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cum-aside · 2 months ago

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Ok it’s not like I go here really, but I’ve been reading a bunch of DPxDC recently because it’s very good, and I had an idea that won’t go anywhere

The various gangs in Gotham have callsigns/uniforms or something right??? If not, they should, and imma say they do. Anyway. Redhood I think didn’t think too hard about what people in his gang on his turf should wear for identification purposes, but they sure did. And what they came up with was Red.

Wearing red in the vicinity of the ‘Bad Part’ of Gotham?? Part of the red hood gang. Generally head gear is the preferred method of wearing red. Red hats and beanies, red head scarfs and hijabs, red headbands, red masks. The idea has been communicated. To a certain point, wearing red even if you aren’t officially part of the gang is a great way to get an in with them, or be under protection if you’re the right age in the right area, as long as you’re willing to risk getting roped into low stakes gang activity, which can range from working the counter at money laundering sites to community service (guarding clinics and shelters and volunteering) to making deliveries to destroying certain hostile architecture. (Hood saves the real jobs with cops and shootings and turf disputes for actual members, that he knows the names faces and skills of, and who are at least above 18, but preferably over 20, and who wear real gear he supplies them with, not just whatever’s in their closet that’s red) (this does not entirely stop the smaller ‘members’ from getting into their own fights with the cops and turf wars, but Jason has found that giving them Something to do that feels like direct action helps curb those tendencies. And it’s not like those things aren’t things that don’t need doing, so it’s a win win. Mostly)

Danny, bless him, does not know any of this. But has been staying in the sketchier areas of Gotham because that’s where people don’t care how old you are or if your papers are real or not, and he absolutely does not want people looking into how old he is and wether his papers are real or not. He is also wearing an inadvisable and vaguely conspicuous amount of red. His converse are red, his signature baseball tee is white and red, and his hoodie is also red.

Clearly, this kid (he’s like 17) really wants in with the hood gang.

And eventually, they oblige him.

Random people will approach Danny and ask/tell him that them and a couple others are going somewhere to do (insert vaguely/definitely illegal job or act of community service here) and Danny, who is deeply directionless in life currently, and also pretty assured in his ability to eat danger for breakfast, and has never met an institutional authority he doesn’t disrespect at least a little bit, is totally down for some civil disobedience and chaotic good shenanigans.

And then it spirals from there. Like. A worrying amount.

It takes Danny actual months, almost a year, to realize that he’s been low key slow cooked into the criminal underbelly of Gotham, and like… he’s not really mad about it?? Honestly if he had a choice when he came to Gotham, he probably would have picked the redhood gang anyway. He just seems to vibe with them on a… Spiritual Level…

Anyway

Years go by, and while Danny doesn’t have the most going for him in terms of a normal person life, vis a vis higher education, official employment, health insurance, dating life, or any other benchmark one uses to measure the trajectory of their lives— Danny’s feeling pretty good! Jazz, Tucker, and Sam have all finagled their ways into Gotham, (Tucker has a WE internship, Jazz is working/doing work studies at Arkham, Sam does what she likes now that she is a legal adult and has her inheritance, and what she likes is environmental activism, and occasionally being spotted with fellow activist Damian Wayne, and someone who may or may not be poison ivy, sources differ) and Danny finds his obsession suspiciously well served as a hood goon. Hood hench? Redgoon? Hench hood?? Name pending, who cares.

Danny is also suspiciously good at, well, his job. One of the best runners, even when he gets caught and frisked they never seem to find the goods on him (they never do check IN him, but then why would they) very well liked at every volunteer spot they have, patient, kind, funny, good with old people, kids, bitter people, addicts and the homeless, the sick and injured. And yet also very competent in the field, when they finally let him do actually dangerous things. Act as protection detail to the working girls in the red light district, he’s very respectful, and very good at intimidation, de-escalation, and when push comes to shove, excellent in a fight. Knows when to keep pressing his advantage and when to make a retreat with whoever he’s guarding. Not afraid to fight scrappy, and presses through pain and fear like a true gothmite.

He gets so good at his not really a job job that he becomes essentially, Redhoods right hand man.

The rest of the bats are skeptical of this for several reasons. Because generally speaking, the people in Jason’s turf are not fans of the bats, but Jason does a lot of coordinating with them, and someone so close to him is going to pick that up eventually if they’re half as sharp and useful as Danny is. Other than that, secret identity issues, plus pit rage, plus the fact that Jason trusts pretty much nobody. But Jason has great feelings about this guy, he always feels more clear headed and even keeled when he’s around, and he helps Jason remember the community he’s trying to build, and the community he serves. Also he delegates and mother hens like nobody’s business, but Jason just really can’t seem to work up too much irritation about it.

It is around this time, however, that the past, and shady government organizations come knocking.

Perhaps the GIW has also noticed how ecto-contaminated and lawless Gotham is and decided that they could start doing research and experiments with its live and undead denizens instead of amity, where the portal has closed, and ghost activity is down since phantom disappeared. Or maybe the GIW has finally located phantom specifically and is interested in what they’re always interested in. Or maybe it’s various ghosts harassing Danny to take up the throne, which he’s been avoiding successfully, but having settled into a life routine that suites him his core has finally ‘settled’ (halfa cores fluctuate more than other cores due to the transient nature of being alive, but halfa people settle into lifelong patterns and relationships quicker than other people because of the static nature of being dead) he is mature enough by ghost standards to assume the throne, or at least begin preparing for it.

Regardless, danny is being tracked down for his childhood baggage’s extended warranty, and brings the entirety of the JL and almost all associated sidekicks, hero group spin-offs, and organizations into the thick of it.

Idk. I just got through Secretary Danny by DeathlySilent13 on ao3 and I thought man oh man wouldn’t it be neat if Danny got to be Jason’s second in command instead??? That could open up a lot of avenues I haven’t seen yet. I’m also just very curious about how the Jason’s runs his gang according to the fandom, and I think that with all the ACAB energy Danny has been assigned, he should have a little bit of community focused organized crime. As a treat. Like I said I don’t go here thou, I just needed to put this somewhere and see if it vibed with anybody besides me

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp au #danny phantom #red hood #liminal Jason Todd

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speaknow-sw · 10 days ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : rough sex, degradation, anakin isn’t nice, PiV, mentions of slavery and whipping, swearing, pure filth. I’m not responsible for your own media consumption.

A/N : Here’s chapter two and it’s pure filth, reader’s a bit egoistical but who wouldn’t want to be close to their lover after centuries of not seeing them ? Anakin is not nice but he’s trying guys 😅 (no). Anyway enjoy. domina = my lady

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪɪ : ᴀ ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ |•

THE CHAMBER WAS DIMLY LIT, the flickering glow of torches casting long shadows over damp stone walls. The scent of blood and sweat clung to the air, thick and inescapable, but you moved through it untouched, a vision in silk and gold. Your presence here was unnatural—an intruder in the depths of the Colosseum, where men were caged like animals, their only purpose to fight, bleed, and die for the pleasure of Rome.

But you had not come for their spectacle. You had come for him. You moved untouched, veiled in silk, adorned in gold, your presence commanding obedience with nothing more than a glance.

A dominus had power in Rome, and tonight, you played the part of one. The lanista, a balding, thickset man with a face like a bloated corpse, counted the coins in his palm before giving you a wary glance. His reluctance was almost amusing. He did not know what you were, only that you were not like the other Roman nobles who sought gladiators for their amusement.

“He’s dangerous,” the lanista muttered, as if that would dissuade you.

Your gaze flickered to the heavy wooden door behind him, the iron bolts securing the beast within. “That is precisely why I chose him.”

The lanista exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing more. The metal groaned as he dragged the bolts free, stepping aside as the door swung open.

And then—

Anakin Skywalker emerged from the darkness.

He was shirtless, his body slick with sweat and streaked with blood, muscles taut beneath the dim torchlight. His wrists were bound in iron, the heavy chains rattling as he moved, but he carried them as if they weighed nothing. Fresh wounds striped his back from the lash he had taken earlier that day, punishment for his disobedience in the arena. The marks stood out like crimson sigils against his tanned skin, yet he bore them without flinching.

But it was his eyes that truly held you still—cold, sharp blue, a striking contrast to the golden curls that fell damp over his brow. He was bruised, bleeding, and yet he stood tall, utterly unbowed.

The lanista shoved him forward. “Kneel, slave.”

Anakin barely spared the man a glance. Instead, he looked at you.

And smirked.

You arched a brow.

“No?” the lanista snapped, stepping toward him, whip coiled at his hip.

“I do not kneel for Romans,” Anakin said, voice like gravel, rough from battle and pain. His gaze remained locked on yours, unreadable but heavy with something dark. “Especially not for their women.”

The lanista moved to strike him, but you lifted a hand, stopping him.

“Leave us.”

The lanista hesitated. “But, domina—”

“I said leave.”

A flicker of something—perhaps fear, perhaps confusion—crossed the man’s face before he reluctantly stepped away, muttering curses under his breath. The heavy door groaned shut behind him, and then, at last, you were alone with Anakin.

Silence stretched between you.

Anakin rolled his shoulders, the motion slow, deliberate. “So,” he drawled, glancing at you with something dangerously close to amusement. “Another Roman noble come to inspect her latest plaything ?”

Your lips curved. “I see the whip did not teach you humility.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over you in a way that might have been insolent—if not for the fact that you allowed it. His gaze lingered on the silk of your robes, the gold at your throat, the faint scent of perfume that clung to your skin. When his eyes met yours again, they burned with something unreadable.

“I’ve learned that Romans enjoy a man who suffers prettily for them,” he murmured, a mocking edge to his voice. “Did you pay for a closer look at my cock ?”

You hummed, stepping closer. “I paid for your time, gladiator. What I do with it is my choosing.”

His smirk widened. “Then I pity you.”

Your brow arched. “Oh?”

“You must be terribly bored.”

Your fingers ghosted over the rim of your goblet, the wine inside untouched. “On the contrary. I find you fascinating.”

He let out a low, dark laugh. “A dangerous word.”

You took another step forward, closing the distance between you. The scent of steel and sweat mixed with the faint perfume of myrrh and spices, a contrast of brutality and divinity. The chains clinked as he moved, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath their weight. He was raw power caged in iron, a lion behind bars, and yet—he did not feel like prey.

“Why do you fight ?” you asked, tilting your head. “You do not strike me as a man who enjoys entertaining Rome.”

His expression flickered, just for a moment. “Perhaps I don’t.”

“Then why ?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if the question amused him. “What does it matter ? We are all slaves to something.”

Something inside you twisted. The weight of centuries pressed against your ribs, the knowledge that he was right. He was bound in iron, and you—goddess though you were—were bound by fate.

His eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, the chains rattling between you.

“Tell me, domina,” he murmured, voice dropping to something dark, intimate. “Why are you really here?”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you acknowledged but both understood. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way his eyes traced the delicate goldwork of your jewelry, the fine embroidery of your silk robes, the way your presence itself seemed an insult in this place of sweat, blood, and iron.

Anakin stood before you, chained and bruised, a man made for war, for killing. And yet, even as a slave, he was untamed. He had not yet been broken.

But everyone had a breaking point.

You stepped closer, deliberately, your sandals whispering against the cold stone floor. He did not move, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture—the flex of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. A man prepared to endure, to resist.

You smiled.

“I own this time,” you said softly. “I own you for as long as I please.”

His smirk was slow, amused. “Do you?”

You lifted a hand. Not to touch him—yet—but to trace the air just above his skin, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the heat of a body honed for battle.

His breath hitched, barely perceptible.

“I paid well for you, gladiator,” you continued, tilting your head as your fingers ghosted over his arm, lingering just above the bruises left by the iron shackles. “Tell me… do you think your master would care if I took liberties with what I own?”

His eyes darkened, the smirk sharpening. “I think you enjoy pretending that you own things that can’t be owned.”

You traced your fingers up, featherlight, skimming over the curve of his collarbone. He was scarred, his skin marked by battles fought and won, each one a testament to survival. But beneath the wounds, there was beauty—undeniable, infuriating beauty. His body was carved by struggle, but his face… his face was a god’s mistake, too beautiful for a man meant to die in the arena.

He was looking at you the way a lion looked at the fool who dared step into its cage.

Your smile did not falter. “And you enjoy pretending you have a choice.”

The chain between his wrists rattled as he shifted. His head dipped slightly, his breath warm against your cheek, too close, too bold.

“I always have a choice,” he murmured.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Do you?”

Your fingers trailed lower, down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. He was still, but not passive. This was a man who would let you touch fire just to see if you would burn yourself.

You could.

You should.

You wouldn't.

Instead, you leaned in, close enough that he would feel the brush of your lips without ever truly touching. A phantom promise. A whisper of power.

"You belong to me tonight," you murmured against his skin. "Fight it if you want. But you will lose."

For the first time, his smirk faded.

And then, slowly, dangerously, he smiled again.

"You paid for my time, domina," he said, voice low, rough, almost mocking. "I wonder… what will you do with it ?"

"You know what I want, gladiator…so give it to me." You returned his smirk.

Anakin's eyes flashed at your bold words, a flicker of surprise giving way to a slow, wicked grin. He leaned in closer, until you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips, the scent of steel and sweat and something darker, more primal.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmured, voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "A man like me... I might just give you more than you can handle."

His gaze dragged over you, intense and hungry, lingering on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips beneath the silk of your robes. When his eyes met yours again, they burned with a feral light.

"Tell me, domina," he breathed, "do you want me to worship you like a goddess... or ruin you like the wanton creature I suspect you are beneath this fine silk and gold?"

He reached out, fingers grazing the delicate embroidery at your throat, a stark contrast to the rough, calloused skin of a warrior. His touch was fleeting, a whisper against your skin, but it left a trail of heat in its wake.

"Choose carefully," he whispered, a dark promise in his voice. "Because once I start... I don't think I'll be able to stop."

The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of his words hanging heavy. You could feel the power shift, the balance teetering on a knife's edge. He was a gladiator, a slave, but in this moment, he held the reins. He owned you with his eyes, his touch, his voice. And God help you, but you wanted him to claim you utterly.

You wanted him to take you.

To take you apart.

To put you back together again.

To make you feel alive again.

You trembled slightly under his intense gaze. "Tell me, do you see all your women like this ?"

Anakin's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something dark and dangerous passing through his eyes. He leaned back slightly, just enough to look down at you with a smirk that was equal parts cruel and amused.

"Women?" he repeated, a low, rough laugh escaping his lips. "You think you're like the others?"

He reached out, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a rough caress that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

"No," he murmured, voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. "You're not like the others. They don't have your... hunger."

His eyes searched yours, intense and unreadable. "They don't look at me like they want to devour me alive. Like they want to take everything I have to give and beg for more."

He leaned in closer, until you could feel the brush of his lips against yours. "You're not here to be worshipped, domina. You're here to be fucked. Hard. Until you forget your own name and remember only mine."

His other hand slid down your back, coming to rest at the small of your back. He pulled you against him, the hard planes of his body molding to the soft curves of yours. You could feel every inch of him, the thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, the coiled strength in his thighs, the unyielding power of his chest.

"You're not like the others," he breathed against your lips. "You're a woman who knows what she wants. And what you want... is me."

He claimed your mouth in a brutal kiss, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along yours, demanding your surrender. And God help you, but you gave it to him. You melted against him, your body softening, your lips parting in a silent cry of pleasure as he plundered your mouth.

He kissed you until you were breathless, until your head was spinning and your body was aching for his touch. He kissed you until you forgot where you were, until all that mattered was the feel of his lips on yours, the heat of his skin, the strength of his arms around you.

And when he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his expression fierce. "So tell me, domina," he breathed against your ear, his voice a low, rough rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. "What do you want from me tonight? And don't say you want to be fucked. I can give you so much more than that."

His hand slid lower, cupping the curve of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh. He pulled you harder against him, grinding his hips into yours, letting you feel the thick, hard length of him through the thin silk of your robes.

"I can make you scream until your throat is raw," he promised darkly. "I can fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll feel me for days. I can worship every inch of your body with my mouth and hands until you're trembling and begging for more."

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "I can bind you to my bed and tease you until you're sobbing, until you're so desperate for release that you'll do anything I ask. Anything."

His other hand slid up your side, cupping the weight of your breast, his thumb brushing over the peak of your nipple through the silk. "I can make you come so hard that you'll forget where you are, who you are, until all that exists is the pleasure I give you."

He leaned back, his eyes burning into yours. "So tell me, domina," he breathed, a wicked, dangerous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What do you want from me tonight? And choose your words carefully, because I intend to give it to you. All of it. Every single, filthy, delicious inch."

"All of it, I want all of it. You hate me, I can feel it. So pour your hate in your thrusts. Hate Rome through me." You whispered breathlessly.

Anakin's eyes flashed with a fierce, feral light at your whispered words. A dark, cruel smile curved his lips as he stared down at you, his grip on your ass tightening possessively. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke in a low, rough growl.

"Hate you? No, domina. I don't hate you. I despise you. I loathe every inch of your Roman arrogance, your entitled cruelty. I detest the way you think you can own a man like me, that you can buy and sell me like a piece of flesh."

His other hand slid up to wrap around your throat, his fingers curling around your delicate neck. He didn't squeeze, not yet, but the threat was there. The promise of domination, of control.

"But you're right about one thing. I will pour every ounce of my hatred into you. I will fuck you with all the rage and fury I feel for your kind. I will make you feel the wrath of a man who has been enslaved, beaten, and degraded for the entertainment of people like you."

He spun you around and bent you over the table, sweeping the contents to the floor with a clatter. The cold marble pressed against your skin through the thin silk of your robes as he pushed your skirt up over your hips, exposing your bare ass to the cool air.

"Keep this up, domina. Beg for it. Beg for me to hate-fuck you like the Roman whore you are. Beg for me to ruin your tight little cunt with my big, hard cock. Beg for me to make you scream and cry and plead for mercy."

He undid his belt with a swift, rough motion, the leather straps hitting the floor. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking with arousal. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise as he rubbed the swollen head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your juices.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name. I'll make you scream until your throat is raw and your voice is gone. I'll make you come on my cock again and again until you're sobbing and begging me to stop. And when I'm done, when I've filled your greedy little cunt with my seed, I'll make you lick it off the cold marble floor, I'll make you taste the hatred I have for your kind. I'll make you choke on it, swallow it down until you gag and sputter, until you can't breathe for the taste of my contempt."

Anakin drove into you with a brutal, punishing thrust, his thick cock splitting you open, stretching you wide around his invading length. A guttural groan tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside your tight, clenching heat. He didn't pause, didn't give you a moment to adjust, but immediately set a hard, relentless pace, pounding into you with all the fury and hatred he harbored for your kind.

His hips slapped against your ass with each savage thrust, the lewd sound echoing obscenely in the chamber. One hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, while the other hand tightened around your throat, his calloused fingers digging into your delicate skin. Stars exploded behind your eyelids as he cut off your air supply, making your head swim and your heart race.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Anakin snarled, his voice rough and ragged with lust and rage. "Such a perfect little Roman cunt, squeezing my cock like you never want to let it go. But I'll ruin you, domina. I'll fuck you until you're nothing but a sloppy, dripping mess, until the only thing your greedy hole knows is the feel of my cock pounding into it."

He hammered into you harder, the force of his thrusts shaking the table beneath you, the marble biting into your hips. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock as it dragged along your sensitive walls, bullying your poor, unprepared cunt with its relentless assault.

"Scream for me," Anakin demanded, his voice a dark, cruel command. "Let all of Rome hear you being claimed by their enemy. Let them hear how a slave is ruining their precious noblewoman, how I'm using your body to unleash all the hatred I've stored up for people like you."

He tightened his grip on your throat, making your vision blur and your lungs burn for air. Your body clenched around him, the lack of oxygen heightening every sensation, every brutal thrust, every cruel twist of his hips as he ground against your cervix.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me," Anakin groaned, his breath hot against your ear. "You love this, don't you? Being used like a cheap whore ?"

"Gladiator…harder." You moaned loudly and arched your back, offering your chest to him.

Anakin growled in response to your wanton moan, a feral sound of pure, unbridled lust and rage. His hips surged forward with renewed vigor, slamming into you with enough force to rock the sturdy wooden table beneath you. The rough, calloused skin of his thighs slapped against the backs of yours as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

"Harder? You want it harder, you Roman slut?" Anakin snarled, his voice dripping with disdain and dark promise. "I'll give you harder."

He tightened his grip on your throat even more, cutting off your air supply completely as he redoubled his brutal assault on your cunt. The lack of oxygen made your head swim and your vision blur, but you could still feel every excruciating detail of his violation. The thick, pulsing heat of his cock plunging into your core over and over, the rough drag of his pelvis against your sensitive clit, the obscene squelch of your juices easing the way for his relentless thrusts.

Anakin leaned over you, his muscular chest pressing against your back, his breath ragged and hot against your ear. "I'm going to fuck you until you pass out," he promised darkly. "Until your mind goes blank and all you know is the feel of my cock splitting you open, claiming you, ruining you for all other men."

He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust, slamming into you so hard the table shook and creaked beneath you. One hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave vivid bruises, while the other hand slid up to wrap around your breast, squeezing the supple mound roughly. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, sending jolts of painful pleasure straight to your core.

"I can feel you shaking, domina," Anakin taunted, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "I can feel your greedy little cunt squeezing my cock, trying to hold onto it like it never wants to let it go. You don't want this to end, do you? You want me to keep fucking you, to ruin you, to make you forget everything but the feel of my cock splitting you open again and again."

He licked a stripe up your neck, his tongue rough and hot against your sweat-slicked skin. "I could fuck you forever, domina. I could keep you chained to my bed, keep your legs spread wide, and fuck you until you're nothing but a mindless, drooling mess. I could make you my personal fucktoy, my own Roman cocksleeve, ready and eager for me to use whenever I please."

Stars exploded in front of your vision and you climaxed harder than ever, your nails raking on his shoulders, accidentally scratching one of his wounds.

Anakin snarled in pain and rage as your nails raked down his back, your sharp nails digging into the fresh wounds from the arena. Hot, stinging pain lanced through him and he reacted on pure instinct, his hips slamming forward with a brutal, punishing thrust. He gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers sinking into your soft flesh as he ground his pelvis against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your spasming, clenching heat.

"Fuck, you little bitch!" Anakin roared, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. "Did I say you could scratch me? Did I give you permission to mark my skin like the filthy whore you are?"

He punctuated his furious words with a series of rapid, brutal thrusts, each one harder and more punishing than the last. The table shook and creaked beneath you, the marble biting into your hips as he fucked you with all the rage and hatred he felt for your kind, for your careless, cruel touch.

"Punishment is in order," Anakin growled, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "I'll make you regret ever daring to mark me without my consent."

He pulled out of you abruptly, his cock slick with your juices, and flipped you over onto your back. Before you could catch your breath, he had your wrists pinned above your head, his much larger hand easily encircling them. He loomed over you, his muscular chest heaving, his eyes blazing with fury and lust.

"Apologize," he demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Apologize for daring to mark me like a cheap harlot. Apologize for forgetting your place, for thinking you had any right to touch me without my express permission."

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours. "Apologize, domina," he hissed. "Or I'll make you regret it in ways you never imagined."

Anakin's eyes flashed with a cruel, triumphant light as he watched you gasp and shudder through the aftershocks of your intense climax. He could feel your body still trembling beneath his, your cunt clenching and fluttering around his cock, trying in vain to hold onto him, to keep him buried deep inside your greedy heat.

"Look at you, domina," he purred, his voice a low, mocking rasp. "Coming undone on my cock like the desperate slut you are. I've barely touched you and you're already falling apart, already forgetting yourself in the throes of your pathetic pleasure."

Anakin stared down at your tear-streaked face, a look of utter disgust etched onto his handsome features. He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your cunt empty and aching, your juices dripping down onto the cold marble table. With a rough, jerky motion, he tucked his still-hard cock back into his breeches and stepped back, putting some distance between your naked, wanton body and his own.

"Damn Roman whore," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with contempt. "All the same. Thinking with your greedy cunt instead of your brain. Just like the rest of your kind."

He shook his head in disgust, his dark blonde hair falling into his eyes. "You think you can buy a man's loyalty, his devotion, his very soul? You think you can own a warrior like me with your gold and your pretty words?"

Anakin's lip curled in a sneer as he looked down at you, his blue eyes hard and accusing. "You're no better than the rest of them. No better than the crowds in the arena, baying for blood and spectacle. You just want to use me for your own twisted pleasure, to sate your base, animalistic urges."

He turned away from you, his broad shoulders rigid with tension, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Get dressed, domina," he ordered coldly. "Cover up your shameful display. And then get out. I have no more use for you tonight."

With that, Anakin strode towards the door, leaving you naked and alone on the table, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your intense climax. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at you over his shoulder, his expression hard and unforgiving.

"And don't think this is over," he warned darkly. "Your kind always comes crawling back for more, like the addicted sluts you are. But I won't be so easy to seduce next time. I know your true nature now."

"The gods will punish you…" You whispered, sitting up.

Anakin laughed, low and sharp, the sound cutting through the dimly lit chamber like a blade. “The gods,” he scoffed, rolling his shoulders despite the weight of his chains. “Tell me, domina, what use do men like me have for gods?”

You tilted your head, your expression unreadable. “You do not believe in them?”

“Oh, I believe in them.” His smirk was bitter. “I believe in their cruelty. In their silence. The gods watch men like me suffer and do nothing.” His blue eyes locked onto yours, sharp as the edge of a dagger. “I do not pray to them. And if they are watching me, then let them know I spit on their names.”

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, the wine within dark as spilled blood. “And yet, perhaps the gods have not forgotten you.”

Anakin's expression hardened. “I have no patience for riddles, domina.”

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to something softer, something almost intimate. “Tell me, do you ever dream of things you do not remember? Faces you have never seen? A life that is not your own?”

His smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second—so brief, so fleeting that another might have missed it. But you did not.

Anakin shifted against the chains, his wrists flexing against the iron shackles, the muscles in his arms taut. “You ask strange questions for a noblewoman.”

“You give strange answers for a gladiator.”

The tension between you thickened, something unspoken coiling in the air. You watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists as if bracing against something unknown.

You were playing a dangerous game. But then again, you always had.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and incense as Anakin’s lanista—his owner—sprawled lazily on his cushioned seat, swirling his wine with idle amusement. “He is strong, domina,” the man drawled, gesturing toward Anakin. “Undefeated. A rare breed.”

You kept your gaze on Anakin, who stood beside the lanista, arms bound, his skin marred with fresh welts from his earlier punishment. He looked at you with nothing but disdain, but beneath it, you could feel something deeper—an unspoken challenge, a warning.

“I could buy him,” you said simply.

The lanista chuckled. “A fine choice, my lady. He would make a strong bodyguard, or perhaps something… more.” His eyes gleamed with lewd suggestion. “For the right price, he is yours.”

Before you could respond, Anakin snarled, the sound raw and full of venom.

“I belong to no one.”

His voice rang through the chamber like a war drum. Even bound, even kneeling in the presence of those who claimed ownership over him, there was no submission in him. Only defiance. Only fire.

Your heart pounded in your chest.

Foolish man.

Foolish, beautiful man.

The lanista scowled, yanking Anakin’s chains so hard his head snapped back. “You will belong to whomever I sell you to, slave.”

Anakin’s eyes found yours then, burning with fury. “Kill me if you want,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “But I will never bow.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

And yet, as the lanista barked orders to have him dragged away, you could not stop watching him.

Anakin did not plead. He did not beg.

Even as he was pulled from the room, his head was held high, his gaze never leaving yours.

That night, Anakin slept on the cold stone of his cell, his body aching from the lashes, from the fights, from the weight of another day in chains. But when he closed his eyes, he did not dream of the Colosseum.

He dreamed of green fields, of wildflowers swaying in the wind. He dreamed of soft laughter, of hands weaving a crown of herbs, of sunlight on golden hair.

He dreamed of a woman.

He could not see her face, but he felt her presence—familiar, distant, like a name on the tip of his tongue.

When he woke, his breath was unsteady, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

And for the first time in years, he was afraid.

Even in chains, a lion does not forget the taste of freedom. Even in death, a man does not forget the echo of love.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader #evie writes

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preposterousjams · 3 months ago

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My opinion on the Latino Jason Todd headcanon

While I do understand ppl's criticism of the latino Jason todd headcanon and how its kind of racist to make the kid with parents with drug problems as the latino one, to me its more of a reclamation BECAUSE of DC's racism.

Read any 80s/90s batman issue that covers gang violence and drugs, most if not ALL of the criminals are poc; black people and latinos visibly make up the majority in the poorer neighbourhoods in Gotham. Aside from the caricaturist way they r drawn/speak, its not THAT weird cause its a reflection of irl big cities where immigrants and marginalised ppl are often forced to live in such situations, (like most of my dominican family lives in the bronx... it aint racist to say dominicans tend to flock there), BUT...the weird part is when the second a sympathetic character comes from that area, he's white and has a name thats "too fancy for the streets".

Obviously, Jason was created to look like the old robin, so I can't say that the whole "diamond in the rough" situation was purposely a tad bit racist, but its still a lil weird (especially with bruce's comment).

If Jason were a part of the overwhelming demographic in his area, the good-kid-in-a-bad-area trope has less connotations. DC is currently trying to fix this trope is by making crime alley whiter, which isn't bad but they could've just yk... humanised the non-white residents.

I also feel like the messed up way Jason was treated post-death is what makes him so relatable to latino readers. His tragic story of dying while trying to save his only living relative is turned into a lesson for newer vigilantes. Jason's particular disdain for abusers on a few occasions was twisted (by both writers and characters) into him always being dumb, reckless, cocky, angry and disobedient, always violent, never having been able to get over his upbringing. None of those things were true (he was a normal level of reckless and cocky like every other robin, not more), but its an easier narrative to digest compared to how it was in reality; a kid who worked so hard and loved even harder, died to save a woman who couldn't care less about his existence. He was an emotional AND smart kid who wanted so bad to help others get better but was remembered as too emotional (in a bad way).

THIS is the reality for many latino diasporas in day to day life; Theres no question that Latino culture is passionate and emotive, but people from other cultures assume that it is followed by instead of logical. both can coexist. emotion does not mean u have no logic. Emotions can be irrational but they aren't inherently that way, and I wouldn't say that the moments where Jason lashed out as a teenager were irrational (in og runs, not rewrites post red hood), they were mostly done to protect someone (going crazy on abusers, disobeying batman to save sheila, that time he got into a fight at school to defend his friend).

A lot of euro-centric culture is OBSESSED with the idea that rationality is separate from feelings and emotions, but not crying at a funeral doesn't mean you're better than those who do. Emotions are the basis of human ethics and morals, they define the way we interact as a collective and ignoring them does not mean they are not there. Theres no winner to a contest of who can feel the less. And the way Jason's emotions are treated (pre-rh, hes definitely unhinged afterwards lol) is so in line with how white culture tends to punish those who aren't ashamed to feel.

I TOTES UNDERSTAND that some ppl who headcanon Jason as latino are doing it for the complete opposite of reasons, like "oh here some angry emotional guy with druggie parents, haha must be latino". Its weird. I dont like it. And its only brought up so he can swear in spanish in some rlly bad text post where his emotions are getting out. But to me there's so much potential for metanarrative and commentary on how latinos are treated in media that can be exemplified through the way his character is treated. Being latino would add SO MUCH DEPTH to his character and his dynamic with the others.

#this is just my rant lol #for the non-latinos who wanna write latino jason todd pls stop the spanglish... he dont even have to speak spanish at all #you can incorporate elements of his culture/upbringing (pls pick a country tho the experience is so diff everywhere)#im super biased but carribean jason>>>>#ok but like undead lore in dominican culture is crazyyyy... like the myth of zombies comes from hispanola #my grandma was genuinely terrified of waking up in her coffin bc of stories of ppl coming back to life that she wanted to be cremated #jason todd #latino jason todd #red hood #batfam

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808airsoftbros · 1 month ago

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Kim Ji-won As Your Yandere

Author: Finally back up with the Yandere series after so many months. Hope you enjoy it and if you wish check out the Masterlist.

Danger Level: Extreme Caution

Jiwon throughout her life has portrayed herself as this perfect figure amongst her adoring fans, especially after garnering so much attention from her successful drama Queen of Tears.

She was growing sick of living up to the sick and unreasonable standards that celebrities are put through

Always seeking escapes from it all, going out to parties and dates with random men none of which suited her interest

However, that all changed when she met you...

Yes, you, being some ordinary guy just like the rest of the crowd but to her, you were more than that the moment she laid eyes on you

Unlike everyone else, you showed compassion and treated her like she was an ordinary person which is quite a foreign feeling she hadn't felt in years when she first debuted

The more and more time you two spent in secret when she had free time, her feelings began slowly growing and at first she never noticed...

That was until her feelings were becoming unbearable to her and she screamed at herself in the mirror and smashed it into glass shards

She didn't care about the pain and the blood coming from her wounds, she simply laughed in a maniacal tone

"Haha... Hahaha! Oh, Y/N! You have no idea what you do to me! Just wait till I get my hands on you! And you will be mine! All mine!"

When you noticed her charm-warming behavior diminish and transform into an unhealthy obsession

You tried everything to calm her down or find a solution such as taking a break from the industry but no... None of that mattered or was good enough for her anymore...

The only solution she saw in her eyes... Were you and you alone, she wanted you to become hers once and for all

To hell with what the news media thinks of it or if the cops show up at her door because all that matters is declaring to the world that you belonged to her and her alone

Escape was futile... She has her mansion bordered by top-notch security with cameras and guards specifically instructed to drag your ass back inside if they spot you

However, any escape attempt won't go unpunished... Jiwon would lock you into your room or worse the basement where she'll torture and punish you for being a disobedient brat.

#yandere #kim jiwon #queen of tears #hong haein #kim ji won #kdrama

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chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct · 3 months ago

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So, project 2025 has been deleting their PDFs but a few lovely people have posted the list of books they want to ban and other than the fact that the entire list is stupid, here's some that stuck out to me + the reasons listed next to them. Most of the books on the list are lgbtq+ books which one would expect to find there, so I just did ones I didn't expect.

The Holy Bible - Challenged for religious beliefs and graphic content.

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin - Sexual violence, political intrigue.

Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson - Death and religious content.

Captain Underpants series by Dav Pilkey - Toilet humor and "disobedience."

Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak - Critique of the Russian Revolution.

Deadly Deceits by Ralph McGehee - Former CIA agent's critiques of the agency.

Emma by Jane Austen - Complex gender themes, social critique.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - Censorship and media manipulation by the government.

Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling - Accusations of promoting witchcraft.

Howl by Allen Ginsberg - Explicit sexual content, anti-establishment themes

Hop on Pop by Dr. Seuss - Concerns over violence against parents.

I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sánchez - Mental health, sexual content.

It's Perfectly Normal by Robie H. Harris - Sex education content.

It's So Amazing! by Robie H. Harris - Sex education content.

None Dare Call It Conspiracy by Gary Allen - Discusses alleged hidden global power structure.

None Dare Call It Treason by John A. Stormer - Anti-communist and conspiracy-focused.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn - Critique of Soviet labor camps.

Operation Paperclip by Annie Jacobsen - Exposes secret U.S. program involving former Nazis.

My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier - Violence, anti-war themes.

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt vonnegut- Anti-war themes.

Spycatcher by Peter Wright - Ex-MI5 agent's account of intelligence operations.

The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama - Criticism of religion, perceived political messages.

The Awakening by Kate Chopin - Female independence, sexuality.

The Book of Night Women by Marlon James - Slavery, graphic violence.

The Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C. Wrede - Magic, feminism.

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein - Themes of selfishness, parenting.

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy - Examines class and caste issues in India.

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood - Critique of religious extremism and patriarchy.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas - Examines police violence and racial injustice

The Hunger Games Series by Suzanne Collins - Depicts oppressive government and rebellion.

The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster - Political subtext, wordplay.

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver - Critique of colonialism and missionary work.

The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene - Critique of religion and political oppression

The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle - Religious critique.

The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli - Seen as a critique of political ethics.

The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare - Often challenged for themes of submission of women in marriage.

Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer - Themes of violence, supernatural elements.

V for Vendetta by Alan Moore - Political rebellion, violence.

War is a Racket by Smedley D. Butler - Critique of war profiteering.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein - Dark humor, "rebellious" themes.

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak - Themes of rebellion, dark imagery.

Where's Waldo? by Martin Handford - Alleged inappropriate illustrations.

White Noise by Don DeLillo - Critique of consumerism and modern society.

Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes - Feminist themes.

Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss - Seen as political allegory.

Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis - Critique of authority and societal norms.

#chic rambles #project 2025 #book banning

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axolotlofficial · 7 months ago

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Adultism is..

The assumption that kids being in school is inherently better than kids not being in school

Thinking it's a human rights violation when employers limit access to toilet facilities, but an overexaggerated non-issue when teachers do it

Being able to say "Children should be seen and not heard" without getting the same backlash as any other bigot

The existence of the Troubled Teen Industry

Thinking intergenerational friendships are inherently suspicious

Referring to violence against children with cutesy nicknames like "spanking"

Treating kids "talking back" to their parents as the height of disrespect

The belief that a respectful child is an obedient child

Media with realistic portrayals of child abuse being deemed inherently "less kid friendly" for it, rather than being used to educate kids in similar situations

The fact it's still not completely normal and expected for a kids show to be able to have a character get a nosebleed onscreen

Being able to forgive parents who yell at, threaten, or hit their children, but not kids who are "disobedient" or "disrespectful" to their parents

#adultism #youth rights

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

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Winter's King 19

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Have a good day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen rises, restless as her skirts sweep around her, streaked from the hem with the filth of the road. Her insistence on finery has proven fruitless. Her once prized gown will likely never be free of stains. She has many more, you only hope they survive the journey.

She struts back and forth, scowling as she faces the wall and drops her shoulders.

“Why is there no mirror?” She pouts, “this place is drab. How am I supposed to keep from going blind with dullness.” She flops back onto the bed, “ugh,” she rolls over, “maid, I need wine.”

“Your highness,” you say sheepishly.

“Do not,” she raises her hand in a harsh point, “I don’t care about the king’s orders. I have been on the road for weeks, I am sore, I am filthy, and I am tired!” She snaps her fingers, “if I want wine I will have it.” She puts her hand over her middle, “it is for the king’s child. He is thirsty.”

You avert your eyes. You can’t deny her. Even if the king ordered that she be deprived, you cannot look her in the face and tell her no. If they king never knows, it mightn’t matter. You turn, your disobedience nipping at your ears.

You emerge into the corridor. The orange-haired guard remains, along with the shadow standing across from him. Bryce looms, picking his nails with a small dagger.

“Has the queen retired so early?” He asks.

“She requires wine,” you return, “I won’t be long, sir. Might you point me towards the kitchen?”

“I will accompany you,” he insists as he stand straight.

“Do not trouble, sir, I am faster alone. I only need direction.”

You see the disappointment tick in his cheek. You’re not so mad as you were, only cautious. The king will always come first, his will shall always circumvent your own. It is a reality you knew before but now it gleams in a much different light.

“Down to the east, on the lower floors behind the statue of the knight in black armor,” he explains, “do take care not to lose yourself.”

“I will, sir,” you nod and glance over at the other soldier. The man with carroty hair eyes you up and down.

You flit off, hurrying upon your quest for a bottle. You’re not certain you’ll find bounty in your mission. This is not the king’s castle and you are not a thief.

You descend and come around the bottom of the wide stone railings. The great hall is empty and only a few lanterns remain lit to guide you. You go east and find your way, coming upon the knight in black armour that at first appears as a real sentinel in the dark. You stop to look upon the suit, admiring the ripples in its forging.

You go into the kitchen and find the haze of the stove lighting the empty space. You peer around at the dark alcoves as the air glows amber, pulsing with the heat of the embers. You tiptoe inside, narrowing your eyes to see through the dim.

“Are ya lost?” A growl rises from the darkness.

You spin and face the black silhouette of a large man stood on the other side of the thick wooden table at the center of the kitchens. You gulp and sway on your feet. He must be the cook or perhaps the cellarer. He likely thought you a rat scurrying around looking for crumbs.

“No, sir, I... would there be a bottle of wine? For the queen?” You ask, your voice catching in your throat as he looms like some great husky bear. He reminds you of the white beast in the corridor as he comes around the table, the light catching the white of his thick locks.

His body is as thick as a barrel and his shoulders broader. The flickering hue reveals the scar above his left brow and his pocked cheeks. You wonder at the tint of his hair as you try to tell if it’s the age the lines his face or if it is the same effect as the king.

“Wine? For the queen?” He echoes sonorously, “hmmm.”

“Yes, sir, if there would be any to spare?”

“Mm, suppose a bottle might go missing,” he backs up and turns. He doesn’t beckon you onward but you follow anyway. Something about him bids you without a word.

He takes you to the far end of the kitchens and grunts as he squats and reaches to his belt, jangling a ring of iron keys. He shoves one in the thick lock in the clasp of the hatch and unhooks it. He lifts the heavy door, thick cedar bolstered with steel and throws it back to hit the floor.

“Ah, hold,” he signals you with a palm as he stands and retreats.

He strides across the kitchens and without a word, shuffles in a cupboard. He mutters as he takes a tallow and lights its wick from the embers, setting it into a brass holder. He offers it to you and you take it without a word, curious at the grumbly cook.

He descends the steep stairs first and you follow, balancing the candle carefully. He takes you by the elbow to help you to the beaten floor and you raise the candle to light the expanse of the cellar. It extends well past the limits of the flame’s eye.

He goes to a shelf and slides a bottle free of its cubby. He tuts and puts it back. He pulls out several bottles before he makes a decision. He comes closer to examine the glass by the flame.

“Summer wine,” he says and flicks his pale eyes up to you. They remind you of the king’s though they are paler in the candlelight. “And you, serve the summer queen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a summerer?” He asks.

“Sir,” you bow your head, “you can tell?”

“Aye, no winter’s blood wears a cloak with walls to hold them over,” he chuckles and looks around.

You glance down at the cloak. You hadn’t thought to remove it as the cold radiates from the stone. Even without the wind, a shiver creeps through your flesh.

He frightens you as he reaches for you, only to touch the fur collar of the cloak, rubbing a tuft between his fingertips, “it is well made.” He lets his hand trail along the front and turns out the interior of the trim. You look down your nose as he reveals a patch you didn’t notice before; a wolf’s head.

“Yes, sir, it is warm,” you agree and he withdraws his hand.

“Suppose a summer’s maid needs it more than a winter’s king,” he says.

You’re quiet. You have nothing to say to that. How many others took note of you in the king’s cloak? Do they whisper about it?

“Your queen may take the wine,” he holds out the bottle, “and the king, might have a cask of ale should he require. Only one,” he lets go of the bottle as you accept it and holds up a finger, “he does not have leave to drink this cellar dry. Crown or no crown.”

“Yes, sir. Many thanks.”

He snorts and shakes his head, peering down at you, “a dove like you is out of place in this nest of vultures,” he muses and gently takes the candle from your hand, “better fly back to your queen, bird.”

“Sir,” you turn towards the stairs as the candle illuminates your shadow against the shelves. You turn to climb and peer back at the man. He watches you, his eyes flickering with the flame.

“Gentle creatures don’t fare well in the cold,” he clucks, “best keep that cloak close.”

You ascend and cradle the bottle at the top, keeping it close as the liquid sloshes heavily inside. You pad over the kitchen floor and into the corridor. The great hall is even colder as the shadows ripple over you. As you come up the stairs, a shiver quakes through you.

Something about that man, about his words, clings to you. His way of speaking is ominous, like those card readers who would visit Lady Rezlyn. Or perhaps it is only that you are waiting for the inevitable.

As you near the queen’s chambers, you hear distant footsteps from the other direction. You come in sight of the grey soldier, spinning his knife as he whistles, the redhead guard sending him an irritated glower. You slow, preparing for the guard to repel you or at least seize the bottle from your arms.

He does not. Even as he turns his scowl on you, he only reaches for the door to let you in. Before he can push inward, a throat clears. You all pause and turn to face the new figure. The king looks between you all; from the guard, to you, to Bryce. Your nerves flutter wildly. You haven’t been this close since the night on the pass.

“I hope that wine is meant for you, Sir Bryce,” King Geralt booms, “as my queen is not permitted to indulge. She has a vile reaction to the stuff.”

“Your highness,” the guard swallows audibly, “I... the queen--”

“The queen is my wife and a wife must bend to the will of her husband,” the king insists hotly. The guard’s expression draws and he mutters an apology.

“I was unaware of the ban,” Bryce intones, “but I’ll gladly claim the bottle for my own.”

“Gilles,” King Geralt ignores the quip and points to the redhead guard, “you will inform the queen that she needs retire for the night. In her condition, it is necessary that she rests. If she requires sustenance, she may have bread and cheese and a bit of goat’s milk.”

“Your highness,” the guard, Gilles, nods diligently.

“And you will fetch it yourself,” the king insists, “I trust you might find your way around a tray.”

Gilles stares at the king then slowly pushes into the queen’s chamber. The king nears and takes the bottle from your hand. You let him and back up as Bryce steps closer.

“Your highness,” the soldier begins, “if I’d been aware--”

“Hardly matters now,” the king shrugs and steps close to his man. He leans in and whispers something you cannot hear, “as you were,” he slaps his shoulder then continues on. You watch after him, perplexed but relieved at his indifference. Perhaps he has rethought his intent.

Bryce is quiet until the king’s footfalls fade off. He lowers his chin, rubbing his thick beard. He touches your cloak, a small tug on it, “this way, maid. Let us find you a place to lay your head.”

The promise of a bed is nice and reminds you of your weariness. Your legs ache as you follow Bryce along the corridor. Your shoulders rack and the remnants of the road begin to lace through your muscles. It is only as you think of laying down that you feel the effect of those last months.

You yawn and stifle it in your hand. Bryce glances over and lets out a willowy breath. He is certain of his path despite the twists and turns. He directs you to a door at the base of one of the castle’s towers, opening it to a spiraling staircase.

“Would be at the top.”

You look up at the winding ascent. The walls are mounted with lanterns over every fifth step. You frown and pull back, turning to the soldier. Your stomach churns.

“Up there? May I not rest in the servant’s quarters?”

“You must be closer to the queen,” his lip trembles. He raises his chin and looks away. When his eyes meet yours again, he puts his hands on your shoulders, “rest your head, mouse, you’ve come very far. You’ve earned it.”

You look at him. You know he isn’t saying all he could. He can’t. You put your hands on his arms and squeeze.

“I’ll try,” you affirm, “thank you, sir. I am very tired.”

“Yes, mouse, sleep,” he pulls away.

“Good night, sir.”

He hesitates, “good night.”

He turns stiffly and marches off. You step into the staircase as his shadow disappears and you pull the door shut. You look up, climbing step by step, legs shaking as you get higher and higher. You reach the top step and another door.

You push the handle down and the lever rises on the other side. You enter the chamber to find it empty. You stand at the threshold and turn, searching for any shadow, any shimmer in the low light of the fireplace. It’s only you.

You breathe and turn to look down the staircase. You listen. Nothing but the winds battering the walls without. You close the door and slowly wade into the warmth of the room. The windows are hung in heavy curtains and there is a tray waiting on the table. An ewer, cups, a plate heaping with delights. You aren’t hungry for any of it, you’re too uneasy.

You unbuckle the cloak and drag it from your shoulders. You turn it over your arm and feel the patch sewn into the lining, examining the wolf’s yellow eyes. He’d marked you and you never even knew it. You fold the heavy length over a chair and back away.

You untie your cap and unveil the short shanks of hair jutting out from your scalp. You haven’t had a chance to shear your unruly locks before they could get too long. You fold the cap and put it on the bed. You remove your apron then your dress and leave them with your cap.

You take a pillow and a blanket from the mattress and bring them down to the bench at the end of the bed. You fit yourself onto the hardwood and watch the fire’s light pulse on the stone wall. Your eyes glimmer with tears, turning your vision to speckled hues.

It’s all so nice, too nice for you, and knowing why you’ve come upon it, turns it sour. It is not kindness, there is expectation attached to such generosity. You should’ve known. You did. You were just too stupid to see it, just as the queen always said.

You twit.

You close your eyes and pull the blanket to your chin. You embrace the warmth, your one comfort left. There’s a long road that awaits you still. Not only through the Hinterlands but another, more treacherous path. One you never meant to stumble upon.

Your body weakens, succumbing to your fatigue, overtaking your wrought mind. Your eyes roll back behind their lids and your breath peters out. Sleep enshrines you as blackness eclipses the orange haze of the chamber.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

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