#like my god involving them is simply dangerous

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[sarahghetti]

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

-

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

-

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

-

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

-

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

-

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

-

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

[loemius]

here’s my hot take of the night:

the e-temples that have been cropping up lately are cool, and im glad to see people making specific spaces to come together to worship. that’s awesome! i’m very here for that as a concept. i love nothing more than to see the theoi get the praise they deserve.

that being said, i am very wary about the amount of people i have seen calling themselves priests/priestesses lately. not even just in the e-temples! ive seen multiple people in the tags who have in their bio “priest(ess) of [deity].” i realize most people probably don’t mean harm by it, but it gets under my skin. to call yourself clergy implies a specific level of knowledge and experience with a religion (which isn’t my business to get involved in your praxis like that, that’s personal unless you wanna share it), but more importantly, official recognition by an established institution. there are not that many of these (that i am aware of) for hellenic polytheism. calling yourself clergy is simply that — calling yourself that. there’s no backing for it, and it genuinely concerns me.

we as the polytheist community talk a lot about harmful practices in spirituality, things like spiritual psychosis or cultural appropriation, which are important topics to discuss. it’s been said before and i’ll say again — people claiming to be spiritual authorities of some kind without any kind of proof can be very dangerous. i don’t assume anyone has bad intentions. i give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that everyone is just trying to help other people worship. but it doesn’t change the fact that calling yourself a priest(ess) will make impressionable or unsure people look up to you, and that is a hell of a lot of responsibility. i am concerned that there are minors running these kinds of blogs. that’s a lot of pressure on someone’s shoulders, especially to put on someone who is still growing up and developing their research and critical thinking skills. i don’t want to gatekeep or anything like that. im very glad to see minors having really good experiences with their faith, that they’re excited to share it with others. but it just concerns me.

im certainly not as experienced as other practitioners on this site, having had about two years of experience at this point, but i am very wary of anyone who claims to be any kind of authority on anything unless you can back it up. regardless of if your blog says that you’re not an authority, calling yourself clergy of any kind implies that. people will take it that way. it inherently implies a level of authority, knowledge, and experience on a particular subject, which is usually backed up by having an official institution that recognizes you.

perhaps this is a little callous of me, but in the same way that when someone makes a claim about the theoi academically, i expect them to have sources to prove it, i expect clergy to have some kind of proof of their authority. otherwise, what are you doing that’s different than any other tumblr blog?

to be clear, i don’t have an issue with these devotional spaces. i simply take an issue with people referring to themselves as clergy when that is a particular term with a particular context and a particular implication. words have power. i earnestly think if people just called themselves something like ‘stewards’ of a particular temple, i wouldn’t be so bothered by it. or just call yourself a devotee of a particular god. ultimately, at the end of the day, the words we use have power and implications, and that has to be acknowledged and respected. send tweet

[reallyromealone]

Hear me out. Bonten Mikey x omega male reader

A few years after mikey and m/n broke up, mikey discovered that m/n has a 6 year old daughter who looks like a copy of mikey, and mike like connects rhe timeline and realizes m/n was pregnant at the time of their break up but m/n never told him bc he didnt want his kid to be involved in the mafia/gang shit

-🐰 (late birthday gift for me 🥹?)

It's A VERY LATE FIC I'M SO SORRY

🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐

(Name) smiled as he put his little pups hair in pigtails, her bangs/fringe pinned back with a cute bubble hair band, today they were visiting Draken and Inui and little (daughters name) wanted to dress her best for her favorite uncles--- don't tell the others.

(Daughters name) was (name)s world, the sweetest little pup in the world who was absolutely precious.

Though sometimes it hurt to look at her, she was literally a spitting image of her father-- (name) never realized how feminine Mikey looked till his pup came into the world, but he loved her so much. She was the kindest and most selfless little thing ever. It wasn't the easiest at times but with the support of his friends he managed. Just starting first grade, (name) was thankful to work at the bike shop and being able to collect his little sunshine.

"Don't forget the cookies papa!" (Daughters name) said excitedly as left for their visit, without a care in the world.

Many would ask "where's the sire" upon learning (name) was a single parent, the question annoying and invasive but (name) always lied and made up an excuse about the father being overseas and such.

He refused to let anyone know about the actual reason, that being (daughters name)a father was the most dangerous man in Tokyo, (name) was thankful as much as he was hurt that Mikey dumped him.

He refused to let anyone go through what he did with Kanto Manji Gang.

With what Mikey was quickly becoming.

It was sheer /fucking/ chance that Mikey was waiting for the light to change in his limo as (name) stood at the cross walk holding hands with--

Holy s h i t.

"...boss are you seeing what we're seeing" Kakucho and Sanzu stared in Shellshock as they looked at a tiny Mikey with pigtails and a little dress, all of them doing the mental math and coming to a quick realization that holy fuck (name) was pregnant.

He was pregnant that day, oh my god that's what he wanted to talk to Mikey about!

"What are your thoughts on kids?" (Name) asked awkardly as they ate dinner, Mikey surpisingly home for once to do so "annoying, would get in the way" the blond said simply "a liability"

(Name) forced himself not to place his hand on his stomach, anxiety riddling his body "I see..."

"Why?"

"Just curious"

Mikey was always so disinterested in (name) these days, (name) always suspected that he was cheating, never saying anything though.

(Name) wanted to just scream.

Mikey remembered that night.

It was the night Mikey dumped him, a rash decision on his end and during one of his dark impulse moments.

He immediately regretted it after, the pained look on (name)s face and they hadn't seen each other since.

(Name) had many expectations of life, but seeing his ex sitting on his couch after he put his pup to bed, noticing the other Bonten men guarding the apartment "the fuck are you doing here" Mikey expected (name)a hostility and glanced up "that's my kid"

"What do you want Mikey" (name) wasn't having any conversation, he wanted to know what the hell he was doing here "I want to meet my kid"

"And get involved in your bullshit? Absolutely not! "Babies are a liability" remember that Mikey?" He hissed out and Mikey sighed, knowing this wasn't going to be easy "I deserve to meet her"

"You lost that chance when you broke up with me, I'm not letting my daughter deal with your shit, Mikey you're /dangerous/! She's six and I don't want her to ever go through what I went through!"

"I can keep you both safe!"

"YOU COULDN'T EVEN KEEP ME SAFE!" (name) was crying at this point, so angry at his once beloveds audacity"I kept her away for a reason Mikey, you are dangerous! She gets to play with her friends and have sleep overs! Has sleep overs at the friends you left behind! She gets to have a childhood that isn't currupted!"

"Why can't you let her have that?" (Name)s voice was broken and his body shaking, he would sacrifice everything for his daughter and at this moment he would stand his ground.

Bonten would poison her.

"Can...can I just please /know/ my daughter"

(Name) was tired, he was tired of it all "if you can /promise/ me that nothing will happen to her, I will let you meet her but one slip up Sano and I will never let you see her again"

[xueyuverse]

Things I love about HuaLian,

a short analysis and nothing deep, just me sighing with love for them 💞

I like how it was only after Hua Cheng's arrival that Xie Lian realized that being used to loneliness is different from being okay, that he really missed having someone by his side, hearing him talk, that he missed talking late into the night and the little things that make being happy so simple.

And I like how Hua Cheng is always protecting and caring, taking the lead only when necessary, but always leaving Xie Lian in the lead.

He doesn't try to control Xie Lian, he just stands by his side, adding his strength to his rather than replacing it, and only trying to persuade Xie Lian not to do something when it involves danger to him.

I like how they don't make one or the other stand out or diminish, they are not substitutes for each other, but a complement.

I like that even their disagreements aren't enough to cause major stresses between them cuz they trust each other enough, whether it's because there's always an unspoken reason or cuz they like each other too much for whatever reason there is or lack thereof not matter.

And I like how this calm makes total sense with their personality, even when they both have scenes of jealousy, it's not something that intense, after all, any stress they have is not between them, it just arises outside the relationship because of third parties or when a of them is in danger. Which leads me to say that I absolutely love it when they go crazy when the other is in danger.

Hua Cheng is described as someone rational, who is always on his own mind, so when he invades the Heavens after Xie Lian who had been arrested shortly after being injured by E-Ming, the gods fall into despair because this simply It's not like Hua Cheng, no one was prepared for it.

Another thing I love is the progression of Xie Lian's feelings.

When he meets Hua Cheng in the ghost bride arch, he already feels impacted by Hua Cheng's strength, kindness and clear beauty even though he hasn't seen his face, and later when they meet in the carriage, even though he is wearing a different skin, Xie Lian still sees "Hua Cheng" in "San Lang", barely able to look at him because he is so handsome. There comes a time when Xie Lian is clearly in love, wanting to marry Hua Cheng and feeling unhappy when Hua Cheng talks about his "wife", but no one knows when Xie Lian fell in love, nor should he know.

Hua Cheng probably doesn't even know when he fell in love too, he only realized when he found himself sighing for the prince on the swing and saying things like "he's my future wife".

[cvlutos]

"DELIVER" Pt.One

✦ | 03.27.23 |

✦ | TWST!VARIOUS X GN!READER | TWST: MAFIA AU

✦ | Violence | Sexual Themes | Smoking | Murder | Gore(?) | Blood | Tread carefully, my love.

✦ | Synopsis: | You deliver letters all across the eight districts and Ramshackles. A quite fulfilling job, until one day you and your neighbor have a horrible mix up. He's involved in something he shouldn't be and you just happened to be the last person he talked too.

[OVERVIEW]

Mafias are no joke.

They're dangerous. Violent. Some more than others. Yet it has been covered in gold, glamorized til the point of no return. Yet it isn't senseless murder, but only a few words can deem any murder from senseless to meaningful. It's best to not interact with them at all, it's best to simply know they exist and avoid them. Unless you desire end with them, or below.

Splattered drops of rain beat down on his form, shoes slippery as he turned down alleyways, shoulders and body slamming into the stone walk, nearly falling over himself to run away. His sight blinded by his wet hair, and clothes stained in dirty and blood.

He's been deemed a thief.

He can hear the loud shouts of orders from behind, the barking of dogs, and heavy footsteps that didn't stop and falter in the rain, an unmoving force that was moving faster than the boy. He continues twisted and turning, praying to any god, that he survives, he has to survive, the people have to know. They must. He stumbles out into the empty street, hands frantically wiping at his face, gasping and spitting out water, a moment to slow.

The sound of a gun rings out, ripping through the flesh of the boy, his body within moments topping over from the sheer-velocity and force, feeling the bullet rip through skin and rest painfully within his back. He blinks the tears from his eyes, as his body lands face first into the cobble stone ground.

Lifeless.

Those chasing him slow, staring the dead body be continuously beat down by the rain, and the rolling crackle of thunder, there's a hushed spread of commands, 'Grab the body. We'll show the Boss.' Voice is blank, as if almost grieving at the unnecessary loss of human life, before turning to his partner- his "friend", who easily tucked the gun away. A shark-like smile spread across his lips.

"He was wanted dead—Now he's dead." He merely shrugs, while the man with a spade symbol upon his face scowls.

"He was wanted alive. You went against the rules." The merman merely shrugs once again, making a 'blah' sound at the mention of the Queendom's rules.

A senseless murder to one, meaningful murder to another.

══════ ♡ ════════════ ♡ ══════

Death Certificate letters are the worse letters to ever have to deliver.

The road bumpy beneath your bike wheels, your leather satchel within your metal basket. You offer smiles to those you pass, those who worked in the gardens, picking and planting fresh vegetables and fruits, a group of older women and young girls, that always offer a wave and without outfail a dinner invitation, always adding 'the more the merrier' and there right, it's fun to not eat alone.

You ride your bike over twisted and bends, passing a small library where the owner watered his windowsill flowers, waving at you, and you wave back with a small smile. He's an old man, wrinkly and gray, with a single wooden leg, some say he got it during a fight with the Octavinelle Mafia, though most the others think he's lying, but a good lie never hurt no one.

The Ramschackles are diverse and lively midday, pressing on the breaks as a young man and his children blocked the road, letting his cattle walk through, leading the towards the pasture on the other side. He greets you, asking about your day, as his son climbs the old fencing shouting for the cows to go faster, and his daughter begs to ride the cows, pulling on the pants of his father. You remember the birth of the twins, nearly 6 years ago. You can't help but smile, giving each kid a piece of candy which you got from visiting Heartslabyul, which the father silently mouths a 'thank you', his wife had died in the last fall.

Once the last cow passed, your sped off, familiar with every bump and lump, though all the large rocks having been removed by a group of men, promising to make the road safer for you, and they did. Even covering up the major holes with dirt to make it even. Even amongst the mass of houses and homes, you can see the house that the certified was for, Ms. Louis, a widower, and now, a mother without her son.

Turning a sharp curve and halting in front of her home, kicking down your kickstand and climbing off your bike, yanking you satchel from the basket and fixing down your hair and clothes as you walked up the narrow stops, skipping the creaky board, as your rummaged through your bag. Before you can even knock, the door swings open, just as you grab the envelope.

"[Name], you're here." She speaks with a soft inhale, as if she ran from her kitchen to answer, she has deep eye bags, and her black hair is messy and undone. She attempts to smile, but you can tell by the shakiness of her hands, she's panicking—scared.

You pass her the envelope, yet you can't speak, far too afraid that your voice would crack, and you'd witness this woman all five stages of grief before she could open the yellow envelope. She doesn't wait til your leave, ripping off the edge immediately, you can see her green eyes begin to water, she already knows what awaits her. She tosses the packaging aside, hands running over the thick cardboard paper, fingers tracing the words of her son. She breaks down in sobs, and you hold her, feeling her frail form lean against you, arms wrapped around your shoulder, as she cries and speaks in broken sobs.

"H-he's dead! They-They kill-killed him!" She hiccups, voice cracking, you can feel her already broken heart shattering. Her crying gains the attention of others, some already sure of the fate that her son befell the moment he left the safety of the Ramschackles. Others asking to look at the certificate, as your pull away, watching them read over the piece of paper.

"Bullshit! That boy was no thief!" A neighbor, he shots angrily, holding the paper firm in his hand, as he points to Ms. Louis. "He ain't no thief!" His wife pats his arm, wiping the tears from her eyes, shaking her head at her husband's outburst. "He ain't mean it, Liz. He just hurtin""

"I know. I know." Liz let's put an exasperated laugh, shaking her head as she wipes her tears, walking down the steps and taking the paper back. "I know my Tommy was doing good," she lets out a shaky sigh, before turning back to you, "he always does good. Forgive me, it's been long since I've cried so hard. I know my boy wouldn't want be sobbin' over him like that."

"It's good to cry." You respond with a smile.

"They'r right. Tears ain't hurt nobody.” The husband speaks with a firm headnod, wagging his finger as Liz merely laughs making her way the steps to her house.

"Im in the process of finishin' that onion soup, with the chicken, if you wanna stay for lunch." The husband and wife immediately agree, the wife promising to get the newest loaf of bread to eat with it, as the husband made his way towards the house. Liz glances at you, hopefully. You feel bad, but pat your satchel.

"I got a few more letters, but save me a bite." You hop down the steps as she laughs, climbing back onto your bike and ringing the bell a few times, with a chuckle, before racing off.

The Ramschackles have always and will always be resilient.

"You had not the jurisdiction!"

Within a room of Crowley Hall, surrounding a table stands seven people. The Red-Rose Tyrant, The King of Beasts, The Deep-Sea Merchant, The Silly Sultan, The Fairest, King of the Underworld, and lastly The General. Tension is thick, palpable, you can almost taste it on yourself tongue.

Vil Schoenheit, The Fairest, was the first to speak, a clear scowl upon perfectly glossed lips, hair pulled back into a bun, clearly tired and annoyed. "Azul, we were supposed to agree,"

"And we did. Forgive me if Heartslabyul was too slow. Floyd is of course an uncontrollable force, and we wanted him dead, no?"

Azul Ashengrotto, The Merchant Of The Deep, has a faux pout, his voice drenched in fake concern, a heavy trench jacket hanging over his shoulders, eyes behind silver glasses beyond amused.

Riddle Rosehearts, The Red-rose Tyrant, stucks in a breath through his teeth, clearly angry, with the furrowing of his red brows. "You had no right. Under law, Floyd's head he be placed along my wall. Our suspect was not supposed to be killed."

"He was a thief. Isn't theft against your laws?" Leona Kingscholar, The King Of Beasts, stands directly infront of Riddle, still across the wide table, a deeply bored expression upon his face, yet his eyes seemed to glow in amusement.

"Exactly. I don't see why I'm such a target for such hate." Azul lets out a pitiful sigh, causing Riddle to slam his hands against the table, nearly knocking over various glasses, he glowers at the mafia boss of Octavinelle.

"If he fought back! You mercilessly killed him upon Heartslabyul soil! Do not deny it!"

"He had information, why give him a chance to live," Azul pushes up his glasses, a cruel grin spreading across his face, "unless you were working with him?"

Leona shakes his head, eyes fluttered close. "For shame."

"That wouldn't be a good look upon Heartslabyul either." Azul continues, before a clearing of a throat cuts him off.

Lilia Vanrouge, The General, the stand in for Diasomnia's Boss. "He had information. Information he shouldn't have. Information that resulted in his death. A shame it is..."

"It was senseless." Riddle crosses his arms, a scowl deep on his face still.

"But the information made it meaningful." Azul continues to keep his artificial smile, eyes on Lilia. The fae merely clears his throat, crossing his arms, a smile child-like grin on his face.

"We cannot go back in time to do differently. Our next step of action is to find if he could've possibly told another person. Any ideas Idia?"

Idia Shroud, The King Of The Underworld, his eyes dart across him screen before nodding. Using his fingers to spread out a image of the Ramschackles, showing the image of a tiny hovel with a rickety iron fence and old stone pathway.

"Hey, [Name]! This is absolute gold! I gotta tell ya!"

A young boy with blonde hair, and freckles walks beside you as your push your bike. He's holding a letter that you delivered to him simply moments ago. He waves it excitedly. He was a mafia fanatic, loved anything and everything about the place. To the point it had you concerned sometimes. The letter you had given him was from the Thomas Louis, or Tommy.

"Let me tell ya! If I get this to the news! Ooh Wee! Imagine! All that money." He punches the hair, and you shake your head.

"Don't go messin' with the Mafias."

"They aint gon' hurt no nobody like me." Henry has always been excitable, there's not a moment you haven't seen him without a smile that rivals the sun. "Well, I ain't gon' be a nobody for long." He voice quiets, but the smile is still there. Silence.

He opens his mouth to speak again, until a familiar chime of a bell and a holler of 'Henry' sounds loud and clear. "COMIN' MA!" He glances back at you with a grin. "Tomorrow. Imma tell you all about my big plan."

"I'm excited to hear about it." You watch him let out a happy laugh, before running off with a final wave. You spot your home in the distance, picking up your pace, as your place your bike against the metal fence.

Now, you love your home within the Ramshackle, your Lil hovel, and your small garden with your cat. You love it, truly you do. You love your neighbors, and you love the festivals that the Ramshackle holds. You love it all.

Your leather satchel hangs off your hip, filled to the brim with different letters and papers from your most recent trip. You just returned from Scarabia, having a good easy delivery for the old man that lives up the street, and after a long day, you're finally home.

You push past the old rickety iron gate, and up the stone pathway, eyes searching along for your familiar feline friend. He usually waits for you. Hopping the old creaky steps, until you stop right in front of a card. Perfectly placed with gold decor. 'For Ramschackle's Perfect. You're invited to Crowley Hall' written directly on the front. Ramshackle's Perfect was only a joke type name among the people that lived in, said Ramshackle.

Who else would call you that?

You pick up the letter, glancing around the porch, before slipping inside your home, and closing the door behind you. Crowley Hall, also known as the Grand Dinner Hall, a place where all important events took place, especially the meeting of all seven mafia leaders. Why would someone invite you with no other information?

You flip the card, there's nothing else. Your shoulders slump, you shouldn't go. Yet, you stare at the words once again. It could be important or lead to trouble for the other people of Ramshackle. Your eyes drift over to your clock. It was only 7 pm.

You had five hours.

You glance back at the thick fancy card. Five hours before 12. You feel a familiar purr, and glance down at your cat, Grim rubbing against your legs. Five hours, and well, as long as you're back before midnight. You'll be fine.

Right?

ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

[rustys-lodge]

His ward.

Summary : Sherlock notices a few changes in you. It's sleep, nutrition and....Other things. You're just simply not okay. What's he going to do about that ?

warnings : Talk about lack of nutrition, a bit of angst, as well as poor behavior caused by lack of sleep. And one mention of physical assault.

A/N : First sherlock fic ! yaaay ! I'm so excited to add a new fandom to the Masterlist . So, as some of you might notice, the scene's the same. Just a few changes of my own to fit the story better. And a much better ending that I'm sure a lot of us wanted !! 😂 For those that don't know the scene. Here it is.

-----

"Did i ask you for advice ? I found you on the street. Drunk."

The man froze, turning to face you in a defeating manner.

"Now what may I observe about you ?"

You shook your head. "We're not playing this game."

Let's rewind a few hours back...Where Sherlock was...standing like a crab, balancing himself to not fall drunken face down on the ground. If you hadn't found him and brought him home....You'd say he would've ended up dead, somewhere in a garbage can.

Now Sherlock, thinks otherwise. Mister great detective says it is he, who helped you. How ? God knows how....

He is also saying you should leave....Which...You don't agree with. He needs the help. His place is a mess. he needs cleaning. He needs someone to help him organize the chaos that he's living in...He needs-

"Your eyes are redder than redder than wine." Sherlock started and you take a step back. "You're much slower than you usually are."

"Like you know what i usually am like, Sherlock." Accusations spilled out of your lips, but Sherlock ignores them, simultaneously talking ober you and analyzing you.

"Your face has lost it's color and your wounds are healing very slow."

"You're one to talk, look at you, your hair's more messed up than a-

"And then there's the irritability, you are less-"

"Stop !" Your index found itself inches away from Sherlock's face. And he stops.

"And then there's your nails." Sherlock's voice decreased into a soft tone, yet the sternness was still there. And before you could move your finger away, his hand reached for it. "Your nails are brittle."

You yanked your hand away at his response. "They are n-"

"I wasn't in such a state as to not see that, Y/N." Sherlock leaned closer to your face, the glare in his eyes freezing you in place. And then he kept on blabbering as he walked away from you. And you couldn't help but insult him back concurrently . "You're neither sleeping nor eating. Why is that ?"

Your throat dried up as his words emerged louder and louder. "Sherlock, you- You-How did you-"

"And." Your brother lifted up his arm. God damn it.... "Your neck is red. Someone has gripped it or held a knife against.." a shaky breath replaced that last little word as realization hit Sherlock, his features emulsifying into a state of shock...

Or was it anger ?

Your hand instantly flew up to cover your neck as your gaze darted to the ground. You couldn't help but think about the product of the aftermath. And as the silence grew louder, the images started-

"Are you involved in something dangerous ?" Sherlock broke the silence. Finally. And you glanced away. "Because you are still my ward." Steps grew closer and a second after that, you found yourself towered over by him.

Your foot staggered back. You...You don't n-need him.

"If you need my help, my offer remains on the table." A soft command is what it was...And you couldn't help but thi- "Don't be so desperate to prove yourself, Y/n."

You faltered, scoffing. Is that was he thought it was ? It was that....But did he have to say it ?

"I am not desperate." A fake spark of triumph electrified you. And you found yourself turning on your heels. "And i don't need your- or anyone's hel-"

"Not so fast."

You turned around, somewhat thrilled. "What ?" You spa out.

You might've gotten thrilled. But that doesn't mean you were going to show that to him ?

Your brother threw a glance at you before his gaze fell down. His giant slumped shoulders gave away the desperation and the deceit he was feeling.

Your heart stung at the sight of it.

"What ?" You repeated yourself, a bit louder. Impatience was growing thicker in you. You....Yo-

"If you insist my help is not needed, than i will serve you a plate and i shall observe you e-"

What ? "No!" He can't do that to you !! you're not a pet !

Sherlock raised his hand, motioning for you to stop. "To make sure you are well nurt-"

"No. No." But his attempt to defend himself failed, as you cut him off again, shaking your head violently. How could you not ?? What kind of suggestion is that-

"And you'll sleep here tonight. And then tomorrow you're free to...Not ever come back."

His words pierced through your heart.

"No."

"Okay." Sherlock condensed. And you squinted your eyes at his mischievous s- "Then you're not going anywhere."

There is it ! You...You knew it. Rolling your eyes at him, you tilted your head back as frustration swept over you. "No."

"I'm sorry. But"

"No" You shrugged, turning on your heels. You were not having any of it. Not the accusations, not the suggestion...Nothing. And Sherlock was quite different from Mycroft...He was gentler, sweeter. More loving. That meant : His opinion doesn't matter. After all, who's h-

"Hey !"

You flinched at the sudden yell that echoed through the room. Sherlock's voice was consumed by anger. Hoarse and low, the yell only made whimper unconsciously...And you thanked god your brother was far enough not to hear it. He better not have heard it...

"But Sherlock i-You can't withhold me h-"

"I am not withholding you, sister, I am only seeking your safety and your well-being." The detective's voice simmered down again, almost mirroring yours. The only difference is that you sounded almost weak. He sounded...collected.

"I-"

"If." Sherlock's voice filled the room again. "you do step out of that door, the consequences of that will be solely your responsibility to bear." The softness in his voice sent chills down your spine, as behind it hid a dark pitch that...You weren't sure you wanted to hear again.

With two fingers slightly curved around the door handle, your eyes dart from handle to Sherlock....You reconsidered....Stay and risk him finding out ?(Choice 1) Or Leave and risk...Whatever he has in mind for you ?(Choice 2)

-----

Tell me which choice would you choose ? if anobody wants to be tagged for part 2 tell me. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[venerawrites]

Silco x reader headcanons?

author's note: I swear, the things this man makes me feel... whew! Anyway, this is my first request for Arcane and I was so excited to write it! Thought it would be interesting if I made reader a councillor since I always see headcanons for him with an employee. Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for requesting! <3

All his life, Silco thought he would either remain a bachelor or eventually get with one of his employees. He didn't care much about finding a partner - taking care of Zaun and Jinx was already enough responsibility. Having someone to demand more of his time and attention was the last thing he needed.

But fate had a wicked sense of humour, so when you sent some of your bodyguards to go and arrange a meeting with him, his interest peaked. A councillor from Piltover seeking him? My, my, that would be interesting.

The initial arrangement was a simple alliance - Silco was supposed to keep the undercity's movements for freedom in check, as well as keep Jinx away from the topside. You, on the other hand, promised to provide information about all upcoming decisions and changes in the law approved by the Council.

He usually would never agree to trade with someone from the other side of the bridge, but something about you intrigued him. You were born and raised in Zaun, yet somehow made your way into the City of Progress and climbed the political ladder till you got to the top. While you claimed you had Piltover's best interest in mind, he couldn't help but be suspicious of where your loyalty truly lies.

Listen, Silco may think innocence and naivety are cute, but what truly attracts him is power. Brains. Someone who knows what they want and how to get it. Someone like YOU.

Soon the political dealings started to become more... intimate. Perhaps because none of you had a romantic partner, or simply because your secret meetings always took place late at night in his office, but it did not take long for your verbal exchange to become physical.

First, there were lingering gazes. He followed each one of your moves, almost like a hunter waiting for the right time to attack. Later, you started closing the distance, often circling him while you pried information about the latest rebellion news in the city. Your hands sometimes found their way to his shoulder or arm, gently squeezing his muscles or dragging your nails down his skin.

The eye of Zaun tried not to fall for your charms. He really did. But as you were luring him in, like a siren, how could he stay away? Plus, it didn't have to mean anything, right? Both of you were interested in influence and power, not love, so it wouldn't hurt if he just gave in to his desires at least once.

Except it wasn't just once.

After having a taste, he couldn't stay away. He would never admit it, but he definitely fell first. For you, it was all fun and games, but for him, it was a completely new experience. Sure, he fell in love once when he was a young adult, but it couldn't compare to what he was feeling toward you now.

God knew how much he hated himself for catching feelings. And for a councillor, of all people?

He tried to hide them for a while, but the way he grew up to be super possessive of you made his intentions clear as day. He liked to keep you as long as he could with him, delaying your meetings on purpose just so he could spend more time with you. He also asked to see you more often than your arranged meetings and if you said no, he would just show up at your home in Piltover, completely unbothered by the fact that you could call security on him at any point.

It would be a lie if you said his behaviour didn't trigger anything in you. You've met many men who were manipulative and calculating, but no one who was like him. His whole existence screamed 'DANGER' and by the time you realised you should not get involved with him on any level deeper than just physical intimacy, you were already a victim to his charm.

Being from two different worlds - one dark and dangerous, the other one safe and progressive - your relationship was pretty toxic. There is a constant distrust between you and quite a lot of arguments, especially in the beginning.

Slowly he started to open up to you, letting you know about his dreams for Zaun and his rocky relationship with Jinx. You also shared your story of how you escaped the streets of the Undercity and eventually earned your seat on the Council.

Jealosy is something you both possess and is a common cause for conflict between you. Silco sees competition in any male in Piltover (after all he has 0 influence over there, so he could never make an official claim over you!), while you severely disliked how obedient all his female employees are, especially Sevika. He finds your annoyance quite amusing, but he likes seeing that side of you, so he never really tries to reassure or comfort you.

He is not really romantic, but from time to time he likes to randomly give you gifts. He always tries to play it off, as if he didn't put any thought it in or if he just randomly saw an object in his house he thought you may like, but the amount of effort was visible in the beautiful packaging and the hand-written card. He especially likes giving you jewellery and making you wear it during your Council meetings.

Without a doubt he would try to influence you to give up your seat and join him and his cause. After all, you were born in the Undercity and is where you belonged.

As you won't give into his request and he doesn't want to give up on you either, your relationship would cause a lot of chaos and tension between the cities. Silco would often send either Jinx or one of his workers to go a cause mischief in Piltover, just to spite you. Every time you confront him, however, he would deny, a small mocking smile on his lips.

Overall, very toxic, but highly exciting relationship. He would burn the world for you to belong to him and ONLY him, and no matter what he did, you just couldn't stay away.

cc artwork: "Arcane" concept art

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Promise of Rubies - A John Shelby/Reader One Shot Story.

This kind of just happened last night, a bit of dark, a lot of fluff. Enjoy, besties.

(GIF credit - @peakystitches)

Words - 2,956

Warnings - Fluff! Mentions of violence, too.

The horizon bleeds pink into orange, swirling in watercolour as the ink of night begins to dominate, saturating into all that is warm with her cool darkness. The clouds of fluffy white smoke into grey, the evening arriving, the chill whipping against your skin as you stand outside your home, idly smoking a cigarette. No smoking in the house, as per your sister’s rules.  

It’s been just you and her looking after your brood of younger siblings since your mother died and your father hung. A hard life marred with tragedy, but you make no complaint. There are certain ways a poor woman with little in the way of opportunity can make her life better, yours perhaps the most sought after within the slums of Small Heath.

Shagging a Shelby. Many women covert it; few attain.  

It isn’t just sex between you and John any longer, though. At least, you don’t think it is. Surely if it were, you wouldn’t be the refuge he sought in times of crisis, in times where he needs someone to give him the care he usually provides to you. Surely, he’d go elsewhere if you meant so little to him as to solely be a warm hole in which to bury his cock.  

“John?” 

He staggers, his path zig zagging as he moves through the street, hitting the house besides yours, his features scrunched as he grunts in effort. Your heart skips on a beat, realising that he’s hurt beyond a mild beating. “John, Jesus bloody wept, what happened?” 

Casting your cigarette into the gutter, you reach for him, and he slumps against you, his body moulding soft yet heavy against yours.  

“The fucking...” he grits, pulling himself up, face contorted in agony. “The fucking wops. Jumped me, couldn’t get home. Yours was quicker. Fucking... those fucking...” 

Assertiveness kicks in, the same as when you’re dealing with split elbows and grazed knees suffered by your younger brothers and sisters, the protective instinct within your stirred to action. “Okay, don’t talk right now. Let’s get you inside. Come on.” 

Hauling his arm around your shoulders, you pull him towards your front door, burdened beneath his weight, turning to make sure there are no persons of the Italian persuasion around. Him being followed is the very last thing you need. You want to help him, such goes without saying, but if the Changretta’s knew where you lived... heaven help you.  

It isn’t like Jonh is currently in a fit state to assist in fighting them off right now either, and you could do without having to point a gun to anyone’s head. Being in a relationship of sorts with a Shelby means that wielding a weapon simply becomes par for the course. Trust you to fall for a man whose terms and conditions come with the kind of desensitising to violence you never expected to ever partake in.  

“Come on,” you grit, hauling him towards the kitchen table, John heavy against you as you steer him into a seat. “Right, let’s take a look at you. You ain’t been stabbed or shot, have you?” 

He straightens, wincing. “Slashed me, but nah, none of that.” 

You’re involving yourself in unbuttoning his waistcoat and tattered shirt when your sister walks in, the air thickening with immediate effect. “What the bloody hell went on here?” 

You turn your head, scoffing with soft incredulity. “Isn’t that obvious, Ethel?” 

“I don’t want his brand of trouble in my fucking house!” 

“S’alright, Ethel,” he groans, taking a deep breath, wincing again as you gasp upon revealing his banged up ribs. No wonder he can hardly breathe. “I weren’t followed. Wouldn’t have come if I was. Ain’t no fucking way I’m putting you, your sister or the nippers in danger.”  

“You better be sure on that, John Shelby. Because I’ll fucking hang before I let you endanger my family! We’ve already lost mom and dad, for the love of god, we don’t...” 

“Ethel!” you shout, turning to view her. “Leave it alone now. This isn’t the time, alright? Just go to work. The kids are in bed, we’re armed, and he wasn’t followed. It’s fine.”  

Ethel shakes her head, her lips pinching. “The things you’ll put up with for a shag.” 

“As would you if you saw the cock on him,” you fire back, John snorting with laughter despite his state. 

“And here was me thinking it was me raw charm you liked most,” he jokes, laughing all he can.  

“I’ll be back later.” Her frosty statement is followed by her swift exit, the front door slamming shut. You look at John, shaking your head with a soft smile. 

“I do like you for more than your cock, you know.” 

He grins, pulling out his cigarettes and lighting up. Flouting Ethel's rules is one of his favourite pastimes. “Wouldn’t blame you if that was the only thing about me you did like, bab. It’s impressive.”  

Battered six ways to Sunday and still, he’s the cockiest, most arrogant shit of a man you’ve ever met. 

“And the rest of you does come with a certain barrage of shit.” 

A flicker of embarrassment gilds his face in shame, dropping his gaze. “I know, love.”  

Pulling his shirt from him, you study his wounds carefully. Bruised ribs, but his breathing isn’t laboured enough for them to be broken. Cuts and welts to his face, a slash across his upper pectoral leading to the side of his armpit. It could have been a hell of a lot worse.  

Thank fuck Small Heath lads can take a bloody good kicking.  

Stroking his face, your heart flutters when he leans into the cup of your palm, turning his head to kiss the heel of your hand. “Let me get some stuff together, and I’ll get you sorted.”  

His gratitude is delivered in the soft gaze from his steel blue eyes, halting you as you stand, pulling you close. “I’d fucking be lost without you.”  

Of course, he would. It takes a special kind to be with a Shelby, a woman who knows the harder side of life by nature rather than infliction, a woman who accepts that smooth sailing will never come without regular choppy seas, a woman who sees beyond the black clouds for the rays of sunshine.

You think of all of that and more while boiling some water, pouring a splash of TCP into the bowl, a little cold water to follow, taking it back to the table with some cotton to begin cleaning his war wounds.  

“Fucking hell!” he hisses sharply, the sting of the antiseptic meeting the open chest wound too great to merely offer grumbles in response.  

You study the wound closely, knowing that bandaging across his chest will keep it clean, but two places at least are much too deep for the skin to knit together without assistance. “I’ll have to stitch you, John.” Your face is full of lament, squeezing his hand. “Sorry.”  

He sniffs, his shoulders twitching in shrug. “I thought you might. It's alright.”  

A cotton reel and needle are fetched, as well as a bottle of cheap brandy and a couple of glasses. You half fill his, John knocking it back immediately, causing you to reconsider your stance on anything vaguely resembling etiquette and pushing the bottle towards him instead. “Ta, bab.”  

He knocks back the brandy like it's some kind of elixir, and you cannot blame him at all, having to endure the pain of stitches administered by a semi-unskilled hand. Hems and turnups you are adept with; flesh wounds, not so much.  

Pushing the needle into his pale flesh, he hisses a grumble, prompting your lips to press a kiss into the centre of his chest before you continue. Nine stitches close the first of the deepest part of the gash, four to the second, John knocking back the brandy as you knot the thread, cutting the cotton with a sharp knife.  

“There,” you say, sitting back to admire your handiwork. “All sorted.” You notice his skin beaded in sweat, the blood trails bleeding into it, pink pearls of fluid trickling over his chest. “Do you want me to prep you a bath?” 

He shakes his head, placing the brandy bottle down. “Nah, love. You’ve done enough.” He stands slowly, taking the bowl and emptying it before filling it with the remainer of the hot water, washing himself down carefully. Standing, you tip the brandy within your glass down your throat, going to fetch a towel for him.  

“You look like you need to go to bed.”  

Taking the towel from you, he dries his face and chest, nodding. “Probably the best place for me.” Locking the front door, you walk along behind him, hands braced against the wide planes of his bare shoulders, moving to your tiny bedroom. There isn’t much in there, a double bed that takes up most of the room, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, the spaces between the furniture narrow, John kicking off his boots and the remainder of clothes, wincing in pain as he climbs beneath the covers.  

“I was just about to make some tea,” you state, seating yourself on the edge of the bed. “Only beans on toast, it’s about all we’ve got in. Do you want some?” 

He reaches for your arm, shaking his head. “No ta, sweetheart. I think I just need to sleep it off.” He stares up at you for a few moments and your heart flutters, half with the worry that the wounds that led him to your door could have all too easily been fatal, and half with the absolute beauty of his eyes. You never noticed before, how they exactly match the sunset, smoky blue irises gilded in the golden copper of his lashes, freckled lids that begin growing heavier with every blink.  

Leaning to him, you kiss his lips softly. “Just shout if you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”  

He’s asleep before you’ve even climbed off the bed, leaving you to wonder just how much he’d had to drink prior to him being jumped. You’ve seen John fight, he’s adept, savage, not the kind of man who would take a kicking lying down. There was bound to be more than one, though, this beating a clear message from the Italians. If they wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have turned up at all. Either that or you’d be walking to the phone box to call Tommy and inform him of John’s demise upon your doorstep, either of the two.  

Putting it to the back of your mind, you go downstairs, searching through your meagre pantry. No beans. Ahhh, yeah. You shared the last tin out between the kids before putting them to bed. You won’t receive your grocery delivery until the day after either, John putting in a standing order he pays for at the corner shop to be delivered twice weekly, so your family never go without.  

Ethel protests it, but often quietens when she sees a bottle of gin just for her there in the box when good ole’ Mr Williams knocks the door with your provisions. Say what you will about John, but he’s thoughtful and makes sure nobody within your household goes without, even if one of those people doesn’t like him much. 

Grabbing the loaf of bread, you think yourself lucky to at least have preserves and butter in good supply, slathering three slices, one plain butter, one with jam and the other with marmalade. You leave that slice until last, the comfort of your mother’s marmalade recipe you’ve finally managed to perfect making you feel warm inside as you sit at the hearth with a strong cup of tea, kicking off your shoes to warm your toes in front of the fire.  

“They’re dangerous lads, but they’re good lads, those Shelby boys.” That’s what she staunchly said of them, always welcoming John with open arms whenever he called to take you out. Him, Tommy and Arthur, they all tried to swing it the other way with the police when your dad was locked up, languishing within the damp, rat-infested surroundings of Winson Green prison. It was sadly to no avail, your father meeting the noose just two weeks after your mother died, her heart giving out on her after a lifetime of suffering with the illness.  

Your heart is now the one that lies damaged, effectively orphaned, caregiver to four small children when you feel like now is the time to be thinking about maybe beginning a family of your own. Your mind turns back to the guest within your bed, smiling as you think of him, wondering what your eventual children will look like.  

You spend a few hours at the fireside, reading a book between bouts of getting lost in thought, wondering if this new trouble with the Italians is going to only lead to further heartbreak for you. Loving a gangster is not an easy path, but you walk it with him all the same. Deciding to head upstairs rather than throw on more kindling, you seek the warmth of his body after you’ve stripped off, pulling your nightgown on and sliding into bed beside him. 

“What you bothered with this thing for?” he mutters, hand reaching to stroke against the winceyette covering your waist.  

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be fit for anything other than sleep, given the fact you turned up four hours ago beaten black and blue,” you state, John nodding. 

“I'm not, but I like the feel of your skin against mine. Get it off.”  

Rolling your eyes, the nightgown is abandoned, settling down at his side again, John grabbing your leg and gently resting it across his thighs. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “It’ll all be alright, you know. In the end. It ain’t alright at the moment, but that’s cos’ it ain’t the end, love.” 

You swear, he can read your mind sometimes, all your little worries you manage to hide. You can never keep them shadowed from John, though. “I know, darling. I know. I accept it, I know I have to harden myself to it all, that it’s the price I pay to love someone as much as I do you. Doesn't make it easy, though.”  

His hand strokes idly at your back, another kiss pressed to your head. “It will be one day, bab. Promise.”  

As you fall asleep beside him, you don’t know if you truly can believe that or not, wondering if you’re cursed to love and lose forever. Many more nights of worry come and go, though, but he still turns up. Sometimes battered, most of the time absolutely fine. The Italian issue gets sorted, and life moves on, until one evening when he fails to turn up at all.  

It would be your birthday, wouldn’t it? He would go missing and thus curse the day forevermore, a day that should be marked with happiness forever blacked out as the day John Shelby failed to knock your front door. Someone else does, though.  

“Come with me, love,” Arthur states, his face blank, tone flat.  

“Why?” you ask, fetching your coat from behind the front door. “Arthur, what’s going on? Why do you look so serious?”  

Your heart begins pounding, the tall, eldest Shelby sibling giving nothing away. “Just come with me.” 

Is this it? Is this the day you’ve been dreading? Surely though, if something had happened, Arthur would just come out and say it, wouldn’t he?  

He would, wouldn’t he?  

You pester him all the way along the walk, out of your street and around the corner, coming onto Watery Lane, the heat from the blast furnaces warming the chill in your cheeks as you pass them by, Okay, so you passed John’s house, too. Can’t be that bad, can it? Surely if he was dead, Arthur would have taken you there to explain?  

“After you.” Holding the door open, he makes a gesture for you to head into The Garrison first, your heart still thumping wildly with nerves, stepping in to the almightiest cheer that makes you jump about a foot out of your skin. Banners and streamers decorate the entire pub, your friends and family all present, John beaming as he walks away from the group of smiling people.  

“Happy birthday, sweetheart” he speaks warmly, pulling you into a huge hug. “Aw, look at her face! Proper got ya, didn’t I?” 

“I thought you were dead! I thought, I though Arthur was bringing me here to give me bad news, and you didn’t turn up, and...” you babble, turning to see Arthur grin. He receives a smack in the chest for his talents in delivering a completely deadpan facade. “You bugger!” 

“I know,” he chuckles, winding his arm around your shoulders and kissing your head. “I’m a fucking rotter, but I was under orders.”  

Your eyes turn back to he who gave the orders, shaking your head. “You’re a bugger too, John Shelby.” 

He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “I know. Hopefully you won’t think I’m one for very long, though.” He reaches into his pocket, removing a small box, taking your hand. Your mouth virtually hits the ground as you watch him lower to one knee before you. “I love you, (Y/N). Always have, always will. Will you marry me?” 

With tears in your eyes, you accept the proposal, and the beautiful ruby and diamond engagement ring, John slipping it onto your finger and kissing your hand as the crowd erupts with cheers, standing to kiss you.  

“Promised you it’d all be okay in the end, didn’t I?” 

Indeed, he did.  

[jksnrabbit]

DNDADS OCS, BUT THIS TIME ITS S2

THIS TIME i present TWO . TWICE the character for One post because i couldnt be bothered to make 2 debut ref sheets for them both

Luis and Santiago Sanchez, originally made as dnd characters for a campaign that never took off, so i smushed em in s2

here's an introductory comic to how luis and lark met, simply cause ive had this comic in my sketchbook for ages and it makes me cackle everytime

fun facts below the cut!! [i wrote more than expected]

☆ i made them sometime in 2022, before the s2 teens made it to heaven, so now idk how they can be part angelic considering angels r just eyeballs, but fuck it. if there can be half demon characters, there can be half angel

☆ theyre both peruvian [because i dont see enough peruano characters in media istfg]

☆ newly moved in to san dimas! moved in the same neighborhood as the oak-swallows-garcia family

☆ i believe these are pre-season 2 ep 1 ocs. like, maybe a year or 2 before the events of s2? idk . time is fake

☆ some inspiration for these two was taken from jim and barbara from trollhunters! i still love that show so i blended it with my own experiences and dndads and here. mental illness incarnate

LUIS

☆ bisexual nurse dad! since he was supposed to be a dnd pc, i had him as a life cleric, so to explain for his healing magic i decided to have him be ½ celestial, maybe aasimar

☆ that being said, he does not know of any non-human heritage nor magical healing. he just thinks he's naturally good at healing

☆ having magic immediately puts him on lark's radar, leading him to investigate luis. luis is just happy to have a new friend

☆ divorced from santiago's mom

☆ can't cook For Shit. it doesnt matter if you give him instructions, if it involves a stove/oven, there will be smoke

SANTIAGO

☆ transgender king!!! he/they legend!!! no im not projecting dont @ me /j

☆ chismoso/nosey to the point where, in san dimas, a hotbed for doodler activity, it puts him in danger. and you best believe he's snooping on this weird dude who's hanging around his dad so much [lark]

☆ new transfer to teen high! mainly just concerned with joining the track team

☆ unfortunately also the king of running in his binder. god save this kid

☆ due to celestial heratige, hates taylor swift's part demonic energy - he chalks this up to just not liking his vibe

[hydrasra]

Reunions and answers

SYNOPSIS: news spread faster than you can say "freedom." however, can you care about any of that when you're reunited with someone you've never met in person but feel strangely at ease with?

DISCLAIMER: this wasn't meant to be NOT FROM THIS WORLD's part 2 but here it is. probably swearing here and there who knows? I forgot and I'm too lazy to check. as usual, not beta nor proofread. ooc moments here and there probably. this may be the last part. don't hope for a part 3... possibly. again, reader has no gender.

TAGGING: @code-roevember

iii. "I AM NO GOD."

"my, my... have you heard?" miko spoke as soon as she entered the plane of euthymia.

ei, who was meditating with her eyes closed, opened them and gave her full attention to her friend with a confused frown.

no greetings?

"there's someone imitating our creator it seems," the kitsune spoke so nonchalantly that the archon of eternity would have almost dismissed what she said... if it didn't involve their creator.

"who would dare do such a thing?!" crackling could be heard in within the place, depicting how ei felt and the head shrine maiden couldn't help but smirk.

"if I knew who, I would have dealt with them long ago, o' archon of eternity," miko said, putting a hand in her forehead and leaning back for dramatic effects.

"this is a serious matter, miko!" ei exclaimed, frowning at her friend.

the light-hearted expression on the head shrine maiden's face turned into a more solemn one, showing the archon that she knew the severity of it all, almost shocking the god if she didn't know her friend at all.

"I know, ei," a slight pause before she kept on talking, "I simply was trying to lighten the atmosphere at the very least."

"are you serious?!" the chief retainer of the kamisato estate whisper yelled, shock evident on his face as a member of the shuumatsuban relayed the news to him, "has this information gone public?" the informant shook their head.

thoma stayed quiet for a few seconds, though it felt like an eternity to the informant who was starting to feel uncomfortable.

"all right," the reliable retainer said with a nod, "simply do not let that information leak to the public until my lord gives you the order to. I need to speak with him in order to know what to do."

it has been two (2) week already since you've arrived in sumeru, though really, for you it simply felt like hours.

nahida had yet to make all of sumeru know of your arrival but you refused, for the time being. stating that you wanted to rest.

however, no matter how hard you tried to sleep these past nights, you weren't tired and it was as if your body was telling you that, no, you've not well spent your energy, despite having ran a lot a while back.

nahida was a little concerned when she took notice of how you never seemed to sleep when the rest of the whole of teyvat were peacefully asleep, dreaming or not.

was the house of surasthana not evoking the feeling of safety enough for you to shut down at night and get some well deserved rest? perhaps she could understand, this was once her jail before you came and helped her out through the traveler's actions.

"your gra-"

you sent her a playful glare and she could only sheepishly smile before correcting herself, "[name], are you uncomfortable?"

now you frowned, "why?"

she took a few steps towards you before sitting down next to you, "you haven't slept in days now."

you could only chuckle at her concern and before you could help it, your hand reached out to lightly ruffle her hair, earning a giggle from her as she tried to pull away, "my body refuses to."

nahida looked at you in concern this time as you told her the reason, "refuse to?"

you simply nodded.

"do you know why?"

a shrug was all she earned.

'I wish I knew.'

footsteps could be heard and, despite everything that nahida had tried to make you feel at ease, your body went into survival mode, ready to dash out at the mere sense of danger.

seeing you tense and looking towards the entrance, nahida pursed her lips, liyue had you so tense in such a small amount of time, huh?

"greater lord, I have brought those you have requested to you," and at wanderer's familiar voice, your body immediately relaxed but tensed once more upon seeing the acting grand sage, the leader of the forest watcher and the general mahamatra.

those three (3), however, could only stare in disbelief.

"hello!" nilou explained upon seeing lumine walk through the streets of sumeru city, clearly on her way to the academia, or maybe the house of surasthana?

"nilou, hi!" paimon exclaimed back, giggling at the dancer as lumine approached her friend.

"hey there, nilou."

"what brought you here today?" the red hair asked, smiling wide once lumine was near enough and gently taking a hold of the traveler's hand.

"I am here to talk to your archon about something," lumine trailed off, waiting for nilou's reaction.

the girl was clueless however, just sending her a curious look and waiting for the blonde to keep talking.

lumine only chuckled before gently prying off nilou's hand from hers as paimon was simply quiet and watching, waiting for any reactions like the traveler.

"I'm so sorry, nilou, but it's rather urgent that I speak to nahida as soon as possible," she offered the dancer an apologetic smile once she saw the red hair visibly deflate, "but, I'll be sure to come to the grand bazaar and eat with you, all right?"

both paimon and nilou perked up: one at the mention of spending time together, the other at the mention of food.

"okay!"

"as you all know, I have received a letter from the liyue qixin. the content of the letter was saying that an 'impostor' was within our land, hiding deep within our forests," nahida paused, looking at the three people in front of her, the other two were behind her.

those three in front of her kept throwing curious glances at their creator and nahida couldn't hide the growing smile on her lips, "however, they are wrong. this is the divine creator-"

"I apologise for interrupting, lesser lord, but how are you so sure that the one behind you is indeed their grace?" alhaitham spoke up, trying to appear as skeptical as possible, though it was no challenge to him.

nahida simply smiled as she put her hands on her small hips, "I have already confirmed that they were indeed the one that guides us with irminsul. wanderer was there with me at that time."

tighnari put a hand on his chin as cyno took a step forward and knelt down, "I believe that you have no reason to side with an impostor," he said, looking down at the ground before looking up, not at nahida, but directly at you. and he felt it, a tug at his heart.

those red eyes were intimidating in person, you'll admit that to no one but yourself.

"welcome home, your grace."

cyno's voice pulled alhaitham from his own thoughts and he looked at you, feeling a small tug at his own heart. he followed cyno suit and that made your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets, "I hope we will be able to provide you all the help you need against those that do not believe it is in fact you, our creator."

'now what in the fu-'

as if that wasn't enough, once tighnari looked at you, he knelt down too, feeling a tug at his own heart as well, "if you ever need anything, I will gladly provide."

you looked at wanderer who was smirking at those three knelt before you with an eyebrow raised.

"please get up. there's no need to kneel or whatever," you spoke up, making nahida and wanderer look at you as well, making you a little uncomfortable at being the center of attention, "and, please for the love of god, drop the 'your grace' title. just call me [name]."

as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to, the doors opened once more and inside walked a blonde traveler and her floating companion, "nahida! we have something urg- oh hey, alhaitham, cyno, tighnari, wanderer and your grace!" paimon exclaimed, happily floating nearer towards the group, "your grace?!" paimon came to a halt, a few feet further in front of lumine.

the three kneeling men now stood up, on high alert but relaxing upon seeing the traveler.

"wait, 'your grace'? paimon what are you-" lumine went quiet and seemed to be stuck in place next to paimon as she saw you, standing in front of her.

you seriously don't know why but seeing lumine made you smile warmly at her, a sight truly magnificent that if cyno could comment about it out loud, he would. though he feared of being seen as inappropriate for that.

"lumine.." you called for her by her name, and not by the name you had given her. as if her being able to tell that it was indeed you, the one that guided her through teyvat's challenges to get to her brother wasn't enough to help her ground the idea that you were here, flesh and blood, next to wanderer was not enough.

the others watched from the sidelines, though nahida was paying far greater attention. she was awaiting for the traveler's reaction to better grasp at the idea that it was indeed you their creator and that irminsul was either right or wrong depending on lumine.

a sudden invisible burden being put on poor lumine and she was not even made aware of it.

and suddenly, she ran. ran towards you before engulfing you in a hug while tackling you on the ground.

she will apologise for it after, just, please... allow her to feel like she has regained control of her life with you by her side to guide her, in the flesh this time.

laughter could be heard from you both.

small smiles were on everyone's faces.

and suddenly, the atmosphere felt lighter.

and outside, teyvat seemed brighter.

══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══

question: what did you guys name your wanderer?

i named mine kiyoshi.

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss

"This is such bullshit."

"I know," Michael answered, his pleasant smile never budging. Gerry shifted restlessly at his side, glad that he had Michael's arm tucked in his. Otherwise he would have hauled ass hours ago.

It was fine that the person he loved the most in the world was tied to the Archives and the Eye, and he himself was deep in debt to an evil old bitch and thus also roped into the whole mess. He had accepted all of that. The day to day was decent, especially once he and Michael left at the end of the day to spend the night together, which he could easily call the greatest moments of his life. He could handle the field work involving dangerous books or people- he could handle himself, and had a reason to make it back safely. Even the occasional Institute drama that made its way into the Archives, he could deal with it.

But he could not stand being forced into a suit to stand around and please the Institute investors at some stupid fundraiser dinner.

There were so many people in fancy suits and dresses, crowded into the ritzy hotel ballroom Elias had rented for the evening. It was hot, and crowded, and Gerry could feel judging eyes on him, like he was holding a flashing sign saying "I Don't Belong Here". His shoes hurt his feet and his jacket was too tight in the shoulders and the food still hadn't been served. The night was dragging in the worst way, and he hated all of it.

The only relief he had was Michael, somehow looking perfectly at ease in the uncomfortable situation. And gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. Unlike Gerry, he fit so well into his dark blue suit, eyes bright and sparkling, hair pulled back so his curls spilled down his back. Gerry wanted to plaster himself to him, press him up against a wall and ravish him, take that sweet bland smile off his face and replace it with wide-eyed pleasure. And the knowledge that he couldn't, not for several hours, was unbearable.

"Ah, here he is." Gerry tensed when Elias pushed through the crowd, approaching them with a horribly delighted smile. A small stuffy-looking man followed him. "Gerard, it's my pleasure to introduce you to a former associate of your mother."

'Fuck you,' Gerry thought as hard and viciously as he could, and caught a slight wince from the Head of the Institute. It seemed that Gertrude's suspicions about her boss were correct, but he didn't have time to think about that. The other man, who's name he didn't bother to catch, was stepping forward with his hand outstretched, and he reluctantly took it, woodenly smiling at his enthusiasm.

"I'm so glad to make your acquaintance," he gushed, hand clammy as he vigorously shook Gerry's. "Your mother's passing left such a hole in the rare book collecting community. Elias tells me you've inherited her stock. Will you be continuing her work?"

"Not...really?" Gerry mumbled, feeling horribly awkward and deeply uncomfortable by the mention of his mum. He knew just from the way Elias was smiling that he'd done this on purpose, setting up this situation just to watch him squirm. Fucking bastard. "Not really interested in collecting them, exactly."

"We've actually discussed liquidating Mary's collection," Michael spoke up smoothly, tugging Gerry closer to his side and out of the grasp of Mary's enthusiastic former client. "If that's something you're interested in, we can certainly discuss the sale at another time."

God fucking bless Michael, Gerry thought in relief, slumping against his side. He was taking control of the conversation, saving Gerry's ass with his confidence, and that was so unspeakably reassuring.

"Oh." The stranger's face fell dramatically. "That's such a shame, Mary worked so hard to compile all those books."

"I'm sure they will be far better off in the hands of someone else," Michael said placatingly with a surreptitious squeeze to Gerry's arm. "Someone who is more suited to care for them than we are."

"Well, in that case..." A nearly lustful look slid onto their conversation partner's face, sending a chill down Gerry's spine. "I'd be more than happy to-"

"Um, Elias?" Rosie appeared at Elias' elbow, distracting him from their conversation he'd been watching like an engrossing tv show. "Gertrude has Peter Lukas cornered again, I think you should intervene."

"Oh, damn," Elias sighed as he turned away to focus on the problem. Gerry felt a hard yank on his arm, and let himself be pulled back by Michael, who dragged him away from the conversation before anyone could notice. Michael towed him to a corner next to the window, where the long curtains shielded them from the rest of the room.

"Come here," Michael whispered urgently, pulling Gerry close and cupping his face. Gerry eagerly shifted up onto his toes to accept his kiss, full of warmth and comfort. "Are you okay?"

"I am," Gerry assured him, sighing against his lips. "I am. Because of you. Thank you for dealing with that asshole, I never know what to say to guys like that."

Michael sighed as well, his breath gusting across Gerry's face as he touched their foreheads together. "I wasn't sure...I know we talked about it, about what to do with your mom's stuff, but-"

"You were perfect," Gerry assured him, stepping closer to wrap his arms around his middle. "I don't want it to go to him-"

"Absolutely not," Michael agreed with a smile, tucking Gerry close in their private little corner. "We're a good team, aren't we?"

"The greatest." Gerry buried his face in Michael's chest, rubbing his cheek against his smooth tie. All of his nerves had melted away, leaving him happy and warm in Michael's embrace. "I think I'll keep you right here for the rest of the night."

Michael laughed. "But we'd miss Gertrude tormenting Elias and Peter Lukas," he protested, even as he leaned down to kiss Gerry again. "She might need us as backup."

"She's fine," Gerry dismissed immediately, sinking his fingers into Michael's hair and pulling him into a deep and very-wanted kiss. He could keep Michael there for the rest of the night, just the two of them, their own private oasis all to themselves, to kiss and bask in each other's presence. That was all that he wanted, and he would take it for as long as he could.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Do you know Hazbin Hotel? If so I can ask Leshy, Kallamar and Lambert x a reader who is like Emily? But if you don't want its okay!

-Emily is excitable, bubbly, sweet, friendly and kind to almost everyone around her. I think it would be nice to have an interaction (platonic or romantic, however you feel comfortable) with them.

Leshy Kallamar and Lambert x Emily!Reader

kicks the 2 hazbin hotel masterlists into the void no no ive never heard of that show in my life/lh/j ooough side note i love emily i hope we see more of her in season 2 notes: reader is gn, can be seen as romantic or platonic, post game because i looooove the idea of the bishops being paired with the ray of sunshine cultist as their "hey this person is going to show you the ropes for this place" companion cws: none

LAMBERT

you both bounce off of each other, both sweet- a lot of the time after youre both done with your work and youre away from prying eyes you simply... talk and catch up and check in on each other

you drop everything for them when they need you and they would do the same if the burden of being a crown bearer and leader wasnt weighing them down

will always bring something back for you from their crusades- fresh flowers from darkwood, or pretty gems from anchordeep! sometimes things they buy from shops!

youre a breath of fresh air after a cultist asks to eat feces or after needing to break up yet another bar fight

KALLAMAR

clings onto you because youre one of the few people who has the patience to wait for his nerves to settle... and he does lean into how attentive you are towards him- you always do small things for him to make him feel good and cared for... habitually expects it because.. you know, fallen god

hides behind you whenever another cultist gives him some flack and escalates further than insults and empty threats- youre usually left to diffuse the situation

hes not exactly mean but hes not the most considerate person, but you rub off on him with time, he does his best to make sure your needs are met

no thoughts only reader convincing him to try out some of the more intimidating tasks of cult lift with them- going out on missions for resources, for example

LESHY

as bad as it feels to say, in the beginning he does use your willingness to make things easier on him and to help him to his advantage- from small things like fetching him things to things that could... legitimately put you in danger.. it does stop- at least the danger part- as he grows more accustomed to mortal life

youre sickeningly sweet, he grows protective of you out of the belief that someone is going to use your kindness against you like how he once did

little asshole x sweetheart dynamic, you sometimes counter some of the things he says to others with something kind or "oh he doesnt really mean it when he says he wants your pillow to be warm on both sides!"

you always make sure to involve him in activities, many see you crouching down and talking into some hole- they dont see leshy burrowed into the ground

[stealingyourbones]

Bruce isn't the best parent, but a chunk of the issue is that he's an only child. Should he stop Jason and Dick from throwing Damian back and forth like a human ball? Is Tim threatening to bite Cass an issue? Are those death threats serious or not? The poor man is an only child trying to run herd on at least a half dozen feral siblings. He exists in a state of constant confusion.

I.

This isn’t to be mean, but that is simply not the case.

I keep getting bad parent bruce takes and it sucks because all of them aren’t even proper reasoning for his character.

I’m just using you as an example, but hear me out.

Bruce is an extremely smart person, Homie has watched movies and read books, he can learn from situations around him that things are sibling things. Sure, he was excluded as a kid, but that isn’t nearly the main issue why he isn’t the best parent.

homie has so much shit wrong with him, he’s emotionally just not there, he keeps himself stuck in a perpetual state of grief and mourning for his parents of a thing that happened when he was a child, he has been trained by assassins and has experienced loss and pain to an insane extent, he has such an insane extent of paranoia and trust issues that it affects his daily life, is definitely autistic, and has issues with social cues.

I’m trying to properly articulate just why that’s not the case but my brain isn’t working with me so I’m handing this over to my twin @bonebrokebuddy who is far more articulate than me.

———

Hi, it's Billy, Bones's twin writing because Bones had a hard time putting this into words and I'm more of a canon nitpick than her.

Uh- have you ever. And I mean even once, met an only child.

I promise, if you read even a singular comic, you could tell this take is incredibly out of character.

Bruce isn’t a good parent. He’s also not a bad parent. He loves his kids. He literally could not stop them from pulling dumb shit if they tried and putting themselves into danger.

Bruce is the worlds greatest detective. He knows how to spot and detect emotions and trouble in his kids. He’s The Worlds Greatest Detective.

His issue with being a parent likely comes from having Alfred as a father figure. Imagine having a dad that you can fire at any time, you pay so they can stay with you, and can just leave at any moment if they don’t approve of the person they work for. That will severely fuck up a kid.

His issue isn’t that he’s an only child, it’s that it’s every Robin’s god given right to go against and defy Batman’s orders whenever possible because kids are viscous little buggers who don’t like being told “you can’t do that” even if it’s for their own health, they’ll do it anyway.

After you’ve taught your kids how to exist in deadly situations, they think they’re invincible when it’s because Bruce is doing all he fucking can to make sure his kids don’t get hurt. If they feel like they can make the world a better place, they’ll do it, regardless of the risk because they’re inherently self sacrificing and good people.

Bruce’s issue with parenting is due to his relationship with his kids. Again, it isn’t that he’s an only child, it’s that the kids he adopted are their own people and they are even more stubborn and bad at communication as him.

Even more so, it’s due to the dang narrative.

Conflict between Bruce and his kids that cause them to separate has been the backstory for plenty of solo batkid runs to endure Batman isn’t as involved or the main focus of the run.

Narrative tension is literally the cause of all the bad parent decisions for Bruce, because conflict drives narrative or miscommunications cause the story to lengthen and complicate itself

it’s not as easy as “Bruce is bad dad” because he’s Not. Bruce is good with kids! He has a pouch in his utility belt specifically with suckers for kids!

But Bruce isn't a great world star dad either. He definitely inherited his ability to communicate with people outside crisis situations largely from trainers around the world and his arms-length-distance-at-all-times distance relationship with the butler who raised him.

Despite him being good with kids, his kids have lives of their own with morals and opinions of their own that conflict and clash constantly. It’s not a simple case of “Bruce is a bad dad.”

It’s a case of “everyone has slightly different opinions and approaches to situations so occasionally conflict happens when they clash or interfere with each other” because it’s a comic that tells a story!

Anyways, my recommendation? Pick up a comic. And preferably? Read it. Or watch BTAS if it’s more accessible to you. either works. This opinion isn't your fault most likely, just the quality of the DC fan-content you've been consuming that are incredibly removed from the comics. If you want, DM me at @bonebrokebuddy and I can send you some good quality DC fics with in-character Bruce.

————

Bones here again,

That basically sums up the exact stuff I couldn’t properly describe. I was using you more as an example because I have dozens of bad parent bruce takes in my inbox and I am 90% sure that the cause of them is that they simply haven’t read anything about the character.

Read a comic, read some strictly DC fanfiction, watch some of the many many TV shows and animated movies, there are even motion comics free online to watch that have voice acting and everything!

Being an only child doesn’t make you a bad father.

[racefortheironthrone]

Do you think Charles Xavier is a good person? Or, if not, how close to the mark does he consistently land?

"In judging a man like Gandhi one seems instinctively to apply high standards, so that some of his virtues have passed almost unnoticed."

"...Moreover, if one is to love God, or to love humanity as a whole, one cannot give one’s preference to any individual person. This again is true, and it marks the point at which the humanistic and the religious attitude cease to be reconcilable. To an ordinary human being, love means nothing if it does not mean loving some people more than others."

("Reflections on Gandhi," George Orwell)

I've talked about this here and here, but yes, I think in order for Charles Xavier to work as a character he has to be a good person. I would argue that the Charles Xavier of the Silver and Bronze Ages was always a deeply flawed man, prone to manipulation and deception and overriding people's free will in the name of the "greater good." Later writers, in their efforts to write their own stories that seek to make Xavier even more complicated, have had a cumulative effect that eventually becomes overpowering - to the point where the complications are all that's left. As I've said before:

"In recent decades (certainly since Brubaker’s Deadly Genesis, although I would argue you see signs of it in Morrison’s New X-Men), there’s been a tendency to deal with this issue by giving Xavier such increasingly large feet of clay that it’s become an active hindrance to how the character is supposed to function within the story and vis-a-vis the audience. I would argue this created a great deal of unnecessary tension in the fandom come HOXPOX, where a significant part of the fandom was convinced that Xavier was mind-controlling characters who were supposed to have had a sincere change of mind, because if Xavier was involved, whatever he was involved with had to be bad or dangerous."

This becomes a problem of audience buy-in when you try to write stories in which Charles Xavier is supposed to be on the side of the angels, because now you have to overcome decades of the readers being conditioned to the opposite before you can get them to engage with the story on its face.

To Morrison and many of those who came after him, the answer is that Xavier is simply an exhausted concept that needs to be pushed aside, so that the franchise can be led by new characters with new ideas. With all the best will in the world, this was tried repeatedly, and it failed. First, it was "killing" Xavier so that he could be replaced by Cyclops as the new leader of mutantkind on Utopia - only for Cyclops to basically do the same shit he was pissed at Xavier for having done; then in the Carey run we had Xavier's amnesia, the reconstruction of his mind by Exodus, and the retcon of his childhood connections with Mr. Sinister so that he was alive but totally distrusted; then in Avengers vs. X Men, Cyclops killed him; then in 2018 there was the whole mystery about whether his soul on the Astral Plane been swapped with or merged with the Shadow King.

After a decade of attempts to push Xavier out of the franchise, they finally gave up, in part because I think they ultimately realized that Charles Xavier is a load-bearing character for the franchise. Even just as a foil, he's too important to the themes and character dynamics, and if you try to replace him you usually end up just replicating him inside another character.

To my mind, the most successful writers to deal with Charles Xavier in recent years have been those, like Jonathan Hickman and Kieron Gillen, who have managed to lean into the idea (expressed in those Orwell quotes above) that what makes Xavier interesting and complex is precisely that he is a good man. Out of his universal love for all, he will turn the individuals he loves into pawns to be sacrificed for the cause; in order to achieve an outcome of a better world for mutants and humans, he will violate any procedural ethic; to save billions, he will trample over the free will of hundreds of thousands.

And that is precisely what ORCHIS weaponized against him to bring down Krakoa.

[cymk8]

I can't stop looking at your Shadowlach art. Any of it. All of it.

- One cos of your artistry: beautiful and soft and the negative space?? Hello??

- Two cos HELLO?? you draw them so soft and sweet and it is just so peaceful to look at your art. (The kitties in the hair brushing one are *so* cute, and non-ship friends are also enamoured with them :3)

Tell us more about your headcanons, please!

Some prompts if needed: How did things progress from platonic? Was it romantic from early on or primarily physical attraction? Were they on similar pages throughout their relationship or did one fall harder?

General invitation to word dump: what thoughts have you most crazed? Why don't you let them out ;)

(thank u so much...for your compliment and also the fact you sent this ask in the first place has made my day)

God I have so fucking many thoughts I'm going little insane about it and I'm literally so happy you asked because. I have been w a i t i n g HAHA

Your prompts:

We have all heard That Line™; I'd imagine that having both been so pent up, they would immediately jump each other's bones given the opportunity — Shadowheart is absolutely unsubtle and Karlach is Karlach

I actually think it would be one sided for a while!! But not in the piney way. I think Shadowheart attempts to rizz the shit out of Karlach only to fail because Karlach's situation with her engine essentially made her exceptionally good at Resisting Temptation (I find it absolutely hilarious that most of Karlach's in-game responses are so purposefully obtuse when it comes to her)

That in particular pisses Shadowheart off since she would be so used to being able to finesse her way through things like this (because of her background as a professional 'spy' — because otherwise...she's an absolute dork); it makes her try extra hard and eventually come to the conclusion that her attraction is greater when in fact Karlach has had more experience living like a Nun™ than she does

(cont.)

As for the development...I think they would be on similar levels of attraction, but tackle it differently — Karlach would immediately embrace the feeling and Shadowheart will try her fucking hardest to rationalize it away/deny it (queen of repression)

They would probably be fast friends (Shadowheart rizzing Karlach), then actual friends (because Karlach is so earnest Shadowheart feels like she can be earnest too), physically involved, then romantically involved — it only outwardly seems fast, but they definitely have things to work through before they can actually really be honest and feel that they can rely on each other completely

Random headcanon/general thoughts that have going FERAL IN THE CLUB:

I think they work really well together — they balance each other out in the sense that they have very different ways of handling their own stresses and trauma; they have a lot of opportunities to grow even just by being around one another (for example, Shadowheart is so Repressed™ even other characters feel the same way — and Karlach is the opposite); restraint and freedom go hand in hand 😌

They both have a love for adorable things...once the all of the shit with Karlach's heart gets sorted and they FINALLY get to live that cottagecore life, I think their farm would have so many more animals. Like. So many...Karlach would honestly just be so excited to be able to care for things again — and Shadowheart would be excited because she's finally allowed to be just as loud about showing that she DOES care

The idea that Shadowheart's hair could be a signifier for how closed off she is — so throughout the acts, she slowly lets it down/get messier figuratively and literally in front of everyone...AND KARLACH gets permission to touch and braid it as a sign of true trust and vulnerability; it becomes something of a ritual (Karlach is obsessed simply for the fact that she isn't seen as dangerous and is trusted to be able to be gentle about things) (thanks @kanobies for giving me that sweet, sweet psychic damage)

To add to that: they like physically pampering each other — Karlach finally internalizing that she can be 'pretty' and deserving of gentle care and Shadowheart internalizing that she is allowed to want/ask for things that aren't strictly necessary or used towards a greater cause (I don't think she's ever had a strong sense of bodily autonomy in the sense that she was gaslit into thinking every aspect of her life was for Lady Shar)

I'M OBSESSED WITH THE FACT THAT THEY RADIATE DOG ENERGY IN VASTLY DIFFERENT WAYS: thank you Isobel for immediately clocking Shadowheart on sight by calling her a feisty little terrier and for Karlach being literally Clifford the Big Red Dog and

The difference in lifespans...FUCK. KARLACH WOULD TRY SO HARD TO MAKE THEIR TIME TOGETHER WORTH IT/MEMORABLE since she knows her life is comparatively short; Shadowheart would never take it for granted; they make each other keepsakes...🫠🥹🥹

And I still have so much more but I gotta seem like I'm at least somewhat classy (pls...if anyone wants to talk about any of them or both of them I am so mcfucking ready)