. 

You fear you already know which side of the war Lord Grover’s strength might fall—and you pray that you’re wrong. 

Placing a firm hand upon his grandfather’s shoulder, Elmo takes a step forward. “In an effort to promote civility between our Houses,” he announces in a tone that demands respect, “we have arranged for a hunt.” 

Your brow furrows. A hunt? 

“You will be divided into two person teams, working with an individual outside of your own House.” His gaze shifts to you, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “Teams have already been decided. Upon your arrival, each of you was given a pin—your partner will bear a matching one. And while there will be no winners or losers, you should know that once you leave camp, you will not be permitted to return without a trophy of some kind.” 

Discontent spreads. Low murmurs fill the air. 

Amos voices his frustration louder than the rest.  “And when is this hunt to take place?” 

Elmo grins. “Now.” 

Instantly, murmurs grow to shouts. 

“You cannot be serious, my Lord!” 

“It is already sunset!” 

“Is this a jest?” 

Elmo’s grin never wavers, unphased by the protests—and Lord Grover appears content to let his grandson contend with everyone's bickering, exhausted from what little talking he had already done. 

“Might I suggest you move quickly,” Elmo speaks over the crowd. Glancing upwards, he squints at the black clouds rolling overhead, an amused lilt to his voice as he adds, “Lest you wish to be caught in the coming storm.” 

With no more than a curt nod to the crowd, Elmo turns on his heel, already veering off in the direction of his own tent as servants begin to help Lord Grover rise. 

“This is absurd,” your brother grumbles. 

You ignore him. Storming right past him, you make a beeline for the fleeing Lord. 

“A hunt?!” 

Fond as Elmo is of you, you know better than to shout at the future Lord Paramount of the Trident. Your voice remains no more than a harsh whisper, even as you shoot daggers into the back of his head. 

“At night, no less! In the middle of a gods-damned storm! Have you lost your mind?” 

“What? You think it’s a bad idea?” He chuckles, keeping a steady pace. “Of all people, I thought that you might appreciate the challenge of it all.” 

You stay on his heels. “Who is he?” 

“Who is who?” 

Further from the crowd now, you grow bold. You reach out and snag his arm, forcing him to stop and face you. “Ignorance isn’t a good look on you, Elm.” You grind out, “Swear that you didn’t pick him to be my partner.” 

A wrinkle forms between thick brows, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that I chose your partner?” 

“Because I know you. You’re always scheming—jutting your big nose into places it very well does not belong!” 

Elmo opens his mouth—hesitates—and then frowns. “Am I truly that transparent?” 

“You may as well be made of glass, Elm.” 

His pout deepens, still dancing around your question. “Well, let's say that I did choose your partner—theoretically, of course!” Your eyes roll. “I think you would find my choice to be quite suitable. If anything, you might even thank me-” 

“This isn’t a game, Elmo!” Desperate now, you can’t stop your voice from rising. “If you paired me with him, then Amos will–” 

“Kill him?” Elmo ventures. 

“Yes!’ 

Pursing his lips, Elmo’s gaze falls somewhere over your head. “Well,” he sucks in a breath, “it seems we may be past the point of stopping that from happening.” 

Your mind goes blank, your thoughts scattering like shards of glass. 

You spin on your heel, head whirling around in search of Amos in the throng. Less than a second and you spot him—not because your gaze was drawn to the familiar gold color of your own House, but because of the wall of stark scarlet standing before him. 

Blackwoods. Two of them on either side of the Raventree heir. 

And Benji—his hands pressed to your brother's chest, roughly shoving him back into one of your cousins. 

“Do me a favor,” Elmo's sigh cuts through your panicked haze. “Keep the two of them from plunging a sword in the others’ belly, would you?” 

Any other time and you might have told Elmo off, cursed him for putting you in this position—future Lord Paramount be damned. 

But not now. Not when centuries of rivalry serve as proof that nothing is more dangerous, more unpredictable than this—

A Blackwood and a Bracken—your brother and Benji—standing toe-to-toe. 

Mindless adrenaline is all that thrusts you into motion. Mud splatters up the legs of your trousers as you practically run in their direction, demanding as soon as you’re in ear shot, “What is this?!” 

Amos doesn’t acknowledge you. Neither does Benji. 

Chests-puffed, they remain locked in their foolish staring match, neither of them willing to be the first to back down. 

Finally, one of your cousins sneers, “Seems that Benji-boy here thinks we’re gonna let him take you out into the woods.” 

A sharp, nasty laugh rips from Amos’s throat. “As if I’d let that happen!” 

“We’re partnered for the hunt, you imbecile.” Benji’s tone is that of lethal calm, even as he glares down his nose at your brother. You look to his chest—spotting the silver dahlia pinned at his breast. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Tully.” 

“You think I’m stupid, Blackwood?!” 

Benji’s brow lifts a fraction of an inch, as if silently proclaiming—I just said so, did I not? 

Scowling, Amos juts his finger against Benji’s chest. “I refuse to give a Blackwood an opportunity to defile my sister!” 

Benji’s answering grin is something wicked as he purrs, “Oh, if I wanted to defile your sister, Bracken, I could’ve done so a long time ago.” 

Your pulse pounds—caught somewhere between offense and desire as Benji’s words echo in your head. 

Both feelings fade to fear when Amos reaches for the hilt of his sword, wrenching it from the sheath at his hip. In a blink, more weapons are drawn—your cousins holding swords, the Blackwoods holding daggers. 

Not Benji, though. 

Benji doesn’t flinch, even with your brother's sword poised at his throat, ready to kill. Something flickers in his eyes—a shift that you know all too well, sending ice skittering across your bones. 

“I won’t have this,” Amos seethes. “You will find another partner—or I swear on my House that blood will be shed!” 

Benji leans closer. Let the tip of the blade dig into his flesh, a rivulet of blood rolling down his throat. 

Red. 

“Is that a threat, Bracken?” 

You can hear your brother swallow—feel his panic as if it were your own, as if it was his fear coursing through your veins. Still, his voice remains steady. “Consider it a promise, Blackwood.” 

A blink and steel was glinting before your eyes. A single breath and Amos was out-maneuvered and out-matched—the clash erupting and subsiding in one seamless heartbeat, ending with your brother's sword in Benji’s hand. 

A shuddering breath slips from your brother's lips as Benji presses the steel to his throat, a perfect mirror of the position they were in just moments ago. 

“What’s the matter, Bracken?” Benji croons sarcastically, head hilting. “Do I frighten you?” 

There’s a lull to his voice—an eerie stillness that sends a chill scuttering down your spine. 

Amos was ignorant—to pick a fight with Benji, to think he might actually win it. But he’s your brother, too—and you know that if he were to be slain right now—right here—an even larger chasm will take the place of the one you were once meant to bridge. 

“Stop.” 

The demand is no more than a breath. A soft, terrified sound. 

Yet still, it makes Benji’s focus waver. 

“Leave him.” You force yourself to speak louder. Stronger. “Now.” 

You take a step closer—a hand outstretched, reaching towards Benji. His attention shifts, settling on you. He blinks—his stormy eyes, dark with rage, finally starting to clear. 

Benji’s movements languid as he steps away from your brother. Your cousins rush to Amos’s side as he stumbles back, frantically checking the heir of Stone Hedge for any sign of injury. 

They found none. Not even a scratch upon his throat, where his own sword had just hovered. 

Benji passes you the sword—a silent conversation passing between the two of you. 

You could have killed him, you glare. 

I could have—Benji agrees with a small, self-satisfied smile—but I didn’t. 

One of your cousins, bold and stupid, steps forward. “Is that all it takes to keep you at heel, Blackwood?” He glances between the two of you, his lip curling into a sneer. “A dog and his bitch,” he taunts, “how sweet–” 

A cry rips from his throat, cutting his insult short. You expect it to be Benji, having noticed the way his fists had clenched from the moment your cousin so much as looked at you. And perhaps it would’ve been—if your brother hadn’t grabbed the fool by the scruff of his neck, yanking him backwards and shoving him to the muddy ground. 

“Say what you want of him,” Amos tells your cousin, his voice gruff, “but you will mind how you speak of her.” 

You don’t know what to make of that. Of Amos defending you. Of knowing that if he hadn’t, Benji would have. Or that, even after that, Amos doesn’t quite know how to look you in the eyes, looking to the grass and the sky and anything that isn’t you. 

You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that. 

But did he take pride in you? 

If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her. 

“What’s done is done.” With a pointed look towards Lord Grover’s tent off in the distance, you say, “Now is not the time nor the place. If you wish so badly to fight, save it for when the war begins.” 

On one side of you, Benji remains silent, watching you with a curious glint in his eye. On the other, Amos hesitates. 

“I don’t trust him,” he says. 

You wonder if he doesn’t know how to say: I’m worried about you. 

“You heard our father,” you tell him, chin high, “when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one’s a better shot.” 

Perhaps there are things you don’t know how to say, too. Like: But I do. I trust him with my life. Maybe even with yours, too. 

Begrudgingly, Benji meets your brother's gaze, fighting the urge to scowl at him. “For years, no harm befell your sister under my watch—and you have my word that none shall befall her now,” he vows. “I swear it upon the Old Gods.” 

“And the New?” 

You consider stomping on Amos’s foot. 

Ignorant. To continue pushing— 

“Fine.” Benji’s brusque answer takes you by surprise. “Upon your false Gods as well, then.” 

Amos, to his credit, argues no further, only echoing the Raventree heir. “Fine.” 

For a fleeting moment longer, they stand there, eyes locked. Amos is the first to turn—the roaring tension dissipating into a hushed hiss as him and your cousins storm off. Benji stays, even as his own men begin to back off, as if listening to a silent command to go find their own partners. 

You look at him. And he smiles—a shy, awkward thing. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, a barely perceptible pause in his speech. “At the edge of camp—you can find me whenever you’ve gathered your things.” 

You open your mouth to speak, to say something—but the words take root in your chest, leaving vines to crawl up your throat. If you speak, you worry about what might come out. Worry it won’t be as delicate as the dahlia pinned above your heart—above his, too. 

So you close your mouth. Say nothing. Nod—and turn, trying to keep your legs from shaking as you walk back to the makeshift paddock to get what you would need for the hunt. 

True to his word, you find the heir of Raventree at the edge of camp, leaning against a towering oak and using the tip of his dagger to idly pick dirt from his nails. 

You brought only what was necessary—your bow, strapped between your shoulders, and a dark-leather quiver slung over your shoulder, stocked with already-sharpened arrows. 

Light rain mists over your face, the sky groaning with a low rumble of thunder. The forest floor squelches beneath your feet as you trudge towards him. Forever on-guard, Benji wastes no time in pushing himself off the tree, adjusting the dagger in his palm so that it can be easily plunged into another's belly if necessary. 

But then he sees you, dressed in Bracken gold with damp hair sticking to your cheeks, and looses a breath. Relaxing at the sight of you—his rival, according to centuries of precedent. Your rival, too, you suppose. 

Benji doesn’t look like your rival, though. 

Sheathing his dagger at his hip, you see no trace of the lethal Lord who, mere moments ago, was willing to go head-to-head with the heir to Stone Hedge. This boy—stuffing his hands in his pockets, a light flush crawling up his throat—is not Benjicot Blackwood, the heir of Raventree Hall. 

He’s just Benji. 

“Ready to go?” He asks when you’re closer, his voice a familiar caress so unlike the eerie lull it held earlier. 

It takes everything in you to erect an icy wall around your heart, colder even than Northern winds. You shove past him, your shoulder knocking into his as you go and earning a perplexed stare. “Let’s get this over with,” you snap, plunging into the depths of the Woods and leaving him to follow behind. 

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. 

Dusk crept swiftly through the Riverlands, casting a pall shadow over the Whispering Woods. Overhead, dark clouds seem to grow thicker, obscuring what little light the moon has to offer. 

A fool’s errand. An impossible task. 

That is what Elmo Tully had arranged—not a hunt. 

With the sun hidden beyond the horizon and a near-constant rumble of thunder, any animal in these Woods would either be asleep or hiding by now, trying to escape the incoming storm. To find a trophy to bring back to camp—even something as simple as a hare—was unlikely. 

Still, knowing the guards won’t let you back in without one, you keep walking. Keep plunging further into the Woods, praying to the Gods that you might find something to take back to camp. 

Twigs snap a few paces behind you, wet foliage squelching beneath purposefully heavy steps. A low, careless whistle tests your patience. 

With your bow hanging from your hand, you grumble, “You’re being too loud.” 

Benji feigns innocence. “Am I?” 

“Yes,” you hiss through gritted teeth, never slowing your pace. “Be quiet—unless you wish to scare off any game and spend the night sleeping on wet soil.” 

He chuckles—loudly. “Have you looked up lately?” Benji asks. “The sky looks as if it’ll crack open any minute now! Any animal with sense is hiding right now, anyway.” 

True. 

“Then we find one without sense, then.” 

Benji snorts. “The only thing without sense in this forest is Amos Bracken.” 

Without warning, you stop dead in your tracks—leaving Benji to nearly stumble into you. You cast a glare over your shoulder, cold enough that a chill seeps right into his bones. “You’d do well to keep quiet, Benjicot.” 

His lip curls, revealing a flash of slightly crooked teeth. “And since when do you call me Benjicot?” He asks, a ribbon of disbelief lacing his own name. 

Your jaw tenses, a muscle feathering there. 

I don’t know, you think, a pang of uncertainty cracking the ice wall around your heart. 

You reinforce ice with steel—turning fully now so that you’re face-to-face, dropping your bow to the ground by your feet. “I won’t let you speak of him that way,” you say, ignoring his question. “My brother is the heir to Stone Hedge–” 

A bemused laugh cuts through your words. “Oh, he’s your brother now, is he?” 

You speak over him, voice rising. “To insult him is to insult the whole of House Bracken–” 

“Fuck House Bracken,” Benji growls. 

He takes a half-step closer, towering over you with no more than a foot between you. You don’t falter—don’t look away. 

“I am a Bracken."

His head tilts. “Are you? Last I checked, you were practically raised on Blackwood soil.” 

“Perhaps,” you admit. “But my wardship is over–” 

Benji cuts you off. “Tell me, where was your brother all these years, then? Your father?” He doesn’t let you answer. “No more than a brisk-fucking-walk separating you and yet neither one of them cared to visit with the forgotten daughter of Stone Hedge!” 

You’re a Bracken—

“You don’t know them,” you protest weakly, your resolve crumbling. 

—through-and-through. 

“And you do?” He challenges. Another step, his chest inches from yours. Warmth radiates from his body, seeping into yours and melting melting melting. “Why did your father call you home?” 

His words are no more than a breath fanning across your cheek. 

Vulnerability permeates your gaze, bearing an unspoken truth. Because war is coming, you convey with no more than a flicker of your lashes, and fate has already decided my role in it. 

Benji’s lips tighten to a thin line—and you would’ve thought him ashamed of you, if not for the pain glimmering in his stormy-eyes, lined with silver. “Your father,” he utters, “he will declare for Aegon Targaryen—won’t he?” 

You’re a Bracken—

You debate the merits of telling him the truth. Of betraying the plans of your house. 

—Take pride in that. 

“Aegon Targaryen is the King’s true-born son.” You speak, though you know the words are not your own. “To sit the Iron Throne is his birthright.” 

The birthright of a drunken craven. 

The betrayal of a beloved princess. 

Benji blinks. Shakes his head, his tongue darting along his lips. “He called you home to fight. Humfrey Bracken’s forgotten daughter—useful at long last.” 

Rage coils in his tone. Instinct makes your muscles tense. 

Nothing is more dangerous than this, your thoughts whisper, a Blackwood and a Bracken, toe-to-toe. 

There’s nothing dangerous about the way Benji’s looking at you, though. His gaze soft and tender, calloused hands clenched at his sides—holding himself back, you realize. Not from fighting, but from reaching out to touch something he’s not certain is his. 

“Will you do it?” Benji asks, hesitant. “Will you fight for the pretender?” 

I don’t want to, you think. 

It’s your brother's words that slip past your lips. “I have no choice. My blood runs gold, Benji—a Bracken, through-and-through.” 

His brow furrows. Then a hand shifts to the sheath at his hip, sliding his dagger free. “Give me your hand,” he orders, nodding to where they hang at your sides. 

You remember his vow to your brother—that he would let no harm befall you. Even without it, you would’ve trusted him. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

You lift your hand and, without hesitation, he grips it on his own, pinning the steel tip of his dagger against your palm. 

You hiss—hand stinging as the blade drags along your flesh, leaving a thin, shallow cut. 

“You’ve always had one foot on either side of the boundary,” Benji starts, his words rushed. Carelessly tossing the dagger to the ground, he grabs your wrist tightly, lifting your palm up towards your own face. “But your blood,” he tells you, his eyes desperate, “has always run red.” 

It drips down your wrist—a rivulet of crimson, spilling between his knuckles as he refuses to let go. Red as the color of his tunic—as the specks of blood dried on his own throat, drawn by your brother's sword. 

Gold on your back. Red in your veins. 

A Bracken by name, but… 

“It’s not too late,” Benji says, his words slow and cautious, still cradling your hand in his. “You can come back to Raventree.” Thunder rumbles. Storm-cloud eyes fall to your lips. “You can come home.” 

You think of Amos. Of your brother. You’re home now, he had said, a shadow of love in his eyes, Be glad for it. 

But home was ancient stone, crawling with moss. Home was the deep, muddy moat that you always threatened to push Benji into when he was getting on your nerves. Home was Black Aly’s voice, scolding you whenever your arms were still too weak to string a bow. 

Home was a dead weirwood tree and a boy with stormy eyes. 

But duty… 

That was something else entirely. 

Closing your hand around Benji’s, your chest fills with water as the last of the ice melts. Hard steel turns impossibly soft, your feet shuffling until your body is flush against his—still-entwined hands pinned between your chest, trapped between fabrics of gold and red. 

Benji leans down, his forehead pressing against yours. There’s nothing dangerous about him. Nothing unpredictable. 

You know him—from the crook in his nose to the scar above his lip. From the lull of his voice to the weight of his steps. His quick temper and his shy smiles. 

High above, the sky cries out. Thunder booms, lightning cracks. Misty rain turns to a violent downpour. 

And he leans in, oh-so carefully. A trembling breath against slick skin, chapped lips hovering over yours. 

“You can come home,” Benji whispers, repeating himself. You can’t think—can’t breathe, as he utters against your mouth, “Let me take you home.” 

And he kisses you. A tender, desperate kiss—the kind that drives your lips apart with the sheer force of it. He tugs his hand from yours, slips it out from between your bodies and brings it to rest on the back of your neck, tangling his fingers in damp, rain-soaked hair. 

Restraint is no more than a breath in the wind. Desire curls in your stomach. Your pulse pounds in your veins, rich with red red red. 

But then there’s your brother’s voice in your head: I don’t trust him. 

And you know what he meant was: You’re my sister—my blood, red or gold—and I’m worried about you. 

You pull away, breathless and broken, one half of your heart lying on either side of the boundary stones resting miles and miles from here. 

Lips still close enough to brush against yours, Benji pants. “Say yes.” The love in his eyes isn’t a shadow. It’s a bright, blinding light. A proud declaration and a howling plea. “Say you’ll come home.” 

You look down—to the sigil embroidered on your tunic, to the still-drying blood on your palm 

An estranged brother and a forbidden lover. 

And you. 

The bridge to a great chasm. 

The futile remedy to centuries of enmity. 

You take a step back—reaching inside of yourself, pulling shriveled vines up your throat, knowing that the words hammering in your chest will be anything but delicate. That they’ll taste of rot in your mouth. 

“I’m not sure I have a home, Benjicot.” Pain echoes across his face, each syllable a rusted dagger in his heart. Another step back, grabbing your bow from where it laid in the mud, abandoned what feels like a millennia ago. “Not anymore.” 

When you turn to leave, thunder crashing overhead and a sob caught in your throat, you go alone.

The heir to Raventree Hall doesn’t dare to follow. 

You walk in silence, your bow hanging at your side. Behind you, there are no snapping twigs and no low, careless whistling. There’s only rain and—

A branch creaks overhead, halting your steps. Your bow is drawn in a single breath, the cut on your palm stinging as you  slide an arrow from the quiver slung over your shoulder, readying to shoot. You look up, drops of rain splattering against your cheeks as you scan the trees. 

There. 

Perched on a wet, mossy limb was a pair of beady eyes staring down at you. A raven, letting out a low, curious croak. 

A single shot and you could go back to camp. 

A single shot, you tell yourself, and your blood might finally run gold. 

A breath—and then the bow string goes slack. 

You slip the arrow back into the quiver.

a/n - does any of this even make sense? idk, you tell me lmao. overall, just wanted to play around with capturing the confusion that might ensue for a reader who has no clue where their loyalties lie anymore, lost in who they are and who they think they're meant to be--anyways, hopefully the ending makes sense to you because it makes sense in my brain

anyways

benji tag list (so sorry if I missed you!) - @jacaerysgf @lenasvoid @valdezthg @xzydra11 @snixx2088 @lianna75 @kennafild @ghostinvenus @heystaystray @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @a-song-for-ages

[supercalime]

hellooo, fellow bucktommy shipper (and casual b*ddie enjoyer, if it weren't for the horrors...) here! i really liked your take on b*ddie st*ns and how they are now making super wild assumptions based on some latest interviews.

you know one thing that irks me? somehow nobody seems to talk about is the fact that in canon, buck isn't written to be in love with eddie at all. like, can we please talk about this??? because I'm all for Death Of The Author. OS can talk about ships all he wants but in the end, only the canon narrative matters to me personally. i've watched long-form content with endgame couples being set up in the pilot episodes who become canon many seasons later (bones, castle, grey's anatomy, the mentalist, etc.), and the entire point of such couples is to establish that, yes, they have been having romantic feelings all this time since day one. they do so very very obviously. there is zero subtlety or room for questioning.

one of the most common tropes is to give one or both characters (of the endgame couple) another love interest so that the endgame couple can be full of jealousy and pettiness every time that other love interest is mentioned or shown. having another love interests always endangers the original closeness of the endgame couple, and then the breakup propels the endgame couple forward in their relationship. the love interest is always used for comparisons, to make it abundantly clear that everybody else is lacking in some way. at no point in 911 did they do so with buck and eddie??? these dudes go through various romantic relationships, and never ever has it been any issue to the b*ddie dynamic. never was it talked about. never were hints dropped that one of them is jealous. even now, with bucktommy, eddie shows not a single ounce of jealously. on the other side, look at how they showed us buck being obviously jealous because eddie monopolized tommy's time even though buck wanted tommy time himself! buck couldn't stand the jealousy even a little bit, and he ended up literally hurting his bestie because of it. but whenever eddie is involved romantically and sexually with someone, there are zero signs that buck is bothered or threatened or jealous. they both seem super chill? they do not question at any point that them dating other people might hurt their relationship? logically, that must mean buck's never wanted to be romantically or sexually involved with eddie (and vice versa). at it's core, b*ddie has been written as a friendship. to this day, we have no canon proof for anything else.

i would not hate b*ddie to happen or anything. i do enjoy b*ddie fics (those that aren't super misogynist ♥). and i think it could be a great couple if done well! but as you said, even when buck thought eddie was hot... well, so what? that's literally just an objective observation. RG is handsome based on societal standards. chim and hen also immediately acknowledged that eddie was hot in 2x01, and both of them are Not At All romantically or sexually attracted to eddie either. nobody is questioning chim's or hen's sexuality based on the comments they made about eddie being hot. because nothing about this equals real romantic feelings or the desire to be in a relationship. the fandom understands that logic just fine with chim and hen. why not with buck, though? also, we have yet to see a reversed moment for eddie staring at buck and finding him hot. they had no problem to show eddie Immediately having a crush on ana flores when he first met her. this shows that eddie feels sexual attraction just fine. he was, however, never shown in canon to feel it for buck.

also interesting: even though buck found eddie hot when they first met, it did not trigger buck to seriously question his sexuality at any point in the past like, 5 years or so. in all those years of canon b*ddie friendship, the show has never used the plethora of opportunities to propel b*ddie into romantic or sexual territory. the show could have! but the show never did, so i refuse to let b*ddie st*ns or OS retcon this. if it's not in the canon material, it isn't canon. with tommy, it took only a couple of weeks and a handful of interactions for buck to reach a point of clarity about his sexuality. the most logical deduction imo is that buck simply clocked that eddie's hot (like everybody else, duh, he isn't special in that regard), and it's never meant anything deep.

my only real probem with this entire situation is how hardcore b*ddie st*ns are now using this as a justification to harass others even more (especially bucktommy shippers). i'd love to enjoy canon bucktommy and fanon b*ddie in peace! but the hate that b*ddie st*ns are spreading everywhere again (like with every new season and newly introduced love interest) is so overwhelming.

sorry for the long ass rant btw oopsie. feel free to ignore this. i just wanted to let it out and it seemed like you would understand. anyway, thanks for reading in case you got this far!

I’d never ignore a sensible take, anon! (I feel bad that you had to go anon but I understand. We know the drill by now, some stans are scary lol)

But like, ALL OF THIS!!!

Discourse like this is what takes away the enjoyment of media for me. It sucks that fandom experience can have two very extreme opposing sides, specially when it comes to two “competing” ships. You can kinda tell by how bucktommy shippers behave (I’m not trying to flex at all because I am one. A good majority of us has zero problem with b*ddie endgame even though we prefer the other. We like what we are getting and are happy to see this storyline play out) compared to b*ddie shippers (of course not all of them, I’m talking about the entitled ones. That clog comment sections, bother actors, go to the other ships tag to complain about it and say how their preferred ship is better, etc).

Im not immune to bad takes and bad fan behavior. Ive surely acted like these stans in other fandoms and i do regret it, so i hate seeing it happen again and again, no matter where i go.

Not to quote mean girls, but I wish we could all get along…

All that being said, whichever ship “wins”, it’s no one’s call but the writers and producers of the show. Someone told me that Tim writes for himself and doesn’t take outside factors (at least to an extent cause it’s impossible to not know the fan reaction) into consideration when it comes to where he wants the story to go.

[emmitaaa4]

I want to preface this little rant by saying that I am all for ship and let ship—at the end of the day none of this has any significance, and we should all get to enjoy our silly little ships to our heart’s content. Me personally I just want Elain to do whatever the hell she wants and be happy in the end. That being said, rn I just felt like getting something off my chest.

From what I have seen and understood, most of The Other Side believes that Azriel feels entitled to Elain. That he sees her as a sexual object, or at the very most as a rebound he doesn’t truly care for, nor respect; he does not think of her beyond what he can get from her sexually. They say his attitude towards her is toxic in its ‘possessiveness’; he doesn’t consider her an equal, for he sees her as a perpetual damsel in distress he must save; his attraction to her / feelings for her are a symptom of some twisted trauma response.

We know that they believe that. We’ve heard it. Over and over and over. Since 2021. Hell, everybody’s momma probably knows it, too, with the way that rhetoric is spread. But Elriels have made it plenty clear that we have a very different interpretation of the text and do NOT agree with those assessments of Azriel (nor half the things the poor man is diagnosed with, bless his fictional soul), considering what we do know of Azriel’s character and his relationship with Elain, based on the books--and yes, the bonus (see this, this, and this post). Otherwise—i.e. if we believed him an incel x fuckboy hybrid (probs the first of his kind!) who is only interested in getting her in is bed—we would obviously not be shipping them together: most of us (99% I’d say lol) care about Elain more than we do Az, or care about them both just as much.

So it is getting pretty tiring to see us shippers—the actual humans behind the screen—labelled as having a toxic/immature view of what love is, of being “too young/naive” to see the supposed red flags, of mistaking lust for love because we have not experienced a healthy relationship (?), of actually promoting toxic relationships & advocating for toxic masculinity (which someone told me on tiktok just now)(stay away from tiktok, folks). Those generalizations are wild to me, not only because they are wildly untrue and condescending, but because Elriels are a colorful bunch, you know—when you’re speaking of the fandom Villain™, you’re speaking of people of every demographic, speaking of daughters mothers grandmothers, depressed uni students (pardon the self-insert), etc... I need to get thicker skin, but those statements can get pretty hurtful in the long run. And I’m tired of feeling the need to justify myself as if we’re wrong for shipping two people who MUTUALLY want one another and lets be serious, no its not “just lust”.

I know I know, I am probably being dramatic. But it’s just weird to see a ship being so demonized and its shippers along with it, all because louder portions of the fandom disagree with our opinions and insist on toxifying ours. Just to be clear, I know that many have had unpleasant experiences/interactions with Elriels, just like many Elriels have had the same with Gwynriels and/or Eluciens. I condone none of the disgusting behaviour I’ve seen from some shippers, and in fact I abhor it. As everyone should.

To end this on a good note.

Elriels, I say we run with it. Az wants Elain for himself. He is jealous and his mind is plagued by thoughts of her. Her presence is too much to bear, for he can’t stand to be in the same room as her and pretend like he feels nothing. He is ready to beg on his knees for a chance to worship her, and it took Nesta one look to see it.

AZ IS OBSESSED AND I SAY WE EMBRACE IT.

[mrbensonmum]

TV Show - Dr. House | House M.D. XIII

THAT'S A WRAP!

We did it! Last night, the final episode of Dr. House flickered across the screen, and I must say, this rewatch was extremely enjoyable for me, partly because of writing about it. But from start to finish, there wasn't a single part that felt like a struggle, because the series is consistently good.

Cuddy is gone, Foreman is the new head of the hospital, and House is in jail. If that's not a spectacular start to a season, then I don't know what is.

But before that happens—since we still had a few episodes left from the seventh season—we see House completely out of control. First, injecting himself with experimental substances and then surgically removing the resulting tumors from his leg. After that, he tries, in his own way, to make things right with Cuddy, but it's increasingly failing. Even though I can understand some of his accusations toward her to a certain extent, what happens toward the end of the season is anything but justified.

In the eighth season, we see a very bizarre side of House, but one action hints at why he keeps resorting to such strange means. When he makes the immigration office document disappear, forcing Dominika to stay with him, he reveals something that has been subtly apparent all along—that he's incredibly lonely. Not everything can be attributed to this theme, but it does explain a lot! Especially what will happen with Wilson becomes increasingly clear.

Otherwise, Season 8 is another wild rollercoaster ride, not just in terms of the cases but also in terms of character development. During his time in prison, House meets the young doctor, Dr. Jessica Adams, whom he immediately adds to the team when he returns to Princeton-Plainsboro. There's also the suspended doctor, Dr. Chi Park, and after some initial difficulties, Taub and Chase make it back onto the team. From then on, everyone on the team faces some really tough challenges, and the worst one, towards the end of the season, comes to House himself. His best friend, what irony, is diagnosed with cancer. House has to confront many inner demons from then on and realizes that soon there will be no one left who truly understands his character and is also somewhat friendly towards him.

House tries everything to prevent Wilson's death because he doesn't want to lose this important person and also knows that his future would be uncertain without this support. But he's fighting windmills because Wilson has seen and experienced too much already to want to undergo treatment. He wants to enjoy the remaining time he has left.

I particularly liked Wilson's development because at the beginning, he's quite a thin, rather boring oncologist, and in the end, he's the tough, three-day-beard biker with a leather jacket. Especially when he's on the bike and puts on the glasses, he looks incredibly good, even though tragically plagued by cancer, just good!

What I find unfortunate, but can understand from an actress's perspective, is that we didn't see Lisa Cuddy (Lisa Edelstein) again. In the end, when House gets another beating in the burning house, he hallucinates quite a few people, and even Kutner and Stacy are there. On the other hand, Cuddy might have simply taken up too much space, especially after what happened in the last episode of the seventh season. Maybe it's for the best that she didn't show up again because otherwise, it might have felt like the focus was only on their relationship. Instead, it felt more like it was about each person and House, as well as the processing of different periods in his life or his drug addiction.

Whether there's such a thing as a perfect ending for a series, I don't know, but the ending of House comes pretty close. Of course, you're initially a bit disappointed because even though eight seasons are long and an ending can be a good thing, you don't want to let go just like that, and the inner series junkie demands more. But objectively speaking, this ending is really good because we've seen so many facets of House that it might feel forced now if there were more. We see how Adams and Park are firmly established in a team, Chase has finally found his place (I think his development is very good and how much more stable he is compared to the early seasons), and Taub embraces his role as a father. Cameron is also happy, which makes us all happy. And we also get another wonderful look at a still relatively healthy Thirteen, wonderful. Plus, there's that little nod with Foreman finding House's ID under a side table. Judging by his expression, you might think he knows House is still alive but is content that he has found his peace.

As often, I only picked out the really prominent parts from the season! The eighth season is full of interesting cases, exciting interactions with patients and the team, and a lot of new things, compared to the old seasons.

The thing between Park and Chase.

Chase being attacked and seriously injured by a patient (which is used to give him the necessary distance and make his team takeover make more sense)

Taub, who has a pretty established presence but still hasn't quite found his place in life

Foreman, who doesn't know whether he should be like House, like Cuddy, or just like Foreman as the head

What happens next? I honestly don't know yet. Yesterday, I looked around a bit and then decided on Bullet Train (2022). I still have to continue with Halo, but maybe I'll wait until the season is finished and then binge-watch everything in one evening, we'll see. But one thing I know is that I feel like watching something in the crime genre again!

[angorith-arts]

The Hidden World Was Aesthetically Disconnected from the Other HTTYD Films: an essay no one asked for

Ok ok I know this is an art blog and I’m going off the rails a bit with this but I think it must be said: HTTYD The Hidden World was not animated in the same style as the other two films, and it has bothered me for a long time. We have all talked at length about the slow but significant dog-ification of Toothless that accompanied his dying character and personality (rip wild catlike Toothless), but I want to discuss the aesthetics of the films as a whole, discounting most changes to character designs themselves (except for one at the end because the light fury is to blame for all of this actually).

But angorith, you may very well ask, how can you say the animation is worse than the previous films when we got such breathtaking scenery as the hidden world and New Berk? To that I reply, the animation isn’t worse, its just not fitting in with the rest of the films.

Let’s take, for example, the first film. The animation style was thoroughly textured and gritty (partially due to technical limitations of CGI in the early 2000s but the animators leaned into it and I think it worked in their benefit due to the fact that they were animating gritty things like dragons and Vikings), creating a stylized but believable world of outdoorsy people and wild dragons. The dragons, specifically, were beautifully and realistically textured, with rough, detailed scales that made them feel believable despite being stylized in the manner of the film. The fur textures on the characters’ clothes were rough, resembling the fur that remains on tanned hides. The wood grain is old and worn, the weapons have nicks and scratches; you can tell the animators worked hard to make everything seem realistic despite technical drawbacks. And that’s not even to mention the beauty and depth in the outdoor scenery.

The second movie continues this trend. You can tell that the textures are more lifelike and that the animation has improved- especially when looking at the hair textures and fluid character movements- but it’s still textured and not over-polished. They aren’t afraid to show wear on objects or characters, they don’t shy away from giving Stoik, Gobber, and Valka age lines, they showcase the effects of riding on the leather equipment, the scars on the human and dragon characters are clearly visible without being too in-your-face, its a stunning and beautifully made piece of animation. But, in my opinion, most importantly, the characters are distinct from their backgrounds. This is seen in both of the first two films, where the distance between characters in the foreground and the scenery in the background is distinct. When silhouetted against the sky, the characters stand out from it instead of fading in to look flat and airbrushed against the scenery. This is largely due to the lighting and shadows being strictly defined throughout the movie. It allows for distinct shapes and clear definitions of character features. I’m no expert and may be speaking a bit from nostalgia, but I think the second film has the best animation of all three.

The Hidden World breaks this mold in a way that I found detrimental to the overall style of the film. Characters like Valka, who were once so convincingly animated to look their age, look fifteen years younger and airbrushed into smooth lines. Hiccup’s freckles are less prominent despite his outdoor lifestyle, and overall, despite the beauty of the scenery and the artful composition of many of the shots, the characters don’t have as much weight to them. The beautiful backgrounds in this movie seem like they’re swallowing the characters whole instead of remaining in the background, and I attribute this to what I call ‘the airbrushing effect.’ The shadows on the characters themselves and the boundaries between characters and backgrounds in this film are blurred, which takes away that depth that was so present in the first two movies. It looks like the characters are smushed into the background at times, leaving blurred expressions and less-defined features and boundaries. This isn’t the case in every scene, but it is in many of them, and it has bothered me since I first saw the film in theaters. Some of the textures look amazing, like the armor and dragon scales, but then you look at a character’s face and they look all fuzzy and indistinct, like they’re wearing makeup and dissolving around the edges. THW follows the growing trend of overly-blended animation, which isn’t necessarily bad in and of itself, but when an aesthetic precedent is set for your movies and then the third installment breaks the established rules, it can make that film fit in poorly with the rest of the franchise in a visual manner (not to mention the story incongruities but that’s a talk for another day).

Here are some examples:

In the second film, the boundary between Astrid and the background is distinct, despite her being farther away. Her face shape is more well defined, less round and fuzzy looking. Look at the boundaries around her face and head in the third film. There’s stil a foreground and background, but she looks like she’s blended a little too much into the background. Stormfly’s horns on the left are more jagged-looking, mimicking the texture of a realistic antler or horn, while on the right they’re smoother despite being in closer view.

Similar shots from 2 and THW here, see how much more defined the lines are between hiccup and the background on the left? Even just the features of his face are less clear; the bridge of his nose looks flattened.

Similar lighting from HTTYD 1and THW. The definition here is a bit better, but look at the skin textures. Hiccup looks like he’s wearing foundation in THW. For comparison, look at him from HTTYD 1! He’s got freckles! Don’t take away his freckles!!

Moving back to Berk means Valka must have gotten ahold of some de-aging cream, right?

I can’t add any more photos but hopefully y’all get the idea.

Now the reasons behind this stylistic change surprised me, and then really pissed me off. Its’s this thing’s fault:

I read an article a while back that said that in order for the crew to be able to animate the light fury, they had to devise new animation software for the third film (if anyone can find the article that would be a huge help, I can’t remember where I found it). She simply didn’t work in the established program, so they had to create a different software to accommodate the lighting effects of her sparkles and whatnot. Since the lighting seems to be one of the things that bother me most in this movie, this causes me some (slightly irrational) frustration, and brings me back to the question of why?

Why would you integrate a character whose design is so off-base from the other characters that you had to make new software just to make it work, to the detriment of the entire look of the movie? Wouldn’t that be one of the most clear signs that the character itself does. Not. Fit. The aesthetic of the film? this pisses me off so much. I know I’m irrationally angry about a movie that came out years ago, but from a visual, storytelling, and personal standpoint, I hate the way this turned out.

I’m not saying I hate the the third movie, or that if you like it you’re wrong. There’s so much about the film that I liked, but all the positives are outweighed by my disappointment.

TL;DR: the way that the crew made the light fury not only ruined the storytelling and conclusion to the franchise, but messed with the animation style too, which to me is an unforgivable sin.

Thank you for coming to my bitchy TedTalk

[specter319]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄? (Ace Combat x CoD 141)

A/N: As a little Christmas present, I decided to work on a little something something, seeing a random anon state in @mockerycrow's Ask about fighter jets and Task Force 141 got my interest real quick, having been someone who got introduced to these two fandoms 1-2 years ago I absolutely adore the storyline in regards to Trigger and Count, but also the storyline as a whole, neatly wrapping up the reason why three strikes is called three strikes, if only a certain other game could have the same sort of stable plot- Complaints about the plot aside for those who stumble upon it have fun with this little short story that's been brewing in my head! Please enjoy the Homoeroticism of Ghost and Soap Trigger Warnings: Mention of Blood Word Count: 2.5k Words Characters: John 'Soap' MacTavish x Simon 'Ghost' Riley, mentions of Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick and Johnathan Price.

From the moment John MacTavish’s Scottish blue eyes gazed upwards into the beautiful atmosphere above him, he knew he was utterly and completely fucked. It all started with one moment in time, watching the infamous ‘Ghost’ launch one of their newly brought F-35s testing it out for another squadron, making sure all systems were in check. Watching it from the fences as the utter decimation of their ears thanks to the lack of protection were good faith to the man taking it, for what seemed to be a joy ride. And as Kyle and John stood there, seeing it hovering just mere meters above the runway, their joy was all but uncontainable in knowing just who was behind the sticks.

Conversations were the only thing that took over the engines' mighty roar as Kyle and John yelled at the inanimate object in celebration.

“Ooh yeah! Ooh yeah!” Kyle yelled out.

“Ooh, go ‘un, go ‘un” John egged right back.

And then, just as it pulled up, sure it was now at best pulling upwards of 5 gees, the men on the ground cheered.

“Go on you fuckin’ beauty!” Just as it was making its way further into the clouds, graciously curving its own form into the shape of them. 

They were ecstatic, joyful, even, at least one was, to see a man so tall, almost built like a damn statue from ancient history managing to tame a beast so wild, and wicked. And yet, knowing that it was almost second nature in that man's blood to fly it, because that bastard was the only one allowed, thanks to the great charm of the bastards in the west, to have an F-22 Raptor. The only one in the UK, belonged to a man who had no name, never showed his face to the people he didn’t know, including the two men who stood there on the grassy knoll outside of the airbase cheering him on. 

What a weird shitpot of luck that was, almost as if the gods of fate above had been watching the two men above, seeing them be so supportive of a man who never had the cheers of his fellow squad members, but instead, feared him. Tried to rebel against him, just to get a far enough away distance to stay away from a man and his, as some people called it ‘Raptor’s Ghost’.

Those that had seen it, had been lucky enough to tell the tale, at least, on the side he came back to, fellow squadron and captain, but those who had been on the receiving side of those guns as they lifted from their molded seam, only saw a wisp of a dark gray aircraft, before a fiery explosion filled their cabin.

Yes, there was one thing to be known about this ‘Ghosts’ jet — he’d specified that he must have it in a darker gray. Just a couple of shades darker than what the original metal was painted as. And the thing was? Somehow, amongst his captains ranking, the government and even the fuckers down in Lockheed — they’d said yes to the request. Even if a few bureaucrats in the Pentagon were waving the red flag from the start.

So he guessed that’s what the plan was then, to go and catch a sneak in the middle of the night of what it looked like, though Kyle tried with all of his might to persuade him otherwise, John was dead set on seeing the beauty that stood in the dead of the night in Ghost’s hangar, wielded far away from the rest of the base, but close enough to know that the rest of the team always, haunted by a Ghost, he guessed that’s where the name came from then. Given that this was usually seen beside the B-2, a call sign of Ghost would’ve been fitting for someone in a something like this. And it seemed like fate was tempting him all and amongst this, because, as John approached the hangar, as big as it was, there was a crack left open, not closed, like all the other times he’d passed it in his own jet. Only to then realize this was the reason why they had called him Ghost to begin with, no one thought he was around, until it was too late.

Everyone knew this Ghost, was a guy, they’d heard his voice, never heard him laugh, was only ever a man of a few simple commands and went off when requested. What caught John MacTavish off guard however, was not only the hangar open, but the place had reeked of oil and fuel, only to be diverged its acoustics of the tin metal in the sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, a far cry from the throat roar of the hotdogged engines, John could already tell what Ghost had been doing to the poor thing. Either someone had been here recently or there was still someone here, but that never mattered as his Scottish blue eyes once more, got him fucked over, classical music be damned.

The metallic gray was no longer present, much like he had seen on the various photos that had beautifully given the thing a personality of beauty, and yet deadly. But instead, it was given a more, mature grayed look, as if it was a rehashed version of the F-35, the very same one he had been seen in this afternoon in a reskinned jet. Sudden realizations hit the man when thinking in Ghost’s logic, not too shabby for a Ghost when John had realized that much to his enemies disliking, when they suddenly realized that the jet was no longer a most recent US fighter, it was too late to break off anyway.

And much akin to John’s own footsteps, he’d realized that he was pulled in by the absolute sheer squared beauty of the thing and had moved right into the Ghost’s trap.

“What are you doin’ in my hangar?” Ghost lowly spoke, standing to the side, having seen him since he strolled in here. 

“Jesus wept!” John spoke as he suddenly turned around, the closed distance between them was something almost scary at just how close and personal this man had gotten, and all amongst that, he seemingly had the goal to wear a bloody balaclava, all the while wearing a stripped down version of the gear they would have to haul around on their bodies. Was he really that comfortable in wearing the same shit each day? At least the only thing invading his senses was oil and fuel. 

“I said what are ya doing here?” Ghost questioned before his eyes glanced over at the hangar “Squadron leaders gonna know about this,” his voice loomed.

“Sorry,” That’s all the weak bastard had as he tried to pick himself up faster than he could pull back on his own stick. “A’m interested in that piece of art ye’v got there, heard you were the one flying the Lightning around this mornin’”

“So you were the two hanging around the fence”

John stiffened at the sheer mention of that, he’d seen them? He didn’t think he had given the height already gained as he passed the pair of them from the runway.

“Wanted to watch her give her a proper launch, sir” John hesitated as Ghost only snorted and shook his head at the mention of the last word.

“Flight Lieutenant to you” This Ghost guy seemingly didn’t want to have him out of his hangar after all, but there was no doubt that heavy brown eyes were on him, painted darker then the plane before him as his eyes registered on MacTavish’s uniform still barely on given the zip that was seemingly fought with, the sheen of sweat that was just above the ridgeline of his eyebrows gave away just how much he’d been working during the rest of his day, when he seemingly wasn’t cheering this man on, then again. MacTavish did seem like a familiar last name, what could hurt but to take a guess.

“Apologies,” John moved ever so closer to the jet, almost as if he were to go ahead and, to the thought running in the back of Ghost’s mind, steal it. Poor bastard, probably wouldn’t be able to handle the ride as well as he could. “Does that mean I get to call you LT then?”

The cocky chatter over the radio, often with another teammate, only gave Ghost all the more confidence to take that stab in the dark to try and pinpoint just who he was.

“You can, so long as you tell me if you’re the one flying that bloody F-16 around.”

John’s eyes suddenly went wide, and of course, that cocky Brit saw it, and with his own pair too. His soul had actively left his body in the acknowledgement that someone had noticed his maneuverability, everyone else had F/A-18’s. But MacTavish was the one that stood his ground when he said he wanted a former fighter pilots F-16, ready to be given back to the Americans, decommissioned, probably in a scrap heap, and yet, here he was, breathing new life into it and treating it like it had just come off the factory rollers. Though, his only fault that he seemingly had with it, was that of the lack of gun ammunition, paling in comparison to something like the beast that stood before him.

“Uh, and why would tha’ be?” 

Ghost paused, raising a brow in confusion, maybe he was going to have to talk to John’s squad leader, had he really not seen beyond his two feet at just who he had under his wing, the man could maneuver the thing as well as he could like the jet he stood before and maybe, if he ever took the chance (which, in high unlikely doubt he would) he could probably pilot Ghost’s, if not, with just a bigger amount of hesitation.

“Just wanted to give a recommendation to the squadron leader as to who to take under our wing, old talents retiring at the end of the year, figured I’d give whoevers flying that F-16 and the one with the yellow strip along the body of the ‘18 a fighting chance at joining the 141” He brushed it off, like it was a chance to come clean. Ghost knew that MacTavish was the one flying the thing, often put in a good word about it to Price. And Price often agreed, that and ‘Gaz’ who was often his wingmanaccording to Price’s notes were often hotshots, but never in an egotistical, ‘wanting to show who’s boss’ way, it was always one of teamwork, and he quite enjoyed seeing them chant as one of their other teammates took down a target before they did.

“The 141?” MacTavish asked

“Yeah, just need to find out who the pair are in the two jets first” Ghost was toying with him as he finally made a move over to his own, inspecting the various scratches that were seemingly evident in the light, but gave the aircraft a seemingly weathered look, one that, Ghost admired. 

“There a reason why they call you the Ghost?” Quick this one was to change the subject, avoiding it, but copying him all the more in his movements as John did the same, placing a gentle hand along the aircraft as his calloused fingers felt a deep scar along the face of the jet, maybe that’s why he rarely had repairs done to the thing other than ones that were required. Maybe that’s why he wears the mask, he’s damaged, just like the bird before him – but he still flies, still finds meaning in the daylight and blue hues of skies.

“There a reason why you’re dancing around the question?” Their hands moved along the surface of the steel at almost the same time, unknown, but as if they were tracing one another's patterns as the question was left in the air for a bit too long before they finally moved to the nose of the aircraft, having no choice but to look at one another as they did so.

“Could say the same,” He watched as Ghost moved towards him, facing him, how he towered over the man with that stature of power, and yet, the only real dominating power he seemingly had left was his rank, and the jet. Because all the smug bastard did was place his hands behind his back and look down at the Scotsman, as if inspecting him as he did the jet, to see if like him, he too had scars beneath that mohawk and blue eyes that seemingly contrasted ever so beautifully along the dark gray. “What happens if one of us already knows the answers?” 

“Then I guess one of us will have to await the answers of the future, but if they already know the answers, they shouldn’t have to wait too long” They both knew one another were staring, helplessly, but stopping it neither as eyes behind that mask squinted ever so gently. So he did have his scars, one on the chin, must have had a bad accident for it to get that bad, and the blood from it too.

“Then I guess I’ll ‘ave ta’ see me way out of this museum then huh? Wouldn’t want ta make a scene now aye?” John smiled, physically having to retch himself from the spot he stood in, not wanting to move away from the view that was before him.

“Don’t quite appreciate customers making a scene and disturbing the nature of this art” So he wasn’t the only one to quickly move along with what he was suggesting as he followed him, only ever a few steps behind, maybe that’s why he got that name, loud as anything in a jet, then he never exists once the engines shut off.

Ghost eventually stopped following him as John made his way out near the doors of the hangar, lingering around just a bit more before he stopped in his tracks, just maybe, if he really did have the answers, he could see how his future LT would respond. “Don’t think I could handle two pieces of art in a museum, never been able ta handle more than one” He swore up and down he saw the man’s head snap into place about that comment, a slight squint at the body language that John was trying to portray as he moved through the hangar doors. “Have a good night, LT”

“Officer Mactavish.”

Payback time.

“Aye sir?” And they’d fallen into line already, a wingman, of sorts, to a Ghost.

“Call me Simon”

Now MacTavish was standing there, being a complete idiot, baffled by the fact that he, of all people, managed to get into the inner circle of a man named Simon, a Ghost. A snort was then heard through the airy atmosphere as he suddenly turned around and walked back towards the stairs of his office, looking back over his shoulder, leaving him in a scrambled state that was the brain of John MacTavish.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” He paused, “For a F-16 Pilot.”

So that’s his name.

[changbunnies]

Sugar (18+)

♡ Pairing: Cowboy/Outlaw!Changbin x Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: wild west au, cowboy/outlaw au, porn with plot

♡ Word Count: 7.5k (i got carried away lmao)

♡ Summary: Despite how terrible of an idea it is, Y/N can't seem to stop herself from continuously going back to the outlaw she let defile her. This is a sequel, and you can read part 1 here !

♡ Warnings: changbin is still mean and condescending in a "nice" sort of way. not as dubcon as part 1 but it is still a major theme, references to guns and gun fights+ bounty hunters + death + murder, discussions about morality + having a morally gray sense of right and wrong, discussions on purity and being impure / tainted / a "whore" (remember that this is a historical setting, and those views don't hold up! your worth as a person is not measured by purity and sex), their relationship is probs toxic lmao

♡ Smut Warnings: references to part 1 and other past dubcon situations, petnames (darlin, sugar, sweetheart, good girl, baby. reader is also refered to as a toy but not outwardly called one), power play, oral (f+m receiving), fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie

♡ Notes: a sequel to Outlaw that no one asked for but i was compelled to write :') as usual, if you’re interested you can check out my fic rec and feedback blog @stray-dreams !

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

no first paragraph before read more because it goes straight into a dubcon discussion and i don't want anyone who would be bothered to accidentally see it! <3 just click the read more and enjoy !

You really should know better. You should know it’s a bad idea to keep going back to the outlaw who violated you, who treated you like a toy, who’s sense of morality was gray at best and entirely nonexistent at worst. How foolish must you be to continually make the same mistake over and over again? To return to the man who treats you as an object suited to his needs and entertainment?

Yes, you really should know better. And yet, here you are again, with the object of your fury and desire standing before you with that signature smirk and amused glint in his eye. Because despite everything, you find yourself addicted to him. You seek him out, again and again, unable to resist no matter how much the rational part of your brain screams at you not to. 

The first time you met him again following that fateful first encounter was by coincidence. Changbin had strolled into your town as the sun hung low in the horizon, tying his horse to one of the many hitching posts outside your family’s saloon before entering. You didn’t notice him right away, much too busy serving drinks to the men on the opposite end of the bar from where he sat, but once your gaze finally reached his.. 

You froze completely, eyes wide and breath halted. His brow raised when yours eyes met, a delighted glint in his eye as his famous smirk overtook his features. Your mind and heart were racing, grappling between what you should do and how you will look if you make a scene out of him being here. He didn’t intend to stumble upon you here when deciding to settle in town for the night, but by God, was he glad this was the place he chose. 

He had noticed you first evidently, and was just waiting for the moment when you’d notice him too. And it was amusing seeing you so disconcerted by his presence, your strong persona faltering the minute he entered your space.

He knew where your safe space was now, knew where you called home and where to come find you if he ever so chose to. You, the timid rabbit ensnared in a trap, and Changbin, the deadly hawk ready to devour.

You had to get it together, had to proceed as normal if you didn’t want someone else taking notice of your odd behavior and asking questions. If you were in your right mind, you could probably think of an appropriate excuse to why you were pushed off kilter, but Changbin left you anything but in your right mind. 

“What can I get you tonight, sir?” You said after taking a brief moment to steady yourself. The entire exchange of looks the two of you shared likely lasted mere seconds in reality, but it felt like an eternity. He smiled, a mischievous one that did your racing heart no favors, before he answered, “A bourbon, if ya please.” 

The night continued as normal for a time following that, with Changbin acting as a surprisingly well behaved bar patron. Though, the only reason he was well behaved was because his eyes were fixed on you. He watched in delight as you wrangled in rowdy patrons and ducked advances from drunken men left and right.

It was fun for him; watching you in your element like that, navigating the clamorous saloon with ease and redirecting trouble with a well practiced stern sweetness. Even your rejections to your patrons were sweet, almost sickeningly so; batted eyelashes, rehearsed apologies and excuses, with empty promises of a ‘next time.’ 

Eventually it came time for the saloon to close, with locals shuffling through the streets back to their homes while guests from out of town had to decide whether or not they’d be paying for a room to sleep off the drink in. And it’s during that time that Changbin finally caught you alone, the door to one of the saloon’s secluded storage cupboards left ajar after you entered the room. 

You were just following your nightly routine, checking what stock you had left and taking note of what you’d need to get more of before the week’s end, when you heard the subtle squeak of boots behind you. “Hey there, darlin’,” he smiled as he closed the door behind himself, stepping closer to you after the lock clicked. 

“Changbin–” your voice came out in a stern whisper, unconsciously taking a step back as he moved closer, though there wasn’t far for you to go in the small space, “Get out.”

“Now, now,” he tuts, feigning disappoint as he takes another step forward, further closing the gap between you, “is that any way to treat a payin’ guest?”

“Regardless of that, you still aren’t allowed in here,” you scowled, but his grin didn’t falter; if anything, it grew larger, gratified by the brave front you were putting on. If it were with anyone else, your bravery wouldn’t be a front at all, because you certainly are a brave woman– just not with Changbin.

With him, you’re weak, your spark diminishing the instant his eyes fall on you. And you’ll fight it, of course you will, but when all is said and done, you will give in. Because that’s just the effect he has on you. 

“If you’d rather we do this out in the hall, I’m fine with that,” he challenged you, knowing very well that’s the last thing you’d want. His hand reached up to your neck, pushing your hair behind your shoulder and exposing your neck. “It’s a shame the marks have faded,” he said, voice low as his fingers traced your skin, “what do ya say we bring ‘em back, hmm?” 

“Absolutely not,” you hissed, your hands landing on his shoulders as you tried to push him away from you. He stood firm despite your pushing, letting out a low chuckle as his fingers moved from your neck to your shoulder, and down the length of your torso. And to be fair, you weren’t actually using your full strength; you were holding back, and he could tell.

He’s familiar with how a woman who's desperate to get away will react– screaming, hitting, clawing; none of which is what you’re doing. And maybe that would make sense if you were the sort of person who’s fight or flight instinct was to freeze instead, but you're not. You’re brave, you fight, you don’t let men get the better of you.

So why is it that when it’s Changbin putting you in this situation, you easily relinquish control? Why were your attempts to put up a fight so feeble, as if you want to let him overpower you? The answer to that question is clear– the biting words and scornful looks doing little to hide the glimmer that hides underneath.

You want him. And if you weren’t ready to admit that to yourself yet, he’d help you see it. 

He brought his face close to yours, foreheads just barely touching, the scent of bourbon strong on his breath. The saloon had grown quiet with the closing of the bar and guests retiring to their rooms, and it made you wonder if Changbin could hear how hard your heart was beating. Your eyes were looking to the side, avoiding his piercing gaze. 

Eyes that looked straight through you, eyes that uncovered your deepest, darkest desires with ease, eyes that left no room for secrets or lies. Those were the kind of eyes Changbin had, and he used the power they held to his advantage with you. You can’t hide from him; his eyes strip you bare, leaving you as transparent as glass. 

Whether you admitted to your desires or not, he’d be the winner. If you gave in right away, confess that he filled you with an impulsive need you previously thought impossible, he’d take pride in the fact that he made you that way. And if you fought, if you denied and rejected, you’d grant him satisfaction when you inevitably crumbled to his touch. Either option left you the loser, because he knows he’s right, and there’s no escaping it. 

A one-sided stalemate, where the victor was already predetermined. Your fate unavoidable, Changbin’s hold on your senses undeniable. He has you, and that's why you couldn't look at him. Because no matter how hard you denied it, the truth would be apparent. Much to your dismay, he sees you for who you are– try as you might, there would be no hiding it. 

“Look at me, sugar,” he said as his hand hiked up your dress. He wanted to see the expression you held, wanted to see how far your self determination had fallen. Whether it was a look of submission this early on, or a look of pure contempt, it wouldn’t matter; because either way, there’s fun for him to have with you. 

“What do you want from me?” you asked with eyes squeezed shut, voice beginning to tremble as his hand rubbed between your thighs. You’re not even sure why you asked, entirely; you knew this was nothing but a game for him, an addictive cat and mouse. He’s in it for the pleasure, for the thrill of making you crumble to his whims– it was as simple and clear as that. 

“Oh, darlin,” he cooed as he leaned his head further down, lips brushing against your ear, “you already know what I want.” Fuck. He could see goosebumps erupting on your skin, noticed the way you instinctively tried to close your legs together, though his hand instantly stopped the act from happening. Fun, he thought. Toying with you is so fun.

“I want you,” Changbin continued, bringing his other hand to your face and forcing you to look back at him. “I want you pinned down underneath me. I want to hold you by the throat while I fuck you. I want to watch you become stupid from my cock.”

Oh, God. Your face was on fire, heart bursting out of your chest, hopelessly ensnared by him; caught in a trap you had no hope of escaping from unscathed. 

“I’m not going to let you do that,” you managed to say without stuttering, a feeble attempt to stand your ground, though the proverbial floor to stand on no longer existed. But with his hand nestled between your legs, you couldn’t hide the way your body reacted to his words; couldn’t hide the way arousal pooled in your underwear. Once again, your body has betrayed you. 

“Is that right?” he grinned as he spoke, the amusement in his voice clear. He knew you’d let him have you, but the fact that you were denying it makes things much more exciting. “I don’t think that’s true, sugar,” Changbin said, now directly rubbing over your soaked underwear, “I think you’ll let me do anything I want.. I think ya want me just as bad as I want you.” 

He was right, of course. Maybe you’d hide it for a time, but you won’t be able to resist for long. He’s frustratingly smug and assured, but it’s not without reason. Your self respect, your dignity, your purity– what had become of it? In blatant terms, it’d been ruined– forever marred by his touch, the damage to your body and mind irreparable.

And whatever you could reclaim from what was left has been forever tarnished by your own actions. Tainted by your desire for the man in front of you, your thirst forever unquenchable, the very sanctity of your being in the hands of a criminal. 

And in the end, he fucked you right there, in the small, tucked away storage cupboard, with your back against the wall, and legs around his waist. His strength held you up, his arms hooked under your own and supporting all of your weight, your desperate noises muffled only by clamping your hands over your mouth.

He made regular visits to the town after that, becoming a loyal regular of the saloon, charming staff and other patrons alike with his wit and allure. It was infuriating watching him play the role of a simple wanderer looking for work, his true nature and motives known only to you.

No one else seemed to know what lied underneath the charming front. The worst kind of man, a manipulator through and through, a deviant who beckoned you to his room in the late hours of the night, the proprietor to a secret affair not yet uncovered by those around you. 

However, he couldn’t hide his identity forever; his past actions eventually caught up to him when a gang of bounty hunters began to sweep the area with wanted posters in hand, eager to collect the reward for the head of Seo Changbin. He left town in a blaze of smoke and gunfire, shooting back at anyone who dared follow him.

You were relieved at first, knowing that Changbin couldn’t return without instigating a fierce gun fight for his life. But as the weeks passed, a gnawing feeling began to eat away at your chest. The bounty hunters moved on, carried by the promise of wealth further west, and yet Changbin hadn’t returned to town. And that was a good thing– or at least, it was supposed to be. 

Did you.. miss him? No, that was impossible. Completely unfeasible, utterly out of the realm of possibility. That’s what you told yourself, but the gnawing feeling didn’t recede in the slightest; if anything, it grew stronger with each passing day.

Did you really want to see Changbin again? No, it had to be the hormones talking– surely you weren’t actually hoping to see him again. He twisted your beliefs and made you confused, that’s all; you could recover from this with time. 

But you’d been thinking a lot lately about what made Changbin different from the bounty hunters that hunted him, and you came to the conclusion that they weren’t much different in the end; they went wherever money and women called to them, a penchant for violence ingrained in the very essence of their actions.

The only difference between them and Changbin was that he didn’t live under false pretenses or a faux sense of morality; he knew exactly who he was, and he didn’t pretend to be anything different in front of you. 

And can you call a bounty hunter morally superior when at the end of the day they are still taking a life in exchange for money? Can you really say that one sin justifies another? Is it okay to kill someone if that person was in the wrong first? You didn’t think about these things until you met Changbin, and if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know where you stood anymore on whether or not someone like him deserved to die. 

You found yourself questioning the people you used to applaud, and wondering if you were really as good of a person as you thought you were. Maybe these complicated feelings always lied within you, and all it took to bring them out was meeting the right person.

No, it was all Changbin’s fault that you’ve begun to feel this way. He warped your thoughts and desires, he made you doubt what you once held firm to, he’s bad for you.

But even so, knowing he’s bad for you, knowing that he makes you act irrationally, knowing that he triggers your deepest impulses, you are here again. Back in the place you first met him, the place you once called home, surrounded by the ghosts of your past, of the person you were before you met him. 

“So we meet again, darlin’,” he said when your figure first emerged in his doorway, tense frame instantly relaxing when met with the sight of you, hand falling from its readied position on his gun holster.

You are no threat to him, hungry for his touch as you are. Any threat from you would ring hollow, because for better or worse, he knows you. And you're certainly capable of a lot of things, but fighting against your basest desires doesn’t seem to be one of them. 

You stepped inside fully, trying to have a nonchalant air about you, though you’re sure Changbin was able to see through it. He always reads you easily, always takes notice of even the most minute of changes in your body language. You’re sure that even now, he can sense the subtle shy anxiety that wells under the surface. But regardless, you’re here now, having come too far to retreat at the last minute. 

And you know that he knows what it is you want, knows why you are here, but should you still be honest? Debase yourself by admitting your most carnal of desires? But at this point, what were you if not tarnished?

Your worth can’t go any lower than it already has– you were already brought to your lowest point, so what was the harm in indulgence? If you were already ruined, why shouldn’t you disregard all you’ve ever been taught, all you ever thought you knew, and let him devastate you? 

But no, you can’t do that. It would be too easy, and if there’s anything you’ve learned about Changbin, it’s that he doesn’t like easy. He wants you to stand your ground, he wants you to argue and fight against everything he says and does. He wants your eyes angry, for your voice to tremble with indignation, because it’ll make it that much better when he dismantles you. 

He wants to be the object of your ire, for your resentment to build to the point of eruption, only for it to be eclipsed by how good it feels when he fucks you. Whether or not you truly hate him is up for debate at this point, and ultimately doesn’t matter much. What does matter is the fun you grant him, the cat and mouse game culminating into a moment that can only be described as pure bliss.

“I know, I know. Ya want me to fuck you, don’t ya darlin’?” He smiles as he says it, anticipating what your reaction will ultimately be. A glare maybe, with your face hot and red, or mousy as you finally admit openly how bad you want him.

While the looks of animosity are his favorite, he likes the shy looks too; the timid expression on your face when he catches you off guard, a quick glimmer of embarrassment or sheepishness before you can conjure your antipathy to replace it. 

“No. I want to fuck you. And you’ll let me,” you say, hoping to come across as confident and stern, “You’ll do whatever I want you to do.”

“Oh? Is that right?” Changbin lets out a laugh, head tilting as he grants you another amused look. That’s certainly a surprise, but he’s not opposed to it. He can easily do that– give you a taste of control, that is. It’s an interesting proposition; a fun one. 

He can let you believe you’re the one in charge, that you have the power to make the rules and that he’ll follow them. And maybe he will follow them– to an extent, of course.

He’ll give you his ‘yes, ma’am’s’ and ‘whatever ya say, darlin’ ‘s, play the role of the obedient man cursed to follow your whims, hit you with tongue-in-cheek remarks and let you ‘tame’ him with harsh looks and biting words when he steps out of line. All so that in the end, when he easily takes all the control away from you, it’ll be that much sweeter. 

It’s a fun game you’re offering him, so he’ll play the hell out of it. “Sure, sweetheart. You’ve been a good girl for me, I can give ya a reward,” Changbin smirks as he says it, clearly not taking you seriously in the slightest. But that’s okay, because you didn’t expect him to; you knew any attempt to wrestle control would be met with an amused smirk, you knew that none of your harsh words would do anything but fuel his delight. 

The reason you’re doing this isn’t to try and gain some sense of control that you know you won’t be granted, and you don’t intend to make him genuinely submit to you; it’s just part of the game between you, and you’re doing your part to make it the most enjoyable it can be. Because if you’re addicted to Changbin, if you can’t escape the way his touch makes you feel, if you can’t get past the need and craving for him, then you need to make him just as addicted to you. 

Just as your thoughts are consumed by him, you want his to be consumed by you. Think of only you, crave only you, make it so that no one else in the world can compare. You want to be the first person, the only person, he goes to when he wants to fuck. You want to be the drug in his veins, you want to eat away at his self-control the same way he eats away at yours. 

Changbin could easily fight against your touches, stand firm in place and overpower you if he so chooses, but he’s letting you push him to his knees. “Oh, this is what you want?” he asks with his usual smirk, his hands already moving under your dress to squeeze at your thighs. “Ya could’ve just asked, sweetheart. I’ll do it if you ask me nicely.” 

You roll your eyes, letting a scoff escape your lips. The only way he’d listen to a request from you is if he relentlessly teased and embarrassed you first. You can easily picture the way he’d grin at you, and the condescending tone and words he’d use to make your fists tremble and skin flush. Yes, even if you asked nicely, begged sweetly, or even desperately, he’d use it to ruin you. 

“I’m not asking,” you say as you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the floor beside you, because if Changbin is going to be between your legs, you want a full view of it. Rather than act though, he stays completely still, looking up at you with a lifted brow and not at all subtle smirk, as if to challenge you. A look that says ‘aren’t you going to make me?’ 

You bring your hand to his hair, tugging roughly as you pull him closer to your center, commanding him to get started. “So pushy, are you always this needy?” he teases with a laugh, but adheres to your demand nonetheless, wasting no time in letting his tongue out to lap at you, his hands now squeezing your thighs rougher than before. 

Your previous affairs were a secret you held close to your chest, as you knew you’d be branded a “whore” if it was known you’ve had sex whilst unwed. That being said, you’d only done the act with those you had serious interest in. Sweet men, who treated you like an angel, with the utmost care and consideration. Careful touches and soft kisses that were carried through all interactions with you. 

When they ate you out, they did so sweetly, with slow kitten licks and gentle caresses to your thighs. And it was nice, you even thought you liked it at the time, but you know that’s not what you want now. Everything about Changbin is different from every other man you’ve been with, and you want this moment to be different too. You want him to devour you, to make a mess of you, to make you feel a pleasure so foreign and intense that it consumes you. 

And that’s exactly what he grants you– a pleasure so explosive you have to bite your lip to hold back the noises that threaten to leave you. The drag of his tongue can only be described as euphoric, and when his lips wrap around your clit and suck, you can’t help but let out a loud, shuddering gasp. You want to keep watching him, but you can’t– your eyes refuse to stay open, the pleasure much too intense to do anything else.

He can tell you’re close when your thighs start twitching, quick breathy pants and whines leaving you freely. And that’s when he gets an evil idea– an idea that will make you desperate and whiny, one that will rip any semblance of control out from your hands and place it back into his. A strong suck on your clit, a few quick flicks of his tongue, your body trembling as your mind screams close, close, close–

And in an instant the feeling is gone, all the built up pleasure receding into nothing. A frustrated whine leaves your lips, looking down to see Changbin staring back at you with that stupid fucking smile he has every time he successfully drives you crazy. “F-Fuck, you fucking asshole, you–” you prattle off insults, though the act does nothing but add to the satisfaction he feels; this is exactly the reaction he was hoping for. 

You move your hand to the back of his head, pushing him back to where you want him and demanding that he keep going. And to your surprise, he does, though not without a muffled snicker first. And if your mind wasn’t so clouded by the desire to cum, you might have realized what his intentions were by going back in without a fight, but you didn’t have the mental capacity for that any longer. All you knew is that you wanted, needed, to release all over his tongue. 

Changbin goes through the same motions as before, expertly building you up to your release, getting you so, so close, before pulling away again right before you can. Another frustrated, high pitched whine leaves you, hips stuttering in an effort to feel something, anything to bring your release to you. You look down at him again, eyes glossy from the tears welling in them, and fuck, that look really does it for him. The pretty look of aggravation mixed with desperation makes his cock impossibly hard. 

You try to push him to your pussy again, but this time he resists, staying firmly in place and watching the way your expression twists into one of near anguish with an amused satisfaction. “Changbin–” your voice doesn’t come out anywhere near as stern and commanding as you wish it to; instead, his name leaves you as an urgent, desperate mewl.

“Aww, poor thing. Ya gonna cry?” he mocks you, head tilted and an infuriating grin plastered on his face. Fuck. You knew it wouldn’t be long until Changbin flipped the script and put you back at his mercy, but this soon?

And he didn’t know whether you were genuinely vying for control or not, if you went into this with the intent to fight until the bitter end or if you were resolved to relinquish it after some time; what he did know is that he loved seeing you like this. Broken almost, resolve crumbled like a sand castle hit by a wave, so weak and ruined, all because of him. 

“Want me to keep going?” he asks in a tone that is almost sickeningly sweet, another twisted smile of satisfaction on his face. You nod frantically, a shameless display of your need, and he smirks, answering your reaction with a condescending, “Why should I?” Another whine, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as indignation and desperation eat away at you. 

Changbin coos when he sees the tears fall, another “poor thing” leaving him. Funny how he’s the one on his knees, yet is the one entirely in control. You beg wantonly now, countless utterances of “please” and “I need it”, all sense of restraint and shame seeming to have evaporated the moment your tears began to fall. The display makes his cock throb in his trousers, erotic beyond words, utterly enthralling and so pretty. 

“Shh, that’s enough darlin’,” he says as he takes one of your legs and guides it over his shoulder, fully ready to support your weight and keep you standing for what he plans to do next.

You keen when his tongue finally makes contact with you again, body shuddering as your head lolls back. One arm snakes around the leg not propped up on him, squeezing at the flesh within his reach, while the other moves between your thighs, fingers prodding at your entrance for just a moment before sliding easily inside. 

He gives you no time to adjust to the thickness of his fingers, setting a fast pace with them from the very start. Your eyes roll back, a cacophony of lewd noises filling the space as your high quickly builds back up for the third time.

Between the earlier denied orgasms, the relentless pace he’s setting now with his fingers and the way his lips feel wrapped around your clit, you’re already dangerously close. Your fingers tangle in his hair, both as a means to ground yourself and to keep him as close to you as possible; and it only takes a few more thrusts of his fingers and flicks of his tongue to send you over the edge.

You cum hard, Changbin’s body and hold on your leg being the only thing keeping you upright as the waves of pleasure course through you. Your eyes are squeezed shut, your entire body shaking, with the only noise you’re capable of making being sharp gasps as your release spills on his tongue and fingers. 

You sink to the floor when he moves back and lets you go, legs akin to jello and no longer able to support your weight after having what was easily the most intense orgasm of your life. Your eyes are still closed, breathing labored as you try to bring your mind back down to earth. Changbin meanwhile rises to his feet, being the one to look down at you now. 

It’s a pretty sight; your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, tear stains on your cheeks and body flushed. But it could still be prettier, and he knows exactly how he wants to achieve that look. “Open your eyes, sweetheart,” you hear Changbin’s voice call to you from above, and when you do you’re met with quite the sight. 

His cock is in one of his hands, trousers having fallen to the floor around his ankles. You must have been too lost in your haze to hear him unzip his pants, or to hear the sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor. You look up at his face next, taking in the expectant gaze he’s shooting at you. 

You’re half tempted to say no, to make a big show out of protesting and coax him to put you back in your place, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want his cock in your mouth right now. It’s not often you’re granted the pleasure of sucking him off, as he usually he goes straight into fucking you after he’s done with his merciless teasing– so you’ll play the good girl role, just this once.

You shift to be fully on your knees, opening your mouth wide for him and letting your hands rest on his thighs. He brings a hand to the back of your head, pushing you the rest of the way when you hesitate, ensuring you take the entirety of his length in your mouth in one go. You gag when the tip touches your throat, but Changbin’s hand holds you in place, preventing you from instinctively retreating. 

The way you're looking up at him through your lashes, eyes glossy with fresh, unshed tears and nose touching his pubic bone– it’s enough to drive him wild. But he won’t lose it just yet; he’ll grant you a small kindness by giving you a few moments to adjust, to familiarize yourself with the feeling of his cock down your throat and learn how to breathe through it. He can’t let his favorite toy completely suffocate on him, after all. 

He sets a brutal pace once he’s sure you’re adjusted, sparing your poor throat no mercy. You can barely even hear the low groans he lets out over the salacious sounds leaving your mouth and throat. It’s a struggle not to choke and sputter every time he thrusts back into your mouth, and each failed attempt causes the tears on your lashes to spill over. 

The saliva that has pooled in your mouth escapes out of the sides, sliding down your chin and dripping onto your chest. You can’t help but squirm as he holds your head in place, your nails digging into his thighs as you try your hardest to ignore the growing ache in your jaw and effectively breathe through your nose. You can feel his cock twitch against your tongue as his pace becomes the slightest bit more sporadic, and for a moment you think he intends to cum down your throat, but he doesn’t. 

He pulls out instead, a subtle smirk on his face as he watches you take big, gulping breaths to allow air back into your lungs. You wipe your face clean with the back of your hand before you look up at him, knowing he’s far from done with you. He takes you in his arms, helping you rise to your feet (though you doubt he’s helping you due to any sort of caring, and is only doing it to get you where he wants you faster.)

“Come with me, darlin’,” he says as he leads you to the bed with him, paying no mind to the unsteadiness in your legs as you try to keep up with his pace. Changbin sits first, pulling you onto his lap immediately after. You already know what he wants, but you can’t– your knees ache from the time spent on the hard floor, and the usual strength in your legs has all but evaporated.

“Bin–” you start to whine, complaints lingering on your lips, but he tuts before you can even begin to speak them. “What’s wrong, sugar? Didn’t ya say you wanted to fuck me?”

Fucking asshole, throwing your words back at you and looking at you with that devilish smile. He should know you weren’t even that serious about it! He’s just being cruel. “I can’t, I–”

“You can,” he interrupts, guiding you to align yourself with him, “You will.” His hands are holding your hips, another expectant look on his face as he waits for you to sink down on him. “You’re so fucking mean–” you cry, body trembling as you lower yourself onto his cock. He just grins, knowing very well that if you truly hated how mean he was, you wouldn’t have crawled your way back to him. 

Your pace isn’t all that fast given the ache in your knees, but contrary to what you’d expect, Changbin doesn’t scold you. Instead, he cups your face under the chin, directing you to look at him. “So sweet, aren’t ya sugar?” he smiles, thumb rubbing your cheek while his other hand stays firmly on your hip, “such a brat sometimes, but you do whatever you're told in the end, don’t ya? Such a good girl when ya want to be, huh?” 

You should be ashamed of the way his words fill your stomach with butterflies, but you truly can’t help it. He knows what he’s doing too; knows how to drive you absolutely crazy, knows how to be mean in just the right way, so that when a praise hits your ears it affects you all the more. 

However, despite your best effort, you can’t get your legs to cooperate with you any further. Your legs feel so heavy, and having your hands firmly placed on Changbin’s chest for support does nothing to ease the unsteady trembling. It’s a subtle sort of humiliation– making you do something he knows is near impossible in your current state.

The tears are welling in your eyes again and threatening to spill, frustration in your gut and exhaustion completely taking over your body. Your legs throb from the exertion and fatigue, your energy beyond spent, you can’t keep going. Your pace slows to a near stop, and you look at him pleadingly, teary eyed and pouty, a silent beg for his help. 

He knew you wouldn’t be able to do it for long, but he made you do it anyway, because this is what he really wanted. He wanted to watch you turn into a pathetic, whining mess, he wanted to relish the look of anguish on your face. He has to be cruel to you, because the end result is always so addicting. 

“Tell me what you need, baby. Need my help? Need me to fuck you?” he smiles sweetly as he asks, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. You nod quickly, leaning into his touch that shouldn’t at all be comforting but somehow is in your near-delirious state. “Use your voice, sweetheart. I gotta hear you say it.”

God, he loves when you get to this point– where all anger and shame has been replaced by the overwhelming desire and need you feel for him. You’re babbling out pleas over and over, and he takes a moment to savor the sound of it before shushing you. “Hush now, darlin’, I’ll give ya what you want.” 

He flips your positions easily, you landing on your back against the mattress and Changbin now hovering over you. You stare up at him as he sinks back into you, the sight of him making your heart race. It’s infuriating how handsome he is, especially in moments like this, where sweat lingers on his brow and his jaw clenches. 

Changbin is good at acting unaffected by you, always able to make it seem like he’s not at all enthralled or addicted, always making your need for him appear one-sided. But the truth is he needs you just as bad as you need him, because in you he has finally found his perfect match. You wanted him to crave you solely, to look for you and only you, not knowing that he already was. 

He didn’t seek you out all those times after your lucky re-encounter because it was easy or convenient; it’s because it was you, specifically. He’s no stranger to brothels and bordellos, nor to the coy advances of working women. There are countless women in the world, countless establishments he could spend his coin at to satiate himself, but they weren’t you. All he wants and all he needs, the very picture of perfection, you. 

He leans down, capturing your lips in a sensual kiss as he starts to thrust in earnest, and the act makes your stomach twist. He’s kissed you before of course, but only ever with the intent to tease or humiliate you, and never while his cock was inside you. And you don’t know why, but it feels good. He can tell you like it too, by the way you clench around him, and from the way a pleasured noise he’s never heard before leaves your throat. 

He keeps his lips attached to yours, tongues sloppily rubbing together. His fingers dig into your hips as he fucks into you, his tight hold leaving indentations behind in your skin. Changbin curses under his breath when he pulls away, both of your highs quickly approaching. You’re squeezing him so tight, and the feeling of your nails digging into his skin is intoxicating. 

“Fuck, ‘m so close-” he groans, pace quickly becoming more sporadic. And this is normally the point he’d pull out, letting his cum spill between your thighs or onto your chest and stomach, but.. He looks at you, and all he can think about is how you’re his. He wants no one else to have you, no one else to touch you, no one to even look at you the way he does. 

So instead, he pulls you in even closer, your chest firmly pressed into his as he presses his lips to your ear. “Gonna cum in you darlin’. You’d like that, right? Want me to fill you up?” You gasp at his words, one that transitions into a moan as your arms and legs wrap snuggly around him. It’s a bad fucking idea, but you want it so bad. 

Whatever the consequences are, you’re too far gone to care about them. You want him to claim you in all ways; his teeth, his nails, his cum– it didn’t matter, so long as you were his in the end. “Y-Yes, please, I want it,” your answer comes out between shuddering inhales, desperate and eager for Changbin to release inside you. 

It only takes a few more thrusts for him to spill inside you, the sensation of his cum shooting in you both foreign but good beyond what you ever could’ve imagined. His hips don’t stop moving even as he cums, and the continued thrusts paired with the feeling of being filled up for the first time sends you over the edge too, body convulsing in his hold as pure pleasure fills your senses. 

You’re both breathless when you finally come down from your high, body going limp as you release Changbin from your hold. He pulls out slowly, and fuck, the sight of his cum dripping out of your hole is utterly intoxicating; he’s definitely going to become addicted to it. He lies next to you when he’s done admiring the view, looking at your face next with a subtle smile.

“What do ya think about being my lady? Hmm, baby?” he asks as he pulls you in, pressing your body into his as his arm wraps around your waist. You blink as you process it, a sort of warmth overtaking your body as the question settles in you.

“...Are you serious?” you can’t help but ask, unsure if this is going to transition into some sort of tease if you say yes, or if the question is genuine. 

“Dead serious, darlin’,” Changbin answers easily, his smile the most earnest you’ve ever seen it to be. Not at all condescending, no trace of a humiliating remark waiting to be said; he’s simply asking you a question, with nothing more beyond it.

And he wouldn’t say it’s love that drives him to make you his, because genuine love is a foreign thing to a man like him, but this is likely the closest he’ll ever get. He just wants to know you’ll always be there, that you’d follow him anywhere he goes, that no matter where life takes the two of you, you’ll belong to him and he’ll belong to you. 

And fuck, it’s a really bad idea. You really, really shouldn’t– you should know better. So why are you entertaining the idea? Why does the thought of spending your days with someone so objectively terrible make you so happy?

He’s really fucking ruined you, it seems. He’s a terrible man who does terrible things, he’s a criminal, he’s a manipulator– your immediate answer should be a resounding “no.” But the truth of the matter is that Changbin makes you feel like no one else; infuriated but desired, broken but simultaneously put together.

You’ve come to enjoy the dynamic you have with him; you now understand the fun in the back and forth, the pleasure to be had in the banter and fight, how impossible it is to let someone who matches your energy go. And a life with him would surely be a life of turmoil, of danger and of risk, but it would also be one of pleasure and unforeseen excitement.

Your life was good before meeting him, but it was also dull and predictable. You were likely to spend your whole life in the same place, forever at the beck and call of your parents, or a man that while sweet, wouldn’t excite or please you the way Changbin does. If you say yes, your life will change forever. 

No, that’s not quite true; your life already has been forever altered by meeting him. You’re already his, and this is nothing more than a formality. Because why else would you be here right now, if you weren’t already his? For better or worse, you belong to him, body and soul, and you’ve come to realize that nothing will change it.

“Teach me how to use a gun and I’m all yours,” you finally say, and Changbin laughs, clearly pleased with the answer you came to. “You got it, darlin’. Just promise ya won’t shoot me by the time we’re done.” 

“No promises. I’d be careful if I were you,” you smile, tone light and playful. “Is that a threat, sugar?” he meets your smile with one of his own, tilting his head to the side as he always does when he’s amused.

“Sure is. Don’t pretend you don’t deserve it,” you answer, and he laughs again, pulling you into a kiss afterwards. Body to body, limbs tangled together as you smile at each other, he thinks about what a perfect partner in crime you’ll be from here on out.

[respectthepetty]

Please share your favorite gmmtv actor ships - they do not need to be a fixed couple, if you have those (because i do). Also, this is not meant to be an ask for real people shipping, if you are uncomfortable with that. Just your favorites maybe in terms of on-screen dynamics or any other criteria. Sorry if this is so vague 😭

Anon, serious questions before I begin - Can First and Water be a favorite pair because the amount he cries in each series, I need my babygirl to stay hydrated?

Or can one of my favorite pairs be Sing & a suit/necklace combo with the shirt unbuttoned and his man bitties out?

No? Not what you are looking for? Well, then, let me redirect to my favorite people ships rather than shipping people with inanimate objects.

So . . . before I jump in, just remember that all of these HAVE happened, so I'm not crazy:

Gun x Gun?

Hold on before you think I'm not taking this seriously! I already stated I think Gun is one of the best actors on GMMTV's roster (if not the best), so understand that if GMMTV won't let him make out with Sing when both of them were giving us sexual tension as ToddBlack, or give Tor a little kissy kissy in Midnight Museum because they were brothers or whatever, at least let the man play against himself more. It could be like the Barbie movie, but with Gun being everything. It'd be fun to see, and if GMMTV wanted to go dark sci-fi, he could answer that age-old question: Would you have sex with your clone?

Neo x Phuwin

We had this. They were paired together in Cause You're My Boy. Then they were hinted at in Dark Blue Kiss. But then, they were made into brothers in Fish Upon the Sky, so Phuwin now has Pond, and Neo got Louis. But why though? Why were we denied another adventure of these two being paired up together?! I had them down on my hopes for a 2023 offering, and I'll have them down every year from now on. I want them back! NOW!

Earth x Papang

Aof was crazy for pulling this off in Moonlight Chicken, but now that I've seen it, I can't unsee it. And even more, I WANT IT! I have never seen Earth kiss like that, and he has had several partners. Did Aof strike a goldmine with this pairing? Papang has always done his job, but these scenes, which lasted no more than eight minutes, gave me an alternate timeline that I must see play out on my screen. Immediately.

Pond x Nanon

If Aof was crazy for Earth x Papang then Jojo was batshit insane for Pond x Nanon in Dirty Laundry. These two had a strip-off pole dance in a club called Boys Next Door, Nanon twisted Pond's nipples for information, then Pond's character had sex with a client with Nanon and Film's character in the car. This shit was wild, but that was only 15% of the hijinks between these two. I need them to recreate this creepy magic, and I need it to be twelve episodes long with at least 52 minutes runtime per episode.

Gigie x Fah

Since I mentioned Jojo, The Warp Effect is queer. QUEER! It gave use Fluke with Thor, Jan with Silvy (oh, my God that magical being could choke me!), and Mark with Best, yet, it toyed with us by suggesting the possibility of Gigie with Fah. Be brave about it, GMMTV! More than one wlw couple can exist in a show. Give me a redo, and this time, give me these two picking each other again, and again, and again regardless of what Alex (New) does with those Polaroids.

New x Sing x Fluke

Mentioning The Warp Effect reminded me that these three could out beat any historical trio including Destiny's Child, The Jonas Brothers, AND Charlie's Angels! Sing and New have been around for a bit, so I'm surprised they haven't acted in more together, but throw Fluke in there, and they had the perfect dynamic: Gay pretty boy and former bully with kinky puppy and space enthusiast trying to help out their bi idiot friend (it's canon to me). Sing and New will be in the Thai remake of Cherry Magic, so I'm sure Fluke could fit in there somewhere somehow. Make it happen, GMMTV!

First x Khaotung x Sea

And on the topic of throuples, this one hasn't happened, but by golly do I want it! Whoever paired First and Khaotung together deserves a Noble Peace Prize, but whoever thought of interviewing them with Sea deserves the Library of Congress Living Legend award and to be the Grand Marshall at the NYC Pride Parade. That person gets it. I'm not shipping them as actual people together. I want whatever chemistry they had in that interview to be transferred onto the screen and brought to me in 2024 because only a Year of the Dragon can handle the fire they would deliver.

Pawin x Satang

GMMTV, you know what you did in that Star in My Mind x Our Skyy 2 episode was effed up. I don't care how many times you pair Pawin up with other boys. You know what you did, and I'm taking this grudge to the grave.

Ohm x Perth

The fact that Double Savage cast them as brothers instead of a one-sided love affair was in the words of the most beautiful Raye a "DUMB DECISION!" Then to have them color coded?! THE AUDACITY! And no, I will not be writing about the colors because unless these two get paired again, as LOVERS, I will rewire this story in my head of what it should have been to deserve these two amazing actors partnered up with each other rather than the poop pile I got. I wrote what I wrote.

Joong x Dunk

If you know anything about me, know that I'm a JoongDunk fan first, and a human second. It has absolutely nothing to do with their acting even though that's what you asked for. It has everything to do with them. Much like the interview with First, Khaotung, and Sea, Joong and Dunk in their interviews are ridiculous. They resort to tomfoolery and instead of answering the questions, they start arguing about the most trivial details. ForceBook and GeminiFourth do this, but add in JoongDunk's live streams and Safe House footage, and I don't know how they get anything done when filming because they are either arguing, dancing, napping, or giggling. Hidden Agenda yesterday, please!

Bonus: Since this was exclusive to GMMTV, I couldn't include who my ultimate acting pair is, but if you know me, then you already know, so without further ado

MAXTUL DOMINATION!

[accio-victuuri]

i already did a bit of people’s reactions with “one and only” movie screened @ SIFF closing so here’s some more.

• The theme of the movie is Youth Dance Comedy Movie! Congratulations to Wang Yibo, another personal masterpiece was born! with Chen Shuo you can’t see the shadow of Mr. Ye and Lei Yu at all. He is Calm, not rebellious, just a person who persists in growing up. A little ordinary boy who bloomed gorgeously, he was wronged, he is cute and he is shy. He cries a little, he is resilient, he can endure hardships, he is caring, he is filial, why is he like this?so good! This is the real youth film for teenagers! It's not pretending to be literary. It’s not hypocritical love, but really tells you what life should "always work hard. If you work hard, you will succeed." To be a human being, you still need to have a little persistence and faith.

• Putting aside all kinds of filters, objectively my expectations for this film before watching the film isI thought it might be an inspirational story of a well-behaved poor boy. After watching it, it greatly exceeded expectations. In storytelling, the main characters’ growth is very complete and solid, every branch extending from the main line. It is also portrayed very appropriately, the story has an absolute protagonist, but each supporting role will also be remembered by the audience and give praise to the director and screenwriter. The rhythm of the story is very tight, the part of true feelings, the part of dancing, the plot and transitions are extremely smooth. Especially the last climax part, the audience was emotionally infected and spontaneously cheered and applauded several times. The viewing experience is very exciting. Enjoyed it very much.

Let me focus on our male number one, although his own experience is different from that of Chen Shuo. They are the same, but they have the same original intention for dance. In this film, Wang Yibo was not performing, he is just showing himself. He was happy when he was able to join the dance troupe, and he desperately worked hard to dance. The joy when dancing with everyone, the empathy when encountering ups and downs, The revealing of the true affection for the family, the wild tugging and the burning of souls during the game. All of these may be what he really looks like outside of work

Throughout the movie watching process, I have been in a state of overflowing emotions, want to cry and be afraid. So although we enthusiastically position comedy films, fans must remember. Have tissues ready.

• During the screening, I lowered my head many times just to feel the drums and beats.I thought to myself that the director must be a person who understands music. Wang Yibo was also surprising. At the end of the show, I heard other people discussing "this role is too suitable for Wang Yibo", I want to say that there is no natural fit, only because of good acting that you will let the audience feel the so-called fit.

• I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie this hot in the cinema. Especially seeing the second half of the competition, I really can't help but feel excited. During our screening, there were many applause, which was shown in the media — it is relatively rare.

• I have almost never seen the audience spontaneously applauding and cheering in the middle of watching a domestic film. "One & Only" let me see this kind of hot-blooded appeal that will make you unable to restrain yourself, wanting to be a part of the screen, wanting to participate in it.

In the past few years, many audiences have lost the habit of going to the theater. Everyone has been waiting for a reason enough to bring the lost audience back into the cinema.This movie not only needs to be good enough, but also needs to be popular enough. After watching "One and Only", I have a hunch that it will become the reason for the audience to return to the theater.

• Seeing Chen Shuo practicing in the subway car, I want to cry. In fact, hard work is the most basic part, and those who have been working hard can always wait until theirown opportunity. Being seen by Ding Lei is an opportunity to see the professional dance troupe. Strength is another kind of opportunity, and then it is even more important to seize the opportunity to win the championship by yourself.

• The quality of the whole film is extremely high. It can be said that among the commercial films of the same type, this is a big step. The relationship between Ding Lei and Chen Shuo's master and apprentice, as well as the stage itself is refreshing to the audience, from script to action design, to photography and editing, are pushing up the ceiling of this genre.During the viewing process, I once thought that this film would be produced by an international team.

sources: one / two

[whydousernamesevenexist]

Yah so uhh… my therapist gave me homework. It was to write a short story about me, or any other character, if they got rid of their fear of not having enough money. Like, how they would feel, what they would do…

Anyway.

I tried writing in Czech, but I couldn't get past the first three sentences, so I deleted it all and started over in English.

It got out of hand pretty quickly and the MC didn't even get that fear removed in the end.

But whatever, I'm still gonna submit it to her this week.

Anyway, if anyone is curious what is going on in my head, here it is.

Be warned, it's kinda a lot edgy.

I'm completely useless at making up titles

Word count: 1063

According to my screentime it took me 40 minutes to write this

He quickly walked into his room, carefully closed the door, and let out a sigh of relief. He sat at his desk, and laid his forehead on the wood. He closed his eyes.

"I've been watching you for a while," said suddenly a soft voice.

"Gah!" Yelped the boy, and, startled, he threw the first object he could reach at the voice. The object, a glass, shattered against the wall.

"Peter?" Came a tired, irritated voice of a woman.

The boy's eyes widened. "All good, mother!" He yelled back."I had a nightmare and broke a glass. I'll clean it up!"

A woman in her forties, with visible worry lines in her face, entered the room. "Oh, Peter," she sighed in disappointment, "that costs money, you know."

"I'm sorry, mother," he looked down, "I'll buy another one, I promise."

"Whatever," the woman clicked her tongue. "Clean this up. And don't make more noise. You woke the girls up," she slapped him on the cheek, and walked out, slamming the door behind herself angrily.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, and began picking up the shards.

"You're scared of her," came the voice again.

Peter spun around, careful not to throw any more things at the voice, and laid his eyes upon a small, flickering creature.

"What the fuck…" he breathed out.

"I'm Lyra, a fairy," the creature said in a cheerful voice.

"Right… I'm hallucinating, right," he sighed and shook his head.

"No, you're not," the fairy insisted, "I'm real."

"Sure… let's go with that," Peter scoffed. "Now, what do you want from me, you super real fairy?"

"I'm curious," she replied.

"About what?" He sighed, and continued picking up the glass.

"Why are you scared of your mother?"

The boy scoffed. "I'm scared of everyone."

"Why?" She asked, her head tilted to the side in curiosity.

"Only a fool wouldn't be scared of people," he shrugged. "All humans, myself included, are all but wild animals, held back by the leash that are the so called morals."

"Are you afraid someone might kill you, then?" Lyra asked quietly.

"I'm more afraid of what they'd do if they didn't kill me," he shook his head, a dark expression passing his face.

"Just imagine what she, what anyone would do, if they found out all I've done my entire life was deceive them."

Lyra scrunched her eyebrows. "Why have you deceived them?"

"Because I'm afraid of them. And because I don't know who I am. Everything I've ever done and said has been an act to please them. With every person, I play a slightly different role, adjusted to how they like me. If I'm with more than one person at once, I make a careful mixture of the personalities I use with them separately. And most importantly, all roles, all personalities, must be carefully acted out to be similar, so when they compare my behaviour among themselves, they get the impression that I am one and the same with all of them." He said in a quiet, calm voice.

"What's your real personality, then?" The fairy asked curiously.

"I don't have a real personality," Peter shook his head, "I'm… a canvas, I'd say. Whenever I'm with people, I paint at the canvas. And when I'm alone, the canvas clears again. It is empty, plain white. When I don't have to perform, I don't have a personality." He answered calmly.

"And why are you afraid of what people would do if they found this out? What could they even do?"

"Are you kidding? They'd be so angry. If they found out that every "I love you, mom and dad", every "can I help you with something?", every "I wish you the best", every "congratulations" was a lie, that I do not feel anything towards them, and that i have only ever said anything to gain their sympathy, they'd become furious," he shook his head. "They'd push me away. They'd badmouth me. And worst of all, I wouldn't have their support, in anything. I'd be broke. I'd be without help and without a place to go."

"If you could have one wish, and you knew it would come true, what would you wish for?" the fairy asked with the innocence of a little child.

"Money, of course. Tons of money," Peter laughed, throwing the glass shards into the bin carelessly.

"Money won't buy you happiness, though," Lyra pouted.

The boy stared at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "God, you're funny. Did you really think I seek happiness? Don't be silly," he cried. "Happiness doesn't exist. It's an unachievable concept."

"What do you seek then, if not happiness?" Lyra asked in wonder.

"Comfort and pleasure, of course," Peter smirked. "Those exist. And they can be bought by money, too. Why wouldn't I seek them?"

"That's… a surprisingly sensible answer," the fairy nodded thoughtfully.

"What would you say, though, if I freed you from your fear of discomfort, of poverty? Without giving you money, I mean. If I just took away the feeling?"

"That would be bad, I think," the boy shook his head. "Yes, that would be very bad," he said resolutely.

"Remember when I said that morals are the leash for humans? Morals aren't *my* leash. My leash is that fear of discomfort you speak of," he smiled. "I'm convinced I wouldn't feel the least care if I hurt someone, or even killed them. I could get great pleasure from it, even. The thing stopping me from jumping at the first person I see just for fun&nbsp; is that the consequences of that action would be being imprisoned and then shunned by society, therefore unable to get enough money to ensure my comfort."

"Why would you do that?" Lyra backed away in surprise.

"Why not?" he laughed. "I've always wondered how it would be to hurt or kill someone, or steal something. If you took away my fear of discomfort, there wouldn't be anything to stop me," the boy grinned.

"I shouldn't do that, then," the fairy whispered.

"That is entirely up to you," Peter shrugged.

Then, without looking at her again, he calmly walked over to his bed, and laid down. In a few moments, he was snoring.

With a cloud of glitter the fairy disappeared from the room, leaving nothing but the smell of fresh rain behind her.

[sangoqueenkoko]

SCARAMOUCHE

Aka, The Wanderer

monster

Angst

MAIN MASTERLIST | ANEMO MASTERLIST

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Summary: Scaramouche has never seen such power. Never mind in you. Even he never wanted this much power.

Warnings? Angst. Mentions of death. Dottore my husband appearance. Detail of surgical injury. Mention of major character death.

Includes The Doctor, aka Zandik, and Scaramouche/Wander of course!

What has he done?! Is all that went through Scaramouches wild mind. HOW COULD HE?!

No one has seen him as angry as this.

Not even you.

Even if you were unconscious on the surgical table in front of him.

“Ah yes, The Balladeer, or, should I say The Wanderer?” he heard a chuckle come from behind him. He spun around to see a familiar person. Zandik. Also known as The Doctor, “hope you don’t mind me using your little friend as the subject of my experiments. They are… quite the forte.”

“The Doctor. What kind of experiments?!” Scaramouche yelled back at him, he glanced to the side of him only to see no change of your current position.

He had noticed some scars along your arms and torso that seem to be fresh.

“Nothing much apart from some modifications. Only to make them seem better, yes?” He laughed with his devilishly pointy teeth, walking close to Scaramouche and the table with you laying still atop it, “make them more of a… weapon. Something that has no mercy and that can cut through just about anything.”

A weapon? What form of weapon?

When you woke, you felt a little dazed and confused as to where you were. Once your mind had cleared up, you were instantly given an objective that must have been planted into you.

Kill Scaramouche.

N-No! I can’t do this! You thought, obviously distressed, Anyone but him!

Scaramouche saw you in distress and wanted to stop all of this for you, but something took over you.

Something that wasn’t you. This made him stay away.

Before he knew it, he stood face to face with you. Who had a katana in your (left/right) hand, it encased in cold, dry ice, conjured from your vision, consider it a gift from the Tsarista, your legs fogged out by the smoke like fog it created. The look in your eyes wasn’t the one he knew to be you.

The Doctor stood by you. Once he told the simple command to you with a smirk it was all over for Scaramouche.

.

.

.

.

“Kill him”

And so before he could even finish the sentence, you had already charged your way to your target, your weapon creating a light frost trail behind where it travelled by your side.

As much as he hated to see it, he had to fight back.

Thanks to his Anemo vision, it could help him desperately evade your attacks.

Every time you tried to strike him, you missed due to his quick reflexes, your strikes encasing whatever you hit into deep ice. Even if it hit some innocent people, cutting, hurting them as well as freezing them thoroughly.

But nothing lasts forever, as The Wanderer soon fell to the ground after hovering for too long. And his self defence attacks tired him out. So therefore he was weak.

So there he is again, in front of someone who had way more power and control of him, just like his mother.

She casted him aside and saw him non other as a puppet who had lost their puppeteer, the puppeteer being her too.

Now it was you. This new form of you saw no mercy in what you or your blade touches, life or death caused by you didn’t even make you flinch. You showed no mercy.

No sympathy.

You are just like him. A puppet in the hands of a puppeteer who only thought of their own benefit.

And being controlled showed how helpless you were on your own. How you can’t control things.

How you couldn’t control your master who forced you to kill your own beloved with a blade that spoke for you!

The Balladeer was a puppet. A slave.

And you have to put up with the guilt of you cutting the strings to your puppet.

The Balladeer.

[soulsanitarium]

Mexico 🇲🇽 Three different films: Perdita Durango, Alucarda & La Tia Alejandra

1. The film La Tía Alejandra (1979). 🎥Aunt Alejandra arrives to a familiar household consisting of two parents and three children. Immediately the woman’s presence begins to interfere with the couple’s happiness and also sexuality. Everything seems to be surrounded by an aura of mystery.

Auntie teaches children witchcraft but when one of the children mocks her, she caused his death…She comes to a bathroom and makes the water so hot it burns the teenage girl’s body. Children hate the Auntie and she revenges. Husband starts to drink and is driven away from home. Finally Lucía, the wife, tries to save what is left and takes the active role.🔥👵You can compaire this movie to mother-child relationship in Carrie, or Psycho, depicted as abnormal and perverse. Lucía too desires independence and yearns to lead her own life, yet she is unable to break away from her “auntie’s” dominating influence. As a fantasy it is an important developmental step so that the separation - individuation process is completed and we can get distance to the mother. More interesting than average ⭐️⭐️⭐️

2. 🎥Alucarda (1977): Constant screaming and overacting. Movie borrows a lot from Carmilla - Sheridan Le Fanu’s novel and films and the rest from Mother Joan of the Angels, TheDevils... Perhaps it is more interesting to look for the psychological side of the film.

👯‍♀️ Alucarda (a Dracula, Mircalla - Marcilla - Carmilla) deals with twinship -themes. Is she just a fantasy figure? Justine’s sadistic inner world?

✝️Name ”Justine” is perhaps borrowed from DeSade’s novel. Is Alucarda just a channel for the aggression and shame, is it about Justine’s own sexuality? The film becomes more interesting if you look at it from different sides of one person.

Enlarge the image to see the borrowed dialogue

💞We all have the need to feel a degree of alikeness with other people. Processes of internalization are motivated by and emerge as the self’s protection of its existence through increasingly advanced ways to ensure the object’s availability in the individual’s world of experience. Identification is an essential form of internalization processes. (Tähkä 1996 & Tähkä R.) What it means to be treated as human by others? ”What I really want is just a sister” can be a wish of a clone-like relationship. Heinz Kohut (1978) calls this phenomena a twinship-transference / - self-object. This longing can also be sexualized.

☸️ In the Jungian psychology, in order to reach a relationship and integration of the Self for the individuation process, typically a person must face, reconcile, and assimilate two central components of the personal unconscious: 1) the Shadow, 2) Anima. Perhaps like in this scene (below) from Perdita Durango.

3. 🌪This is for the friends of Santeria, black humor and 🩸 violence Perdita Durango, released as Dance with the Devil in the United States, is a 1997 Spanish/Mexican action-crime-horror film directed by Álex de la Iglesia, based on Barry Gifford's 1992 novel 59° and Raining: The Story of Perdita Durango. It stars Rosie Perez as the title character and Javier Bardem.

🎬The film is reminiscent of many great other films. Such as: Wild at heart, Badlands, True Romance, Natural Born Killers, Bonny and Clyde, Il Capitano…both Perdita Durango and Wild at Heart go back to original novellas by Gifford. Isabella Rossellini played PERDITA DURANGO in David Lynch’s WILD AT HEART.

🔪Of course, real-life killer couples also come to mind, like: Homolkas, Sarah Jane and John Makin, Ian Brady & Myra Hindley, Mona Watson & Michael Howell, Suzan & James Carson…

🎭In the movie Romeo (Bardem) is a self-styled Santeria guru who spends most of his time flitting from one crime to another. When Perdita and Romeo hook up, all Hell breaks loose. Actually Romeo steals the show from Perdita…he is just amazing Santeria priest…captivating like a Rockstar ⭐️ Gandolfini, Perez …casting is Great

😨😨😨😨Human sacrifices, sadism, kidnapping, rape, murder, featus trafficking …

😂😂😂 Funny but then suddenly again not…

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Furious magic

🔪🔪🔪🔪Violence - Hay drogas y mucha violencia

😆 Screamin’ Jay Hawkins has a role in the film

🐆 One of the rear male witch performances in the film that actually is really worth seeing !

Best quote:

Romeo Dolorosa : I'm going to dance with the devil under the pale moonlight!

Perdita Durango : Go fuck yourself, Romeo.

Romeo Dolorosa : What's wrong? It's from Batman.

Perdita Durango : Fuck Batman!

✂️✂️✂️! The original Spanish version runs 10 minutes longer and features more sex and violence and ends with some characters digitally morphing into the scene finale from Vera Cruz. 🇩🇪 edition was original 126Mins.

©ST

Recommended Source:

Reenkola, E. (2002). The Veiled Female Core. New York. Other Press.

[silenthillmutual]

For the violence 🔥: 8, 12, 22, and 25 (concerning either Pathologic or the Souls games)

8: common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

daniil is not a wild partyboy. like that interpretation makes 0 sense for his character. all he does is hyperfocus on defeating death to the detriment of all else. i have literally never understood this vision of him as a hedonist. i get that it's wish fulfillment to make characters wild and provocative but that is just a different character altogether. and it's so bizarre that people will do this when andrey is literally right there. genuinely wondering what fucking game everyone else played.

also do fanon designs count here because i am sick to bastard death of seeing young thin dainty white eileen the crow. actually just sick to bastard death of seeing thin interpretations of characters in any media ever but as of late i'm like would y'all stop de-beefing alfred and solaire. at least with artemy people have the excuse of his model looking thin despite textual evidence supporting him being built like a bear but what is the fucking excuse with the other two. everyone is a coward.

12: the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

something i love actually about patho is that pretty much every character has a lover out there, so even if i don't like them i know someone else does. personally i'm a fan of victor kain, especially in classic where andrey says that victor actually wants to leave town and get an education. i think that's why he is the closest to daniil of the family, but despite seeming like the normalest Kain he is absolutely still deranged. he's just kind of polite about it. i don't know that i have a reason people should like him, though, because generally with my faves i understand why people don't.

closer to the goal here would be specifically classic aglaya, i love her. she's so wordy. it's easy to get lost in her manipulations because she seems so straightfoward. there is truth in what she says, of course, and we as the player know that, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have her own objectives. i think she's fascinating, especially as the routes go on, seeing her lose her patience by the time you get to the changeling route. people always say they want morally gray woman characters and she's one of them!! which is a big reason to like her. she's ruthless but sympathetic. and i think that's very neat.

22: your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

so many people are in a rush to characterize daniil as The Worst Person Ever that they miss my favorite type of daniil quest which is "these kids are doing something dangerous and i must intervene" aka, dadkovsy moments. i'm especially fond of him running off to find these kids' missing dads on day ???? (sometime after the army arrives) because they're crying about it and know he'll help them. i see so many people (cough cough reddit) characterizing daniil as hating children based on a line that as far as i know he never even says in pathologic 2, which he would theoretically say to clara, about not liking children. and it's just people taking that statement at face value while ignoring what actually happens in the game and it's so frustrating to watch people fall for that over and over.

25: common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

i have. so many. i have rewritten this answer like three times now. but i think the thing that really bugs me is when people are like, "no one is talking about / writing fic about / drawing x character because they're too busy talking about / writing about / drawing y character who is boring / evil / morally inferior because they are popular." like i get it. being a fan of a side character sucks. being a fan of a rare pairing sucks. but like. as someone who has in the past and sometimes does still write for side characters and rare pairings, where are you all when it comes to interacting with the content that is being made? people will complain to the ends of the earth about the lack of gen fic. so why the hell aren't any of you commenting on it or sharing it? i have written it. my friends have written it. i know how little interaction it gets. if you want to see it you have to nurture it. like the concept of fandom is built around interaction, if you're not willing to interact then like as a fic author i cannot fucking help you. idk that whole attitude just. grates on me.

[mlmvoidboy]

"The word 'aesthetic,' which comes from the Greek meaning 'to perceive.'" "The art is more important than the artist, aestheticism tells us" "Elegance is more important than suffering." "Aestheticism, as a movement, is about seeing more of the beauty in the world than most people notice, since, for example, most people don’t really notice a good-looking font, or a talented colorist for a comic book, or a nice use of enjambment." "Walter Pater, who said that all art aspires to the condition of music—to a state of abstraction free of content." "Being true to ourselves, Pater suggests, keeps us from new impressions and new opinions." "“The Art of Killing” Andrea Zanzin overviews the way in which Harris’s crime novels were always about art." "If art is the end, then people can be a means to an end, and using people as a means to an end is the definition of immorality." "Hannibal’s murder scenes are too beautiful, audacious, and unrealistic to be sad or funny. On Fuller’s Hannibal, the viewer must accept the show’s apparent unconscious premise, which is that all the killers attended the same highbrow MFA sculpture program, a program that values aesthetic, and emotional, distance. Paglia says that Wilde’s Dorian Gray “is the fullest study of the Decadent erotic principle: the transformation of person into object d’art,” 73" "loss of identity is total and communicated with the most abstract imagery (3.6). They are no longer human; they are pure symmetrical design, mirror images blending into each other, part of what rock critic Perry Meisel calls Pater’s “psychedelic sublime”:" "That cave where people sit in the dark, facing the same direction, watching illusions on the wall projected from a man-made light source is not a place of ignorance and fear, as Plato thought. It is a movie theater.49 It is not a prison. It is the temple of the aesthete. The phrase “Art-for-Art’s Sake” lives in Latin above the roaring lion at the start of every MGM movie" "Dante placed homosexuals and misers on the same level of hell because he saw the sins as fundamentally similar: unproductive love. In the Christian tradition the purpose of love and sex is procreation" "The show makes this stark distinction over and over: you live on after your death through your art or through your children, but not both." "“Each man kills the thing he loves” writes Wilde." "Wilde (via his character Gilbert) on music: 'After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own.'" “Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature her proper place.” "Oscar Wilde, in “The Critic as Artist,” wrote that the highest form of art criticism “treats the work of art simply as a starting point for a new creation.” Harold Bloom will expand this into saying that the only proper response to a poem is another poem, and he considers his critical work about poetry to be a 'severe poem.'" “Moral grounds are always the last refuge of people with no sense of beauty.” "If we really want to experience all that experience has to offer—which might include religiously or morally forbidden foods, challenging art, drugs, homosexuality, or murder—we must lose ourselves."

"“The Quinto Quarto evolved from necessity to become high tradition” (3.3), and Hannibal serves it in the fashion of a triple Michelin star restaurant. This is what Fuller is doing with Harris’s novels and the movies: translating them into a higher sphere, from fantastic pulp to high art." "Mads Mikkelsen says Hannibal is “doing what the rest of us should have done our whole life, except for the killing thing, I guess. Embracing life. Every second is an opportunity for beauty.” “He’s a happy man,” Mikkelsen says, “I have rarely given life to a character that is as happy as him.” 197 Elsewhere he says “There is no reason to listen to boring music, you may as well listen to fantastic music, or drink a fantastic glass of wine. And for that reason [for Hannibal] banality is sin.”"" "His mental space is not a place where he returns to his murders, but where he calls up excellent singers he has heard. He tells Will (quoting Harris): Hannibal: If I’m ever apprehended, my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic system. I will live there. Will: Could you be happy there? Hannibal: All the paths, chambers, are not lovely, light, and bright. In the walls of our hearts and brains, danger waits. There are holes in the floor of the mind. (2.13; H48)" "Zachary Quinto yells at Bedelia that “This is culty and weird” (3.10) and he is referring to therapy, but that goes double for the show he is in. The Red Dragon himself calls Hannibal’s press notices “unfair reviews” (3.10), and Reba laments that “people don’t pay attention” (3.9), which feel like digs on the mainstream viewing audience. Fuller would surely endorse Oscar Wilde, who said, “Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic.”" "Tobias tries to kill Hannibal with a cello string, and Hannibal stabs him with a pen before crushing his skull with a sculpture of a stag—their whole fight uses art and the tools of art rather than any conventional weapons. That connection of art and violence is of course central to Dorian Gray, where striking the painting kills the subject of the portrait.” "This is the under girding of the poetic language in Hannibal. It is a universe where every word matters. It is an indictment of the sloppy language used by other shows and other people as insufficient tools to figure out the answers to the questions Hannibal is asking, and insufficient to build the kind of world Hannibal is building, one more perfect and more beautiful than our own."

"In the middle of season 3, Will sits in Hannibal’s kitchen, where Hannibal killed Abigail in front of him, and where Jack and Alana were brutalized. Alana enters in a wheelchair, still reeling from being attacked, and Will explains his friendship with Hannibal. Their conversation could be any defeated Aesthete talking to any Social Justice Activist, as given below: Bloom: Friendship with Hannibal is blackmail elevated to the level of love. Will: A mutually unspoken pact to ignore the worst in each other in order to continue to enjoy the best. Bloom: After everything he's done, can you still ignore the worst in him? Will: I came here to be alone, Alana. (3.4)"

Aestheticism, Evil, Homosexuality, and Hannibal: If Oscar Wilde ate people by Geoff Klock

[pageseo2022]

Far Cry 5: Take Down Regional Bosses and Explore Hope County Your Way

Far Cry 5 is way more grounded compared to the third and fourth games in the series. The story is more about player choices and follows a newbie cop who teams up with a U.S. Marshal to arrest Joseph Seed, the head of the Eden’s Gate cult. If you’re planning to buy Xbox games, Far Cry 5 is definitely one to consider for its compelling narrative and player-driven decisions. Seed and his fam are running Hope, Montana with their sketchy vibes—using force, drugs, and brainwashing to control the locals. Like any iconic Far Cry baddie, Seed is totally out there and wild. He’s all about that end-of-the-world vibe, claiming that your character’s arrival is the start of the apocalypse. When the arrest goes sideways, you join a local resistance and start taking down the Seed crew. Far Cry 5 is a huge open-world playground, but it’s got some fresh twists. Each region is run by one of the Seeds—Jacob’s got the Northern Whitetail Region, Faith’s handling the East with her dangerous Bliss drug, and John’s got the West. To get to Joseph and save Hope, you’ve gotta take down these regional bosses. After the initial setup and some basic tutorials, you’re free to explore and tackle any region in any order you want. You can either focus on one region at a time or switch it up. While the gameplay and objectives might differ a bit by region, the real change comes from the unique characters you’ll meet in story and side missions.

Diverse Characters and Shock Value

There’s a ton to dive into! You can hit up Cult Outposts, which are kinda like the ones from the older Far Cry games. You can tackle challenges however you want, and there’s mad rewards for exploring and completing quests. You can also recruit specialist team members—six humans with unique skills and three animals with their own abilities. You start with one AI buddy but can upgrade to two with the game’s perks. If they die, you’ll have to wait a bit for them to respawn. Far Cry 5 has a lot going on with its open world. It carries over some gameplay from past games, like animal hunting and outpost takedowns, with familiar gunplay and combat. But the way the story and map expand through exploration, rather than just climbing towers, is a nice change. You’ll meet a bunch of quirky characters in Hope, Montana—if you can think of a character type, you’ll probably run into them if you explore enough. Just a heads up: Ubisoft is going for some shock value here. Expect scenes of suicide and missions where you smack animals with a baseball bat—definitely not for the faint of heart.

Advanced Map Editors and Multiplayer Longevity

Ubisoft’s seriously leveled up the single-player side of Far Cry 5, making it a must-have if you’re looking to buy PS5 games. The world they’ve built is top-tier, and the real vibe comes from the people of Hope. They’ve also pushed the series forward in other ways. Now, you can roll through the entire game with online co-op. Unlike Far Cry 4’s side-mission-only co-op, this lets a second player jump in and help out, kinda like calling in one of the AI Specialists. Just keep in mind that only the host player’s progress counts, so everything you do together is saved for the host only. Far Cry 4’s multiplayer was cool but hit-or-miss with finding a full game. Far Cry 5 steps up its online game big time. The Far Cry Arcade lets you dive into multiplayer matches, new solo or co-op missions, and even build your own maps and game modes. It’s like LittleBigPlanet for first-person shooters—super complex map-building tools with assets from various Ubisoft games. There was already tons of variety in multiplayer maps and content before launch, from solo “hero” missions to co-op setups using Far Cry Arcade assets. Even though Far Cry’s dabbled in map editors before, this one’s the most intense. The editing tools are pretty advanced, so it’s only for those ready to invest time in making something epic. You could get lost for hours just playing around with the building options. But honestly, I’m not totally convinced Far Cry’s multiplayer has the staying power to keep people hooked long-term. Still, for those who dig it, there’s a ton to dive into.

A Major Upgrade with Fresh Innovations

We didn’t see it in the last two Far Cry games, but Far Cry 5 is the major upgrade fans have been craving. With fresh gameplay innovations and a bold story, it’ll keep you hooked through its long campaign. Playing with a buddy makes it even more fun, and if you’re really into it, there’s loads of online content to dive into or create. Far Cry 5 definitely feels like the biggest game in the series and could very well be the best one yet.