#that’s not manipulation that’s just understanding the industry that you’re in | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bitten-fruit · 8 days

Text

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 8 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence - 4.8k words

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭

Your hunter isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.

He’s not subtle, when his blackened lids droop heavy over his burrowing glare, shifting from disdain to a dark hunger; potent enough to taste, hot and salty. When he adjusts his position in his seat, mammoth thighs spread in egotism, as he bucks his pelvis and leans back to find greater comfort while he indulges in the sight of you. When he sucks his teeth in feigned contempt at your proposition, masquerading as a stoic hunter only interested in the kill – and not the kind that plays with his food.

The atmosphere between his body and yours has suddenly become heavy. Warm and dense. Weighed down by some mutual cognisance, the sudden awareness that you can read the animal instinct that runs through his mind, and he yours. You feel it in your chest.

It was a quick and sore distraction, at least, from the revelation of your husband’s true nature. You knew of his tendencies, you caught wind of his exploits. Had some vague understanding that it was illegal, that it operated in the shadows – but you had convinced yourself his money was plucked from deserving pockets. That his industry only stained white collars.

You’ve been blind. Too focused on the only little world he granted you, your glittering snowglobe, uncaring and uninterested in what he had to do to afford you. But, to give yourself grace, what could you have done?

Your husband was a smart man. Shrewd. Cunning. There were no feminine wiles you could have employed, no means to mould nor manipulate him, beyond a request for a newer sports-car or a softer mink coat. There was a prescribed window within which you could operate, only a few strings you could pull. To venture outside would have been to seek dire punishment.

And now he’s dead. Not smart enough to avoid that, was he?

Whatever love you once felt for him, whatever twisted desperation you had mistaken as affection, has soured into bile. Any fond memory now mutated into some depraved reproduction, ugly and horrid.

Now, you’re forced to face whatever pitiful life might await you. You’re forced to wonder whether or not he wrote you into his will, left anything in your name for you to survive on – and after his tirade of bitter abuses leading up to his unceremonious death, you sincerely doubt it.

What is there left for you?

You truly, truly, have nothing. Not even the faint optimism that you have at least experienced love and luxury in your short and bitter life. All has been tainted. Nothing sacred remains.

So what now is there left to do but to entertain your abductors? To oblige whatever use they have for you? The only alternative is to give up and await your execution. If it gets to that, you hope it’s quick.

Not ready to die yet, though, you decide to entertain him.

“What use, then,” you utter, barely louder than a whisper.

He leers at you through the shadowed pits of his mask. Dark eyes sharper than piercing bullets, they fire at you, warm the areas of your body that they linger on. Clouded and distant, plainly distracted.

You know what he’s distracted by. You could see, feel him undressing you through his glare alone.

He bounces his knee, crosses his arms. Impatient, is he?

Maybe he just needs you to offer one more time. Give him one more excuse.

Why are you considering it so heavily?

“Do you want to go home, Mia?” There’s a thickness in his tone. Not a sincere offer. You foretell a catch.

The image slithers back to you of that convulsing sentry, choking on his own foaming blood, pleading wordlessly for you to put him down. Just as vivid and squelching as when you had been confronted by it in the bowels of your mansion.

“There’s too much blood to clean up,” you breathe, staring absently into the floor.

“To England,” he clarifies through his jaw, “back to Nottingham.”

Your heart skips. Rush of air escapes your lungs. He notices, quickly, he tilts his head as though to analyse your reaction.

“You’d like that, eh?”

Tongue is too heavy. Thoughts indecipherable. Fly through your mind in a blinding, strobing picture show. You hadn’t been home since you were a teenager. Can’t even remember the name of the street you lived on, wouldn’t want to if you could.

“I…” you hesitate, “I don’t have a passport.”

“We can get you a passport.”

Through teeth. “How.”

“Doesn’t matter how,” he grumbles, a slight roll of his eyes. “We can.”

You bite the gummy inside of your lip, hoping you split the flesh; suckling at it for some comfort, maybe to pacify yourself for a moment of jittery contemplation.

“For what,” you ask eventually, voice shaky.

Fingers interwoven apathetically; he seems to ponder for a moment before he speaks.

“You’re an asset,” he grunts, tone cold. “A valuable one.”

You clench your jaw. “What, is it Victor’s money you want?”

He almost chuckles at that, a huff of disdain. “No. I want the man who helped him get it.”

“Who?”

He pauses, tense and fuming, leans forward.

“Vladimir Makarov.”

Him again.

The blood in your swollen head drains out through your neck at his mention. Fills your lungs, thick and dark, plugs your trachea and prevents you from sucking down another breath.

Ever-observant, he sees that, too. “Familiar, is he?”

A slow nod is the only answer you muster.

“How familiar?”

“Enough,” you croak.

He squints, dissatisfied. Leans back in his seat. “Gonna need more than that.”

“You already know who he is. You already know what he does.” You spit, but the quiver in your voice betrays you.

“There's only so much intel we can get by drone or spy,” he disputes, a severity woven through his words. You can see his fuse burning short. “You know him personally, don’t you?”

A second to breathe. Two. His questioning, his presence, is suffocating. You stare knives into the floor, wrestling with an amorphous terror that you fail to conceal behind your cracking veneer of bravery.

He shifts forward slowly, a prowl. Hunting. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t... I don’t know him well,” you breathe. “He worked with Victor. That’s all I know.”

“Careful, Mia,” he murmurs, bitter and aggravated. “Don’t lie to me.”

You swallow quietly. “He, um. He visited the house a lot.”

“For what.”

“Victor would have him over for, for meetings. Not just Vladimir, other men too. But he, uh, he made himself at home. I think he worked more closely with Victor than the others, though. Victor didn’t like him.”

“They didn’t get on?”

Cautiously shaking your head, you keep your eyes glued to him. “They were professional. I don’t... I don’t know the details. Victor never said so, um, but I could tell. He would always be in a shittier mood when they had to work together.”

Riley licks his teeth, crosses his arms as he chews on his next question. “What about you,” he grumbles. “What did you think of him.”

“He...” you hesitate, glower darting away from him, you stare into the fluorescent bar above him. “I didn’t like him either.”

“You spoken to him?”

He must be able to see your shakiness, your jittery disposition, as you bite words out like they’re too thick to fit in your mouth, burn your tongue. “I avoided it.”

“But you did.”

An anxious sigh escapes you. “Yes.”

“Civil?”

“I was polite,” you murmured. “I was always polite. I had to be.”

“What’d he think of you?”

You chew your tongue. Pick at your fingernails almost viciously enough to draw blood. “I don’t think he thought of me at all.”

Again, he bounces his knee. Fuse burns shorter. “Am I going to have to show you what happens when you lie, Mia?”

“No–” you squeak, hands landing flat on your knees as if you had been called to attention. “I – I’m sorry. I... he, uh. As far as I could tell he didn’t dislike me. He – he would’ve... he would’ve made it known if he disliked me.”

“How so?”

“He has a... a short temper.”

“He would’ve hurt you?”

Your jaw tightens, stare at him not breaking. “What do you want me to do,” you utter through your teeth. “Why are you asking me about him.”

He tilts his head, as though in thought. “I want a quid pro quo.”

“What’s the quo,” you shiver.

“You’re going to host your husband’s wake,” he insists, stern as if reminding you that you have no say in your fate. “And you’re going to invite him. All of them.”

You fall silent. Fall still. Heart thunders in your chest, it aches hot with exertion. You shake your head cautiously, a reflex. “No.”

Refusal hurtles from your throat with an intensity that startles you; by turn a plea and an avowal.

“No?” He snarls, a quirk of his head – you’re yet unsure if you had surprised him or infuriated him.

“No – I – I can’t,” you stammer, vigorously shaking your head in dispute. “I can’t.”

He scoffs. “You don’t have a choice.”

Hands grip the edge of the mattress you sit on, bunching the foam in claws, white knuckles, you hyperventilate so vigorously that you feel yourself spinning. “I can’t. They – you don’t understand. They’re–”

“You know what’ll happen to you,” He growls, suddenly seethingly aggravated. “If you don’t cooperate.”

Through sore tears you scowl, lips curling, betraying the thunderstorm of turmoil behind them – terror, anguish, fury.

“There is nothing, nothing you can do to me that could be worse than what they will do. Nothing,” you seethe, enervated voice shaky and pitiful. “They... without Victor, they’ll...”

“Think you’ll be spared anything here?”

Through a laboured breath, flared nostrils, a tear trickles into the corner of your mouth, salty on your tongue. “You’re not the one I’m scared of.”

“That’s a mistake,” he fumes, as he stands up from his seat – stalks towards you slow. Threatening. “I don’t keep prisoners, Mia. If you’re not useful, you’re deadweight.”

Looking down on you menacingly, he hangs his burly arms by his side. They twitch, he stretches out his fingers before clenching them into fists; a warning. A reminder of how they can hurt you. “I’ll kill you myself.”

Steadfast, you don’t shift as you glare up at him; boring into those dark eyes, pools of black tar in the darkness cast by his shadow.

“Then kill me,” you croak. “I’d be better off dead.”

Ghost lights himself a cigarette the second he barges out of your cell, catching glimpse of you through the miniscule steel-mesh window in the door. You lie down on the deteriorated mattress, curl up, face the wall like you can hide there.

Better off dead.

Maybe you’re right.

He’s well aware of what fate will befall you if he doesn’t put a bullet in your head. Even honourable soldiers will inevitably seek the warmth and comfort they can take from you. Will use you to sate their hunger after weeks, months, of fighting in the barren snow and washing off the indelible blood.

You think you’re safer here, cooped up in a locked cell, out of reach; than back in the anarchy of your Russian circle of warlords. Here you’re surrounded by the gun-wielding puppets of powerful governments. But their laws won’t protect you. Not here. Nothing will.

He’ll give you time to think it over. Let you come to your senses.

Because he’d prefer not to kill you. Not out of any particular compassion, he tells himself, not because he would find it difficult to do so. No, instead, because he had been the one to suggest your abduction at all. The others would have left you amongst the strewed corpses of your guards. Would’ve shot you dead if you screamed too loud. That likely would’ve been the more altruistic approach, but Ghost knew you were not an innocent bystander. Knew you’d serve a valuable purpose.

Now your value is running thin.

Yet as he saunters down the empty hallway, to the beating echoes of his boots on vinyl-coated concrete, the image of you persists in tormenting him. The glint of your lips, the sheen of your cheeks, damp with fear and sweat. The strain of the fine tendons in your neck as you draw in your careful breaths. The lilt of your depleted voice, hoarse, pleading.

Still he stares ahead as if he can see you there, standing winsomely in the tunnel; still he glowers at you with a ravening appetite, far beyond his control.

Could you read his mind?

He had seen you shift edgily. Lips part in apprehension. Knees press together. Fingernails dig into your thighs and inflict little red moons in their wake.

Could you feel his hunger?

He hopes you couldn’t. Hopes you can’t. Hates you for having any sway on him, for coaxing out whatever fucking animal sits behind his teeth and leers at you so shamelessly. Hates himself for losing his grip.

Swirling the bitter smoke in his empty mouth, letting it pour from his nostrils, he marches to the gear room to grab his Goretex snow jacket. Needs to get some air. Needs the winter dawn to cool the burning heat that swells in the back of his neck.

He’s out there for an hour. Silently thankful nobody bothers him, as he tucks himself against a wall near the back of the maze-like concrete compound. He sucks down three Russian cigarettes in his solitude, exerting every effort to focus on the war, the objectives, the strategies, the orders – and not you.

After a long while, once the encroaching sun licks the sky a deep shade of lilac from behind the black horizon, he eventually cools off. Whatever flare had overwhelmed him finally settling into a simmer he can for now keep a handle on.

So he heads to the Captain.

Not sure yet what he’ll report to him. Admit that he has failed to convince you? That the very thought of you has infected him like some encephalitic disease, eating away at his mind from the inside out?

He pushes down the rattling door handle and storms into Price’s makeshift office without knocking. Ghost doesn’t knock. He enters with impatience.

“Fuck – Simon,” Price barks, startled by the Lieutenant’s arrival. He stands at his desk, leaning over a fraying map. “Y’really are a fuckin’ ghost, eh?”

“She refused,” Ghost declares in a growl, curt and frustrated.

“’Course she did,” the Captain dismisses uninterestedly, turning to lean on the edge of the desk.

Crossing arms over his chest, Ghost licks his teeth. “She’ll change her mind,” he shrugs. “Give ‘er a couple days o’ this place, she’ll change it.”

“We don’t have days, Simon.”

“Then what’s your suggestion.”

Price lets out a crude chuckle. “Graves had a couple.”

Ghost grits his teeth. “What?”

“Y’know the yanks,” the Captain snorts, “definitely their area of expertise.”

“The fuck are you talking about.”

“He said he could convince her,” he shrugs.

Jaw clenches to the point of ache. “You know what that fuckin’ means, don’t you.”

Price curls his lips into a thin line under the shadow of his beard. The same sort of expression that always betrays his own reluctance to do what he calls the dirty work. To the Captain it’s rational. Any cruelty is allowed when the ends justify the means. Pretends he’s too moral for filth even when he finds such humour in it. No, he can orchestrate the savagery, shift the pawns around on the board, so long as he needn’t witness it.

“Frankly, Simon, I don’t give a shit what it means,” he grumbles, “if we get a spy out of her, doesn’t matter to me what it takes.”

“Not like you to abide rape and torture, captain,” Ghost seethes, venom slick and pointed in his throat.

“Mh, well, you made sure we had no other option when you shot her fucking husband.”

“Piss off. He wasn’t gonna give us anything and you know it.”

“You got cocky, Simon, that’s what happened,” the Captain chides, irritation flushing warm in his once jovial cheeks. “Happy to pull the trigger on our VIP but haven’t got the balls to beat some sense into his goddamn hooker.”

“She knows shit all about the Konnis,” Ghost protested, rage only burning hotter. “Torturing her is a waste of time.”

“Fuck’s gotten into you?” Price spits, “This sort of business is your M.O.”

“My M.O. is getting the fuckin’ job done without collateral. Graves is a dog. He’ll only make a fuckin’ mess.”

Price rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Then go clean it up.”

Ghost straightens his back, knuckles straining, fists trembling. “He’s got her now?”

“Yes, Jesus. We’re on a fucking deadline, remember?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost snarls, immediately swivelling on his boot and ramming open the door with his forearm.

“You’d better have a backup plan, Simon.” Price barks after him, but his hoarse command is cut short but the deafening bang of the slamming door.

Cement melts beneath his boots as he thunders through the intestines of the compound. Wool of his balaclava traps the steam that he exhales with each ragged breath.

Stalks like a wolf. Dark red of shuddering blood pulses thick and hot into his vision; encroaches his periphery until the remaining pinpricks of acute sight turn to crosshairs. Knows his target, can smell him from here.

Can hear him, too. Hears that blustering, cocksure laughter reverberating through the clinical halls, muffled by the thick door that keeps you trapped at his leisure.

Ghost’s fury is rational. It always is. There’s always some detached, intellectual justification for his explosive reaction to whatever it is, slight or significant, that inflames him. This time, it’s imprudence. Stupidity. Arrogance. The stupid fucking privateer will lay ruin the meticulously considered strategy Ghost has been weaving since he caught you.

There won’t be even a dream of coerced espionage if you’re covered in bruises and bleeding from flesh wounds and violated orifices. If you’re too shaken to even utter a sensical word to the very men you’ll be wringing information from.

But Graves has no sense of subtlety. Blindly follows his depraved impulse like a spoiled little boy. The kind of disturbed kid that picked the legs off insects, would throw kittens into firepits just to hear them howl. He’d happily drop nuclear bombs on an entire city if it meant a confirmed kill of a single target. Ghost finds himself sordidly repulsed that Price is growing desperate enough to give the fucking dog a bone. To embolden him by allowing him to experiment with your suffering.

Can hear your noises now, too.

Not quite screaming, broken cries as though holes had been torn in your throat. Sore and wet. He sees the door to your cell, painted muted teal and chipping around the handle, scratches where keys had cut through the varnish.

His handgun now nestled in his palm, didn’t consciously notice that he had pulled it from where he had left it tucked in the back of his trousers. Par for the course that the dumb fuck had left the door unlocked. Done Ghost the favour of letting him hurl his boot into the door and kicking it open in a single blow.

You let out an anguished squeal following the thunderous whack of the door, as it flies open and slams into the cinderblock wall. Not the crashing door that made you scream, though – instead, the closed fist that had just been thrown into your cheek, narrowly missing your eye. Loud and vicious enough to be heard amongst the commotion, the tender crack of bone hitting bone.

His flaming eyes land on you.

In the centre of the cell, the arches of your bare feet graze the floor as you’re hung by a fist around your hair; held in a ponytail tight against your scalp, you dangle from it. Too close to the ground to stand on your own feet, too high to kneel. The red welts of your scratches scour the forearm of the man that suspends you, where you’ve tried to hold yourself up to spare your scalp from being torn from your skull like Velcro.

It’s not Graves that dangles you. Too tall. No, instead, it’s one of his shadows. A myrmidon, muscle to no doubt prevent you from kicking the Commander in the fucking head again. Too much of a pussy to be by himself in the same room as you. Even as he tortures you. Pathetic fuck.

The bootlicker that carries you is expendable. Disposable. Not Ghost’s comrade. It’s instinct as Ghost raises his gun. It’s reflex as he pulls the trigger, iron sights unconsciously aligned with the skull of the mercenary in black. He seizes before he drops, hot blood spitting in a geyser from the hole that the single bullet tore through his forehead.

You tumble down with him, erupt out a bonechilling scream of terror as you hold your arms over your head to protect yourself. You scurry, slipping in the blood as you attempt to crawl to the corner of the cell. Only then does he notice your cruel nudity, the rags of your soft negligée left in pink confetti where it had evidently been cut from you.

Ghost’s fury is quickly redirected to the Commander, then, who merely gawks in the moments it takes him to register the sudden series of events that had erupted before him. The consequences of his actions.

“What the fuck!” He roars, gesturing with open palms in confused horror at the twitching corpse of his henchman.

Ghost points the end of his gun at him, jutting it; not to aim, but to emphasise his anger. “You’re a reckless fucking idiot, you know that?”

“Jesus – what the fuck is wrong with you?” Graves rages, shaking out the fist he had used to pummel you, before wiping his forehead as though he had overexerted himself. “I was following your captain’s orders.”

“Yeah? Did the captain order you to fuckin’ strip her?”

“Oh fuck off, you know the playbook, Riley,” he barks, a furious vein bulging in his forehead as he spits out his curses. “You’re not some champion of morality because you leave her fucking clothes on.”

Therein lies the opportunity that Ghost savours so fondly. One that has him foaming at the mouth. An excuse. An excuse to lunge at the American mercenary, to hurl the butt of his handgun into the side of his head with a crack. Graves narrowly dodges the worst of the blow, instead the metal leaves a brutal scrape in his forehead.

So Ghost follows it with a launch of his calloused fist into his cheekbone, an uppercut under his ribs, a roundhouse into his ear. God, he missed it. Sure, he’s thrown a punch or two in his uniform, wearing those padded gloves, impeded by a bulky helmet and a painfully cumbersome tactical vest. But why bother, how can one justify old-fashioned combat when they’re holding a heaving automatic rifle?

It’s this he missed. Back to square one. He likes it raw. Meat hitting meat. Bone hitting bone. Bare, bruised knuckles pulverising rippling skin pulled tight over flesh, over and over, over and over. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Gun cast aside, he doesn’t care where it had vanished to. Nothing but a red blur as the two men entangled into a bloody, fuming knot on the floor of the cell. A flurry of fists and elbows and boots; Graves landed his fare share, no dismissing that MARSOC training. But he didn’t have the decades of resilience that Ghost had built, layer by layer, fractured bone by fractured bone. No, Ghost can eat strikes to the head like fucking pudding.

One final blow to Graves’s pig head ricochets the back of his skull off the solid floor with a whack, and he is swiftly decommissioned. Splutters blood from between his teeth and blinks vaguely at the ceiling. Ghost could keep going, fantasises about it – he’d find an abundance of pleasure in beating him to death. But, unfortunately, they need the Commander and his army of over-armed shadows. And, despite how much he yearned to, killing him over the abuse of a single prisoner would be, frankly – humiliating. An overreaction. A reflection of his lack of control.

But Ghost has control. Tightens his leash, fastens his muzzle, as he pushes himself to stand with an aching hand on his knee. Maintains a violent glower down his nose at the American on the floor, who takes his time to recover. The beaten man grimaces, holding the back of his fist to his nose, smearing the dark blood that had poured from it.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he grunts; Ghost fights the urge to throw a kick into his ribcage.

But instead he rolls his head to relieve the tension, hears the vertebrae in his neck crack with the stretch. With a clench of his jaw, a wipe of his brow, he returns his menacing glare to the American. Through a growl, he orders; “Get out.”

Watches in huffing silence as he takes his time to stand, using the wall to get himself up and leaving a bloody print on the white paint. Once up, though, he does his best to conceal his injury. Elbows past Ghost as he marches towards the cell door, hurling it open and storming into the hall.

“Oi–” Ghost barks, as he lurches towards the corpse of the shadow bundled in the centre of the cell. Hoists it up, heavy and dense, he heaves it over his shoulder. Feels the hot blood poor from its bullet hole down his back. “Don’t forget this.”

With a crude throw he tosses the cadaver into the hallway – it skids across the linoleum, leaving slippery smears of blood along the speckled blue vinyl before it bumps into the furthest wall.

He grunts as he slams the heavy door, it crashes closed with an obnoxiously loud bang; before he’s left in the throbbing, hot silence. He takes a second to collect himself, to soften his ravaging breathing, to let the blood and sweat dry on his burning skin.

As he turns, though, he notices the black pile of wool on the floor, amongst the splatters of blood and black skids of rubber bootsoles.

His mask. Must’ve lost it in the fight.

And then he hears a click, and a quiet, squeaking breath – from you. In the frenzy he had almost forgotten you were there, a spectator to all of it, the catalyst of his savagery. There you are. Back pressed up against the walls, knees tucked tightly to your bare chest.

In your velvet hands sits his gun.

You barely wrap your fingers around the handle, instead holding it like it’s a small animal, like you might coo at it to pacify it. It’s as if you hadn’t noticed him, your dripping eyes fixated keenly on the cold metal, balanced in your shaky grip.

He can’t explain, nor justify, nor understand his confidence that you won’t aim the weapon at him. Instead, he concernedly anticipates that you might turn it on yourself. He steps towards you, languid but assertive, until he is standing over you.

Holds out a careful hand, gestures with his fingers. “Give me the gun.”

Your head raises only slightly, level with his knees, you stare blankly with a pained grimace as if you had forgotten who he was. Not as though you knew him at all, did you?

But your red eyes trail up his figure, meticulously inspecting, until they eventually land on his face.

And your features soften.

That worried strain, the tense muscles of your face ease, brows curling into some sort of pitying daze. He can’t read anything beyond that, can’t tell what you might be thinking as your eyes flit between his features like you’re scanning him, hunting for some realisation or deeper understanding.

But you won’t find anything, little thing. There’s nothing there.

His face is just as hardened and scarred, just as obscuring, just as frightening as the skull-painted mask that has long annexed his jaded identity.

You blink at him, one of your pretty eyes nearly swallowed by the mauve swell resulting from a fist to the socket. You reach upward, gun in hand, you present it to him. Clever girl.

He takes it, tucks it into the back of his trousers. Chews on words he feels compelled to say to you, they’re dense and swollen in his mouth. Thank you. I’m sorry. Let me get you some clothes.

But he swallows them. Goes to pluck his mask off the floor, flicking off the dust, before he tugs it over his head. Adjusts the thick wool over his nose, tucks it under his jaw.

Your stare returns to the floor. You wrap your arms around your shins.

“I’ll get you some water,” he grunts, short and murmuring, as he turns towards the door and leaves in bitter silence.

He locks it behind him.

Next chapter ⇨

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

71 notes · View notes

crystals-cave · 10 months

Text

PAC: How will you be remembered? ☁️

Hi Everyone🖤

Welcome to another PAC reading!

Today’s PAC will be about how you’ll be remembered by the people around you. This could be your friends/family/colleagues/peers or even acquaintances.

Pick a pile that sparks a memory in you - it could be a person/place/music/ object etc. If more than 1 pile sparks a memory in you, pick the pile that evokes the strongest emotions in you. However, if you feel strongly for both, you may go ahead and read more than 1 pile.

As this is a general reading, do take what resonates for you and take the rest with a pinch of salt.

⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️

Just a reminder that this is how people will remember you, it’s not a representation of who you truly are. This is for those who are curious of the impact they have on others and what others think of them.

The reading may be harsh and there will be no sugarcoating at all.

Do not proceed if this is not what you wish to know.

⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️

Note: all pictures used in this reading are taken by me

Pile 1 | Pile 2

Pile 3 | Pile 4

Pile 1

The Magician (rx)

The Tower

3 of Wands

2 of Wands (rx)

Queen of Wands

Hello Pile 1👑

Some people will remember you as someone quiet and does not know how to approach you without intruding your space. They think that you’re someone who values your space and may tend to get distracted easily.

People who have worked with you will likely remember you as someone unpredictable — you may tend to surprise them with your words and sometimes even the decisions that you make. For example, people maybe think you are someone quiet and calm but you may surprise them by suddenly swearing explicitives in front of them. Or if you’re a manager and your employee expected you to side with a difficult client but you end up standing up for them and giving the client a piece of your mind. Generally, people will remember you as someone who has shocked them.

People will also remember you as someone skilled in their trade. You may not necessarily be the cream of the top, but you definitely know what you’re doing. I feel that some of you may be in the logistics or even maritime industry. Some of you could also be in trade business or in the supply chain department.

You’ll also be remembered as someone who has many troubles to solve at work. Your colleagues/ex-colleagues will also remember you as someone with great problem-solving skills.

Besides being great at your work, people also remember you as someone full of life and passion. And there may also be a portion of people who remember you as someone who loves money.

Summary of how they remember you: quiet and hard to approach, tend to shock others with your words/actions, excel in your choice of career, have great problem-solving skills, you’re full of life and passion, some thinks you love money

Pile 2

The Emperor (rx)

7 of Wands

Knight of Cups (rx)

Judgement (rx)

Queen if Wands (rx)

Hi Pile 2 🌪️

People may remember you as someone confusing, someone contradictory. They remember you as one who has everything they need in life but yet seem so unstable and unsatisfied with life.

Some people whom you work/worked with may remember you as someone as aggressive/controlling. If you’re a leader at work, your employees may think that you may have a more controlling leadership style with a tendency to micro-manage. Others may feel oppressed as they feel that their opinions are constantly being dismissed.

Others you’ve met may remember you having a victim mindset — which can be difficult to deal with. Hence, they find it hard to understand why you are always unsatisfied with life. Though it may be unintentional on your side, some of them think of it as a form of manipulation — maybe you should try to be more aware and observe how you behave around them.

Some people around you may also remember you as someone naive. They think that you’re a bad judge of character as you have a tendency to misjudge people. Your naive outlook may be detrimental as it can escalate small issues into huge ones. It may also be why this group of people think that your lack of good judgement is a lack of common sense as well. This may even snowball to people thinking that you do not have passion and zest for life.

Summary of how they remember you: some think you’re contradicting, unsatisfied with life, tends to be controlling, someone with a victim mindset, manipulative, one with bad judgement, naïve, no passion for life

Pile 3

King of Wands

The Empress (rx)

The Lovers

The Hermit (rx)

6 of Wands (rx)

Hey Pile 3🔥

Your acquaintances will remember you as someone assertive and charismatic. Some may also remember you for how your dress — bold, and with a dramatic flair. Some may also think of you as a leader of some sort, regardless whether you are/were one. Some of them may have viewed you as a potential lover. Those you have dated may have even thought of you as their soulmate at some point in time.

However, some people may remember you as a someone who lacks teamwork — they think that you’re more individualistic and not much of a team player. This makes them feel that it’s difficult to work with you as you’re not empathetic towards your teammates and thus find you manipulative if they are guilt-tripped to meet deadlines. Due to such incidents, they may remember you as someone who does not self-reflect as you also have your own flaws. Deep down, they think you should get your work done on time instead of getting it done perfectly.

*trigger warning*

Some people may have remembered you as a source of trauma. They may have seeked therapy after their interactions with you — regardless if you’re aware or not. They feel that you’re projecting your insecurities onto others which makes them feel inferior. They think that you can get some help seeking therapy too.

Summary of how they remember you: assertive and charismatic, bold dressing, leader-figure, potential soulmate/lover, have bad teamwork, lacks empathy, manipulative, thinks you need therapy, make them feel inferior to you

Pile 4

Queen of Pentacles

Knight of Wands (rx)

Judgement

7 of Wands (rx)

The Moon

The Emperor

Hi Pile 4🌿

People remember you as someone wealthy, nurturing, and stable. They remember you as someone generous and appreciative of the finer things in life. They also remember that you won’t let others take advantage of you despite your generous and nurturing nature.

However, people tend to remember things differently. The first group remember you as someone vain and narcissistic — they feel that they need to walk on eggshells around you due to your short temper and rigidness. The second group instead remembers you as someone who helped them transform into a better version of themselves. After they realize that you’re not being harsh for the sake of it, they reflected and bettered themselves. For that, they remember you advice and is thankful towards you.

There is also a group that remembers you as someone who tends to be anxious and makes them feel protective over you. Some remember you as an insomniac who gives hope and inspires them to be better. People also remember you as someone they go to for advice — you make them feel that everything is under control. They also tend to feel safe and secure around you.

Summary of how they remember you: wealthy, nurturing, stable, vain, narcissistic, you transformed their lives, thinks you’re anxious, insomniac, great adviser

#tarot #pick a card #pick a card reading #rider waite tarot #tarot reading #rider waite #divination #pick a picture #pick a pile #pac #how will you be remembered?#remember #remembered #how will people remember you

172 notes · View notes

she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 8 months

Text

Hi, I had a random thought about Wylan Van Eck and it accidentally turned into a world building rant so enjoy… I guess?

Every so often I randomly remember that Wylan has canonically been to the races at Caryeva in Ravka and I just can’t help but wonder what the hell this situation was like. I don’t recall a lot of specific descriptions about Caryeva so correct me if I’m wrong but I believe it’s an environment quite similar to that of the Barrel and that boy was not thriving in the Barrel okay the stress of imagining young Wylan stuck with his father at the Caryeva races is so real. Like I’m not saying the entire place must be a hellhole but the key information we know about it (at least to my recollection and what I gathered about two minutes ago from the Grishaverse wiki) is that its main points of interest are gambling in horse races and producing alcohol, and we know that Vasily gathered a less than pleasant reputation whilst spending most of his time there gambling away what little fortune he had left. And also what the hell was Van Eck doing there in the first place? The version of Jan Van Eck we see him present to the other characters and therefore to us as the reader (since we don’t ever get his POV) would simply cease to exist at the impropriety of it all, he can’t get through a conversation about the Barrel without cringing and you’re telling me he went on a trip to Caryeva and took his presumably very young son with him? (I’m assuming this bc Wylan says he *used* to take him everywhere with him and Van Eck found out he couldn’t read when he was about eight). What was this situation???? Why was he there???? I wonder if this is another subtle hint towards the potential extent of less than savoury business Van Eck is involved in beyond Wylan’s knowledge, like when he suggests meeting on Vellgeluk (an island used mostly by smugglers and traffickers) and Inej is surprised he knows about it and Kaz responds something along the lines of “perhaps he’s not so much the upstanding merch he claims to be”.

The reference to Caryeva just always sticks out to me as slightly random in comparison to the other places Wylan lists his father as having taken him to - the Shu oil fields? Absolutely, this is a world (at least as I’ve understood it) currently moving towards its Industrial Revolution at top speed of course Van Eck of all people is looking to invest in oil futures he may be the worst but he is clever; the Ice Court? It’s a diplomatic event between the leaders of two countries, one desperately trying to maintain its neutrality to hold tightly to its place in the world economy as it very quickly develops (Kerch) and one desperately trying to impose itself as a greater world power than its being given credit for via violence and focusing its development on military-based progress like the tanks (Fjerda) (btw I think I’ve talked about this before in my worldbuilding posts but I have thoughts about the tanks and the general global development of the grishaverse so if anyone wants more theories/analyses on that let me know), so yes it absolutely makes sense especially since we’re starting to see (or at least I think we are but I’m not a historian I’m basing this on my understanding about how these things happened in our world and how they would develop in their world based on the distinctions between the two) the globalisation of the Grishaverse beginning; the Jurda farms in near Shriftport? We all know Van Eck has a vested interest in jurda and we also know it was a big part of his business long before parem came to the scene because it is a massively used stimulant throughout Kerch; Weddle? Absolutely, I don’t know if it’s been confirmed as the capital but if it isn’t it’s still a major city in Novyi Zem there are a thousand reasons Van Eck could’ve been there; Elling? Once again it’s entirely reasonable to imagine Fjerda having a vested interest in an alliance with Kerch to secure their place in the global economy and to manipulate what is almost definitely and imminent and unavoidable collapse of the country’s questionable neutrality; Elling makes sense because Van Eck probably visited Fjerda a lot and even if there wasn’t anything about alliances and military tactics and etc going on Elling is a port settlement and it makes plenty of sense to assume large amounts of trade take place here. (My theory about the military stuff if below, sorry the paragraph was too long to get it all in together)

(Ravka is in severe debt to the Kerch government and we know Fjerdan intelligence is well aware of this, especially since Matthias knew when he hadn’t been in the government for over a year and never worked anywhere near espionage, and Kerch is also a massive global power. Support for Fjerda from Kerch would mean support from the Southern Colonies and possibly even division in Novyi Zem, and whilst it would probably prevent the Fjerdans from any kind of alliance with the Shu due to the tension between Kerch and Shu Han being so high it would also probably not be necessary for them to make a deal with the Shu if the had the support of the Kerch. Ultimately, Fjerda and Shu Han are fighting for control of the same land, they just haven’t reached each other yet because they’re still stuck on opposite sides of Ravka. If either country gained control of the majority of Ravka’s land then it would lead to a fight with the other; Fjerda need global support if they have a chance of winning two wars immediately after each other and if Kerch are in fact going to have to lose their neutrality, as it seems they are being forced to do and definitely would have been forced to do if parem became a global resource (Van Eck even says himself on the matter that Kerch has enjoyed neutrality for too long), and already have high tensions with Shu Han and rising tensions with Novyi Zem (due to the assassination of the Zemeni ambassador, which I do believe was an attempt to start a war btw, that they blame the Kerch for and the Kerch suspect the Shu for) then they are the perfect target for Fjerda to form an alliance with. Kerch also has a very strong navy which Fjerda presumably lacks since their efforts have all been focused on Ravka, where they share a land border, so to enter a larger scale/global war they would need a navy on their side. Again, I want to emphasise I know very little about military tactics and history I am approaching this by imagining that it’s a logic puzzle, so you might be reading this and this and thinking that it makes no sense in realistic scenarios but this is just my theory)

But Caryeva???? Even if there weren’t standing for Van Eck and the Merchant Council to be plotting against Ravka, which I personally believe there is, it STILL WOULDN’T MAKE DIPLOMATIC OR BUSINESS SENSE TO GO TO CARYEVA. So in summary I think Van Eck was doing lots of messed up things that young Wylan didn’t understand because he was a small child so why would he, plus this was a time in his life when probably trusted his father, and I think that this is yet another of the very subtle ways Leigh Bardugo shows us that there is a lot more going on beneath the surface than we notice or that the characters have comprehended because it does!’t fit into the focus of the story. Whether or not Van Eck was planning on building his diplomacy towards Fjerda into an alliance or not (but I do want to add that the only other language he hired someone to teach his son was Fjerdan, so that may also be a hint), I definitely think that he was involved in something illegal to specifically be at the races in Caryeva. Like to vineyards or something for a trade deal, sure. But why, after going on and on about the questionable version of Ghezen he believes in and how the Barrel is a “den of filth” and calling gambling a “vice” and arguing with Kaz because he was offended when he said that speculating on the markets was a form of gambling, would Jan Van Eck be at Caryeva horse races?

Anyway I’ve been going on about this for way longer than I intended, hope this made some semblance of sense and thanks for reading

117 notes · View notes

infrared135-36 · 4 months

Text

also the fact that a good amount of people are talking about kuro games like they’re some poor indie devs that just want their little game to succeed is insane. this is a billion dollar company creating one of the most exploitive types of game. and the people saying shit like this do NOT understand gacha

the person spending $100 for a weapon is “playing” the game AS IT HAS BEEN DESIGNED. This isn’t some random one-off moron. every part of this game is designed so you drop big money. the amount of freemium currency they give, how the game itself is played and the time it takes to play it, the rolls you need to hit “pity”, being able to see people’s builds in co-op, the gacha 5-star animation, these are just some of the ways these games are designed to get you used to spending money. The psychology has been studied extensively. These aren’t some random game mechanics the developers just decide to slap into these games. Your typical first timer who spends money will probably follow a process like this- get “just enough” freemium currency to sink into a banner(this is why I cannot see getting free currency as being truly generous) + “I want it now” (the game is designed to bank on this, it does not matter if you can “grind it out” over multiple days) + “I spent this much and I’m close, better just keep going” + the gambler’s high you get from seeing the 5-star animation that many people will get addicted to + “I spent this much, I might as well keep playing” (or sunk cost). then the cycle repeats itself over however many new gacha banners there are. You may feel disgusted with yourself after dropping a large amount of money for digital goods in what felt like an altered state. Again, these mechanics are implemented in a way that manipulates you into doing this. Some people may stop completely after experiencing this, some may put themselves on a tight budget, but many will become addicted and repeat the process over and over and over. That’s the game working as intended. This goes for not only all gacha but the more western loot-boxes as well. It doesn’t mean these games are some unique evil in the industry, it doesn’t make you an idiot for playing them and it doesn’t mean there aren’t talented artists and writers working on them. But you need to recognize how this type of game works if you’re going to engage with it.

#gacha game #wuthering waves #kuro games #loot boxes

82 notes · View notes

solarwynd · 4 months

Note

I haven't listened to JK's new song yet but I did read his weverse post (because you know I still have that app in the eternal hope that Jimin will post someday) and I think I just realised why I found JK off-putting this past year (apart from the whole collaboration with human scum 🛴 and reaping the benefits of that)

I understand if you make like a huge mistake and want to address it or if you're just providing an explanation for why things are the way they are but I don't like this thing where you as a pro are continuously apologizing over things. You don't like your singing in the concert, you didn't feel your performance was as good as it should be, you remark on it on weverse posts and during your lives, you wanted to do a dance but you didn't get time. Maybe it's my personality - I don't like people who are constantly looking for sympathy over their failings when I can't see them doing anything different or working on getting better.

I think every performer has moments of fallibility and I'm not saying it's something they should never share with their audience but come on. This weird emotional manipulation JK does where he wants people to pat him on the head and say good job after he does a mediocre job all the time is getting old. And yeah emotional manipulation is a severe word but after his whole marketing schtik with the "accidental" tiktok account reveal, the "accidental" pap shot of him smoking and his weird y/n baitey lives, I really don't love it when he keeps trying the "woe is me" technique all the time. This fandom keeps babying him and he keeps baiting them into babying him as if he's not a 26 year old adult who's been in this industry for 10+ years.

By itself his post is fine truly but cumulatively with all his previous remarks, I just find myself bone tired of him.

I’ve made similar posts to this in the past so I know what you’re getting at and I agree. I’m not saying he’s some evil mastermind, but again JK knows how to work people.

37 notes · View notes

aronarchy · 8 months

Text

broke: i can armchair anyone with cluster b pds just because they’re abusive/manipulative/unpleasant/i don’t like them, lol.

woke: only professionals should diagnose, if you’re a layperson you’re uneducated on the topic and don’t have sufficient understanding to be accurate and unbiased. disorders are a very serious thing you should take very seriously, not just throw around randomly whenever.

bespoke: the psychiatric field is institutionally corrupt as a result of its historical and ongoing construction as an apparatus of oppression. this leads to major blind spots in their ability to understand the experience of marginalized people, including mentally ill and neurodivergent people. much of psychiatric research, not to mention practice, is politically motivated and systematically incentivized to serve the interests of power. thus, many people are wrongly or inaccurately diagnosed with cluster b pds to demonize them or reinforce ideas about criminality, fundamental pathology contributing to their problematicness, justifying oppression, claiming struggles which are results of oppression are actually inherent and biological, etc. on the other hand, many people are underdiagnosed, unidentified, denied help when they’re struggling with a certain illness because psychiatrists are often incompetent and wrong, and with cluster b’s this may apply along a gendered line. this applies for any diagnostic practice, and even for other doctors who are part of the medical-industrial complex. psychiatrists are also disproportionately abusive, and some of this is baked into the cultural norms, intended purposes, and rules and regulations and privileges regarding psychiatric practice. you cannot trust an oppressor class to have the last and most accurate say on the oppressed’s subjectivities and interiorities. furthermore, part of the structure of the institution of academia itself ensures an elitist and hierarchical epistemology. dismantling this and other intersecting oppressions means reaffirming the right of the individual themself to either self-diagnose or self-(non/un)diagnose. existing information or medical professionals should be helpful for doing this better and to improve individual being, and acknowledging the significance or accuracy of their or others’ information accurately is obviously important, but professionals should not be treated as authorities who have the right to wholesale override self-understandings instead of supporting, or to control patients. this is in no way contradictory to opposing armchair diagnoses by underinformed or malicious laypeople who trivialize or misunderstand disorders. however, the problem with such behavior must be located correctly. the inaccuracy is a problem, but that means inaccuracy from actual psychiatrists is also a problem (and it certainly does exist). additionally it might perhaps be helpful to identify saneist armchair-diagnosing laypeople as engaging in behavior similar to that of psychiatrists and both wrong, rather than trying to position them as opposed. the same kind of epistemic overriding and even absurdity is often done by many psychs (and in fact the practice and framework has in large part originated or at least been spread starting from the psychiatric institution itself).

#OP #saneism #cluster B #antipsych

67 notes · View notes

springdandelixn · 2 years

Text

With Flying Colors

Summary: Your excitement about being an intern at Stark Industries turns into a nightmare you weren’t prepared for.

Warnings: 18+ content, noncon, unprotected sex, bondage, manipulation, age gap (reader is legal), power imbalance, some use of drugs, reader is smart af but also painfully oblivious, not all things that glitter are gold.

Characters: Dark!Professor!Tony Stark x F!Reader

A/N: This fic is my entry to @ironlady1993‘s I love you 3000 dark! writing challenge 2022. I’ve chosen the trope Professor/Student with Tony and F!Reader. It has been such a joy to write this and to write Tony once again. Also tagging one of my babies, @fictive-sl0th

p.s. Belated Happy Birthday to you, my dear.

Side note: The Avengers do not exist in this universe—yet.

As always, your feedback is highly appreciated and reblogs would be amazing. And of course, I hope you guys enjoy! ❤️

“See me after class.”

You swallow thickly and nod at Professor Stark’s words when he passes you, your head bowed down as embarrassment and nervousness mix within your veins for you’re the only one who hasn’t gotten their final paper back. You try to peek up, seeing the array of frowns and smiles on your classmates’ faces while they stare at their thesis, and you don’t understand why yours was singled out.

Seeing the professor after class, especially with Professor Stark, was never a good sign. You’ve once seen Maya run out of the lecture hall before, crying after he gave such detailed comments on her essay during the midterm exam. And you don’t doubt that you’re the next in line to receive the brunt of his tactlessness.

But you know to yourself that you’ve done your research right. You’ve cited all your resources at the back of the page and made a thorough review of all the points you’ve made about Vibranium. Yes, it was a big leap for a simple engineering student to study but you were confident with your work, and passionate even about how such an element can reshape the future.

So you just don’t understand why he hasn’t returned your paper.

“For those who passed, don’t forget that if you wish to enroll in my advanced class for senior year, application forms can be found on the school’s website.” Your professor calls as he makes his way back to the front. “And to those of you who have failed, forget about seeing me for re-dos or considerations. My office will be closed for such nonsense because my decision is final. Dismissed.”

Sighs of resignation resound throughout the room as the students pack their things and file out. You stuff your laptop back in your bag and stand, eyes looking at the door then over at Professor Stark while he stacks a couple of papers in his hand and stows them in his briefcase. You swallow thickly and make your way to the front, wishing to be one of the students to be leaving, closing up the chapter of this course.

You stand beside a desk at the front and wait for your professor at his table, hands fiddling in the pocket of your hoodie and feet anxiously shuffling against the tiled floor. There’s a subtle smile on Professor Stark’s face when he glances up at you, waiting for the door to close before he faces you completely, the grin turning full on his lips.

“Please, sit.”

You do.

He rounds his desk and leans against the edge, a file in his hands, the pages flipping against his fingers. You gulp hard, a nervous tick you’ve grown to have, when he looks at you once again, and you look down at the desk of the seat when he places the folder atop it.

“You might be wondering why I asked to speak with you.” He starts and you simply nod in response, the questions you wanted to ask dying on your tongue. “Well, I’m not here to scold you, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, I’m here to praise you.”

“I—I’m sorry?”

“Your paper, sweetheart, was the best one out of the entire class.” He nods towards the folder on the desk and you startle. Slowly, you open it up, and your eyes grow wide when you see the mark written in red at the top right corner.

You’re lost for words.

“You passed. More than that, you got a perfect mark.” You hear his smile and you can’t help but feel the corners of your lips slowly lift. You got a perfect mark! “Your research on how vibranium can reshape the future was very riveting.” He praises. “All your notes and the detailed analysis you constructed to make it respond to brain waves just blew my mind.” You look up at him, a wide smile now kissing your lips.

“I—I thought it was mediocre at best.” You confess. “I didn’t think—”

“But you did, sweetheart, and a lot of it.” He chuckles, his arms crossing over his chest and his head tilting to the side as he looks at you. “Although that’s not why I asked for you to see me.”

You blink, confusion filling your senses. Why else would he want to speak with you?

“Have you gotten a chance to find a place for your internship?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“Why not?”

“I’m only a junior, professor. I was hoping to get one next year.”

“But you are aware you can get one even as a junior, right?” He looks at you expectantly and you nod once again. “Perfect! How would you like to do a summer internship at Stark Industries? I could really use someone like you.” He beams and you gawk at him in disbelief. “Of course, it will be paid.” He starts once more. “The company offers its employees free meals for the day and some recreation to let off some steam from work. We can even provide for your lodging since the campus is pretty far from the company and it would save you some time from the New York rush.”

Did he just offer you an internship at his company? Stark Industries is known to be one of the leading technology companies in the world, which your professor owns, and he’s personally offering you a slot within his ranks. This couldn’t be real.

“T—That’s very generous of you Mr. Stark.” You fumble, the nervousness from earlier having already seeped out from your bones, leaving you stunned yet excited at the opportunity that is being presented to you. “I don’t know what to say, professor.”

“You can start by saying ‘Thank you, Mr. Stark.’ and end with ‘I would gladly accept your offer.’” He chuckles and you can’t help but mimic him, amused at his tenacity.

You want to think about it, to weigh the options you have in your hand. But you don’t really have anything to consider, you haven’t even begun looking for an internship. Yet, your professor is already offering you one, probably even the best one, and would you really turn away from the window? Out of all the students in his class, he chose you. Not Brandon who is a super fan of his work or even Alyssa who’s basically a show-off just to grab your professor’s attention. You.

And working for Stark Industries would no doubt boost your chances of finding another company that’s equally respectable. A big stepping stone to set your career on becoming an engineer on its course.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.” You echo, a soft smile on your lips. “I would gladly accept your offer.”

“Beautiful.” Professor Stark grins, pushing himself away from the desk and walking back behind it to gather his things. You stand, all the same, picking up the folder with your thesis and tucking it between your arms and chest. “I’ll give the go signal to our HR and have them email you the details for your first day.”

“Thank you again, professor.” You thank him once more, feeling elated at the sudden turn of events.

He snaps his briefcase close and faces you. “No. Thank you, sweetheart. I can’t wait for you to join us.” He says, finishing off with a wink, chuckling at the playful act before walking with him out of the lecture hall.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you haul the final box into your new apartment. You weren’t really planning on taking up Professor Stark’s offer of free lodging but after being almost 30 minutes late on your first day and struggling to get into the subway during the rush hour, you caved and took on the perk, giving up your slot in the campus dormitories and packing up your things, never to see the cramped box space again.

And after seeing how spacious the provided lodging was during the tour on your first day; a two-bedroom unit with an open-concept kitchen attached to the living room, the master’s complete with an en-suite and a walk-in closet and even a balcony that oversees the New York skyline, you mentally cursed yourself for not agreeing immediately.

You could have saved all the time you used for moving and focused on your tasks in the company. Though you’re thankful for Professor Stark’s aid; giving you a couple of days off to pack and hiring movers to help you, though you couldn’t help but feel too indebted to him. Offering you the job and then helping you move, you’ll just have to pay it off by working extra hard on your internship. Prove to him that all the decisions he's made so far with you are worth it.

You close the door and begin unpacking the last box; some textbooks and sentimental memorabilia to decorate the shelves in the living room. You place a photo of your mom and dad on the side table at the end of the couch, a small smile playing on your lips as you think of how proud they would be of you once you tell them of your latest achievement.

One by one, you slide the books into place and stop short when you hear a knock on the door. Sitting the stack in your hand on the coffee table, you make your way to the front room and look through the peephole, your brows furrowing when you see a tall, stout man with curly hair, donning a tuxedo, on the other side, a bottle of, what you suspect to be, champagne in one hand and a bouquet in the other.

Who’s that? You ask yourself and let out a breath, unlocking the door and poking your head through the open space, blinking up at the stranger.

“Can I help you?” You ask.

He doesn’t respond, simply looking at you with a stoic expression yet his eyes seem to be judging you all the same. You want to close the door and hide but you don’t want to be rude either. Just when you’re about to ask once more what he needed, he holds out the flowers and the bottle to you.

“I’m sorry but you must have the wrong—”

“Compliments from Mr. Stark.” The man interjects, voice monotone and expressionless.

“Oh. Okay.” You say. Stunned. You take the gifts from his hold and your eyebrows knit in confusion when the man turns and leaves without another word, giving your thanks to the air instead.

You close the door with your foot and walk over to the kitchen to drop the items on the counter. The bottle, as you guessed, is champagne, and not the cheap kind either as you eye the label. Don Perignon. And the flowers, there seem to be almost two dozen roses in the bundle, leaning over and taking in its fragrance. Fresh.

You pick up the card nestled in the petals, carefully flipping it open, and recognizing the cursive letters of your professor’s handwriting.

‘Sorry I wasn’t there to welcome you on your first day, sweetheart. But rest assured I will be present to officially welcome you to the company. Have a glass of champagne for me. —T.’

You knew your professor came from old money—the history of Stark Industries is no secret to the public—but you never imagined he’d spend such things on you, one of his measly students in the university. And yet what lays before you is a piece of his wealth and you feel a slight sense of trepidation creeping up your spine if you were to mishandle such gifts.

Grabbing the bottle, you tuck it in a safe spot on the kitchen counter before rummaging through the cupboards for a vase to put the flowers in. Once you’ve placed the bouquet on the coffee table in the living room, you set back to unpacking the rest of your boxes, your eyes darting to the flowers every once in a while as the scent of the blossoms invades your senses and slowly fills the entire apartment.

The door beeps and slides open after scanning your badge on the pad. You’ve only been in the company for a week and still, the advancement of all the facilities takes your breath away. You walk to your desk, eyes blinking when you see a stack of folios ready for you to dive in. It’s not what you really wanted to do when you thought of your internship but it’s definitely something you expected.

All careers would render any individual to start from the ground up. To learn how the company works and how each department functions. And if you were being honest with yourself, you don’t really mind doing such a mundane task in the most prestigious company in the entire world.

Setting your purse on the desk, you take your seat and grab the first folio from the stack, determined to finish each one before lunchtime. But before you can even begin, a nudge on your chair takes your attention away from your task and you blink in surprise when you Professor Stark looking down at you, a coffee cup in each hand.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

“Professor—I,” You blink, words stuttering, still bewildered at his sudden appearance. “I’m filing the expense reports for accounting.”

“Yes, I can see that. But what I meant was why are you doing that?”

“Oh, it’s what Ms. Potts assigned to me.” It’s the truth but with the way your professor’s lips slant, you feel you’ve made a mistake by mentioning it. “I don’t mind it—it’s nice to know the business from the ground up.” You add, an attempt to soften any blow his assistant would get.

“But this is not what I wanted you here for.” His voice sounds serious and you scramble to get the coffee cup he hands you before lifting his watch towards his lips. “J, tell Pepper to find a replacement here on the accounting floor and to have her meet me in my office later at noon.” Professor Stark turns back at you, giving you a full smile, taking a sip from his cup, and gesturing for you to stand. “Come on, chop-chop.”

You do as you are told and grab your purse, following him out of the office and through the halls toward the elevators.

“Where are we going, Professor?” You can’t help but ask when he presses the up button, shoving a hand in his pocket as he sways on his heels while waiting.

“Why sweetheart, I’m taking you to the best place in the entire building.” He responds with a grin and gestures for you to enter the lift first when the metal doors part.

Professor Stark wasn’t lying when he said that he was taking you to the best place in the entire building for his lab was indeed an engineer’s, or pretty much anyone else’s, dream. His AI, JARVIS, greeted you as soon as you stepped off the lift, startling you in the process. Though you can’t help but feel amazed at how lifelike he was despite the absence of a physical form, for his voice alone exuded emotions and understanding, making you smile when he and Professor Stark began to banter playfully.

The hologram interface that scattered throughout the room was another feature that took your breath away. How the supposedly inanimate pixels suddenly come bursting to life with one flick of a hand from your professor, how he easily manipulates it, and from further observation, he’s got complete control of it with the help of his watch and a simple silver bangle on his other wrist.

He toured you around, showing off his projects that despite being incomplete, look immaculate for someone of your status. The robots that come following the both of you as you walked around the lab made you elicit a soft giggle, loving how responsive and lifelike they were with their reactions to each action done by their creator.

But what really has you standing in awe is the full metal suit laying atop a metal desk, with electrical wires attached to it from the ceiling and a holographic chart showcasing its readings on the side. You stand close, seemingly becoming hypnotized by its beauty. You run a finger against the metal arm, the cool surface chilling your skin yet weirdly warming you all the same.

“I call it Iron Man.” Professor Stark says as he stands beside you, looking down at the coffee cup in your hand when he takes it and discards it in a nearby bin. “A fully functional armored suit, furnished with the latest weaponry that I made myself.” A grin forms on his lips when you look up at him. “It’s currently under testing but still top secret so—” He places a finger over his lips and your eyes grow wide in surprise at the information.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Professor!” You blanch and quickly turn away, taking a step back to have the suit out of your view. “I promise not to tell anyone of—”

“Relax, sweetheart.” He chuckles and walks over to you, his hands resting on your upper arms, giving them a light squeeze. “This is exactly why I brought you here, why I wanted you to be here.” He says with a smile.

“Y—You want me to test your suit?” You’re not claustrophobic but the thought of being inside such a tight space makes your heart beat faster.

“Heavens no.” He laughs and squeezes your arms again before sliding his hands down the length of it and taking your hands in his, Professor Stark walking backward and leading you back to the suit. “I wanted to try and turn the suit completely into vibranium. I’ve tested this baby out so many times and don’t get me wrong, it’s very durable but after taking a couple of hits, it needs to go back into the shop. But with vibranium, this would be the most indestructible piece of engineering on the planet.”

“You want me to make you a full vibranium suit?” You ask.

“I want you to make it with me.” Professor Stark corrects, releasing your hand and giving the arm of the metal suit a pat. “Even more, to embed the element into nanotech and have it respond to a single neurotransmitter.”

You gape at him in disbelief. You’ve only known such a feat to be a theory and that each person that has attempted to create such a thing has done everything and still failed. Yet your professor is asking you to make one with him, something you’ve only ever read about in articles and have never even tested on your own. Hell, you’ve never even seen vibranium with your own eyes.

You look into his eyes, brown orbs full of sincerity then glance down at the suit. So much doubt begins to run around your head, the fear of failure creeping up your spine all the same. Deep down, you want to do it, you want to try but the lingering thought that you would fail at this project, fail your mentor, won’t leave you alone and you’d rather do the paperwork down at the accounting floor than mess up a top-secret asset of your professor, who is also now your boss.

“I don’t know, professor.” You sigh and pull your hands from his grasp. “The scale of work has only been theorized and the tests that have been done have all failed. I wouldn’t want to waste any resources you’d give me.” Your lips curl into a frown as you look up at him. “I can assist you if you wish but to be the one to create it? I don’t think I can. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“But I believe you can and you can never disappoint me, sweetheart.” He smiles at you, your skin shivering when he runs his fingers up your arms, hands gripping down on your shoulders. Your eyes grow wide when he takes a step closer, your bodies only inches apart. “I’ll be here to guide you and if we fail, we try again. And again and again, until we perfect it. And once we do, you’ll have your name written in the history books—well, with my name along with it, of course.” He chuckles and you can’t help but smile at his playfulness.

“So? What do you say?” He grins, his fingers tapping along your shoulders as he keeps his eyes on you.

Your university had once coined Professor Stark as one of the smartest people in this generation. And if your professor has such faith in your capabilities, maybe you are capable of accomplishing such an extraordinary feat. He’s there to guide you, either way, he said so himself, and if you do fail, at least you can tell yourself that you tried.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes to clear your thoughts. When you open them once again, you see the shine in Professor Stark’s eyes, the expectation in them.

You nod. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.” He grins widely, your face going hot when he leans over and places a kiss on your forehead.

The act takes you by surprise, making you step back and have his hands slide from your shoulders. You look up at him, eyes wide, stupefied, yet your professor seems unbothered by his intrusion into your personal space.

“Sir, I’d just like to remind you of your meeting with Ms. Potts at noon and it’s already 11:30.” JARVIS intervenes and you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding when Professor Stark steps away.

“Thanks, J.” He says to the air, keeping his eyes on you. “JARVIS will keep you company while I’m in the meeting but in the meantime, make yourself comfortable, and when I come back, we can start playing. Sounds good?”

You nod instead, the words not forming in your head as your thoughts still linger on the unexpected kiss.

“Great.” He gives your nose a light tap, his nose scrunching when he smiles before turning to leave the lab.

You remain standing, still in shock at what happened but try your best to push such thoughts away. He just got excited. You tell yourself. It is a big project. Another attempt at convincing yourself and you move to look down at the suit once again before claiming a seat on one of the stools propped beside the table.

You hear JARVIS call your name, looking up at the ceiling to acknowledge him. “Would you like me to show you where the vibranium is?” He asks.

That somewhat makes you smile and you nod at no one. “Yes please, Mr. Jarvis.” And you stand from your seat, following the instructions of the AI, and walk towards the door that slides open, staring in awe as cylinders of the element stand before you.

The work finally begins. Weeks have come and gone, and all that you’ve ever come to know is Professor Stark’s lab, working and experimenting with various ways to produce the outcome that your mentor expects from the element. You’ve only been researching so far, testing theory after theory on how the element would bind with the nanotech Professor Stark has at the ready. But each virtual attempt has proven to be a failure, having you go back to the drawing board to start from scratch once again.

“Let’s take 5, sweetheart.” Professor Stark calls from the other side of your desk after another failed test.

You nod and slide from your seat, asking JARVIS to continue running some tests, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips as you make your way to the open balcony. You’ve been on the computer for hours now, codes and holographic diagrams being your constant company. You know that you’re missing something, something important to have all the pieces fit—but you just can’t find it.

The summer breeze of New York City is a welcome distraction as you step out into the open air. You look down from where you stand, seeing the streets busy and full of life yet the noises don’t reach you from where you are, the silence feeding into the tranquility that slowly embraces you. Even the view is breathtaking. The sun is already beginning its descent, orange and blue hues painting the sky, making the buildings underneath glow in beauty.

You take a calming breath, one that you think you desperately need to help clear your mind and bring you back to focus on the task you’ll be facing.

“Enjoying the view?” You startle when you hear Professor Stark beside you, his hand resting just at the low of your back as he leans his side against the railing.

You quickly compose yourself and give him a light nod, looking back at the picturesque sight before you. “I never thought New York could be so beautiful.”

“It’s what I love most about this place.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely though?” You couldn’t help ask.

“I have JARVIS and the bots with me.” He chuckles and glances inside his lab before looking back at you. “And now I have you. If all things work out, I might just make you my assistant.”

“Your assistant?” You blink in surprise at his words. “But everything I’ve been doing has been—” The words you wish to say face away when you hear a loud beeping coming from the inside. You look at your professor, the expression on his face equally surprised and you both make your way back into the lab.

The hologram by your computer has changed from cyan to yellow and you stand in awe as you watch the image playing before you, the vibranium slowly wrapping around the atoms and binding together before bleeding around the model of a human, successfully forming the suit.

“I believe your theory has proven to be successful,” JARVIS says.

“But—h-how?” You ask, rounding the desk to sit in front of your computer, looking closely at the formulas you’ve curated.

“I kept running tests just as you asked and took the liberty of adding the power to the stabilizer. Your equations are correct but the equipment simply needed a little modification.”

You scan the tests and sit in utter disbelief as the words of JARVIS prove to be true. You did it. Although with a little help from your professor’s AI, you actually did it! You can’t help the smile that slowly forms on your lips as you dwell on the thought that it was all because of your research and the theory you created that has deemed the project to be a success.

“What happened?” Professor Stark asks after, peeking at him from your computer. “What is J yapping about?”

“It worked.” You say with a steady voice as you stand from your seat. “My theory worked.”

Professor Stark moves to stand beside you behind your desk, his hands pressed against the surface as he leans forward to look at the hologram. A smirk forms on his lips and he looks at you, a glint in his brown eyes before he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, tapping the side of your hip.

“I knew you could do it, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” You bask in his praise, feeling your heart feel full at making your professor pleased with your work.

“I wouldn’t have done it without you, professor.”

“Tony.” He says out of the blue and you look at him curiously. “When you’re in the lab, I’m not your professor and you are not my student. We’re colleagues.” He explains. “So please, call me Tony.”

“Okay—T-Tony.”

You feel a slight unease as his name rolls through your tongue. You’ve never called any professor by their first name before, thinking it to be disrespectful towards them to assume any sense of camaraderie especially if they didn’t welcome it. But Professor Stark did ask for it and you somewhat see the sense in his account, that you both are colleagues in such a setting.

“Say it again,”

You look up at him in confusion, your teeth worrying your bottom lip before whispering his name once more.

“I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

“Tony.” You raise your voice an octave and blink in surprise, blushing intensely when he plants a kiss on your cheek.

“Good girl.” He chuckles and pulls away, leaving you stunned by your desk. “Calculate the time frame for the complete binding process.” He calls out loud to JARVIS.

“I already ran the numbers, sir, and upon initial estimation, it will take approximately 2 days.”

“Then I guess we better get to work.” Professor Stark grins in your direction, giving him a light smile before turning away to press a hand against your cheek, your thoughts running wild as you dwell on the sudden kiss.

You and Tony decide to take turns staying in the lab to watch over the stabilizer as the binding process runs its course. It took a while for it to start, with both of you modifying the equipment needed to be used to turn your theory into a reality. Even with the labor proving to be tough, it was but a small feat worthy to endure as you watch each progress bar glow in success.

You watch the moon shine brightly in the night sky through the transparent wall of the elevator, making your way toward the lab. You try to hype yourself up and prepare for the grueling 7 hours of doing nothing ahead. Though after your first watch, you decided to bring along your computer this time and catch up on some reading before you go back to university the next month.

JARVIS' voice makes you smile when he greets you upon your arrival, the double doors of the lab opening in an instant for you to enter. Setting your bag on the couch, you hum in confusion when you don’t see Tony inside.

“JARVIS?” You call the AI, walking towards the screen to check any changes in the progress. “Where is Professor Stark?”

“He was called for an emergency meeting. But rest assured I would send him any updates of any changes to the process.”

“No need for that. You can just tell him that I’m already here.” You smile up at the ceiling and make your way back to the couch, looking down at the bottles of energy drinks gathered on the coffee table in front of it.

“Mr. Stark says to help yourself with the drinks. It could help keep you up during the night.” JARVIS adds.

You give the AI your thanks and pull your computer from your bag, getting comfortable on the couch as you boot it up and diving head-on to the first reading topic you pull out for your senior year.

The hours slug by and the words on your screen begin blending with each other. You check the time and groan upon seeing it’s only 2AM, giving you 4 more hours to spend in the lab. Even with the project being an exciting and once-in-a-lifetime experience, you can’t help but find the wait to be boring. Yes, it’s part of the process but you think it would be more efficient to have JARVIS oversee the project himself and inform either you or Professor Stark of any problems that may arise.

You blink away the sleepiness from your eyes and slip the computer off your lap, reaching over for a bottle of energy drink on the table. You twist the cap open and take a heavy gulp, wanting the sugar to kick in immediately to keep you wide awake before your shift ends.

You stand from the couch, clutching the bottle in your hand, and decide to take a walk around the lab, hoping it would help to keep the lingering exhaustion at bay. The stabilizer seems to be in check, each progress bar ticking off as complete before another begins.

You do another lap around the lab, looking at the assortment of gadgets and equipment your professor has laying all over the place. The suit remains dormant on the steel table, lifeless and still yet looking all too vibrant in its metallic glory. You run a finger against its steel surface, amazed at its structure when a yawn forms at your lips, having you take another swig of the sugary beverage.

But your eyes begin to droop, your head feeling all too light that you make your way back to the couch, the plush cushions looking enticing as you drop yourself on it and lay your head against the armrest. Professor Stark wouldn’t mind if I take a quick nap, right? You ask yourself but before you could even debate for it to be a bad idea, your eyes close on their own accord, your mind going blank and the darkness completely taking over you as you fall into slumber.

You dream of flight. Your body light as you soar through the clouds, swimming over the skyscrapers of the city. A cool breeze brushes against your cheek and you smile at the pleasurable sensation that ripples through your body. Your arms are spread wide, a bird basking in the aerial domain. You look behind when you feel a tingle down at your legs and you see a streak of red and yellow breaking the peacefulness of the sky.

Then all of a sudden, something pulls at the pit of your stomach and you’re falling fast toward the ground. A sense of panic washes over you as you flail your arms, trying to grasp for anything to save you but nothing comes to your aid. You try to scream, hoping anyone would hear your cries but no sound comes from your mouth. The earth comes closer by the second and you close your eyes as you await your death.

You wake in a jolt, your chest heaving as you pant heavily, trying to regulate your breathing and grab a semblance of reality from the dream-turned-nightmare. The ceiling looks different and the couch you fell asleep on feels all too wide. You’re cold, a chill kissing your skin that slowly shakes you awake, and it's then that you finally realize that you’re naked.

“Wha—” You try to speak but a moan escapes your lips instead when you feel something smooth and wet lap against your soaking cunt.

“You taste like heaven, sweetheart.” You hear the voice of your professor echo through the room, fear crawling up your skin when you look down between your thighs and see his brown orbs staring at you, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Just as I’ve imagined.” He smirks and crawls up from where he’s kneeling, his face hovering over yours.

“Professor—” You cry and try to push him away, but such attempts are a defeat when you look up and see your wrists bound with silver restraints, the fibers glowing blue and purple with each tug you make.

“Sweetheart, I told you to call me Tony.” He whispers, grabbing your chin with his hand and pressing his lips against yours.

He slips his tongue through your lips and kisses you hard, his mouth devouring yours whole as he dominates you through the kiss. You try to move away, to stop him from his assault but you’re rendered helpless as his hold on your chin tightens, almost to the verge of pain making you stop altogether and allow him to do his lecherous act.

You gasp for air when he pulls away, moving your face away when his lips trail down to your jaw then to your neck. Tears begin to spring from your eyes as you continue to pull on your restraints. Confusion clouds your mind as you question how it has come to this, that your professor has pulled you into a nightmare you never saw coming.

“I’ve waited for so long and now you’re finally mine.” He mumbles against your skin, looking up at his blurry image when his face lingers above you once again.

“I—I don’t understand.” You whimper, wriggling against the bed when he pushes his clothed pelvis flush against yours, rolling his hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against your clit. “Why a-are you doing t-this, professor?” You say in between grunts then yelping in pain when you feel a zap of electricity sting your wrists.

“I told you to call me Tony.” He growls and pushes himself up, your eyes widening when he pulls off his shirt, witnessing the contours of his muscles lining his bare torso. He then makes work of his pants, the soft sound of his zipper seeming all too loud as dread completely takes you over.

He pulls off his pants and kneels back down on the bed, hands running up and down your bare thighs, your arms aching and going taut from the metallic restraints when he grabs you by the waist and pulls you against him. You cry when he rubs the length of his cock against your folds, rolling the tip against your swollen clit which makes you whine and cry even more in turn.

“You ask why I’m doing this?” He echoes your question as he lines himself against your cunt, closing your eyes when he slowly inches the tip of his cock inside you. “Because I can.” He snarls and impales you in one swift move, a pang of pain surrounding your pelvis from his sudden intrusion.

You grit your teeth when he bottoms out, feeling yourself grow full from his size. You didn’t think he’d be big but the pain that radiates through your pelvis as your pussy walls clench around him tell you otherwise. He groans, his head tilted back as he stays still, allowing you to adjust to his girth but you have difficulty in doing so with your body remaining tense.

You try to push him away, flailing your legs to push him off but you’re no match for his strength. His hands push your thighs apart, pinning them to the bed, whining when he slides out of you and slowly thrusts himself back in.

He starts at an easy pace, watching himself slip in and out of you. But his impatience eventually grows, picking up the rhythm of his hips and you shut your eyes tight when he begins to fuck you fast and hard, all the same, your body jostling against the mattress, slamming himself against you at a brutal pace.

You close your eyes. You try to think this all to be a dream, some horrible night terror that you’ll be waking up from any time soon, but such attempts are futile when his hands begin to linger, feeling them clamp on your shoulders from behind and his hot breath fanning over your cheek.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, sweetheart.” He says in between grunts, his face pressing against the side of yours, knees tucked underneath your thighs, shifting the angle of his cock and letting out an incoherent moan as you feel him slide deeper within. “Watching you in my class for three fucking years and now you’re here.”

You try to drown out his words, wishing them to be lies. He’s your professor, a mentor you’ve looked up to for so long. You did the work. You paid attention. You’re not the best but you’re also not the worse. And still, you don’t understand what you’ve done to garner his attention, that he'd pull you into this nightmare disguised as a dream when all you’ve ever been was a diligent student.

“Tony—please,” You try to beg for him to stop but the words drown in your tongue, turning into a reluctant moan when he hits that sweet spot hidden within.

Your body then ripples in desire, the unwanted pleasure filling your senses as your feel your body tighten. It shouldn’t feel this good, you should detest it but with each thrust he makes, with each rub of his pelvis against your clit, the only place you see going is up, soaring high as your arousal gradually reaches its peak.

Your walls tighten around him and he growls like some feral animal, his lips sloppily kissing your cheek while he whispers your name in staccatos.

“That’s it, baby—” He grunts, one of his hands releasing your shoulder and reaching down to fondle your swollen bud. “Say my name.”

You clamp your lips shut, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of his desire. But your wrists sting once more, making you cry out in pain, panting heavily as your heartbeat spikes both from the electricity pinching your skin and the man taking you as he pleases.

“Say it!” He repeats, punching the air from your lungs as he slams himself hard against you.

“Tony,” You whisper, his name sickening rolling against your tongue.

“Louder!” He commands.

And you give in, chanting his name, again and again, your voice and the sound of your skins slapping with each other bouncing off the walls of the room, filling your ears, filling your senses.

“Yes—” He growls, muttering nonsense against your temple as his fingers and cock work you in tandem.

The tension in your stomach builds and builds, the dam ready to break with each flick of his fingers on your clit and each pulse your pussy makes. The pressure he adds on the bud only pulls you higher into ecstasy and all at once you find your release, your pussy fluttering around his cock as you come tumbling down from the sky.

You feel him throb inside you, his words growing erratic with each thrust he makes. He then comes all together and you mewl when his seeds fill you up, coating your slicked walls. You lay almost lifeless on the bed, chest heaving, moans leaving your lips as he begins to give you shallow thrusts, riding out his orgasm and pumping every last drop into your cunt.

Your name tumbles out of his lips once more and you feel him go still, keeping his cock inside as he too pants heavily against your side.

“Tell me you’re mine, baby.” He whispers against your cheek, his hand leaving your clit only to run it up your abdomen and cup your tit, giving it a light squeeze when you don’t respond to his command. “Tell me.” He repeats with strength.

You let out a heavy breath, the tears spilling from your eyes once again as you try to form the words on your lips if only to please him, to keep the anger he keeps hidden within at bay.

“I—” You swallow thickly. “I’m yours.”

You stand at the side of the stage with your other classmates, waiting for your name to be called. Today was supposed to be the best day of your life, one you’ve been waiting for since you entered university. But you can’t find it in you to be happy on your graduation for all the glee has been sucked out of you since that day your professor showed his true colors.

He retired in the middle of the school year. An organization called SHIELD asked for his assistance after he presented himself as Iron Man. You would have been proud of the suit if things didn’t go the way they did, if your professor remained your mentor and didn't turn into your captor. But every time you see the name on the news, or even the image of the suit, all you feel is fear. Fear towards the man you once trusted and the power that he has at the palm of his hand.

Your thoughts are broken when Maya taps your shoulder from behind, looking at the stage to see Michelle finishing her bow and leaving at the other side. Your name is then called and you put on a fake smile as you meet the dean, shaking his hand and taking the scroll of parchment from his grasp before standing center stage and giving a deep bow.

You were deemed Valedictorian of your class. A recognition that was given to you upon the university’s knowledge of your helping hand on the Iron Man suit. A recognition you don’t deserve after Tony’s blatant words.

“You’re not here because you’re smart. Your brain isn’t that special, sweetheart. You’re only here because I wanted you to be here. I just got lucky that your thesis matched with what I was working on and it was the perfect excuse to have you in my tower.”

After the ceremony, you meet with your parents. Both of them hug you tightly as they tell you how proud they are of you. You smile at their words if only to hide your true feelings about the occasion. Nevertheless, you still bask in the freedom that is bestowed upon you with Tony being away on a mission with a band of people they call The Avengers.

“We made reservations at 9th Brewery.” Your mom says with a smile, her arm wrapping around yours as the three of you make your way to the parking.

“9th? Isn’t it expensive there?” You ask and they simply chuckle at your disbelief.

“Our Valedictorian only deserves the best.” Your dad comments, a small smile forming on your lips when he places a kiss on your temple.

You congratulate some of your classmates as you pass them by. Receiving their greeting all the same while some try to stop you and ask for details about working with the most famous man in the world. You try to escape them all the same for you have nothing to tell them, wishing to erase that part of your life, but you stop dead in your tracks when you see Tony just up ahead, looking pristine in a three-piece suit, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. You feel a sense of worry wrap around you when he walks towards you and your parents.

“Congratulations, sweetheart.” He greets you, walking past your parents and pressing a kiss to your lips. You take the flowers when he holds them out to you, whispering your thanks before looking at your parents when they stare at you and Tony, question evident in their eyes.

“You’re Tony Stark.” Your dad breaks the silence. “You’re Iron Man.” And Tony grins at him proudly, wrapping an arm around your waist as he holds you close to him. “Why did you kiss my daughter?”

“You haven’t told them yet, sweetheart?” Tony chuckles and holds out his hand to your father. “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir.” He says, a wide smile on his lips as your dad shakes his hand. “As well as you, ma’am.” He greets your mom next, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on her knuckles.

“Uhhh—mom, dad, this is Tony and uhhh—” Your hands get clammy as you try to find the words to say. What do you tell them? That he was previously your professor? What would they even think when they find out such information after seeing his public display of affection?

“I think what your daughter is trying to say is that she and I are together.”

You frown upon seeing the expression on your parents’ faces, your dad seemingly excited and your mom, in shock.

“But aren’t you her professor?” Your mom asks. “Sweetie, you never mentioned you were seeing someone.” She turns to you, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth as you feel the anxiety creep up your skin

“I know it’s somewhat of a surprise but I assure you everything is legal,” Tony says coolly, feeling no shame as he places a kiss on your cheek. “We are both consenting adults and I was no longer a member of the faculty when we engaged in our relationship. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Your stomach rolls in disgust at how easily he lies to your parents’ faces. And what’s worse is how they seem to believe every word he’s saying. The shock on your mother’s face seems to dissipate and your father is all too oblivious, all smiles as the fame of the man at your side cloud his judgment.

You squeak when Tony’s hand pinches your waist when you don’t answer immediately, feeling a small wave of electricity rippling through your skin from the necklace he’s given you; a smaller replica of the arc reactor he’s embedded on his chest.

You nod and force a smile, leaning closer against Tony’s frame and resting your head against his shoulder. “Yes, honey.”

#tony stark #iron man #tony stark x reader #dark tony stark #dark!tony stark #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark au #iron man au #mcu au #i love you 3000 writing challenge #with flying colors #coconut bun stories

669 notes · View notes

wolfnanaki · 8 months

Text

Regarding Wani

Yesterday, a new trailer for Cavemanon’s upcoming Snoot Game spiritual successor, I Wani Hug That Gator!, was released. The game finally has a release date of February 14th, just a week away, Valentine’s Day.

In the aftermath, a thread popped up on 4chan featuring alleged developers leveling accusations about working conditions of Cavemanon and the behavior of Nerd, the Mormon founder of the group who spearheaded Snoot Game’s creation. These accusations have included people not being financially compensated for years of work, or only being given a pittance if anything at all; Nerd manipulating drama behind the scenes to drive select people out of the project; large, unprecedented changes to the game’s story that lead to the multiple delays; and Nerd planning to pocket all of the game’s profits for Exit 665, his YIIK-inspired pet project.

Here's the thing. I’ve known about a lot of these accusations for the past few months. After I was doxed over talking about my problems with Snoot Game’s transphobic messages, I’ve had people start to reach out to me with dirt on Cavemanon’s working conditions. But everything I’ve been told was done so in confidence. It’s nearly impossible to levy accusations towards someone who’s caused harm if you’re not willing to put a name to the words, because then you look like you just made it up. But I can also understand devs not wanting to speak out and put their name to this project, considering the vitriolic nature of the fandom.

I’m a person who believes in workers’ rights and fair compensation. One of the many reasons I championed KO_OP (a worker cooperative!) and Goodbye Volcano High was their dedication to living the ideals they espouse; they have four-day workweeks, Goodbye Volcano High was fully union voice acted, and the devs constantly push for the game industry to embrace unionization. For me, having a belief in the same ideals, it would be hypocritical of me to have a “serves you right” attitude towards what’s happening with Cavemanon.

So: If you worked for Cavemanon and you’re willing to speak out about the working conditions and compensation, and you’re willing to put your name to your words, please reach out to me. I want to put together fully detailed documentation of everything that’s gone down with this project, so something like this doesn’t happen again. I don’t know any of the legal ramifications of anything I’ve read – it feels illegal to me, although I’m not a lawyer – but I want anyone who feels like they were screwed over to know that there’s someone in their corner.

#Nanaki's Thoughts #I Wani Hug That Gator #worker solidarity #Cavemanon #FSG

58 notes · View notes

sweetpea-sprite · 1 year

Text

magical classism/fantasy politics: the megapost

[ID: a screenshot of cassiopeia casting the manna in ni no kuni: wrath of the white witch. overlaid on top of the image is impact font text which reads “this will affect the / engineering industry i think”. end ID]

good evening everyone. i’m ruby sweetpea-sprite. i’m so fucking normal about ni no kuni’s fake politics. i refuse to be the only one so here i am creating a megapost about every little piece of lore about it so that others can join me. if you’re new here: um. welcome. kublai was a diversity hire. more on that later!

for a summary: non-magical people have been oppressed since nazcaa fell, due to sages being in power and refusing to let them develop their own technology, as they “believe it to be against the gods” (and want to keep their societal power). this, ultimately, culminated into a large reason why lucien became shadar and banned magic. the goal of this post is to compile evidence for these events like some kind of fictional history lesson. it is a long fucking post.

this post will be in sections because it’s a long fucking post. recommended reading before we start, though i will be including quotes so you don’t gotta (though tbh you should read the tales of wonder anyway. for fun): the tenth tale of wonder, the flying machine.

have fun!

part one: the wizard’s companion

this first section is going to be the longest section because there’s so much shit in this fucking book dude. okay. don’t expect all of these sections to be this long the wizard’s companion is just fucked up

if you’ve just come back from reading that tale of wonder. hi! how was it. do you believe me yet

if you did not read the tale of wonder: just so you know, the wizard’s companion is bigoted.

i want to preface this section with this is not horace’s fault i promise. almost certainly, the wizard’s companion has been updated over the ten thousand years since it was written, and nazcaa has various attributes that mean there is no way anyone from there wrote this stuff (more on this later) - even excluding the fact that, you know. we actually have a timeframe for the tenth tale of wonder taking place (as the drawings the man sees are implied to be leonardo da vinci’s flying machine sketches) and it is decidedly not nazcaan times.

whoever the sages were who updated the wizard’s companion, however. well they weren’t great. to summarise: they wanted to keep their place in society and keep it WELL, by suppressing all knowledge of technology ever.

let’s start with the tale of wonder. the tenth tale of wonder, the flying machine, is about a man who goes to ichi no kuni (oliver’s world, for those who don’t know) and discovers sketches of a flying machine done by a painter. he then traces those sketches and brings them back to build the contraption - however, he is stopped by a sage. the entire tale is like this, understand, which is why i recommend reading it, but here are some choice quotes, from pages 300-302 of the companion:

“Using a machine to achieve something that should only be achieved using magic is akin to poisoning this world. “Poison!? Why is it like poison?” “Magic may only be used by those who possess a pure heart and who have undergone the proper training. Wizards borrow some of nature’s power and use it to humans’ benefit. Only those with a pure heart, one uncorrupted by evil, are able to do this. Using machines to triumph over nature is not the behavior of the pure-hearted.” Now, what the sage meant was that anyone could use a machine to manipulate nature--even the untrained and the evil. Machines gave ordinary humans powers that only gods and wizards should have.

“Esteemed Sage, wasn’t magic originally intended to make our lives easier? If machines achieve the same effect, why shouldn’t we use them?” “Because machines can be used by the wrong people, for the wrong reasons,” replied the sage impatiently. But the young wizard was undeterred. “I have been to the other world, and I know how things work there. They have people called ‘scientists’--they are the ones who make the machines--and they work miracles! They are capable of mixing iron with other rare metals to create things called ‘alloys’ which are strong enough to plough even the rockiest of soil. You cannot deny that farmers’ lives are much easier as a result! “Surely you do not believe that all ‘scientists’ seek to improve people’s lives?” the sage snapped back. “Do you not think, perhaps, that some of them wish to use their machines to control people--to bend them to their will?” The young wizard was speechless for a moment, but he soon found his tongue again. “Couldn’t the same be said for magic? Aren’t there some people who seek to use magic to increase their own influence?”

so you can see where i’m coming from.

the comparisons to poison. putting wizards on the same level as gods. stating that only those with a pure heart are able to use magic (blatantly untrue). magic as a sacred thing that cannot be defiled. “Do you not think, perhaps, that some of them wish to use their machines to control people--to bend them to their will?” the sage says, while clearly controlling what non-wizards do with their resources. this tale is directly written on the side of the sage; at the end, when the young man finally builds a cloud sweeper, the final paragraphs say this:

Indeed, he was too captivated by the scenery to spare a thought for the effect his new magical machine would have on the world. Had he known what impact it would have, you can be sure he would not have been quite so elated!

what impact?? there’s no impact i can find. cloud sweepers just exist. they help non-wizards travel. the only impact it could possibly be referencing is perhaps the start of people making more technology, inspired by this guy’s cloud sweepers. which, yeah. i guess the wizard’s companion would be upset about that.

technology, and wizards shunning it, is a large part of the wizard’s companion. this tale is the most egregious example, but there are more areas if you know where to look. we’ll come back to the tale of wonder in a moment, but for now, on the topic of cloud sweepers and how much the sages hate them, take a look at the first means of transportation section - page 129.

Non-wizards have long been forced to rely on vehicles to carry them to their destinations. This section aims to introduce some of the more common modes of transportation currently in use. All wizards are advised to read the information contained herein, for one cannot predict when circumstance--nixing, dismemberment, or wand loss, to name but three--might necessitate the use of such infernal contraptions as those here described.

note the PHRASING. non-wizards are forced to rely on vehicles. dismemberment as one of the circumstances, like you’d have to lose an arm to even consider this. and the most damning - “infernal” contraptions. they fucking hate these things

after that introductory paragraph, it does not get better: it goes on to describe cloud sweepers, in a rather bitter tone:

Wizards, of course, do not require magical assistance to fly through the air. Indeed, in times gone by, wizards would not have countenanced travel by any means other than broom. Alas, the age has changed, and now young wizards insist on using half-magical, half-mechanical contraptions known as “Cloud Sweepers.” Cloud Sweepers require only the merest dash of magic to get them off the ground, meaning that inexperienced magic users--and even non-wizards!--are able to ride them with gay abandon.

and even non-wizards! it says, with shock and horror. dear god... who let the non-wizards travel quickly and safely. this is going against the laws of nature

outside of cloud sweepers, in the second means of transportation section, this continues. with... boats. BOATS. THEY MAKE FUN OF NON-WIZARDS USING BOATS!!! PAGE 147:

Non-wizards rely upon ships to carry them across the world’s oceans. Indeed, many dream of owning their own vessels, imagining the “freedom” this would offer them.

freedom is IN QUOTES. THEY’RE MAKING FUN OF YOU FOR YOUR LITTLE BOAT RIDES!!! in all seriousness, these authors genuinely view non-wizards as inferior. they believe they will never have true freedom; always confined to the vehicles they’re allowed to make, the restrictions on which are defined BY THE SAGES. it’s kind of ridiculous.

obviously, all of this is awful. in the tale of wonder quotes i showed earlier, you can see a sage demanding that a non-wizard get rid of all of his sketches of technology. we can likely assume this was common practice back then, that sages simply had the power to do such a thing - or maybe this man was more dedicated than the rest (he had to be to actually build a da vinci flying machine when da vinci was still alive...) and they decided they had to put an end to it.

however, this kept happening. the tale continues on to say that other people, too, went to ichi no kuni and came back with stories of machines they saw there. how did they go, you might ask me. non-wizards can’t cast gateway.

there was a tunnel between worlds.

THE SAGES SEALED THE TUNNEL BETWEEN WORLDS TO KEEP PEOPLE FROM BRINGING BACK TECHNOLOGY THAT WOULD HELP THEM.

PAGE 302:

The sages realized that something must be done, because technology from the other world was threatening to ruin the balance of their own. They decided to seal the tunnel to the other world, to ensure that the place of magic within society was never threatened again. Now, visiting the other world was not completely forbidden--why, powerful wizards could still cast the spell known as “Gateway” and travel to the other world any time they pleased!

seriously they sealed the tunnel between worlds, knowing that only they would be able to access ichi no kuni. this is a fake world with fake politics and i’m pissed off about this. they wanted non-wizards to have as little power as possible.

this is, unfortunately, not the end of this section. there is one more very large thing about the wizard’s companion and this topic, that i’ve been consciously leaving out:

the sages hate technology. every section on technology is written in a bitter tone... except when they are talking about military, or already existing militarised things.

page 129 (means of transportation part one, cloud sweepers):

To give credit where it is due, certain enterprising engineers have gone so far as to attach guns to the front of their Cloud Sweepers, allowing them to attack enemies while in mid-air--a recognised limitation of the traditional wizard’s broom.

page 130 (rare weapons and armor - yes this is the page right after the one where they insult cloud sweepers):

Such items include pistols that allow one to open locks from a distance, and harps that attack one’s enemies when plucked. Should you be fortunate enough to come across such rare items, do not be afraid to use them on the field of battle. A wizard has nothing to fear from material objects.

page 147 (means of transportation part two, porco grosso):

The latest rumors emanating from the factories of Hamelin surround a battle tank known as the Porco Grosso. This leaked image--depicting the tank’s designers, the Porco twins, standing next to their creation--is the only evidence of its existence. The Porco Grosso is believed to be capable of scaling vertical walls and attacking an entire battalion of enemy troops with a single volley.

page 329 (regions of the world, hamelin):

The citizens of Hamelin are united both by their inquisitive natures and their desire to support and protect their empire. As a result, large-scale magi-scientific military projects are quite normal. Such projects are always kept top-secret, of course, butt rumors suggest that Hamelin’s latest development, the Porco Grosso tank, is several leagues ahead of any weapon in the other nations’ respective arsenals.

A wizard has nothing to fear from material objects. lol. lmao

all of these quotes are entirely neutral or positive about these developments. this edition of the wizard’s companion was published at the very start of shadar’s reign, likely before he began properly enforcing the magic ban. on hamelin’s page, the only technology talked about is that of military value; it’s likely safe to assume any other technology was forbidden.

...more on this later... haha...

part two: the implications

“the implications” of course being various things in game, and how they affect the characters. now that you know the general situation regarding non-wizards, you might ask me. ruby. how in god’s name did this start?

...well, we don’t know for sure. and it could very easily be as simple as “wizards have power and it developed from there”. but i have a theory.

nazcaa, as it happens, was very magi-scientific. we know this because have you ever been attacked by a magimech. i have. it’s fucking terrifying. those bitches were these people’s FAMILIARS!!! nazcaa was around during the age of sages, also known as the sagely stone age, when people were experimenting with stones, discovering the power behind them (maybe i should make a lore post on rocks)! no one was restricted! magi-science was HAPPENING. the wizard king was well known for being equal, to the point of choosing his stone guardians to represent humans, animals, and creatures.

and then, of course, he was assassinated.

and then, of course, his daughter cast the forbidden spell, and doomed nazcaa entirely.

my theory is that nazcaa was somewhat of a trailblazer for this stuff (the MAGIMECHS) and that when it was destroyed, people saw their technology as the thing that cursed them. the wizard’s companion describes nazcaa as a legend; how did the destruction of a kingdom that large not make it into history books? easy: no one knows what happened. but they can guess - and my guess is that they thought their technology went against the laws of nature, and therefore the gods. over thousands of years, this translates into nazcaa being forgotten, but the idea of that still lingering. obviously, this is a theory, and isn’t actually confirmed. but it would make a lot of sense, right?

that’s nazcaa; let’s talk about more modern-day things. for example, khulan and kublai.

even without dotdd confirming it, we can assume xanadu was pretty magical. it was run by a great sage and it fucking floated. it was magical. when kublai was hired, it was a highly magical palace of a highly magical kingdom; he is non-magical, to the point where in dotdd, he uses cloud sweepers, in a clear showing of his divide from wizardry. his position in the xanadu army was... i mean i already said it at the top of this essay: he was a diversity hire.

this is why khulan and kublai’s relationship was such a well-guarded secret. have you ever wondered why in god’s name they were so secretive about it? it’s THIS. are you kidding? the implications of a great sage and a non-wizard sky pirate...

while on the topic of kublai: in dotdd, there’s a little secret cave, called the “sky pirate’s hideout” (different to the one in wotww; kublai’s hideout in dotdd is called dragon’s den) in which you find ghosts of a long lost magic pirate crew from hundreds of years ago. most of it isn’t relevant to this post, but the ghost at the entrance directly scoffs at kublai’s pirate crew for not being able to use magic:

“Using magic to move a huge ship, we were a great pirate crew that controlled the seas around the world!“ [Drippy] “Never saw you lot. Though there is a Pirate King [Kublai] who flies the sky.” “Hmph. The pirates here are small fry compared to the olden days. I guess it’s because they’ve lost their ability to use magic. How pitiful they’ve become.”

it’s a neat little insight into how wizards from before shadar’s reign viewed non-magical people - and a neat little insight into how kublai was likely viewed when hired by the xanaduvian palace.

now that that’s done. here’s the big one:

hamelin.

gascon as well, in a moment. but for now let’s talk about hamelin as a city. now that we know all this, we can pretty easily make some assumptions about hamelin: before shadar’s reign, they were making military weapons and military weapons only (supported by the fact the wizard’s companion still describes hamelin as a “seat of scientific and magical learning”). during shadar’s reign, they may have gone a little too crazy; now that the sages are no longer in power, they’re experiencing an industrial revolution on such a large and fast scale because now they can actually make machines that aren’t. guns or tanks. and they already have the knowledge to do so because they’ve already been making guns and tanks. hamelin is on top of large mining deposits - clear by the mines and quarries everywhere on the pig iron plain - and they’ve already been making the aforementioned guns and tanks, so their tech evolves first.

(xanadu was on an island right next to autumnia; i wouldn’t be surprised if the iron wyvern came out of hamelin.)

they build a roof over the city. we know from dotdd that the primary reason for this is to protect them (likely from shadar, who is right next door), but it may have also been to keep the rain out of their engines. they don’t think about the consequences - they don’t KNOW about the consequences until they have to name a chest disease hamelin heart, a name, again, from dotdd (love that game), because the smog clouds the city.

(according to dotdd, hamelin was the smallest of the cities on autumnia before shadar took over. now it’s the only one standing.)

now. gascon. gascon is the most obvious piece of evidence for this entire thing, considering his lack of magic is a large plotpoint. it seems like even though hamelin as a city has been largely letting go of all of this, in favour of technology, the noble class has other ideas - they want to keep magical superiority alive, so much so that they refuse to have a non-wizard on the throne. even though gascon is good with machines - he gives you a blueprint for a gun he designed! - and would currently be a better fit for the throne than a great sage with no mechanical knowledge, he’s unable to ascend the throne because he can’t do magic. hamelin is a mechanical empire, no one is allowed to use magic ANYWAY, and gascon isn’t allowed to ascend the throne.

genuinely i wish marcassin’s brokenhearted plotline focused more on his ability to run the kingdom; the person who was meant to and was better fit for the job left him on account of the pressure from the sages, after all. he’s doing his best. he really is. but considering he IS a great sage, and most of marcassin’s education likely revolved around that instead of anything his kingdom is known for (seriously. isn’t it crazy that hamelin is the only one of the three kingdoms run by a great sage? that it has a law on it? ...more on this later)... he is not the best for the job is he. yet even if gascon didn’t run, from what we can tell from what swaine says about the situation, marcassin would have become emperor in his place anyway.

this shit runs DEEP.

part three: lucien

this is the big one. why did lucien, as shadar, ban magic? well i hope that now that you’ve read the rest of this post you can infer why, but the answer is easy: he wanted to stop the oppression of non-wizards, by taking away the power the sages wielded. but it’s actually a lot more personal than that. a lot of this section will be going into one of dotdd’s dlc quests, in which this is essentially spelled out for you.

because, according to this dlc quest: lucien did not grow up practicing magic.

in this quest (really series of quests. there’s three of them), you meet three of lucien’s friends from when he was in the army. they’re ghosts, of course, but they’re unable to move on because they feel guilt for not standing with lucien when he turned traitor. they say, very directly:

“A long time ago, Shadar wasn’t even able to use magic.” [Esther] “Seriously? Shadar. The Dark Djinn. One of the most powerful wizards ever, and you’re saying he wasn’t always able to use magic?” [Swaine] “But... If he couldn’t use magic, how was he able to join the battle mages?” “He didn’t want to join the battle mages. He thought that he would be just a normal soldier, given that he was a young man from Halcyon. But, even though he couldn’t use magic, he was made the attendant of a battle mage magimech.” [Oliver] “Magimech?” “He was a soldier whose job was to make synthetic stones. He knew how to hit the enemy hard, but he broke himself in the process of making our weapons. He was a support worker for those who were on the front lines. Lucien was right in the middle of all that, and I think that’s where he became interested in magic.”

so just to be clear. lucien was originally not a soldier in this war. he was an engineer who made weapons (because he wasn’t allowed to make anything else) who then began fighting after he became interested in magic. not only that, he was an apprentice of some kind to a MAGIMECH. are you kidding.

(speaking of. this is very similar to a certain someone in motorville.)

later on in this quest, you find lucien’s diary - kept safe by the magimech he attended - which details his contempt for living in a magic-driven world:

Magic is to blame, if anything... I won’t ever forgive anyone who uses magic spells to harm another person. If there were no magic in this world in the first place... then we wouldn’t have such horrifying wars, either. There is no place for me in this terrifying world. Even if my existence was suddenly extinguished, I don’t think that even my friends would miss me... or notice. But, the innocence of all the people caught up in this world of magic keeps eating away at me. I want to devote myself to protecting innocence. And I want to leave this diary for my friends to read, one day. I will hide it away somewhere no sane person would ever look for it, and I will entrust it to the custody of a guardian. If ever there is a person who reads this diary... I hope that they are a person who holds the same convictions and hopes for the future of the world that I do.

we all know lucien’s motivations for becoming the dark djinn: he wanted to put an end to the wars that seemed to run rampant throughout the world (hell. if you look at some of the dialogue from king tom and cowlipha lowlah, there’s still animosity between the three kingdoms.) so he became the sole target. and i mean. crazy fucking plan but it worked! the world is a lot more peaceful now than in lucien’s age! i don’t condone the murders but he did kind of fucking do it is the thing!

but why did he ban magic specifically? why were there wars in the first place? here’s my second theory of this post: the wars were between sages.

they’re using magic to fight. they’re using armies to attack each other. why ARE military inventions praised so highly by sages, when they have magic that can do much of the same? because their armies can use them. the target in rubicon when lucien betrayed his army was a sage - alicia’s parent. If there were no magic in this world in the first place... then we wouldn’t have such horrifying wars, either.

the sages like the invention of weapons that non-wizards can use so that those non-wizards can fight their wars for them. hamelin’s law that only a great sage can run the kingdom makes a lot more sense when you consider it’s not only for a class boundary, but for control.

the, now rather obvious, reason lucien banned magic was to get rid of the power imbalance; he took down all of the sages who were oppressing non-wizards, he stopped the wars they caused, he forced them to adapt without magic because they couldn’t defeat him. and. again it worked! hamelin is expanding, the al mamoon army uses cloud sweepers now, khulan and kublai are together... things are better! despite the horrors! the world of ni no kuni, as it is in game, is in a very specific position - where shadar has now managed to achieve his aim - tipping the scales so that non-wizards are no longer oppressed. clearly, there’s still some way to go, but it’s a good damn start.

but his job is done; there’s no need for him anymore. the wars are over, the world is almost peaceful again - the last thread tying it to that time is shadar himself. and i mean he did murder and break the hearts of a lot of people also. for the world to be truly peaceful, he needs to be defeated.

and isn’t it poetic that the pure-hearted one, he who will drive out the darkness. is a kid from motor city who likes building cars and didn’t know magic existed until he was thirteen.

Using machines to triumph over nature is not the behavior of the pure-hearted.

imagine how pissed off these sages would be. they come out of hiding after shadar has been defeated like finally! the place of magic within society has been restored! we will now start banning technology again and the pure-hearted one is sitting there like why would you do that :( they’re so cool :(

THEY WOULD BE SO ANGRYYYY it would be so funny. they can’t even fucking say anything. he’s a great sage’s son. he’s from detroit. they’ve been waiting for this powerful wizard to show up to defeat shadar so they can get their world back and he turns out to be a Mechanic. from Another World. full of CARS. AND HE’S THE SECOND COMING OF THE WIZARD KING. IMAGINE.

part four: conclusion

this is where i leave you. with the knowledge that oliver’s existence is driving magical bigots batshit. good for him

thank you for reading this 4500 WORD JESUS CHRIST???? essay. if you have any questions or comments feel free to leave them in my askbox. i fucking love politics that aren’t real in any shape or form and i also love other things about ni no kuni too so you can ask me anything about it.

i hope you get it now.

#ni no kuni #ni no kuni: wrath of the white witch #rambles

178 notes · View notes