#also the reporter plot was just weak

[that-cynical-bittch]

The new episode of gen v sucked 😭

[kxsagi]

Oh my God, I just read your post about the Blue Lock boys as cops and I'm in love (No one saw me tripping over my own feet). I wanted to ask, with all the love in the world, for a story about Blue Lock boys as cops x a civilian reader. I was also imagining the rebellious reader giving Kaiser a cold shower; the guy is blind 😭😭 Sorry for the TERRIBLE English, it's not my first language.

“𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 (𝐛𝐚𝐝)”

a/n: thank you sm sweet girl! decided to make their cop roles different from the post you mentioned to mix it up and add more variety to the lore lol 

i also ended up kinda(?) losing the plot and made them super down bad for you to the point where they neglect their job

ac goes to halutica on X!

ft. kaiser michael, isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, itoshi sae, ness alexis, yukimiya kenyu, aiku oliver, barou shoei, niko ikki, bachira meguru, otoya eita

kaiser michael – the overly confident detective with a weakness for you 

kaiser walks into every scene like he’s god’s hottest mistake. sunglasses indoors. smirks while giving parking tickets. he's the guy every other cop either hates or wants to be. and then there’s you – throwing water on him from your second-story apartment after he tried to “investigate” your house for the fourth time this month. 

you’re convinced this man doesn’t actually do work. he shows up for dramatic entrances, flirts with you under the guise of “interrogation,” and makes everything about himself. 

“ma’am, i’m going to need to search your room. thoroughly. i have a feeling you’re hiding something illegal, like a heart this dangerously pretty.” you slam the door in his face. “... she loves me.” 

your neighbors are concerned. your friends think you’re dating him. you once told him to “get your pretty little delusions out of my doorway before i file a harassment report” and he replied “only if you handcuff me yourself.” 

the cold shower incident: he showed up post-gym in a tank top, all sweaty and grinning, asking to use your shower because “it’s a matter of national security” (???) so you let him in, set it to freezing, and locked the bathroom door from the outside. 

he screamed. you recorded it. it’s your ringtone now. 

yet somehow?? he keeps coming back. “officer,” you deadpan. “are you stalking me?” “no,” he says, twirling his badge. “just protecting my favorite civilian from all the hot, dangerous criminals out there. like me.” 

isagi yoichi – the rookie cop who’s way too serious about the job

isagi is that rookie who follows every rule, writes citations for jaywalking, and probably cries when he accidentally breaks a pencil at the precinct. 

but you? you’re his biggest test. you exist to give him migraines. 

you tease him constantly. he tries to write you a ticket once and you were like, “oh nooo officer are you gonna handcuff me???” and he froze on the spot like a corrupted robot. 

“i’m not like kaiser!! i don’t flirt with suspects!!” he says, clearly sweating. “you literally just said my perfume smells nice.” “BECAUSE IT SMELLS LIKE AN ILLEGAL SUBSTANCE– WAIT NO I MEAN–" 

you once jaywalked just to see if he’d chase you and this man SPRINTED ACROSS FOUR LANES like it was life or death. caught you. held you. stared at your face. “... you good?” you ask him. “... i need to call my supervisor.” 

he reports all your minor infractions to HQ. HQ tells him to go outside and touch grass. 

shidou ryusei – the nightmare cop who should be fired, arrested, and studied

why is he allowed to wear the badge. no one knows. he shows up shirtless sometimes. you’re 90% sure he’s a criminal with a gun license. 

he’s the one who bangs on your door at 3 AM like “open up i smelled weed” (it was your scented candle) and then doesn’t even go inside, just flirts with you on the porch. 

the worst part? you flirt back. “you gonna arrest me, officer?” “nah, i like bad girls. wanna ride in the backseat anyway?” 

he has zero concept of boundaries. your neighbor complains about noise so he shows up shirtless with a baseball bat and says, “let me handle it babe.” “YOU’RE A COP, NOT A HITMAN–" 

also you once caught him stealing fries off your plate and he just said “civilian tax.” 

he probably calls you “my little felon” and you throw things at him. 

nagi seishiro – the laziest cop alive who accidentally becomes your roommate

nagi joined the force for the benefits. not the badge. not the law. he just wanted paid nap breaks and dental insurance. 

he’s the cop that shows up to the crime scene 40 minutes late with a slurpee and no gun. 

you first met him when he crashed in your apartment’s stairwell during a stakeout and fell asleep outside your door. you lightly kicked him. he blinked once and asked, “you got wi-fi?” 

now he’s always at your place. “nagi, why are you here.” “my building’s water got shut off. also your couch is comfy. also i like your air freshener.” “are you even working?” “emotionally? no.” 

he patrols the neighborhood once a week max. and even that’s just him walking around with his phone. when people ask what he’s doing, he says “monitoring crime via tik tok.” 

you insult him constantly and he just shrugs. “you’re the reason crime rates are up.” “mhmm. but your fridge is full, so who’s really winning?” 

sometimes he arrests people and forgets he arrested them. you caught him napping in the squad car once with a guy still handcuffed in the back like “hey, can we go to the station now?” 

itoshi rin – the detective with anger issues and no patience for your shit

rin has a grudge against the entire human race. everyone. even you. especially you. 

“do you ever shut up?” “do you ever smile?” “i will tase you.” 

he was assigned to your neighborhood and it’s been a battle of passive-aggressive energy since day one. you keep your trash bins slightly off the curb. he keeps moving them. you cross the street on red. he stares. you smile. he writes you a citation with rage. 

but god help you if someone else flirts with you. rin becomes a storm. “don’t talk to strangers.” “you’re a stranger.” “i’m the only exception.” 

he once escorted you home after someone was tailing you and you thanked him and he just went “whatever” but turned BRIGHT red. 

secretly the only one who cares about you in a sane, protective way. brings you groceries when you’re sick. glares while handing them over. “don’t read into it.” 

karasu tabito – the undercover cop who flirts to distract and uses you as bait

he’s undercover 24/7 and no one’s really sure if he’s a real cop or just very good at pretending. 

you met him when he pretended to be your boyfriend to chase off a suspicious guy at the bar. “sorry babe, i’m late– ugh, forgot our matching tattoos.” “??? i’ve never seen you in my life???” 

turns out he’s been watching you because you live next to a suspected criminal. but now he likes annoying you so he just... never stops showing up. 

“don’t worry, civilian, i’ve got you protected.” “you are literally the biggest threat to my peace.” “aw. you’re blushing.” 

also uses you in sting ops. once dragged you to a fake date at a mafia-run restaurant just so he could plant a wire. you were fuming, but he bought you a full dinner so like. you stayed. 

constantly flirts like: “you’ve got the right to remain sexy.” “i’m calling HR.” “i am HR.” 

mikage reo – the rich cop who thinks the law is a luxury accessory

reo joined the force out of boredom. imagine batman, but make it annoying and prettier. his uniform is tailored. his badge is polished. and his patrol car looks like it just rolled out of a fashion magazine. 

he literally pulls people over just to flirt. and you? his favorite victim. “you were going two kilometers over the speed limit, darling.” “you were going 190 kph with your sirens off?” “that’s different. i’m hot.” 

once wrote you a $500 ticket just to get your number. then canceled it. “i paid it.” “wait, you WHAT– okay. dinner’s on me.” 

he would absolutely use police tape to keep people away from you like “official investigation, do not touch my girl.” “i’m not your girl.” he’s already writing a ticket for ‘slander.’ 

chigiri hyoma – the traffic cop with legs too fast and patience too short

chigiri could be in the olympics. why is he working traffic? no one knows. he chases speeding cars on foot and catches up. hair flowing, like he’s in a perfume ad, but with rage. 

you saw him run down a motorcycle once and you were like: “do you have powers???” “no. i just hate rulebreakers.” 

but he lowkey lets you off the hook every time. like you’ll run a red light and he’ll pull up next to you, stare, and go “... don’t let it happen again.” “that’s the third time today.” “i’m warning you. cut it out.” he gets flustered when you call him pretty. one time you said “wow, officer, your legs could arrest me” and he short-circuited and tripped on the curb. 

itoshi sae – the detective who looks like he hates everything (except maybe you)

if "i'm too tired for this" was a person. sae is sharp, cold, respected, and everyone knows not to talk to him unless it’s urgent. unless it’s you. 

you test his limits on purpose. call him by his first name. ask invasive questions. put your finger on his badge and go “ooh shiny.” 

he once interrogated you for being “too close to a crime scene” and ended up sitting with you for two hours just listening to your complaints about capitalism. 

refuses to flirt. ends up doing it anyway. “you look good in uniform.” “you look like you’re asking to be detained.” “... is that a promise?” 

secretly runs background checks on people you hang out with. pretends it’s “routine.” it’s not. he’s just nosey and emotionally stunted. 

ness alexis – the patrol rookie who is too sweet for this job and you ruin his innocence

ness is the sunshine intern everyone wants to protect. he still calls you "miss" and gets embarrassed when you wink at him. 

you live for corrupting him. once asked “officer, do you carry handcuffs?” and he panicked and dropped his radio. “i– YES– i mean– i’m not using them on you unless you– NO I MEAN– AHHHHH–” 

will defend you like a puppy. someone complains about your “attitude”? he shows up at your door with snacks like “don’t worry i know you’re just misunderstood 🥺” “ness, i threatened to fight an old lady.” “she provoked you.” 

secretly crushing SO hard. once told you, “you make my heart beat faster than a high-speed pursuit.” 

you laughed. he blushed for an hour straight. 

yukimiya kenyu – the handsome narcotics officer who looks like a cologne model and ruins your peace

this man walks around like a cologne ad. gun holstered. hair perfectly tousled. voice low and calm even when he's arresting someone. 

he’s undercover half the time, but when he’s in uniform? game over. 

“y’know, officer, you really don’t have to knock every time you drop off evidence.” “i just like seeing you open the door. you always look surprised.” 

he teases you so subtly that you don’t realize you’re being flirted with until three hours later. “is that a new outfit?” “yeah?” “looks good. don’t get arrested. they’d make you take it off.” 

has definitely called you at 2 AM like “i had a dream you were smuggling illegal butterflies. just checking you’re still law-abiding.” 

aiku oliver – the vice cop who looks like a sleaze but is dangerously good at his job

lives in aviators and open shirts. gives off hot corrupt cop in a kdrama energy. you cannot tell when he's being serious. you cannot tell when he's being honest. you cannot tell why he's always around your block. 

once offered you a cigarette and when you said “those kill people,” he grinned and went “so does heartbreak, but here we are.” 

has tried to give you "official warnings" for things that aren't even illegal. like winking in public. or walking too pretty. 

the type to flirt while doing a bust. “you should stay inside. it’s dangerous tonight.” “you’re the most dangerous thing here.” “flattering. now close your windows, sweetheart. or else you’ll see me in your bedroom at 10 PM.” 

pretends you annoy him. absolutely obsessed with you. would kill a man for bumping your shoulder. then spin it into an “accidental use of force.” 

barou shoei – the angry lone-wolf officer who somehow ended up obsessed with you

barou is the cop who refuses to partner with anyone. parks his car diagonally across three spaces. shouts at suspects instead of reading their rights. carries his own coffee machine in the trunk because “station coffee tastes like piss.” 

you met when he pulled you over for “reckless walking.” “you crossed the street too confidently. people like you cause accidents.” “sir. it was a green light.” “DON’T GET SMART WITH ME.” 

his handwriting is atrocious. you got a ticket from him once and couldn’t even read the violation. tried to call and dispute it and he just went “good. that’s the punishment.” 

lowkey goes out of his way to protect you. won’t admit it. acts annoyed every time he sees you. “what the hell are you doing out this late?” “walking home.” “you tryna die? seriously. come on, i’m driving you.” 

if any other guy flirts with you, he shows up out of nowhere like: “you think that pretty face’ll save you from the hospital bill i’m about to slap on you?” “barou, i was ordering boba.” “the cashier was looking at you funny.” 

everyone at the station thinks you’re the only one who can get him to calm down. they literally send you to distract him when he's raging. “go wave at him. wink or something. we need him off the punching bag.” 

niko ikki – the over-caffeinated rookie who's too attached to you

niko was supposed to be backup. but now he shows up at your door daily like a stray cat with a badge. “you okay?” “you texted me ‘k.’ just the letter K. what does it mean.” “niko, that was six hours ago i was busy–" “WERE YOU IN DANGER???” 

he follows protocol like his life depends on it, but loses all sense of professionalism around you. you once jokingly asked to try on his hat and he let you. and then tripped and dropped his radio when you smiled. 

has a folder at his desk titled “suspicious incidents involving [name]” and it’s literally just a scrapbook of you being hot in public. 

barou HATES working with him. “why do you keep bringing her up every five seconds?” “i’m just saying she looked tired this morning. what if she’s sick? what if it’s carbon monoxide poisoning? should we check her apartment–” “shut. UP.” 

gets jealous when other cops talk to you, but is too shy to admit it. will absolutely throw shade in the most awkward way: “you shouldn’t be seen with detective aiku.” “why?” “... he uses too much cologne. might damage your lungs.” 

wants to protect you. would cry if you got a paper cut. might actually quit the force if you called him your “little brother.” 

bachira meguru – the unhinged undercover officer who might be working both sides

bachira is so undercover it’s unclear if he still works for the police or if he’s just been out there for too long. talks in riddles. shows up to crime scenes already inside the building. wears cargo pants and five different fake IDs. 

you met him when he broke into your kitchen “for surveillance reasons” and made himself cereal. 

the department swears he’s a genius. he solves cases in the most illegal ways. “i bugged their microwave and reverse-engineered their pizza crust timeline.” “bachira you can’t– YOU NEED A WARRANT??” 

he treats you like his sidekick. you didn’t ask. “civilian! we’ve got a lead. put your shoes on.” “i’m literally brushing my teeth–” “no time. they’re moving the underground pancake cartel.” 

weirdly protective. like yes, he’s insane, but you are his civilian and if someone so much as breathes too close, he stares them down mid-giggle. “hiii ~ can i help you? no? then get your atoms out of her personal space 😄” 

once gifted you a walkie-talkie so you could “stay connected.” you thought he was joking. then at 4:42 AM, it crackled to life: “civilian. do you think cats understand economics.” 

otoya eita – the dangerously hot narc who turns every conversation into foreplay

otoya looks like he just walked off the set of a forbidden romance k-drama about a morally gray detective who flirts with the suspect. except he does it in real life. with you. constantly. 

he arrests people with one hand in his pocket and a flirty smirk. never wears his badge properly. probably refers to his gun as “his lady.” 

you’re like “are you going to stop harassing me?” “i’d need a very good reason. do you kiss your witnesses?” 

genuinely good at his job when he’s not distracted by your face. which is always. like you’ll be talking and he’ll go “what were we saying? sorry, your mouth is distracting.” 

once tried to pretend you were a suspect just so he could interrogate you and spend more time with you. “you match the profile.” “what profile?” “pretty. bad for my sanity. maybe armed with emotional damage.” 

you slapped him once (lightly) and he’s been obsessed ever since. “you’re a menace,” you grumbled. “say it again. slower. i wanna feel it this time.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[gloomwitchwrites]

Saw the artist prompt... How about 141 with a musician? 👀 Who builds the soundproof practice room because they love their SO but they're also not listening to YET ANOTHER practice attempt on a difficult piece, who studies competitors' weaknesses and reports accordingly ("this one plays too fast and doesn't have enough musicality, this one fucked up the scherzo so it's your chance to show off"), who helps move the piano to another room for "better vibes"... Idk. Thoughts?

Soap would stake out your competitors for you, observing their weaknesses and strengths, reporting back to you about his findings. He does it because (1) he supports you in everything and (2) he likes dressing up in disguise and sleuthing about. (He also forces Simon to come with him.) He’d also be your hype-man, recording you during performances, cheering the loudest during the applause, and bragging about your accolades and accomplishments to everyone and anyone who will listen.

Gaz is the one who builds the soundproof practice room. He loves you—adores you—but when you’re practicing all day and up all-night attempting to master a particularly difficult piece, it’s starting to drain him a bit. Instead of complaining, Gaz decides to make it a gift since it’s something you’ve been wanting anyway. He takes you for the design process, allowing you to pick out and have complete control over every detail. It makes you happy, and Gaz knows he’ll finely get some proper rest.

Ghost moves the piano to another room because of vibes. He’s not the one that thinks the vibes are off, but he’ll do it for you. The first time, he insists he can move the whole piano himself. Ghost ends up throwing his back out, vows he’s never moving the piano again, but also insists that he could have moved it if he wanted to. Now he hires people whenever you’re feeling whimsy and want to move the piano around because it’s just not quite right.

Price quietly plans and plots, waiting until the best moment to present his gift. You’ve been in the market for a new cello, and Price casually mentioned that you should rent out different brands to see which ones you like the best. Buying a new cello is an investment, and he encourages you to shop around. But it’s really for him, to figure out what you’re in the market for. That way, he can purchase it, and present it on your upcoming birthday.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

[tinkcantwrite]

bad idea ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary - you have a moment of weakness and call bucky in the middle of the night. just for some company, of course. nothing else.

warnings - !! 18+ mdni - you are responsible for your media consumption !!, smut with like no plot, fingering, teasing, p in v, little bit of angst if you squint and tilt your head

note - baby's 1st fic of any sort :D also, this was inspired by "bad idea" by girl in red

You knew you shouldn't have called him.

You both agreed that last time really was the last time.

But as you sat on the couch in the living room of your apartment and Bucky appeared on the screen along with his team, looking oh-so-dreamy in his New Avengers suit, you hand drifted to your phone. Somehow, it had developed a mind of its own, scrolling through your contacts until his name popped up, immediately opening the text thread and shooting him a quick ‘text me when you get a minute’.

The two of you had met at one of what seemed like a hundred briefings since Valentina’s forming of the New Avengers. You had been assigned to sit in on the meetings and conferences, taking notes and acting as a sort of secretary slash journalist. Bucky had greeted you with a flash of a smile and from that moment, you knew you were fucked. Literally and metaphorically.

Soon after, Bucky and you had spent the night together, up into the early hours of the morning. Then you spent another night together. And then an afternoon. And then a few days. And so on and so forth until you had become tangled in the hot mess that was whatever this was. A situationship? Co-workers with benefits? Just a hookup? You weren’t exactly sure to be honest. Not that it really mattered.

But then the weekly hookups had gotten riskier. Less careful and more spur of the moment. One particular evening, you were working late, camped out in the common area of the New Avengers lounge. Typing away at your laptop in an effort to get a few emails scheduled before you clocked out for the day, Bucky had slipped in silently, sliding in beside you, shutting your laptop gently and resting a hand on your thigh, trailing it upwards.

One thing led to another and you had straddled his lap, mid-makeout when from the kitchen in walked Yelena, bowl of mac and cheese in hand. It had clattered to the floor and she had gasped, hand covering her mouth, eyebrows raised. You had scrambled out of his lap faster than you’ve ever moved in your life.

Yelena had blinked at Bucky and then back to you. “You…and her? Damn, Barnes. She’s waaaay out of your league.”

She had shook her head, chuckling softly, as Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. You had snatched your laptop up and darting out of the tower, muttering about how you were never showing face again.

After that whole…ordeal, you had told Bucky that it had to stop. That it had gone too far and the two of you had gotten too bold for your own good. In that moment, common sense had slapped you in the face, and you realized just how messy it was – fucking your co-worker who was also kind of, sort of your boss in a way. And of course, being the frustratingly good-natured guy that Bucky was, he had accepted that with no if, ands, or buts. Very 1940’s gentleman of him.

You had put distance between yourself in the team now, working remotely, only coming in when absolutely needed or specifically requested. During meetings you kept to yourself, taking your notes, asking your questions, and vanishing afterwards before anybody could catch you to chat. You hadn’t seen Bucky in weeks, only communicating with him via Val if even at all. Every time you had gone into the tower, he avoided you like the plague (which, honestly, was fine by you), so you hadn’t seen how he’d grown his hair out. Or how the light stubble on his chin had become thicker. Or had much more muscle he had gained.

But now, seeing him on the screen in front of you, his picture plastered on the screen while a news reporter went on and on about how the team was becoming more public, you couldn’t help but pull your lower lip in between your teeth. Bucky looked good. Like, really fucking good.

You glanced back up at the TV, watching as the broadcaster pivoted to another story. Your hand, who, by the way, was a real traitorous bitch, now held your phone in front of you, eyes darting down. A grin spread across your face as three little bubbles popped up in the text thread before ‘you okay, doll?’

Your throat suddenly dry, you swallowed hard, swiping up and clicking the Call button, raising your phone to your ear. It rang once. Then twice. Then three times. You flopped back on the couch with a soft groan, about to hang up when it clicked over.

“Hey, doll. Everything okay?” Your chest warmed, tight and tingly as you heard the concern in his voice.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah I’m fine. I’m good. I just…,” you rolled your eyes at yourself before finally biting the bullet, “I saw you. On TV. Just now. You look good, Buck.”

There was silence for a moment. “Yeah? And you decided to call me in the middle of the night to tell me that?” Bucky laughed softly and you swore you could hear his stupid, cocky smirk on the other end

“No. No, I called to tell you to come over.” You exhaled nervously, eyes squeezed shut, half out of embarrassment, half praying he’d say yes.

“Give me twenty minutes.” The line hung up with a click and you blinked at the black screen of your phone.

18 minutes later, not that you were counting or anything, a knock came from the entryway of your apartment. You slid around the corner of the hallway from your room, having hurriedly made something of an attempt to fix the mess that was your hair.

Again, this was not a good idea. The voice in the back of your head was screaming at you to walk away, ignore the knocking, leave him alone. This was a very, very, bad idea. One that was only going to end up in more hurt and more awkwardness and more tension.

But fuck that.

Smoothing your shirt you opened the door, blushing at the man in front of you. Why hadn’t you changed shirts? Internally you groaned, regretting the two sizes too big Looney Toons shirt you wore.

You blushed at the man in front of you, face prickling with warmth. 

His hair. His hair was different. Different and good and so good you just wanted to run your hands through it and tug it while he — You cut yourself off mentaly, audibly exhaling through your nose, sharp and breathy. 

You were absolutely, completely, totally, fucked.

“Did I come all the way over here just for you to ogle me or are you gonna let me in?” Bucky grinned, leaning in over you. Shit. He knew it. He knew how you were looking at him. Why you were looking at him like the way you were.

You blushed harder, opening the door further. “Shut up.” You glanced away as he stepped in, rolling your eyes.

As he stepped into your apartment you shook your head. “This was a bad idea,” you muttered as you rubbed a hand over your arm, stepping around him and into the kitchen. Bucky followed behind you, watching as you stood on your tiptoes, grabbing a glass from the cabinets above the kitchen counter. His eyes narrowed, catching on the way your shirt raised with your shoulders, revealing the smallest sliver of skin. Bucky blinked. You two hadn’t fucked in weeks and he was still just as enthralled as he was before. He grunted, stepping towards you.

“Really? Because I think it's a good one.”

You paused, slipping the glass back onto the shelf and turning around, your back now digging into the edge of the counter. Bucky was now inches away, his broad shoulders tense as his hands rested beside you, caging you in. He exhaled, breath warm as it ghosted over your lips.

He raised a metal hand, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. “Do you know how much I’ve missed this?” He grunted, trailing off, examining the way your cheeks bloomed into a rosy shade of pink. The almost imperceptible way your breath stuttered. The way you blinked up at him, mouth slightly agape.

Bucky smirked, shifting his hand to cup your chin as he angled it up and leaned in, his lips brushing yours. You moved up into him, slotting your mouth against his. The contact seemed to drive him over an edge he had been teetering on.

He lifted you up like you were a feather, hands cupping the backs of your thighs. His fingers, cold and warm shocking together in contrast, dug into your flesh as he wrapped your legs around his waist. You whined softly, twining your fingers through his hair as he crossed the kitchen and into the hallway.

Your back met the wall with a soft thud, a gasp of air escaping through your lips. Bucky grunted, setting you down and pushing you further into the wall behind you, hands cupping your face as he kissed you, hard.

You gasped into his mouth. He took advantage of that, tongue darting in, drawing you in even closer into the kiss and into him. Breathing you in as if he was a man drowning. His teeth and tongue clashed against yours, sending a flush reverberating throughout your limbs.

Your hands fumbled with his belt and he pulled back, laughing gruffly, moving to unbuckle his belt. He flicked the clasp open and jerked the smooth leather out of the loops on his jeans in one fluid motion. Somewhere out in the hallway it skittered along the floor with a clatter. You leaned back against the wall, chewing on the tip of your fingertip as he shrugged his jeans and boxers off, kicking them out of the way.

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth, grinning before gripping the hem of your shirt with his vibranium fingers and jerking down. You scoffed lightly as the fabric split. He shrugged it off of your shoulders, fingers brushing your skin, leaving a blazing trail in their wake. You shuddered.

“I liked that shirt.” You pouted, glancing back up at him as it disappeared behind him, his eyes never leaving you.

He ran a finger over your shoulder and down your bra strap, grazing over the thin lace trim. One metal finger hooked the strap, tugging it teasingly, and releasing it with a quiet snap. 

“I’ll get you another.” He dipped his head in, latching on to your neck, trailing up towards the nook between your ear and neck. Teeth met skin, nipping playfully before turning more sensual. Bucky worked your skin with his lips, pulling away slightly, smirking at the purple spot that has already begun to stain your neck.

He nudged his head gently into the side of yours, lips hovering near your ear. “It's probably a good thing you’re always ‘out of office.’ Can’t think straight half the damn time with you there,” he uttered, low and deep, stirring something in your belly.

You exhaled shakily, your hands drifting to the hem of his shirt. Bucky leaned back, allowing for you to lift the shirt up and over his head. You knew he had gotten more muscular, more beefy, but not like this. 

He chuckled lowly, apparently amused by your staring. Your fingers ghosted down his chest and over his stomach as he kissed along your collarbone, tugging your flimsy pajama shorts down, popping the waistband of your matching panties. His hand slipping lower, a finger pressing against the damp fabric between your legs. Bucky grinned into your collarbone.

“That wet already, huh?” Tugging the hem of your pants again, he slid them off your waist and down your legs. He patted the backs of your thighs, wordlessly telling you to step out of them. Bucky ducked his head down, dragging his nose along your sternum until he reached your chest, nudging the silky fabric of your bra to the side and taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue worked the sensitive flesh, teeth grazing it gently. He groaned around your breast, low and rough, as if the sound were stuck in the middle of his throat. You breathed out, heading lolling onto his shoulder in a haze.

Bucky smiled at you. Not a smirk, not a grin, but a smile, shaking his head. “You are so pretty it fucking hurts.” He met your eyes, your lips meeting his own in a slow, deep kiss. You ran your hands over his broad shoulders, fingertips sliding over vibranium. Bucky encircled you with his arms, softly unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor between the two of you.

He tapped the backs of your legs again, motioning for you to jump, which you did eagerly, wrapping your thighs around his waist. He let out a guttural groan at the movement, head rolling back. Using the wall to hoist you up, he braced a hand against the wall, the other dipping between your legs, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Cold metal met hot skin and you arched, back lifting off the wall with a soft groan. You gasped, mouth floundering as his fingers worked your clit, slow and steady. “I need more,” you whined breathily as he sped up before slowing down once more. Agonizingly slow to teasingly fast. Up and down. Left and right.

“Yeah? How much more do you need, doll? Tell me what you want.” His hand stilled, pausing and making you circle your hips in desperation. Bucky kissed along your shoulder, breath snaking down your spine, sending a shiver down it. Every now and then, he twitched his finger, relishing in the way your face scrunched up and how little whimpers escaped every time he flicked his digit against your clit.

“All of it. I need all of it. All of you. Please,” you gasped out, voice failing you as you stuttered helplessly, like putty in his broad hands.

All Bucky did was grunt in response. His hand drifted away from your core, leaving you trembling and unsatisfied. You were about to fully fold, on the verge of begging him to keep going before you paused with a soft moan at the feeling of cock grazing against the slick of your folds.

He ducked his head into your neck with a groan. “Fuck, Y/N.” You squirmed underneath him, legs tightening around his hips, fingers tugging at the ends of his hair. His chest was flush against yours, warm pressing against warm. Whether it was the dizzying cloud of heat swirling in your head or the rapid thudding of Bucky’s heart against yours you weren’t sure, but you felt him before he was even inside you. 

You swallowed hard, rutting your hips into his. “Please,” you whimpered as you nudged his head with your chin, making him look at you. His steely eyes met yours, pupils dilated and needy. Bucky sloppily kissed your chin and then your mouth and he pushed up into you.

“Shit…,” you groaned, in synchronicity with his own. Your back grated against the wall as Bucky tucked his hips back ever so slightly and then back up. Another grunt tumbled past his parted mouth as he thrusted up, gaining traction and speed. 

He was full and consuming and every bit of what you wanted. What you needed. You swore you could’ve come right then and there just from the sensation of him simply being in you. The way he moved into you was smooth and heavy, as if his body was quite literally made to fit into yours. As if he was honey in the form of a broody, 107-year old man who was forever a pain in your ass. Even if he could make you feel like you were in another plane of existence.

Your hands clawed at his back, seeking some sort of tether as tension began to build up inside you. He growled as your nails found purchase in the toned muscle of his shoulder, leaving little crescent moons to trace over with your fingers in the morning.

Bucky’s movements became harsher and more desperate. You gasped out as he hit the spot inside of you only he ever reached.

“That it, baby?” He asked, gripping your ass, giving him an even deeper angle to thrust into you at.

You nodded fervently, not entirely conscious as to what he was saying. He stilled once more, titling your chin to him. Your walls pulsed around him, contracting around his width. Bucky swore mentally, trying his damnedest to not give in and fuck you senselessly right that very minute.

“Beg for it then. Beg me to fuck you, Y/N.” 

You shook your head against the wall, babbling nonsense about how you needed him. How you needed him to move. Bucky brushed a strand of hair out of your face, plastered to your sweat-dampened temple. He nodded, bucking up into you, hard.

“Good girl. That’s my doll.” You moaned as he drove up into your hips over and over again. The air around you thickened, sweat, sex, and mumbled words of praise swirling in the virtually imperceptible space between his body and yours.

“Shit, shit, shit” you rambled, quivering in his grasp. “Just like that. God, Bucky.” 

You whined, resting your forehead on his shoulder, the smooth coldness of the vibranium sending a white hot flash of tingles down your neck and through your spine.

Bucky grunted. “Gonna fill you up. Every fucking inch of you.”

He moved faster, pounding in and out of you, your back thudding against the wall behind you. Your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks, body tensing up before slumping with release. You felt it everywhere. In your toes, in your arms, in your legs, in your belly, in your fucking fingertips which twisted up taut in his hair.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, his movements becoming erratic and sloppy, chasing his own high. He palmed your ass, gripping it with a ferocity and aggression that made you moan. With one final thrust, he shuddered, gasping, digging his hips as far into you as he could.

After a beat of labored breathing and lazy fingers working circles on hips, Bucky lifted his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Was it worth it?” He hummed, pressing another kiss to your temple as you groaned, rolling your eyes.

Bucky smiled softly, wrapping his arms around your back, shifting your weight forward and onto him. He stepped away from the wall, holding you tight against him. The gust of cool air that followed made you shiver and you leaned further into him.

Bucky laughed softly, running a hand over the back of your hair and padding down the hallway towards your bedroom. He gripped you to him with one arm, jerking the mismatched blankets of your bed back, sliding into them.

You smiled up at him from where you lay under him, his forearms resting on either side of your head, his hips resting between your legs. Leaning up, you pulled his face down gently, ghosting your lips over his.

He took your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it back teasingly. “Still think this is a bad idea?”

You shook your head, dissolving into exhaustion-driven laughter as Bucky growled, ducking his head into your neck once more. 

Bad ideas be damned. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Editorial Vocabulary

definitions of terms during the writing, editing and publishing process

Acknowledgements: Text in which the author thanks those who’ve supported them.

Action beat: Short description that comes before, between or just after dialogue.

Adjective: A word that describes a noun.

Adverb: A word that describes a verb.

Adverbial phrase: A group of words that describe a verb.

Afterword: A concluding section, often reflecting on the book’s creation or providing additional context.

Anaphora: The deliberate repetition of words or phrases at the beginning of successive clauses for artistic effect.

Antagonist: An adversary. The character who creates obstacles and challenges for the protagonist, or behaves in a hostile fashion towards the protagonist.

Anti-protagonist: A protagonist whose own actions create opposition and conflict, often within themselves or against their own goals.

Apostrophe: A punctuation mark used to indicate possession, omission and, occasionally, a plural.

Appendix: Space in a book for material that doesn’t fit comfortably in the main text.

Asyndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A, B, C.

B-C

Back matter: Also end matter. Elements reserved for the back of a book, including appendix, glossary, endnotes, bibliography and index.

Beta reader: Test-reader who provides feedback on book.

Bibliography: List of all works cited in book, and any other work of interest to the reader.

Chapter drop: The space above and below the chapter title.

Character arc: Narrative that shows how a character changes and develops.

Characterization: The process of revealing a character's personality, traits and motives through actions and dialogue.

Colon: Punctuation mark that introduces additional/qualifying information about the clause it follows.

Comma splice: Two independent clauses joined by a comma rather than a conjunction or an alternative punctuation mark.

Conjunction: A word that connects clauses or sentences (e.g. ‘and’, ‘but’, ‘if’, ‘then’)

Copyediting: A review of grammar, punctuation, and spelling, ensuring consistency and accuracy in the manuscript's language.

Critique: Also manuscript evaluation. Report analysing a book’s strengths and weaknesses.

D

Denouement: The final part of the book in which all the plot strands are brought together and resolved.

Deuteragonist: A sidekick or confidante character who has the most influence on the protagonist, often helping them solve problems and overcome obstacles. Can be critical to driving the plot.

Developmental editing: Also structural editing. The improvement of a manuscript's structure, content, and overall narrative, focusing on big-picture elements. Attends to plot, characterisation, narration and pacing.

Dialogue tag: Also speech tag. Words that indicate which character is speaking (e.g. John said).

Dialogue: The lines characters speak in a book.

Diversity reader: Also sensitivity reader. Test-reader who checks for misrepresentation in books.

Double-page spread: Also DPS. The view of a printed book or PDF when opened so that the left- and right-hand pages are both visible.

Drama: The conflicts, emotional intensity, and impactful events that drive the plot and engage readers emotionally. The focus is on character relationships, motivations, and the consequences of their actions.

Dropped capital: Decorative first letter of the first word on the first line in a chapter. Larger than the rest of the text and drops down two lines or more.

E-F

Ellipsis: Punctuation mark that indicates a trailing-off or a pause.

End matter: Also back matter. Elements reserved for the back of a book, including appendix, glossary, endnotes, bibliography and index.

Endnote: Additional useful information at the end of a chapter or book.

Filter word: Verb that tells rather than shows (e.g. ‘noticed’, ‘seemed’, ‘spotted’, ‘saw’).

Folio: Somewhat old-fashioned term for page number. Also used to refer to a page.

Footnote: Additional useful information at the bottom of a page.

Foreword: A recommendation of the work written by someone other than the author.

Fourth wall: In books, the conceptual space between the characters and the readers.

Free indirect speech: Also free indirect style and free indirect discourse. Third-person narrative that holds the essence of first person thought or dialogue.

Front matter: Also prelims. Includes part title and title pages, foreword, preface and acknowledgements.

Full point: Period or full stop.

Full stop: Period or full point.

G-L

Glossary: Alphabetical list of important terms with explanations or definitions.

Habitual past tense: Uses ‘would’ or ‘used to’ with a verb to indicate events that happened routinely in a time past.

Half-title page: The first page of a book with any text on it; in a printed book, always a right-hand page. Contains only the main title of the book.

Head-hopping: Jumping from one character’s thoughts and internal experiences to another’s. Indicates viewpoint has been dropped.

Imprint: Publisher’s name.

Independent clause: A group of words that contains a subject and a predicate.

Index: Alphabetical list of all topics, themes, key terms and cited author names covered in the book, and the corresponding page numbers.

Information dump: Also word dump. Information that’s necessary to the story but isn’t artfully delivered, or weaved creatively into the narrative and dialogue.

Line editing: Also stylistic editing. The refining of a manuscript's language, focusing on consistency, clarity, flow and style at sentence level.

M-O

Maid-and-butler dialogue: Dialogue in which one character tells another something they already know so the reader can access backstory.

Manuscript evaluation: Also critique. Report analysing a book’s strengths and weaknesses.

Narrative arc: Also story arc. The structure and shape of a story.

Narrative authenticity: The believability and truthfulness of a story so that the characters and events feel real within the framework of the novel’s world.

Narrative distance: Also psychic distance. How close the reader feels to a character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences within a story.

Narrative: Story. The part of the book that’s narrated, excluding the dialogue.

Narrative style: The author's unique manner of storytelling, encompassing language, tone, viewpoint and other structural choices.

Narrative voice: The style, tone, and personality through which a narrator or character tells a story to readers.

Numerals, Arabic: 1, 2, 3 etc.

Numerals, Roman: i, ii, iii etc.

Omniscient: All-knowing. Refers to a viewpoint style in fiction writing.

Overwriting: Using too many words on the page. Often characterized by repetition and redundancy.

P

Page proofs: A file that’s reached a stage in the publishing process where the text and images of a manuscript have been laid out in their final format.

Pantser: A writer who doesn’t outline or plan story structure, but flies by the seat of their pants.

Period: Full stop or full point.

Perspective character: Also viewpoint character. The character through whose eyes the story is primarily told. The narrative lens through which readers experience events, thoughts, and emotions within the story.

Plot: The sequence of events in a novel.

Point of view: Also viewpoint and POV. Describes whose head we’re in when we read a book, or whose perspective we experience the story from.

Polysyndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A and B and C.

Predicate: The part of a sentence that contains a verb and that tells us something about what the subject’s doing or what they are.

Preface: An explanation of the purpose, scope and content of a book, and written by the author.

Prelims: Also front matter. Includes part title and title pages, foreword, preface and acknowledgements.

Pronoun: A word that replaces a noun (e.g. I, you, he, she, we, me, it, this, that, them those, myself, who, whom). Pronouns can act and be acted upon like any noun.

Proofreading: The final pre-publication quality-control stage of editing where any final literal errors and layout problems are flagged up. Comes after developmental editing, stylistic line editing and copyediting.

Proper noun: A named person, place or organization. Always takes an initial capital letter.

Protagonist: The leading character in a novel, often facing central conflicts and driving action.

Psychic distance: Also narrative distance. How close the reader feels to a character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences within a story.

Purple prose: Overblown, poorly structured writing with strings of extraneous and often multisyllabic adjectives and adverbs.

Q-R

Quotation mark: Also speech mark. Punctuation that indicates the spoken word. Singles or doubles are acceptable.

Recto: The right-hand page of a book.

References: List of all the works cited in your book.

Roman typeface: Not italic.

Running head: Text that runs across the top of a page (e.g. title of the book, chapter title, author’s name).

S

Scene: a distinct segment or building block where specific actions and events unfold in a setting.

Scene technique: The use of dialogue, action, setting, and tension to craft compelling moments in the story.

Semi-colon: A punctuation mark that indicates a stronger pause than a comma between two main clauses.

Sensitivity reader: Also diversity reader. Test-reader who checks for misrepresentation in books.

Speech mark: Also quotation mark. Punctuation that indicates the spoken word. Singles or doubles are acceptable.

Speech tag: Also dialogue tag. Words that indicate which character is speaking (e.g. John said).

Story arc: Also narrative arc. The structure and shape of a story.

Structural editing: Also developmental editing. The improvement of a manuscript's structure, content, and overall narrative, focusing on big-picture elements. Attends to plot, characterisation, narration and pacing.

Style sheet: In which an author or editor records stylistic and language preferences, and tracks who’s who, what’s where, and when X, Y and Z happens.

Stylistic editing: Also line editing. The refining of a manuscript's language, focusing on consistency, clarity, flow and style at sentence level.

Subject: The thing in a sentence that’s doing or being something.

Subplot: A secondary storyline that supports and enhances the main plot of a narrative.

Suspense: The tension, uncertainty and anticipation created by withholding information, raising stakes or placing characters in imminent danger. Readers are kept guessing or forced to ask questions.

Syndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A, B and C (or A, B, and C).

T

Talking-heads syndrome: Dialogue that isn’t grounded in the environment or the characters’ responses to that environment.

Tense: The form a verb takes to indicate when an action happened in relation to the telling of it.

Tension: The emotional strain or suspense created by unresolved conflicts, stakes or uncertainties that keep readers engaged.

Tertiary character: A functional character who gives the story realism and depth, but doesn’t significantly impact on or influence the plot or the development of the other characters.

Theme: The novel’s central idea or message about life, society, or human nature.

Title page: Includes full title (and subtitle if there is one), author’s name, publisher’s name, logo, volume number, and edition.

Transgressor: A character who commits morally, socially, or legally questionable acts.

Tritagonist: Third most important character, who often provide regular emotional or physical support, but don’t determine how the story develops.

U-W

Unreliable dialogue: Dialogue that doesn’t match a character’s true voice, mood or intent.

Unreliable narrator: A character whose telling of the story cannot be taken at face value. They may be naïve, confused, or deliberately manipulative.

Verb, intransitive: A verb that doesn’t have a direct object (e.g. ‘I giggled’).

Verb, transitive: A verb that has a direct object (e.g. ‘wrote’ in ‘I wrote a book’).

Verb: A word that describes doing. Can refer to a physical action (e.g. to dig), a mental action (e.g. to wonder) or a state of being (e.g. to be).

Verso: The left-hand page of a book.

Viewpoint: Also point of view or POV. Describes whose head we’re in when we read a book.

Viewpoint character: Also perspective character. The character through whose eyes the story is primarily told, and the narrative lens through which readers experience events, thoughts, and emotions within the story.

Vocative: The form of address for a character directly referred to in dialogue.

Word dump: Also information dump. Information that’s necessary to the story but isn’t artfully delivered, or weaved creatively into the narrative and dialogue.

Source More: On Editing ⚜ Word Lists

[slashingdisneypasta]

Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees x Reader || Headcanons

Plot: Y/N and Y/N (Whoever you wanna be with) are in attendance together at the Las Vegas Weigh In.

🗝Key🗝: For convenience, JasonS/O!Reader will be referred to as 🏒 and FreddyS/O!Reader will be referred to as 💤.

Warnings: Just like the weigh in itself, this is just for giggles.

Tagging: @cartoonykat , @ghouletka , @gr4veyardg1irl , @kawaistrawberry21 , @lady-love88 , @masqueradeball , @microwavemadness , @miss-understood , @obscureother , @slxsherwriter , @spookiifi , @thecourtofgraywaves , and @yesthetrashbin .

🏒, wearing a t shirt with a hockey mask on the back: Come on, Jason loves it! *Waives at Jason. Turns around, shows him their back*

Jason: *Pointedly looks away, embarrassed*

🏒: He loves it. Here, I made you one with the Elm Street sign-

💤 : Thank you, but its your job to help build Jason's confidence! ^^ For that, its great.

💤: ... Freddy has enough of that.

🏒: ... *looks at the stage again*

Freddy: *is fake boxing the air*

🏒: ... Point made.

💤: Ye- oh shoot he's looking this way. Quickly, put it back away!-

.

🏒: ... is it just me or are they getting closer together?

💤: I think maybe it's just a trick of the lights?- Oh. Uh oh.

💤: Not a trick of the lights. Boy, is Jason big.

🏒: Should we do something????

💤: He's huge.

🏒: Really, I think they're too close. Should we?-

💤: Freddy!! Have you thought this through????

🏒: SERIOUSLY, 💤!!

.

Freddy: *kicks down the stand*

💤: I'm not paying for that.

.

Freddy: He's big, he's dumb, he's stupid-

🏒: -HEY! BELOW THE BELT.

🏒: DONT MAKE ME COME UP THERE, BACON BITS-

💤: *... Calmly taking out pre-cut, pre-packaged snacks*

🏒: OH YES I WILL-

💤: *Offers open bag to 🏒*

🏒: *Immediately calms down and nibbles on a snack*

🏒: ... is your plan to just feed me any time I get mad at him?

💤: ... nooo...

.

Jason: *Doing the 'yapping' gesture with his hand while Freddy talks*

💤: *Snort*

Freddy: *=_=*

💤: -Ehem. Oh, would you look at that... *Suddenly very interested in snacks*

.

💤: ... Tell me again how much Jason weighs?

🏒: You have to stop obsessing over this.

💤: You're right, you're right.

💤: ... But still-

.

🏒: Oh COME ON!!

🏒: He's crossing a line, now!! 💤 your snacks are not going to save him any longer-

💤: *Takes out a flask* I also have alcohol-

Jason: *=_=*

💤: *gasp* *Hides it immediately back in bag* I MEAN NO! NO! That's bad. Whoopsie.

🏒: *cough* meet me in the bathroom in 10.

.

🏒: That man is NOT going to play fair,.. is he?

💤: Not likely, no.

🏒: I'm gonna get Jason a cup.

.

🏒: I have a question! I need to get that mike.

💤: Hey! We're not allowed to psych them out!

🏒, taking the microphone: I'm not gonna say anything to Freddy in imparticular, don't worry!

💤: ... 🤨 then what

🏒: I simply want to know who they think would win between Michael Myers and Chucky!

Jason, overhearing: *writes Michael on a piece of paper. And Stronger.*

Freddy, peaking the note: Hey! Muscle ain't everything, hockey puck, we know that. At least the doll gets creative about it.

Jason: *writes weak*

Freddy: Predictable.

Jason: *Puny*

Freddy: Alright- *getting up, making the guards rush to block him again*

💤: ... are you trying to start the fight early??

🏒: I wanna go home.

.

Reporter: Oh, we are close to the stage here. And how are you two betting for this fight??

🏒: Jason, of course! I think he's gonna turn fedora boy into a Pancake 😁

Reporter: He is undoubtedly the favourite here tonight. Are you betting the same?

💤: Oh, uh, I'm betting-

Freddy: *Says something mean and terrible*

💤: ... Yeah the same. Go Jason! Poor pancake.

🏒, after the reporter leaves: ... You liar~

💤: The people don't need to know how bad my allegiances are.

[aliencatwafers]

Quick Helluva Boss Rewrite since I don’t like Stolas

Discard the Stolas is good episodes and bring it back to IMP and Blitz

Mlre focus on Millie and Moxxie; Millie is a farm girl who’s considered weak in her family while Sallie Mae is the favorite while Moxxie grew up in the mafia and was forced to kill his mom - they meet each other

Keep Stolas as a villain but have him manipulate he audience that he’s good and it’s his wife that’s the issue and daughter who’s bratty but acts two faced towards

Stella is trying to make the marriage work but is pressured by her incestuous brother to stay in the marriage for the family name; include Stella’s relatives too and have them insist marriage is the only way since women don’t have powers in Ars Goetia

They also consider fire powers unwomnaly so Stella was taught to repress them since “there’s nothing dainty about fire”; she also learned about medicine from a butler

Have Stella hire Striker over and over as he hunts IMP down

While stars are cool as hell, Stolas’ powers represent the coldness and isolation of space and distance from warmth - he represents the almighty powers that tear down life and makes living inhospitable

Big showdown as Blitz calls out Striker for hurting his own kind and Striker has an “oh shit” moment

Blitz makes up with Fizz and they start over

Have IMP not know what Stolas is very much raping Blitz each month to get the Grimoire because he doesn’t want to worry them and he knows he doesn’t have an option

Octavia notices something is up and assumes Blitz is tearing the family apart

Striker tells Stella the kill is off because of what Stolas is doing to Blitz

This angers Stella so much - her whole world comes crashing down as she realizes her husband and daughter’s father is a rapist and what he’s doing to Blitz could easily come to Octavia too. Stella loses it and for the first time, she finally gives in. Her powers represent the warmth in life that dares to exist even in the depths of space.

her fire powers go haywire and she is going to burn the shit out of Stolas

Epic battle between IMP, Striker, Stella, Octavia VS Stolas, Andy, the Sins, and Ars Goetia

Epic showdown, lots of injuries, Striker and Blitz are badly injured, Loona nearly died, Millie is in a coma, and Moxxie is taking care of everyone. Stella decides to use her powers to get Asmodeus stones so everyone can cross over to the living world and do their jobs. She also uses her knowledge she learned over the years in secret to gather medicine so everyone recovers with Moxxie’s help

Stella and Octavia inherit Stolas’ fortune since he’s been disgraced for lending his book (the reason Stella didn’t just report Stolas earlier is that Stolas would’ve blamed Blitz for raping him and stealing the book and blamed her for the plot so she couldn’t report it sooner).

IMP is very successful. We have Millie x Moxxie raising a family (since in this story we have Millie with more character with her own issues rather than just wife), Blitz x Strike, and Stella raising her kid alongside Blitz raising Loona.

[artisiumstudios]

even better/worse, for transfem stan angst potential of being put in the loony bin- cause since they're in the time where women were considered 'weak' and have to be silent and obey their husbands. Maybe some of the caretakers there would be plain abusive and be like, 'You wanna be a woman so bad, then you'll be treated like one-'

But in reality it was just plain torture for how women are treated, that not only made Stan realize how women got it hard, she realized also how the men viewed women and vowed for their advocacy when she gets out of here-

EXACTLY-

Love Stanley, so i have to her (or him depending on the AU) but she is probably in one of the worst times to be trans and a women. (also homeless, jewish, etc) but the abuse she must have gone through?

As a "man" she was considered weak for her emotions, and as a women she was considered a monster for being a women. While she did have a good care taker or two, more often then not they were abusive in everyway possible.

Little informational lecture for yall: The NIH reported rates of physical abuse ranging from 39% to 47% and sexual abuse rates ranging from 50% to 59% for trans people. Thats the CURRENT rate, so imagine the numbers back in the 70's.

Also the 70's was the decade women were able to get a credit card

1993 marital rape was made illegal in 50 states.

No fault divorce wasn't legalized in all 50 states until just 2010.

So yeah not a great time for stan overall, so after her big brothers bail her out and is treated for all her injuries and get her to her normal healthy weight, thats when they start plotting against the government, cause that was bullshit.

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VIII. whatever keeps you around.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce has a proposal for you. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, brief discussion of slight suicidal ideation/martyrdom, drug (and the injection of drugs) mentions, you will not guess what trope I managed to include in here. words: 6.9k. a/n: plotting this series makes me feel like charlie day pointing at a wall of red string

“…You won’t like it.”

It's clear what you have to do. You'd realized it when Gordon came to you, so of course Bruce did too. If you were going to make this right, you would have to face this head on. "I know what I have to do," you start, "I need to lure him out."

Bruce's expression shifts. Whatever you've said seems to be the wrong answer, "That... won't be necessary."

"What? What else can I do?"

"What did Gordon tell you about Dimitri?"

Your head throbs as you recall the memory, "Uh... he said he believes I'm next on Dimitri's hit list. He also said Dimitri hadn't anticipated me being at the house."

"Right, because Russo didn't want anyone knowing where he was." Bruce turns to his computer and brings up Russo's file, "After his divorce and the death of his son, he holed up and started erasing himself from the internet. As far as his neighbors know, he was constantly alone. You already know how hard it was to find him on your own, and unless Dimitri knew someone keeping tabs, it doesn't stand to reason that he found him any easier. But you, on the other hand," Bruce opens a search engine and types in your name. You're unsettled when the screen fills with results, most of them news articles from the night you'd been held hostage, "your name and face was everywhere after the gang war."

When the reporters had shoved cameras in your face and begged for you to tell them about Batman's heroic rescue, you hadn't thought twice about it, still fresh from the throes of gore and violence in the ER. Friends, family, coworkers: almost everyone you knew had seen it.

It clicks for you then, "If Dimitri planned on killing us both and I was easiest to find, why didn't he come for me first? I mean... it was me and Alex who ruined his life. If he wanted anyone dead more, wouldn't it be me?"

"I wondered the same thing. With the know-how and the right connections, anyone could find where you live just by name alone. Russo, on the other hand, is almost anonymous. It doesn't make sense why Dimitri would target Russo first."

"Do you think maybe it was a warning? Maybe he wanted to scare me."

"If he wanted to warn you, he wouldn't kill the guy in his house where no one checks up on him. Days would've passed before anyone noticed the flies in the windows."

"I don't get it."

"Do you remember how long it's been since you were taken hostage?"

Your mind lands on a weak estimate, "I don't know, a week and a half?"

"It's been over two weeks. According to the wardens, Dimitri stopped being a problem for them after the first few years. Friends with a rough crowd but he rarely got caught up in anything. Didn't have the heart to. So why, after 17 years, does he break out?"

Your stomach drops, "He saw me."

"And realized that while he was rotting away with nothing to live for, you were a hero," the word sickens you to hear, "on the front lines, saving lives, being saved. Your life went back to normal."

You grip the side of Bruce's desk with the sudden urge to vomit up everything you'd eaten today, which, frankly, wouldn't add up to much more than water and crackers.

You'd said it yourself: you'd gotten to live a life that Natalie, Dimitri, and Alex never would. Of course he wanted you dead. "So then I have to lure him out."

"And put yourself in danger? No."

"I’m already in danger, Bruce. What if he goes after the others? My parents? My coworkers? The other cops at the shootout? We have to end it now."

"This isn't the only way."

"It's the best way."

"Last time he had a knife, you could defend yourself. Barely. What if next time, he has a gun?"

"So what, you just want to do nothing?"

Bruce turns away from you. He gnaws on his lower lip, "No, I want to bide our time. Look into him more. I need to know if he's working with the Vipers again."

You watch him as he begins typing away at his computer, but you can't process what he's looking for through the haze of anger that washes over you. You lean on the desk, craning your neck up at his face to make him look at you, to understand how ridiculous he sounds, "We don't have time for that. His grudge is with me. I should meet him now and end this... either he gets what he wants or- or..."

Or what? Your stubbornness peters out. You don't know what. You see yourself standing face-to-face with Dimitri, his knife raised, ready to bury itself into the cushion of your chest. And nothing.

The you in this vision has no weapon.

"You don't think you're going to survive this." Coming out of your mind, Bruce is now looking at you, brows furrowed. He looks... mortified.

You scramble to cover your tracks, "That's not true. I'd have you there."

"But you don't want me there. You want to go alone. You think you deserve it."

"God, what are you? My therapist?" Your words flit out of your mouth in a rush, tongue nearly slipping up to defend yourself. You push away from the desk when you start feeling overexposed.

Bruce follows you, "You're not 16 anymore, this isn't some gang fight where you throw all your chips in because you can't see a year ahead of you. You've made a life. You've got people to lose, you said so yourself. I know what it's like... the survivor's guilt. You relive that day over and over-"

His words are making you feel sick to your stomach again and you lurch forward, finger in his face, "Don't you fucking preach to me-"

Almost as immediately as you'd raised your finger, Bruce snatches your wrist in his hand, yanking you close enough to be imposing, staring down at you with the same power that the Batman had used. It was so sudden that you quickly fall slack, wrist going limp in his grip.

It had completely sobered you of your tantrum, and for better or for worse, you were forced to listen to him, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think. You see this ending with you dead because you want to make up for the shit you did. You think that's what Alex wants? For you to bleed out in an alley like she did?" And just like that, the fire roars in you once more, but your other hand can't slap him across the face before he's caught that one too, "No future? What about all the people you've saved? Could still save? Face it now because you may not get another chance: you're alive. Do you want to be or not?"

You want to hurt him, turn his skin red and give it a place among the other bruises that glitter and glare down his torso, and as your hand shakes in his hold, you are forced to understand that you are angry because he is right.

You'd felt this same anger before. When your parents told you Alex was a bad influence on you. When Russo looked you in the eye and told you that you didn't have it in you to pull the trigger. It was maddening. He had clocked your suicide mission before even you had, had seen you in his mind's eye the way you saw yourself: disarmed, a lamb to the slaughter, a sacrifice for the greater good, a speedbump.

You could see Batman tackling him to the ground over your dying body. You couldn't see yourself getting up the next day.

After the frustration leaves Bruce's eyes, he's looking at you with something softer. You feel known, uncomfortably so, as he waits for you to meet him there.

And when you do, you hate how you collapse into him. Even more, you hate that he takes you up into his arms, holding you steadfast, as understanding as you needed him to be with all your fear of admitting it. The solidness of his body reminds you of the night he'd first held you, and that just makes you cry harder.

It feels different from last time. Where there was armor is now warm skin, the likes of which you hadn't felt in a while. If you had told your past self you'd one day be standing in Batman's cave, hugging Bruce Wayne and crying over the permanence of your mistakes, you might have diagnosed yourself with head trauma.

You screw your eyes shut in a vain attempt to put the tears to rest, your freed hands practically clawing at Bruce's warm back for some purchase, some stability. He doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you closer.

After a few minutes, you force yourself to speak, sniffling away the last remaining tears you'd allow yourself to shed, "You said I wouldn't like it. Your plan. What is it?"

"To disappear."

You wrench yourself back. Bruce is dead serious. "What?"

"I've considered it from all angles-"

"What do you mean, 'disappear'?"

"All but one of the prisoners Dimitri broke out with are still missing. How do we know they're not all working together? How do we know that you luring him out won't draw them out too? You were the easiest target before, not anymore."

"Say what you mean, Bruce. What do you want me to do?"

"I want to hide you here," he winces as he says this, as if aware of his words only now that they're out in the open, "with me."

"You're shitting me."

After a while, Bruce's face hardens, "I told you you wouldn't like it."

Liking it or not liking it was nothing. You'd advanced past "like". You were firmly out of your depth here.

You slip out of Bruce's hold and he lets you, standing rather awkwardly as you rub a hand across your mouth. Despite earlier, it now feels uncomfortably dry. You glance at Bruce and then at his screen, the tab with your name and face plastered all over it hovering in the background. "You want me to disappear off the face of the earth while you track him down. Leave my home, leave the people I care about, abandon my job. You want me to hide."

"I don't know how else to protect you. Not until we figure out what we're up against." Bruce watches you spin away, scoffing into the air, "You noticed it when you fought him off, didn't you? Something was really wrong with him."

You see flashes of Dimitri's feral stare, the way he staggered and swung. He was like a rabid animal in a cage. "Of course there was, he was trying to kill me."

"Beyond that," Bruce insists, "he wasn't right. I've seen it before. He was on something."

"Most people are these days. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd... I don't know, gotten his hands on drops or something-"

"It wasn't drops. Gordon told me."

"The detective?"

"He said they found a syringe with traces of venom in it. Dimitri's shooting up. That's why he was so strong."

Your mouth drops open in disbelief, "Venom? Great. Somehow worse than Drops."

"If he's on that drug, he's definitely addicted. It also means you won't stand a chance against him. This is why I'm telling you to stay here," Bruce steps forward, eyes imploring yours. You're dumbstruck by the heavy earnestness there, "stay in the tower. Hide here for a few days. Let me handle this."

"If he's on venom, it means he doesn't think he can handle you on his own," you wring your hands, flitting through images of the Dimitri you remember, "he was always really small. Even at fourteen, he hadn't really sprung up. He was scrawny and small and couldn't defend himself. Suddenly Gordon's saying he's almost twice the size of what I remember. Have you ever fought someone on venom?"

"Once or twice, somewhere between fixes. Why?"

"General has this kind of... sedative that we use when we get patients dealing with the effects. It's not perfect, but it does help calm them down enough to help them. Maybe we can use it to help him."

"The strain is constantly changing," Bruce watches you deflate and clears his throat, "but if I can get that sedative, I can use it as a base to make a new one."

"You need clearance to get your hands on that stuff. I'm going with you."

"What part of disappear do you not understand?"

"One, I never agreed to do that, and two, if Batman gets caught stealing from a hospital, that'll make you public enemy number one. You need my help, so let me help you."

Bruce is looking away, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth even as you zero in on him. You're getting flashbacks of that same Bruce from when you'd first met him here in this tower. All tender-eyed, even as he tries to put on a face for you, "And I need a drink," you rub your temple next, catching a glimpse of Bruce watching you from his peripheral, "You've got those, don't you?"

It turns out Bruce has plenty. There's a whole cellar full of them, the kinds you see in MTV Cribs with the low recessed lighting and mahogany shelves gleaming with polish. It makes sense for him to have it, but less so when he tells you he doesn't actually drink any of it.

"You weren't drinking at the party, either. Even though everyone else thought you were." You brush your hand along the shelves, careful not to knock any bottles loose. "Is that a trick to keep people spilling secrets? Or to keep from spilling your own?"

Bruce hovers near the entrance with his arms folded and back pressed to the wall, carefully watching you peruse his selection, "Maybe I don't like the taste."

"That's good. Men in Gotham die from alcoholism at a higher rate than any other city in the state."

"Really?"

"Really. You don't smoke either." Bruce blinks at you, "Just get shot at. And stabbed."

He says nothing.

Your hand lands on a red aged older than your mother and you stand to the side, looking expectantly at him. You're afraid that if you try to pick it up, you might knock down the whole row.

Slowly, Bruce pushes himself off the wall and glides over to you, grabbing the neck of the bottle in one hand and looking to you for approval. You try not to shrink yourself when you nod.

You follow him out of the cellar, flinching when the lights dim behind you and the door rolls shut all on its own. He guides you to the kitchen where night still hangs over Gotham outside the window, but the time on the stove clock warns of early morning soon.

Bruce pulls out two glasses and fills yours with wine and his with cranberry juice from the fridge. You could almost laugh at the pairing.

Once he slides your glass to you, you take a seat at the island and take a sip, "I need to ask you something. I get now why you refused me at the station, but then you came back. Why did you change your mind? I mean, neither of us knew Russo would be dead when we got there. Were you just going to let me hate you?"

"Yes." His simple response draws a quick, stifled laugh out of you.

"Are you always this... chaotic?"

Bruce leans his elbows on the countertop, hunching in on himself, "I always meant to tell you who I was. I just didn't know when. And I didn't mind if you hated Bruce Wayne, but... you trusted Batman. I didn't want to break that trust. Even if it meant telling you earlier than I planned, I wanted to give you some closure."

You think about the fear that had paralyzed you back then, thinking that Bruce Wayne was some big, bad criminal hiding behind polite society. Then you think about the real man, hiding behind a mask. You fidget uncomfortably, struggling with feeling somewhere between grateful and nauseous. Your eyes catch the stitches on his shoulder and you itch to wipe away the dried blood that had dribbled from the cut, "You said you were looking for Dimitri when you got that. Did you..."

Bruce catches your eye when you fail to finish your question. "No," he answers solemnly, "which is only part of our problem." He stands to his full height, flexing bruised knuckles against the counter, "I ran into one of the guys that broke out with Dimitri tonight. That's who gave me this. Dimitri isn't working alone."

You frown, "Is he trying to shake you? Why leave clues at all?"

"Because these people want me dead. The guy from tonight? I booked him a year ago for trafficking women. Earlier led me to a fringe group of Falcone's."

"You've been looking for Dimitri all day?"

"I haven't stopped since we found Russo. I couldn't."

You rub your arms, feeling the room grow chiller by the second, "So... so he's leaving clues to people who hate you. To keep you occupied." Bruce nods. "So he can get to me?"

"After last night, he knows the Batman is on your side."

"Dimitri wasn't out when you got on the scene. Do you think maybe he's taking venom because these guys warned him about you?"

Bruce smirks, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his glass, "As a precaution, sure. And now he has reason to believe I know you. If he's going to go after you, he's going to shoot up each time."

"That stuff is nasty. You're big and scary when you're on it but as soon as the effects wear off-"

"You deflate like a balloon. It's also stupid expensive, so he's either got real generous prison pals or he's being used. It's why I need to know if he's working with the Vipers. They might be supplying him."

How you'd gone from an ordinary surgeon to a detective in the span of mere weeks was beyond you. You're beyond just treading water. You're diving into the abyss.

Your brain struggles to make real what is before you. Bruce, still shirtless, drinking delicately from a glass as he watches the night sky shimmer from the kitchen window. And you, sitting across from him, cracking open one of his family's expensive bottles that, frankly, puts your pantry vinos to shame. Playing vigilantes like schoolchildren. Except the blood on you both is very real.

Your arm throbs at being remembered for once tonight. Bruce notices you touch it, "You need to get some rest."

You know he's right, and you're not arguing for the sake of arguing when you say, "I can't sleep yet." But he can tell there's more on your mind as he waits silently, almost egging you on to lay yourself bare. You swear you're not arguing just for the sake of arguing, "And I don't want to disappear. I want to be alive."

Bruce says nothing. The silence isn't humiliating like you'd think it be, even if the first few seconds leave you feeling just as laid bare as you thought you would. No. It feels acknowledging. Understanding, even.

For the first time, you look at Bruce and feel like you understand him. If he was really Batman, then he would know better than anyone why you would want to put yourself in danger. But beneath that, with the meager knowledge of who Bruce Wayne is, you also think you understand him too.

He'd mentioned the survivor's guilt. While he'd played a much more innocent role in the whole ordeal, you couldn't imagine the weight on one's chest knowing that two people you love didn't get to go on but you did. It's a lot to ask of a child barely coming to understand the mortality of one's own keepers.

The choice to be alive for someone like that is a deliberate choice. Constantly made every morning.

"There is another way," Bruce muses, "but you'll like it even less."

"Don't leave me hanging."

"We could go public."

"What?"

"You said disappearing would mean abandoning your life. And it would. No one could know where you went, who you were with, but there's always the chance someone might slip up. It's the safest option but it's not what you want. So don't hide." Bruce's eye contact is deep and unwavering. Compared to earlier, he seems to trust you're willing to listen this time, "Be mine."

For the nth time tonight, you are rendered nearly speechless. Nearly. "Are you fucking with me?"

Bruce's eyes narrow, "No."

"Did you just... proposition me?"

"I made a proposal."

"You're asking me to date you."

"Publicly. Batman has more enemies than allies, but Bruce Wayne has the people. If you and I are publicly linked, it tells everyone looking for you that the world is watching. It makes you more visible, as well as anyone who comes after you."

"You haven't slept," you reason, "clearly. And you're delirious."

"I haven't slept, no." But he looks fairly sober for someone who hasn't slept in a day. He is a different breed, this Bruce Wayne.

You peer out the kitchen window and see the black sky dipping into a blue horizon, "Then sleep on it and come up with something better."

Bruce rounds the island until he's standing beside you, looking down at your barely touched wine, "There's some spare rooms upstairs. You can take your pick." It dawns on you that you may not be going back home any time soon. "You know your way around."

You suppose you deserve that dig.

Then he's leaving you, glasses abandoned, home for you to explore. You don't realize how thick the air had gotten with him right next to you until he's gone.

You half-expect Alfred to pop up somewhere nearby, but there's nothing. This far up, there is no city to listen for, no neighbors slamming doors. You are in a cold house all alone. You suddenly wish he'd stayed to keep you company, even if the weight of it was beginning to take its toll on you. Left alone, you only had the sunrise.

You watch until the sky has all but chased the night away, and then you head upstairs.

You didn't think you'd get much sleep in a stranger's bed, but you're being roused by a sharp, successive rapping at your door several hours later. It jolts you awake, kick-starting your heart, and you clumsily tumble out of the million thread count sheets to open the door.

Alfred stands there fully dressed for the day, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other still raised to knock. Upon seeing you, he lowers his fist, "Morning," he starts, looking away as soon as he meets your eyes, "breakfast is ready. Come get it before it's cold."

He does not give you a choice in the matter. He's already limping toward the staircase without another word.

After you get your heart to settle down, you follow after him, preening yourself as you pass hallway mirrors and portraits of the Wayne family through the generations. You hadn't come down this hallway when you'd found the terminus elevator, so you stumble to a stop in front of a portrait of a young Bruce grinning ear to ear.

It startles you. His eyes are soft, a gentle humming blue untouched by wrinkle or darkness. He must've been especially young here. Glancing at a nearby portrait of his parents, you find him the spitting image of his father. You look around and realize there are no portraits of Bruce at this age.

Bruce. He might be at breakfast, and the mere thought of having to discuss what occurred last night almost turns you right back around to the guest room, but your stomach rumbling begs you not to. You still walk quietly, peering around corners in case your stomach changed its mind.

You find you're cautious for naught when the only person standing in the kitchen is Alfred, chopping up fresh fruit.

"I hope you don't mind that I moved your things," he gestures with his paring knife to your surgical tools neatly congregated on the counter, "I cleaned them too."

"Oh. You didn't need to do that."

"There was blood, so I'm afraid I did." Alfred places a bit of pressure on "blood", and you quickly take note of his short tone.

Still, all the same, he then gestures to the island and implores you take a seat in front of an empty plate. Without asking, he begins pushing steaming hot food onto your plate, "Tea or coffee?" He asks, barely looking up at you.

"Uh, coffee is fine. Thanks." You watch Alfred pour you a mug and wonder if the awkwardness with him is any more preferable to the awkwardness with Bruce. Alfred is passive-aggressive, Bruce is... aggressive. You remember how the latter had left off your night together and find yourself feeling warmer toward Alfred. "How long have you been up?"

"Since 6, although I woke a few times through the night."

You wince, "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I did think Bruce had invited you over under different circumstances, so... not as alarming, all things considered." Your grip on your fork slips and it clatters to the marble. Alfred barely reacts.

"He needed stitches." Is all you can get out.

"Yes, I'm well aware."

You glance up at him, "You saw?"

"When he first arrived home, yes. I was the one who helped stop the bleeding."

You stare at the coffee sweating in your cup, recalling something Bruce had mentioned last night, "Bruce said you were the one who used to stitch him up."

"Yes."

"If you were there, why-"

"It's what he pays you for, isn't it?" Alfred almost snaps back at you, slicing a strawberry into quarters with more edge than needed.

You recall something else next. The softness in Alfred's face the day you first came here, arguing with Bruce in the very room next door. You'd wondered what it had all been about.

"I've done alright, haven't I?"

"He said something else too," you start, careful as you choose your next words, "about how much you worry about him." You fiddle with your mug, pretending not to feel the heat of Alfred's eyes on you, "I think the reason he hired me is because he was worried about you."

You just catch the tail-end of Alfred's frown, "Worried about me? Why?"

You probably aren't close enough to either of these two to laugh about this, but you do anyway, "Isn't it kind of obvious?"

"Nonsense. We always discussed... if it would come to it, that if he were to pursue this life further, that he would recruit professionals who might aid him in his work. It was the natural thing to do."

"Maybe, yeah. But would he have really needed me if you weren't already doing everything else for him? You've taken good care of him this long. I mean, the aftercare you gave his bullet wound was exceptional. I accused him of talking to other doctors."

Alfred busies himself with scraping his strawberry halves into a bowl, "It's basic knowledge. You learn that kind of thing in the service."

"Or when you invited me to watch you two spar. You know his body probably better than he does. You're fantastic, Alfred." You couldn't say you weren't also trying to butter him up to better his feelings toward you, but you were speaking truth all the same.

In a very British way, he rebuts your compliments and spoons some fruit into a glass, beginning to layer some yogurt over top them, "Regardless of reason, you are here now, and I'll have you know that every part of your contract covers this. Wayne Enterprises will exhaust every possible legal tool at our leisure if you speak of any—any—of this to anyone. Master Bruce's identity is safely guarded, and regardless of his trust in you, I will not hesitate-"

"Whoa, whoa, hey. I would never tell anyone. Not after all Batman has done for me." You press a hand over your heart for emphasis, "He is just as much my patient as Bruce Wayne is, and he didn't have to pay me to take care of him."

Alfred still stares you down like a guard dog, paring knife still clutched in his fingers. After a moment, he looks away from you and points at your plate, "Eat. It's getting cold."

So you do. It's good so you say as much, counting any point toward his affection as a good thing. If you could get Alfred to trust you, you'd call that a win.

The tension in the air dissipates over time, and after you've licked your plate clean, you and Alfred are sharing coffee together. "Bruce isn't joining us?"

"I've stopped expecting him to be awake this early." You glance at the clock that reads 10:12. "He has adopted a near-fully nocturnal lifestyle."

"The night that he crawled through my window, he was there at the hospital the next morning like nothing happened. He doesn't do that often?"

"Before last year, it was a rare occurrence. While he's dedicated himself to his role more recently, if he can avoid it, he will."

You think back to what knowledge you do have on Bruce's charity work and his friendship with the Mayor. You'd worked shifts just as long, but you couldn't imagine showing up to work mere hours after getting shot in the stomach and having to put on a brave face about it. You almost feel bad for calling him out on it in front of everyone.

But then again, if you hadn't, would you even be sitting here?

You swirl the last vestiges of coffee in your cup, trying to picture a world in which you'd gone and found that empty office to nap in instead of toddling behind Rudy and Em and Alfred and Batman. The Batman.

The novelty of it brings a fresh wave of dizziness over you. You had been exposed to so much information over the course of the last 12 hours that it hadn't fully settled in on you what Bruce was. You didn't think that your brain would process it even if he was standing in cowl and cape right in front of you.

"I suppose you'll be staying with us for the near future, if Bruce has anything to say about it," Alfred stands from his chair beside you and puts your dishes in the sink, "shall I inform your security detail or would you like to?"

You don't know what to say to that. "I'm... I think I should talk this over with Bruce first. It may not need to come to that."

The butler shrugs. "I'll be attending to some house duties for the rest of the morning. Should you stay for lunch, let Dory know, hm?" You give him a weak nod and watch as he makes his way from the sink and heads down another hallway out of sight.

Not too long after Alfred leaves you, you hear the doorbell ring. Bruce hadn't mentioned to you that any guests would be here today, but then again, the two of you had had more important things to discuss last night. You check your reflection in the glass of the kitchen window, wondering if there were any hidden doors in the bookcases that could hide you from whatever Wayne Enterprises exec that was coming to talk business, but you wouldn't trust yourself not to break something in the process.

You hear two pairs of footsteps approaching from the elevator and turn to see who it might be. You first recognize Dory, fluttering between frantic small talk and making sure not to trip in her kitten heels as she guides her guest into the living room. You stiffen as soon as you see him.

Detective Gordon catches your eyes instantly, his own widening. Dory says something about going to fetch Bruce before she quickly ascends the stairs, leaving you and James staring at each other across the distance. In one hand is a notepad and pencil, and the other fixes his tie, almost as if at a loss for words. He greets you, hesitantly leaving where Dory had left him to approach you, "I saw the boys out front but... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither." You reply. "Is everything okay?"

James glances up at the stairs as he passes underneath, "That depends. I followed up on your request."

Shit. Of course a cop would do their job when you least expect it. You slip out of your chair and rush to meet him halfway into the kitchen, "Did... did you find something?"

"I can't say much right now. I'd like to talk to Mr. Wayne, but-" The sound of Dory's heels clacking against the wooden stairs makes James lower his voice, "-you being here complicates things."

Bruce is wearing a shirt this time, thankfully, though you're not expecting him to look as put together this early after what Alfred had said. He towers behind Dory's much smaller frame in a pair of loose black pants and a matching turtleneck, looking in a fashionable state of undress as he pads barefoot into the room. With hair slicked back and stubble freshly shaved, he doesn't look like someone caught unaware. He's fixing the sleeve of his sweater when he extends a hand to Detective Gordon, bright smile and all, "Detective James Gordon, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced. If this is a bad time, I can come back." James gestures to you.

Bruce's look at you is empty, devoid of any detectable emotion or thought. It strikes you as unsettling, the same way a cashier at the end of their shift isn't really looking at you, "Oh, no. I was just on my way to work when I felt unwell. I called my doctor over but it was nothing to worry about. A little stomach bug, is all."

You do look like you'd just come over in a rush. You're still in your lounge clothes from the night before, and your medical supplies are still in the kitchen where Alfred had left them. James seems to notice, but he doesn't look any more relaxed. "That's good to hear. I don't want to keep you too long, but truth is, I have some questions I'd like to ask you if you have the time."

"Is something wrong?" James glances between you and Bruce, something the latter doesn't miss, "is it sensitive?"

"It's about the party you threw here the other night, Mr. Wayne. For Mayor Reál. I hear you invited quite a few Gotham politicians to celebrate the passing of the mayor's new bill, correct?"

"That's correct."

"And I understand you're quite invested in Gotham politics in general, much like your father."

"I am. My mother and father were very interested in the city, and Mayor Reál breathed new life into that for me after the election. I do what I can to support the cause."

"And that cause is...?"

Bruce takes the skeptical tone on the chin, smiling wider, "A safer, fairer Gotham. For everyone."

This Bruce was nothing like the Bruce you had all to yourself. He taps into that persona from the party with ease. Watching him is like watching a performance. "That's good, good. I notice you try to make an effort with charities in the city, donations and the like. You recently donated a new wing to Gotham General."

"I did. Increasing access to medical care for the citizens is important to me. My doctor, a talented surgeon at General, knows this well." You flash a timid smile when both Bruce and James look to you.

"And you also financially support politicians in Gotham."

"Occasionally. Anyone I feel has Gotham's best interests in mind."

"And have you found members of Gotham's political parties to be unusually forward in requesting your support, Mr. Wayne? Perhaps a little too pushy, maybe."

Bruce wears confusion well, "Not necessarily. I'm not easily pressured into doing things I have no interest in."

"Of course. How about any attempts to win over your support? Publicly or otherwise."

"I'm not sure what you're asking, detective. I'd love to help, but I don't think I have the information you're looking for."

James nods, holding his chin high, "My apologies. I should've been clear from the beginning. My question is: have any politicians or members of law enforcement offered you anything in exchange for your financial or public support? I have reason to believe there may be someone with high clearance exchanging confidential information with civilians. Especially ones who can pay. I'm just looking for a lead."

James frames his question well, even though any fat cat familiar with the cops could see the hidden question. Bruce frowns, tilts his head, shaking it slowly, "That's awful. I don't currently know of anyone doing such a thing, to me or anyone else. But I can keep an eye out. I can only imagine how dangerous that might be."

"Exactly. We'd like to nip it in the bud as soon as possible."

"Of course. Do you have a card? Perhaps I can contact you if I hear anything."

James fishes out his card and hands it over, "I don't want to put you in a bad position, only pass along what you know if you feel safe enough to do so."

You notice Bruce is flicking the business card between his fingers as a fidget, though he keeps his attention respectfully on the detective. "Absolutely. Thank you, detective. Dory can show you to the door."

The detective nods and follows Dory out of the room. As soon as the two are out of earshot, Bruce's expression softens as he presses his back into the counter. You wish you could sink into the floor. "To be fair," you begin, "I didn't think he'd find anything."

Bruce side-eyes you, "That was you?"

"I thought my criminal boss was going to blackmail me to keep his secrets."

"Criminal boss." You think he's trying to mock you, but his eyes are surprisingly guilty when he looks at you, "Alfred wasn't kidding. I really didn't handle this well."

"No, not really." You don't mean to kick him while he's down, but you can't lie either. Even now, you were still making meaning out of this whole thing.

By all means, you've gone from knowing nothing about him, to understanding even less, to fearing him, to this. With Batman on the other hand, you'd felt nothing but loyalty and trust in him up until the very last second. Now they were both the same person, and the meager hours of sleep you'd gotten hadn't cleared all that up just yet.

You wonder who you're supposed to see now. Batman or Bruce Wayne? Why was the line separating them blurring the more you thought of them?

"So, did you ever come up with a better idea?"

Bruce does not offer one. You'd dreaded that.

"You already know what I think. No matter how we go about this, there's going to be something. So what do you want to do?" Bruce's eyes follow your ever minute expression, laser-focused on you. "Whatever you choose, I will keep you safe. I promise you."

He feels so staunchly Batman in this moment, even with the soft voice of Bruce, watching over you. Through all your uncertainty, this you believe him on.

And you're exhausted, you find. Your arm is beginning to throb again. You crave the reprieve of a bed but not your own, to your surprise.

"I'm going to trust you, Bruce," your voice wobbles as you say it out loud, "I'm going to trust you like I trust Batman."

Bruce holds eye contact with you for a few moments, "Okay."

"Can I ask... why are you dressed so nice?"

"We're going to get the sedative."

"You're going as Bruce?"

"It's the middle of the day. Yes, I'm going as Bruce. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

You fluster, suddenly reconsidering this entire plan. You'd pictured Batman skulking on the rooftop while you Mission Impossible'd your way into the medicine cabinets for what you needed. Walking in with him—the real him—would draw attention you didn't need, "You're only going to make me look suspicious."

"I'm your patient, and more importantly, I'm a donor."

"You will stick out like a sore thumb."

"That means when people are looking at me, they're not looking at you." You open your mouth to argue but he's already cutting you off, "Do you want me to drop you off at your place or do you want me to send someone to get your things?"

You're aware of what he's really asking.

You heave a sigh, "Drop me off. I can't promise Judith won't hurt someone if she finds a stranger in my house."

a/n: mj stop having the reader move in with bruce when their life is put in imminent danger challenge impossible

[stressed-sock]

hi hello it's a small ghost fire au art dump \o/

some of y'all have seen these already but whatever lol ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ no longer gatekeeping at least xD

anywho, some infodumping here as well under the cut! establishing who's what and so on :D there are some differences from what i've said in older posts for this au bc this is very much still in the works lol

i'm definitely down for suggestions for characters and plot ideas btw!

to give some background info, this au's world is pretty much like our own but with yokai thrown into the mix. some interact with (and/or are malicious towards) humans, so a government agency was formed to document them, with specially trained agents to subdue/defeat yokai causing trouble.

this is where raidou comes in! officially, he's one of those agents that do documentation. unofficially, he also helps defeat yokai because they hate him especially for whatever reason. he's a bit of a yokai magnet, if you will. half-thought-out plot right there but we might get back to that eventually. he can also spot yokai even if they're purposefully staying hidden, which is partially why he's so good at his job.

anywho, part of raidou's current team is kakashi! kakashi is from a long line of powerful exorcists, and his left eye has the ability to pinpoint yokai weaknesses, among other things. said eye also lends a little more power to his talismans and charms so yay for that. obito and rin are still alive in this au, but sakumo isn't, with mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. another half-thought-out plot right there.

next, part of raidou's former team was genma! genma used to work with raidou as a fellow documentation agent, going more into initial scouting/assessing than actual recording. unfortunately (as you could probably tell from the art and fics involving this au), he's not quite alive anymore (rip). it was initially assumed that he'd disappeared on a one-off solo mission, but after his body was discovered washed up on a beach, he was declared officially dead. now he's a funayurei (ghosts of those that died at sea) - i originally had him as a shiranui (a type of onibi (demon fire/wil o' wisp) found on a sea i forgot the name of) bc of his last name but i think this works out a little bit better - he just has a pair of hitodama (onibi-like things that are basically kind of like a yurei's (ghost's) soul detached from the body) hovering around, to give a similar vibe haha. depictions of yurei are typically white clothes, long black hair, etc. etc. but i did read that they can appear in the clothes they died in, so i'm going with that. but hey on another note - now that they're reunited, genma's back on the yokai documentation grind. just. as a yokai himself xD

anywho, these two have been the most consistent in raidou's team. he has definitely worked with other agents before, but those agents were more like specialists assigned for specific missions. more on that eventually.

izumo and kotetsu don't really fit into any of the categories i've described so far. they're two among many undercover agents established all over the country, often in somewhat more remote areas, responsible for reporting yokai threats in their assigned sectors. izumo and kotetsu specifically are undercover as convenience store employees, with said convenience store also working as a safe house. any agents assigned to that area can restock supplies/weapons, get some rest, or establish contact with hq. and like i said in previous posts about them, they are able to deal with yokai to a certain extent. not powerhouses by any means, but they can usually hold their own until reinforcements arrive. izumo favors talismans and dart guns that usually contain a tranquilizing substance. kotetsu, meanwhile, favors larger bladed weapons (and ofc they're both proficient in other weapons xD) as such, they're a good combo of long range and close combat

overall, the jounin would probably be the higher-ranking all rounders, tokubetsu jounin would be the specialists, and chuunin would be the undercover agents i mentioned earlier. as for anbu, they'd probably be the ones dealing with large scale threats. ofc there are exceptions, especially those at the agency headquarters. (this is def formatted similarly to canon xD)

moving on to the yokai! while i have done research, this definitely isn't fully fleshed out yet. here's what i do have though!

hayate and yugao: the two are a pair of sword and scabbard tsukumogami, which are yokai generally agreed to be objects that have gained life and sentience after reaching 100 years of age. they busted out of a museum ages ago and have since lived together, passing relatively well as normal people. i will admit i took artistic liberties though; most art i've seen of tsukumogami look distinctively more like the objects they used to be. for my own sanity i've made them more humanoid xD

anko: she is a bakeneko, a type of mischievous cat yokai that is sometimes said to come from cats that became yokai after being raised for a certain number of years (exact number varies) or to exact revenge against cruel humans. i don't have much else on her so that's about it for now :3

and uh. that's all i have actually. i thought i had more tbh but oh well. like i said before - feel free to give suggestions, ideas, or questions! and if you made it this far, thanks for reading :3

link to fic series ^still vaguely shy abt this lol (also provides context for the first two images o7)

oh and speaking of context, the third image (bright blue background) is for another vague plot line i haven't talked about yet. maybe more on that later.

[tobiasdrake]

FUN FACT: Did you know Frieza had a finite amount of soldiers on Namek? (And he doesn't kill his troops.)

Also Appule is kind of important and there's a clearly marked place where Goku's six-day space journey happens in the timeline?

I have a laundry list of grievances with the Dragon Ball and DBZ animes. We're here to talk about one of those right now! The Z anime gives Frieza infinitely respawning soldiers that just seem to pour out of his ship whenever he needs them.

This interferes with a key plot point of Frieza's portion of the Namekian Dragon Ball hunt: That Frieza, for all his power, is rendered helpless when his attack on Moori's village goes south.

See these guys?

These guys ruin Frieza's entire goddamn week.

Get his ass, my Namekian thembruhs.

A consistent weakness of Frieza's forces is that they fight blind. By this point in the series, characters on Earth have been taught advanced fantasy martial arts involving manipulation of ki or chi. They can concentrate ki into attacks more powerful than the wielder, sense ki in other beings and feel incoming attacks without having to see them, suppress ki to become invisible to ki detection, etc. etc.

The Earthlings are goddamn amazing at ki manipulation, and the Namekians are just as good.

But Frieza's Planet Trade Organization represents the uncaring hand of capitalism. There is no artistry in their methods. There is no true discipline or understanding. They're a bunch of paid thugs with guns, looking to gentrify planets for their boss: a real estate mogul. So they rely on fallible technology that fails time and time again when put up against experienced martial artists.

The battle at Muri's village is no exception, as Frieza's forces get slaughtered by the "harmless" interlopers.

With only the elites vaguely understanding, from second-hand accounts, what they're seeing here.

Which, in turn, gives Muri the opening he needs to cripple Frieza's campaign by destroying the Scouters they're using to track down Namekian villages.

This is Muri's checkmate. Muri destroys the Scouters, the technology Frieza relies on to find Namekian villages on this planet and take their Dragon Balls. Meanwhile, his reinforcements wipe out Frieza's army.

That guy right is the only survivor of the massacre.

This is Appule. If you've ever wondered why Appule was so important that he got to be his own distinct character in Tenkaichi 3, this is why. Appule is the last grunt left standing.

Though Dodoria makes short work of the Namekian warriors, the damage is done. Frieza's lost his Scouters and he's out of manpower. He's going to have to fan his men out to search the planet, a planet larger than Earth, by looking around with their eyes. And the only men he has left to do that are Zarbon, Appule, and Dodo--

...are Zarbon and Appule.

So. Y'know. Frieza is two deaths short at this point of being completely and utterly fucked sideways.

As his two remaining men set out to search, Zarbon takes great care to tell Appule not to do anything that might get him killed.

It is absolutely pivotal for Frieza's campaign that these two live. There is no one else on this planet who can do the job. It's Appule who ultimately succeeds in finding the last Namekian village.

For some reason, in their eagerness to rewrite the story so that there are far more soldiers on Namek for some reason, the anime makes this Appule's vampire cousin?

Uh. Okay, man. Sure. In any case, it's Appule who finds the village and Appule who reports its destruction to Frieza. He's not a significant character by any stretch, but you can see why he warrants a bit more name recognition than Frieza Soldier #72. He has more impact on the plot that Cui does, that's for damn sure.

Too bad about Vegeta though.

It's a lot easier for Vegeta to get away with this gambit in the manga than it is in the anime. In the anime, somehow the infinitely respawning Frieza soldiers (who he regularly kills for funsies) flooding the halls don't give away the fact that Vegeta's still here.

But with Appule dead, Zarbon and Frieza are the only people left alive in the ship. It's a lot easier to distract two people for a minute than a limitless garrison.

In the manga, this is the closest Frieza ever gets to team-killing one of his own soldiers. Once he realizes Vegeta has stolen all five of his Dragon Balls, has a sixth Dragon Ball stashed away, and is now just one Dragon Ball away from immortality while Frieza's blind and understaffed? All because Zarbon fucked up?

He says some shit.

So. Yeah. He's not above killing his men when they fuck up so bad that they cost him immortality and give his most dangerous archnemesis the means to topple his empire and end him.

But that's a much higher bar to clear than shooting down his infinitely respawning dudes because, uh....

*checks notes* With the Ginyu Force on their way, Frieza can afford to kill his own guys because the Ginyus are better than them anyway. So he keeps them all in the ship and murders them for no reason despite the fact that Vegeta is actively making off with his Dragon Balls right this second and he has no idea to where.

Yeah. That's. Uh. That's a pretty significant story difference. In any case, Frieza's campaign grinds to a screeching halt when....

That's it. That is the very last one. Frieza's campaign is sunk. Until the Ginyu Force arrives, Frieza has no forces and no resources left. He is an unbelievably powerful man, the most powerful in the universe, and the only way he could ever hope to catch up to Vegeta is by flying aimlessly around a colossal planet and looking for Vegeta with his eyes.

I've often heard people express confusion about where Goku's six-day transit is supposed to fit into the Namekian timeline. This, right here? This is it. At this moment, it's over for Frieza. For the next five days, he is soundly defeated. He's out of the race for the Dragon Balls entirely.

And the only reason Vegeta hasn't won the race is because of that one Ball Gohan smuggled away from him.

So Frieza, defeated, is forced to sit in his broken ship with his thumb up his ass and wait for reinforcement.

Vegeta, with six Dragon Balls, is forced to sit on his balls with his thumb up his ass hoping the talented martial artist Earthlings currently suppressing their ki signatures get stupid and give him something to detect - knowing that if he leaves for a second, those little shits with the Dragon Radar might scoop 'em up from under him.

While Gohan and Krillin, with ki signatures suppressed, make the five-day trek at minimum power to Saichoro/Guru.

It's here. Right here. Where everything stops for five days to pass, and for Goku to approach the planet. All because Frieza ran dry on resources and manpower to keep up the hunt.

[skeletonapricationday]

Naughty girl

Warnings: Porn w/o plot, fem reader x nanami, deephthroating, face fucking, angry Kento, use if whore.

18+ minors dni

Nanami stared as you bent over the desk, looking for your lost pen. You had it five seconds ago, you kept swearing that up and down. It was frustrating because you were distracting him from his work.

Nanami wasn't a very sexual man. He lived to work and go home, that was it. Simple and sweet. Yet he was still a man at the end of the day. Seeing you bend over in that skirt, scrambling all around his office for your pen. It was troubling. He sighs and stands.

"If I promise to help you look will you leave my office?" He says in a gruff. His deep voice echoing off the walls.

"Yes sir-e!" You say excitedly and innocently. "I swear I used it yesterday to help you with that report. Now its missing, like missing missing." You say with a small pout. That cute quiver of your lip catching his vision. He tilts his head away, trying to ignore you.

"Why can't I just give you one of my pens?" He says exasperated.

"Because you also gave me this pen, so it's my favorite pen. No other pen will feel the same!" You shout confidently and annoyingly.

"If you like that one so much because I gave it to you, why not just let me give you a new one? You make no sense." He says logically, as always. Yet this wasn't about logic. He gave you this pen two years ago, when you finally cracked a thin layer of his hard shell. It was a sign of friendship and good faith, you were not going to give up on this.

"Because-because I want this specific pen okay." You say emrbassed. Not at all willing to admit the true reason to the logic king himself.

He nods slowly, like he wasn't going to bother arguing further. Simply scanning a bookshelf, seeing if you mistakenly placed it there. He swears to himself that the intelligent woman yesterday who helped him fill out that report is the same scatterbrain currently looking for her pen. Obliviously showing her body off in several interesting positions.

You slowly get onto your hands and knees, sticking a hand under the couch. Seeing if you can feel anything underneath. When you don't you arch your hips up further to keep yourself from slipping, as you peep your head underneath. "It's dark and dusty under here. I always thought you had too much OCD to not dust under the couch." You tease playfully. Just trying to joke with the serious man, like normal.

"Shut up and stop looking under there." You here the blank reply from behind you.

"No need to get so defensive. Of course this place isn't going to be sparkly clean, you work too much. Yknow I really respect that about-" You squeak as you're cut off. Your ankle being grapped, forcibly pulled from under the couch.

"Did you not hear me the first time?" He asks, using your ankle to flip you onto your back. "Or do I have to shout." The last half is also a question, yet he says it like a statement. His voice always cold and callous, despite his actual kind nature.

You blush at how strong he was. It was juxtaposition to your strength. Enough cursed energy to be a sorcerer compared to normal humans, but so weak you had to be an assistant. "Nanami...this position is a bit...interesting?" You say softly and confused.

"And your last position wasn't?" He drops your ankle. Giving you a chance to slowly rise up, sitting on your knees emrbassed. "If you're going to wear a skirt, please be self aware." He states simply.

Wait, what did he mean by that. Suddenly your whole face flushes, realizing you've been flaunting your ass. Basically putting yourself on display.

Nanami clears his throat, surprisingly loosening his tie a bit. Rubbing the side of his face annoyed and...flushed.

"Look I'm sorry...I just didn't think about it." You say shyly, biting your bottom lip. As much as you dreamed of Nanami lustfully gazing at your backside, you never meant to accidently do it. In your fantasy it was always purposful, taking advantage of his cold demeanor by turning him on. This was not a fantasy, you're right in front of him.

He stares down at you and sighs. "Come on, up off your knees." He says softly. That sentence makes you discretly clench your thighs. Imagining those words in a different scenario. You look at his offered hand and take it, slowly standing with his help.

"You didn't do it on purpose, it's okay." He's say in a coo, almost like he felt bad.

"What if I did?" You ask, surprising even yourself. You didn't do this on purpose, why did you say that? More importantly, why didn't you stop yourself?

"What?" You hear by your side. Looking at his stern face. Waiting for digust to roll in, hell maybe he'll even shout. Tell you to get out of his office, even worse maybe fire you.

Suddenly he laughs. Gripping onto the side of his desk...laughing. "You have alot of nerve." He says walking over to you. Raising a hand to your face. You expect the sting of a slap, but instead he squishes your cheeks together. "Cause then I'd call you an attention seeking whore." He tsks his tongue and smiles. An annoyed grin, faux politeness despite his harsh words.

"I-uhm- sorry I didn't really mean-" The pressure of his grip grows. Stopping you mid sentence.

"I won't hear any of your excuses." He pushes you against his desk, the table digging into the back of your thighs. A small patch of arousal staining your underwear. "In fact I'll reward you."

"What?" You say confused, knitting your brows. He lets out a small cold huff. Slipping his hand from your chin to down your throat. Softly rubbing the side of your neck.

"If your goal was to provoke me- it worked." His other free hand grabs yours. Pressing it against his thigh. You feel his hot throbbing length struggling not to reveal itself. "Do you know how hard it is trying to keep my dick tucked while helping you look around?" He coos to you. His fingers wrap around yours, causing you to the feel the entirety of his girth. "C'mon don't be shy now."

"Is that really...wow." You say breathlessly. The huge thing in your hand really was his cock. Straining against his professional trousers. "Why didn't you say anything?" You say softly. Gripping it curiously with your fingers, earning a soft groan from him.

"Its not exactly professional to hit on your assistant...also a tad too clichéd." He replies honestly. Running the hand on your neck down to your skirt. Flipping it up and letting out a soft pleased sigh. "I'm not one for business and pleasure but, this damned skirt." He chuckles softly. Rubbing your left thigh, watching it jiggle in response. "God it gets me rock hard."

You shiver at his touch. His hands warm against your thigh, but the heat of your aching cunt is hotter. "Nanami..." You whisper his name out softly.

He tsks his tongue in response. "I got my hand up your skirt, call me Kento." He leans in and kisses your neck softly, nibbling at the soft flesh. His hot breath sending goosebumps. "Kay'?" He whispers into your ear.

You nod softly. Letting out small sounds of pleasure as his lips travel across your throat. "Kento please your hand...it can go further than my thigh."You squeak out. Hoping the muscular man gets the message.

"Oh I know...but you've been naughty. Why would I give you what you want?" He coos backing away from you. Even pulling your hand away from his dick. "It be more punishing to leave you a dripping wet needy mess." He says with a smirk. A thing you never expected to see on his face. The pure unbridled joy he has in teasing you. Getting revenge for your two years of oblivious actions.

He smiles at you and sits back down in his desk chair. Going back to reviewing his documents despite your whines of protest. "Kento please.." You say walking behind his chair. Wrapping your arms around him, hands splayed across his chest. Rubbing the hard planes of muscle. "I don't even have to feel good, I just wanna feel you." You tempt into his ear. Kissing underneath it. He huff in response and expertly pulls your hands off his chest.

"I'd stop now. Bad girls get punished." He speaks sternly. Not at all humoring you. You don't listen and walk to the front of his chair, dropping to your knees, rubbing your face against his thigh. He finally lets go of his document. "Do you really want it that bad?" He coos softly. Like a false sense of security.

You nod against his thigh, looking up at him with a lust addled gaze. He gives you an evil smile, one that sends shivers down your spine. He undoes his belt buckle, tugging his pants and boxers to free himself. His huge length standing proudly at attention. "Go on pretty girl." He says brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. "Give it a taste." He says smiling.

You listen excitedly. Falling right into his trap as your lips curl around his cock. Slowly bobbing your head down after swirling your tongue around his tip. A pleasnt salty bead of precum meeting your tongue. You can only fit half of him in your mouth, even without a gag reflex the pure girth was already stretching your jaw. He throws his head back and groans. "Finally...a way to shut you up." He says happily, almost relaxed.

His hand curls into your hair, gripping it at the base. Successfully pulling your hair out of your way. A part of you was about to mention how sweet it was until. He grips hard and slams your head down, painfully making you take the rest of him down your throat. Your nose pressed against the soft curls of his pubes. A small surprised gag leaves your lips. "Oh darling don't you remember. You've been naughty, and naughty girls get what?" He asks you. He looks down at you amused for a second. Using his hand to pull you up and down on him. Small tears pricking the corners of your eyes. "I forgot, can't talk with your mouth full can you?" He laughs and groans. The two sounds like music to your ears.

This was gonna be a harsh night.

[thegirlwiththemost-cake]

Dutch(ab*sive)Xreader(ab*sed)

Hello, this is my first time writing a fanfic (I’ve written before obviously I only meant this is my first post), if you don’t like my writing, block me. It’s THAT simple :)

If you guys don’t mind, the MC in the fanfic (you) is already established. You don’t have a name (ambiguous) but you are mentioned as half black, half white, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. You are also American, with also implied mentions of r*cism.

I don’t allow people copying my work btw, anything of the sort will get reported.

tags/warnings: MDNI heavy angst, dark romance, physical abuse (receiving), emotional manipulation, domestic violence themes, toxic relationship dynamics, coercion, fear-based loyalty, racial marginalization, colorism, rough sex, possessive sex, breeding kink undertones, ownership kink, dubious consent, cockwarming, semi-public tension, dacryphilia (crying kink), power imbalance, manipulation kink, degradation (verbal and emotional), size kink, manhandling, emotional dependency, stockholm syndrome elements, rough language, light choking, dirty talk, praise kink twisted into degration, loss of agency themes, internalized racism, unsafe s*x (no c*ndom mention), p in v, missionary, canon-era setting, dutch van der linde x half-black!reader, no use of y/n, explicit content, p*rn with plot, hurt/comfort with heavy emphasis on hurt.

_____

You were sitting on the edge of the bedroll, pulling at a loose thread on your skirt.  The camp outside was mostly quiet. Little Jack running around barefoot in the wet dirt, Marybeth reading a hearty romance book like the devoted bookworm she waw, Josiah nowhere to be found. A few people still talked low around the dying fire, but nobody was paying you any mind. Nobody ever really did.

You heard his boots first. Heavy. Slow. You didn’t even have to look up to know it was Dutch.

He stepped inside the tent, not saying a word. His shadow stretched long across the dirt. You kept your eyes down, hoping if you stayed small enough, he’d just walk past you. But he didn’t. He stood there for a long second. Watching you.

When he finally moved, it was quick. His hand cracked across your cheek—not hard enough to leave blood or bruise deep, but enough that your head snapped to the side and your eyes watered. You stayed still. You knew better than to pull away. Knew better than to show him weakness. 

You got used to this. There weren’t even any signs of his abuse.

“You don’t listen,” he said low, almost like he was telling you a secret.

You nodded, fast, hands trembling in your lap. Your mouth was too dry to answer.

Dutch crouched down in front of you, one hand gripping your chin tight between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. His eyes weren’t angry. They were calm. Worse than angry.

"You make it so hard sometimes, girl," he said, voice soft, almost tender. "I don't wanna do this."

You could smell whiskey on his breath. You could smell the smoke in his coat. You nodded again, because that’s all you could do. All you could do without him getting mad. He sighed and let your face go, brushing his thumb once over the spot he hit like he could erase it. Like it meant nothing. What he left on you didn’t turn blue or purple, it hallowed you out completely.

Because he does it again, and again, and again. Until you was nothing but a map of his anger, his frustration, his lust, his passion, his blinded versions of love. There were no livid welts, no angry red lines or purple splotches to reflect the violence within him and spill onto your exterior. Only you could feel the touch of his hands as they ran their course beneath the skin, leaving you wracked with the sort of ache that needed no bandages and no salves.

Above all, the cruelty of it was in the familiarity. The way Dutch's touch lingered, possessive, claiming ownership. The way his voice, now low and almost tender again, hid the cruelty in the harshness that preceded it.

Because you’d felt this before, haven’t you? The cold fingers pressed sharply against the flesh, the concrete brutality of his will. The way his eyes could cut and wound more than any whip ever could.

You were used to this.

The instant shock of it had faded within you, leaving only the ache of expectation. Like the dull, persistent throb of an old injury, still painful but grown accustomed. A constant reminder of what was.

Sometimes, in moments of rare quiet, you thought of leaving. Of walking away and never looking back. Camp included. Sanctuary included. Dutch included.

But where would you go?

He was your haven. Your hard, unyielding refuge in a world that had no place for a girl like you. One as not quite white as the real ladies and the townspeople and not black enough to pass among the maids, railroad workers and fieldhands you sometimes slipped food to. Born half of each, you didn't fit anywhere. Not in this country. Not in the free land of America. Not in this world.  

Dutch saw you. He made a place for you.

No matter how his hands might grab roughly, however hard his words cut in to break you.

He saw you. In a way no one else truly did. Beneath the soft brown skin, the curly hair, the gentle curves. He looked beyond the skin others judged you by and found value. Found a purpose for you along his path.

Dutch saw you. He did. No one else ever had. Oh, they'd looked, sure—the leers and sideline glances followed you everywhere, sticky and inescapable as flypaper. But looking wasn't seeing. Not truly.

Men like Mr. Magistrate and the others, they just wanted a pretty plaything to admire and disparage in equal measure. A bit of dark sugar to sweeten their evenings. Before him, you’d been nothing. No man's woman and no woman's friend - too tan to be properly desirable, too light-skinned to be safely invisible.

But Dutch?

He looked into you and saw. The girl behind the colour, the womb-child his blood would one day make women envy.

Wasn't that worth something? More than just a chance to flee to some distant city or Mighty fortress?

"You know I love you," he said.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

He stood up slow, fixing the cuffs of his shirt like nothing had happened. Then he looked at you again, like he was waiting for you to say something.

You swallowed hard. Your jaw ached.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

Dutch smiled then — not warm, but proud. Like you’d finally done something right.

"Good girl," he said, and turned to leave.

Fear and confusion tangled through you, as familiar as the well-worn grooves of a favorite chair. You couldn't deny the ache, the dull throb of pain that always lingered after one of Dutch's... conversations. But beneath that, lesser but no less constant, was the hollow desire to please him. His abuse felt like a necessary evil.

You sat there a long time after he left, hands still on your lap, trying not to cry. Because you knew if you cried, he’d see it. And next time, he might not be so gentle. 

The next morning, the camp was alive like nothing ever happened. Pots clanged, horses snorted, somebody laughed too loud over by the wagons.

You moved slow, careful not to wince. Your face still throbbed, but no one noticed. Why would they? There were no marks they could see. Just a dull, aching weight under the skin. You sat near the fire, shelling peas with Tilly and Mary-Beth. They chatted easy, smiling about some fella they met in town, but you barely heard them. You kept your head low, your hands steady. You knew better than to draw attention to yourself.

"Hey," Tilly said, nudging you with her elbow. "You alright? You seem... quiet." Your heart fell to your underwear, had she noticed? But however, you forced a smile. “Just tired," you said. Tilly shrugged, accepting it. Why wouldn’t she? 

Tired was normal. Tired didn’t raise questions.

Dutch walked by just then, talking to Hosea. His coat was open, hands moving as he spun another one of his big ideas. He quietly sat on a chair in front of Hosea’s tent. You felt his presence even when he didn’t look at you. That heavy pull of him, like a rope around your throat.

Nobody knew.

Nobody saw.

Not even Arthur, who usually caught every lie the camp spun. You weren't even sure if you wanted them to see. If they knew... what then? You weren’t sure if they’d believe you. Not about Dutch. Not about their "father," their "leader."

You didn’t belong anywhere.

Not out there, where you were too dark to be safe. Not in here, where your skin kept secrets that lighter skin couldn't. You were invisible in a camp full of people who thought they loved you.

Later that day, you caught Dutch watching you across the fire. His mouth curved into a small smile — not cruel, not sharp. Just soft. Like he really did love you. Like you were his. And maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t run.

—-SMUT PART, CAN BE SKIPPED—-

The stick of the chair groaned under Dutch’s weight when he shifted, his knee knocking against the side post lazily, careless, like he couldn’t even be bothered to hide how wound up he was getting just sitting there; you caught it right away—the taut line of his thigh, the flex of his hand against the wood, the way his eyes, those deep, black-water eyes lifted slow and heavy from Hosea’s face to yours, dragging across your body like he owned it already.

He looked at you.

And it wasn’t just a glance, not something he tossed over without thinking; it was deliberate, sharp enough to catch the breath right in your throat, hot enough that even the dry dust in the air felt like it thickened between you—his mouth twitched up at the corner, just a little, not a smile, not a smirk, but something darker, heavier, something that said he knew you saw the way he was getting hard in his pants, that he wasn’t ashamed, that he wanted you to see, that he wanted you burning up just like him.

He was a man. Of course he had urges, wants, cravings, needs. It was obvious he was wanting. And you were attracted to him, how else did you come to be his?

You felt your knees go loose under your skirt, felt the thin cotton catch against your sweaty skin as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, throat dry as a bone; you hated how your heart kicked up every time he looked at you like that, how your body betrayed you, lighting up under his gaze even when your ribs still ached from the last time he’d pressed you up against the canvas wall of the tent, his hand fast and punishing across your side where no one would see.

Still…

…You turned without a word, slipping between the tents like a ghost, your pulse thrumming so loud in your ears it drowned out the low murmur of the gang behind you; you didn’t have to look over your shoulder to know he would follow, didn’t have to check—Dutch didn’t need coaxing when he wanted something. You wanted him to chase you, to catch you, to claim you. 

You ducked into his tent, the canvas sagging heavy in the heat, the smell of leather and tobacco hanging thick; you barely had time to catch your breath before you heard it—the soft tread of boots behind you, the shift of the flap—and then he was there.

A single step, two at most, and he stood before you.

Looming. Towering. Trading his generous height to loom, to hover.

Dutch reached out, his large and rough hand cupping your cheek. Finger and thumb curling, possessive in their attention.

He pressed closer, until he could feel the whisper of your breath, the quick inhale, the racing of your pulse. His voice was a low and intimate rumble. "You know what I want, Sugar.”

You could feel the heat of him, the rigid line of his cock pressing against you through his pants, hard and thick and urgent.

He wanted you. That much was blatantly clear.

And, may heaven help you, you wanted him too.

“Darlin’,” he said, low and rough like gravel dragged across wood, voice a breath against your ear.

Your heart stuttered, your body answering before your mind could catch up—your fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, your mouth catching his without thinking, desperate, messy, your teeth scraping his lower lip and his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers winding tight in your hair.

He kissed you like he meant to devour you, no slow burn, no gentle teasing—just heat and need, the bruising press of his mouth stealing your breath; His hand slid down, cupping your ass through your thin skirts, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper into his mouth, "Mnnh", your legs were already trembling.

Dutch broke the kiss only to bite a line down your throat, sharp little nips that made you gasp, hands fumbling at your waist, pushing your skirts up around your hips, rough, uncaring; his mouth trailed lower, teeth scraping along your collarbone, while his hand slid between your thighs, two thick fingers pressing against the damp heat there through your drawers.

"You feel that?" He growled against your skin, breath hot and filthy, "All this wet for me?"

You whimpered again, hips bucking against his hand, your voice a broken, needy thing, "Uhhnn, Dutch—"

He made a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and a purr, and you barely had time to breathe before he hooked his fingers in the waist of your drawers, yanking them down with a rough tug that had you stumbling against him; he caught you, of course he caught you, one strong arm banded around your waist, holding you upright, holding you still, like he always did.

His pants followed swiftly after, the button and zipper surrendering just as promptly before you tugged the fabric down lean thighs, thick calves. The sound of denim hitting the tent floor seemed to echo in the charged air.

Your hand reached down, nimble fingers working at Dutch's belt, unfastening it with fleeting ease. The leather strap slid through the loop with barely a whisper. The evidence of his arousal sprung free like a jack-in-the-box, the thick, turgid flesh slapping against the soft swell of your belly. The heated length throbbed, already slick with building need. The plump head wept with want, his pre-cum smeared against your hip bone.

You licked your lips unconsciously, desire clawing at you as you gazed down at his impressive manhood, hard and urgent against you. A sense of feminine triumph raced through you.

You felt the heavy drag of his cock against your bare thigh, hot and slick at the tip, and instinctively you reached for him, your hand wrapping around the thick, pulsing length of him, feeling him twitch against your palm.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, forehead dropping to rest against yours for a heartbeat, voice thick and cracked, "Goddamn, girl..."

He didn’t waste time, didn’t give you a second to think—just lifted you up, hands gripping your thighs, hauling you against him so fast your head spun, your back hitting the rough wood pole in the centre of the tent with a soft thud; you wrapped your legs around him automatically, skirts bunched up around your waist, the cool air kissing your bare skin.

Then he was pushing into you, slow at first, the thick head of his cock stretching you open, inch by aching inch, until you were full to the point of pain, a sharp, delicious ache that had you throwing your head back with a ragged cry, "Aaahhhnnn—!"

He groaned against your neck, voice wrecked and hungry, "Fuck, girl, so tight—so goddamn sweet—"

His hips started to move, slow and deep, grinding into you with every thrust, dragging a helpless, breathless moan from your lips each time, "Uhhnn—mnhhh—!" your fingers digging into the broad span of his back, clinging to him like a lifeline.

It was rough; it was desperate, but there was something else too—something soft buried underneath the heat and the hunger—the way he kissed your temple between thrusts, the way he murmured broken little things against your skin, half nonsense, half confession, like he needed you just as much as he needed air. He was always at one with words. A poet. A charmer, everyone said. A man at home in the gaudy, guttering glow of the bottle lamps. The kind of man who could talk the Devil Himself into handing over his pitchfork.

Your body burnt for him, every nerve ending lit up like fire, and even though fear still curled cold in your gut—fear of what he could do, what he had done—you couldn’t help the way you clung to him, the way you pressed your mouth to his jaw, whispering his name like a prayer.

"Dutch—Dutch—"

His rhythm faltered when you said it, his arms tightening around you, his cock driving deeper, harder, the wet slap of flesh against flesh filling the small, sweltering space.

His other hand gripped your thick thigh, high up, fingers sinking into the tender flesh as he hoisted your leg higher. The new angle let him drive into you harder, deeper, the thick head of his cock kissing a spot so deliciously sensitive that you saw stars. That made your angels on your two shoulders sing.

“Dutch... oh god, D-dutchhhhhh…” You tried to scream his name, to cry out in ecstasy, but it emerged a muffled, garbled mess.

You felt yourself unravelling, felt the tight coil in your belly snap, pleasure tearing through you so hard it left you sobbing into his shoulder, "Nnnnahhh—!"

He groaned low and deep, hips stuttering, and then you felt it—the hot flood of him spilling inside you, his whole body shaking with the force of it, his mouth pressing hard against yours in a kiss that was all teeth and breath and desperation.

For a long moment, you just clung to each other, bodies slick and trembling, the world outside the tent fading away until there was nothing left but the sound of your ragged breathing and the thud of your heart against his chest.

And still, even as he set you back down on shaky legs, even as he tucked himself away and straightened your skirts with hands that were almost gentle, his fingers lingering on your skin, you felt it. His hunger. His ownership. And you? You were the most important piece. The queen on his chessboard, the treasure in his chest, the very reason he bothered to carve out this sanctuary marooned in a hostile world.

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 31 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: All gather in the Throne Room to hear Ser Vaemond Velaryon's petition. Never a dull day at the Red Keep. Word Count: 6874 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Show canon scene. Violence, gore, slut-shaming/misogyny, bit of angst, canon death, fat-shaming/fatphobia, bullying mention, depression/mental health mention. Lots of fun things.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: I'm BAAACCKK. Hope everyone had happy holidays and a great new year. Mine was adequate, nothing to report other than get a lil annoyed at the bf. But that was overshadowed by a band I listen to dming a happy new years. I won't say who, because I'm trying to manifest something rn, and I don't want to jinx it. but hint: 😴🚶🐕🐈 Now, this chapter still is around the time I was really struggling to write. Re reading it, it's not entirely as bad as I thought it was, but you might be able to tell where I was getting frustrated and losing my muse. Or not, idk, maybe I hid it well.

There was nothing more intimidating than the Iron Throne when it sat unoccupied. It was almost like the ghost of Aegon the Conqueror still lingered there when the current king did not, watching and judging his dynasty before him. Valeana wondered if this is what he imagined for his line of Fire and Blood; had he predicted his grandchildren, and great grandchildren to fight amongst themselves? Did he predict that his heir to be a woman, where a son with his name stood idly by? Did he predict that his legacy would be put into question?

Valeana also wondered if Targaryens would have ended up this way, had it been Visenya’s line that survived, and not her sister’s. Perhaps their people would not see them as weak, as they once thought of King Aenys.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds,” The Lord Hand spoke after the King had descended upon his throne of iron and war. “We gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.”

His words were not appreciated by those that suffered for this petition. Valeana stood by her family, who stood behind Alicent and her children. The Throne Room was not at full capacity, but the Lords of the Great Houses had gathered, some with their wives, some with their heirs. The Baratheons, the Starks, the Hightowers, The Arryns, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Tullys, the Greyjoys, even representatives from the Martells were present. The Realm knew what this moment meant – It was not just a petition over who would inherit Driftmark, it was a petition to prove or disprove that Rhaenyra’s three eldest were illegitimate. Bastards. It would not only take away Lucerys’ inheritance, but Jacaerys' and Joffrey’s. If that happened, the Realm may very want Rhaenyra to be removed as heir to the Throne as punishment for her carnal transgressions, and effectively move the line of succession onto Aegon the Elder, bypassing even her legitimate fair-haired sons she sired with Daemon. 

“The crown will now hear the petitions: Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon,” Otto stepped away, and all in the room watched with bated breath as Vaemond moved from the spot he stood next to his uncle’s wife and grandchildren and took his place at the foot of the dias. 

“My King,” he bowed, then looked upon Alicent and Otto. “My Queen, my Lord Hand.” His eyes return to Viserys, whose face was already set in stone, his lips thinned and already showing his disapproval. Alas, Vaemond’s confidence was bordering on delusion, and did not let that deter him in the slightest. Valeana took a step forward, putting herself just behind the backs of Aemond and Aegon, so she could have a better look. 

Aemond slightly turned to her, a silent look that communicated everything. He could not yet show his affections publicly – he had not taken the time to converse with Maris just yet to end their very public courtship (even if it had grown apparent that it was dwindling). Aegon, however, took pleasure in taking advantage of that fact, for when Valeana appeared at his side, he wove his arm around hers and laced her fingers with his own. 

Valeana wasn’t entirely sure what horror show she should dare to look at: Vaemond’s petition, Aemond’s fury, or her brother and father’s heated disapproval behind her. 

“The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria,” Vaemond began his speech, hands clasped in front of him as he not only spoke to his monarch, but to the audience, to the lords and ladies of Westeros. “For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas.” 

Not entirely true, Valeana mused. House Celtigar and House Velaryon ruled ceremoniously, while the latter was more naval and militant, the former was more in trade and piracy. Though that last bit was more of an unsavoury historical anecdote that her father will never acknowledge. 

“When the Doom fell on Valyria, House Targaryen, House Velaryon and House Celtigar became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this land knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name

“I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my uncle’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins–”

“As it does in my sons, the offspring of Leanor Velaryon,” Rhaenyra spoke up, interrupting the knight without remorse. Her face was remarkably neutral despite the bite of her words, reminding everyone in the grand room of her sons’ birthrights. With eyes trained onto the floor ahead of her, she went on, “If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.” She said this now looking at him directly, and Valeana could only watch, enraptured and captivated by her strength and conviction. “No, you only speak for yourself, and for your own ambition.” 

“You have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto interrupted, overlapping the princess’ words. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

King Viserys was rubbing his eyelids, already tired and weary. Valeana watched his face carefully as Vaemond continued his speech, claiming that Rhaenyra did not know a thing about Velaryon blood. Eyes darted around the room, as she watched Jacaerys catch Aemond’s eye, and Lucerys watched Vaemond with contempt. Daeron looked impossibly uncomfortable, eyes flickering around to everyone to gouge how he should react. And Aegon… Aegon simply shuffled in his spot, free hand moving to scratch his jaw. 

“This is bloody torture,” she heard him whisper. The only thing she could do was give his hand a squeeze in response and he gently squeezed back, rubbing his thumb over the back of her palm. 

When it was Rhaenyra’s turn to petition, her words were cut short when the King placed up his hand to halt her. 

“I must admit my confusion,” his words were laced with exhaustion, but with an underlying strength of a king. He had been patient, polite and courteous as he allowed Ser Vaemond to speak, since he did come all this way to do so. But now it was his turn, and he intended to speak on behalf of his daughter and Lord Corlys, the latter of which could not speak on his own behalf. “On why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

His statement was met with a second of strained silence before he continued, moving his head around the crowd before settling on his cousin. “The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.” 

“Indeed, your grace,” The Queen Who Never Was spoke once everyone had settled their attention onto her. Her eyes flickered from Vaemond to Rhaenyra, then she moved over to place herself at the foot of the dias, before the Throne that in another life, would have been hers. 

“It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Leanor, to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him.” 

Rhaenys’ confession garnered a group reaction of surprise. It was under the assumption that the older princess had always disapproved of Rhaenyra the moment each son she birthed looked nothing like hers, and the circumstances of Leanor’s death seemed to put a rift between the like-minded princesses. Though it now seemed that bygones had become bygones. 

“As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire for her son, Luke, to marry Lord Corlys’ granddaughter, Rhaena… A proposal to which I heartily agree.” 

Hushed chatter befell the Throne Room. Rhaena and Luke shared a look with each other, subtle smiles upon their youthful places. This development certainly put a wedge in Ser Vaemond’s petition. He cried about blood purity, and yet here the solution laid plainly in front of the Kingdom. For those who believed that Luke was a bastard, the seat of Driftmark would no longer belong to the Velaryons in name only. Rhaena held that blood from her mother, and what's more, their children would be dragonriders, with their matching Targaryen blood between them. 

Valeana was quick to notice Vaemond’s displeasure and shock. 

“Well…” Viserys lifted his hand dismissively, “The matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Just when people believed matters were settled, and the chatter started up again, Vaemond stepped forward after Rhaenys stepped back. “You break law and centuries of tradition, to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon–No,” he shook his head minutely. “I will not allow it.”

The King furrowed his brow, mouth popping open at the man’s gall. “Allow it? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

This is where things had taken a turn for the worst. When Vaemond shook with anger, Valeana knew that all sense was lost. At the shout of “That!”, she startled next to the princes. Aegon turned to her slightly amused, and Aemond had moved closer to her until their shoulders touched. 

Vaemond pointed viciously at Lucerys, who surprisingly shrunk under the angered man. “Is no true Velaryon, and certainly, no cousin of mine.”

“Go to your chambers,” Rhaenyra whipped her head to her son, who also vibrated with emotion, lip curling over his teeth as if he wished to lash out on his own behalf. Then she turned to Vaemond, “You have said enough.”

Lucerys didn’t move, but his step father still kept a hand on his shoulder. 

“Lucerys is my trueborn grandson,” The King spoke lowly. “And you are no more than the son of the second son of Driftmark.”

“You may run your house as you see fit,” Vaemond bit back. Valeana held her breath, finding herself squeezing Aegon’s hand. “But you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned,” He swiveled back around to glare at the boy again, as if he were the reason for all his troubles, and not the adults that surrounded him. “I will not see it ended on the account of this–” His lips folded in between his teeth, and the air in the room stilled. Then as the slow seconds went by, Vaemond’s face relaxed, as if he could lose no more than he already had.

“Her children… are BASTARDS!”

“Seven Hells,” Valeana breathed out. The entire room was filled with loud murmurs, the King himself leaned forward on the Throne, his anger building in his chest, as weak as it was. 

“Oh, this is turning out to be quite the show,” Aegon whispered, his words laced with mirth.

A horror show. 

A very horrific, bloody show. 

“And she is,” Vaemond continued, punctuating every word as he burned his eyes onto Rhaenyra, then Daemon, and then finally the King. “A whore.”

The chorus of gasps filled the Throne Room. Everyone paced around, looking at each other in disbelief. Valeana glanced up at Aemond and saw his smirk, no different to Aegon’s. She knew of the princes’ animosity towards their half sister, who coveted all their father’s love, but as a woman, she could not help but feel disgusted by their reactions. With one glance of Helaena, she was relieved to see that she did not approve either, and when the two princes noticed their disapproval, their smirks dropped. At the very least Daeron had the decency to look scandalized, regardless of what his opinions were of Rhaenyra. 

The king ascended from his throne, his cane forgotten as he reached into his cloak and pulled out the cat’s claw dagger that was always strapped to him. 

“I will have your tongue for that–”

Valyrian steel sung in the air, swiftly and without mercy. The sound of blade cutting through flesh and bone dirtied Valeana’s ears, and the sight of Vaemond’s nearly headless body slumping on the floor now seared into her mind like a brand. Never before in her life had she seen such violence. Not even her fall down the stairs could compare. She had thought she would be impervious to such displays, having seen her own bone out of her flesh, and then watch her leg rot away before it was severed off with a saw. Though that was nothing in comparison to seeing a man’s head chopped off from his cheekbones, leaving his jaw and tongue atop what remained of his head. 

Helaena had turned away with her hands placed upon the sides of her head, her mother Alicent on her protectively to shield her from the gore. Daeron’s eyes widened in shock and horror, his hand flying to the sword on his belt as if it was muscle memory. Behind Valeana, Shyla and Floris both screamed, flying into the chest of Bartimos and their mother, with Clement shielding them from it. Arthor merely stood agape, the first time he, too, ever saw such an act. 

Valeana had jumped away, retching her hand out of Aegon’s in the pursuit to put herself as far away from the corpse as possible. It was Aemond who moved in front of her, hand upon her arm to keep her behind him, whilst Aegon stood like a statue, lips pulled into a frown and eyebrows up to his hairline, staring at Vaemond’s lifeless body as if he could not believe what he had just witnessed, what he was actively staring at. 

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon stood there, hand placed on the pommel of Dark Sister. 

“Disarm him!” The Lord Hand shouted, the Kingsguard poised to attack.  

“No need,” the Rogue Prince replied casually, using the ends of his black tunic to wipe the blood off his sword and sheath it back into its scabbard.

Valeana tore her eyes away at last, blinking away rapidly, as if that would rid her of the image. It was then she brought her attention to where her hands had found rest. She gripped onto Aemond’s sleeve, both of her forearms caging his arm to her chest like a shield or a life preserver. 

“Valeana,” Clement’s presence loomed over her shoulder, his large hand firmly on her bicep. 

Valeana followed Aemond’s arm until she reached his face. He stared at her with a wide eye and a gritted jaw. His fingers flexed at her own sleeve, not wanting to let go either, but they were not in the privacy of their library. It took all her courage to let him go from her vice and allow Clement to pull her into his orbit. 

But when Valeana tore her eyes from Aemond, she landed them on Aegon, who saw the whole thing. His face was crestfallen, but only for a moment before his features pulled into a scowl, eyes glaring up at his younger brother. 

The petition had inevitably delayed the anticipated dinner of the Valyrian Houses, of which Vaemond had been invited to, mostly out of respect. It would be pushed to the next evening, as everyone was collectively in a state of shock and displacement. 

Valeana longed for solitude, she wished to be tucked in the reading nook of the late Aemma Arryn’s library, or laying in a nest of cushions and furs on the secret platform amongst the cliffs. Though for now, she settled on her bed chambers. Shyla was absent, she seemed to disappear after the Throne Room, along with Daeron it seemed. She was particularly distressed and the prince was concerned for her, leaving poor young Floris in the wind. Gods, Borros Baratheon is going to absolutely loathe the Celtigars after this Conclave was over with. 

Valeana was sitting cross legged in the middle of her bed, embroidering an image of a milkweed plant on a dark grey canvas. She intended to give the loop to Helaena as a thank you for her part last night. It was still such a bizarre recollection, that now felt like it was eons ago. Seeing a man’s head lopped off from the middle would do that to someone. 

Still, she wove every memory she made that night into the fabric of her mind. From the moment she saw Aemond splayed on the chair at the table, to that very morning when the warm orange glow of the dawn reflected against the silver tresses of his hair and pearlescent complexion of his skin. Valeana had woken up before him, and she took that privilege gently, savouring every moment. 

Aemond had tucked her under his arm at some point, and she was nestled on his upper arm, hand slayed on his chest while his nose nestled in the crown of her hair. They were both lying on their sides, legs tangled with each other, his hand resting on her hip and thigh. With gentle fingers, she traced the lines of his jaw, his nose, his scar, the gnarl frame of his sapphire eye, and brow, and then his lips that were parted as he breathed gently. Valeana noted how the skin around his perfect lid was red, the corner had a little sandy crust as if his eye had been tearing up during the night. 

With boldness, her hands moved southward, running along the muscles of his chest and stomach, humming in satisfaction at the warmth and feel of his body. It was art, truly; every ridge and curve, every bone and muscle, expertly carved by the Smith himself, designed in the likeness of the Warrior. 

Aemond roused from his sleep when her fingers trailed over the area below his belly button. He blinked away the sand from his good eye and gave a soft, grumbly hum. 

“Still not convinced I am a man?” He questioned softly with a hoarse, sleepy tone before his hand moved to her wrist and guided her to the crotch of his breeches. Valeana gave a soft gasp, or more of a hitch in her throat. She could feel him through the fabric and while he was soft, the muscle twitched at the contact. 

“Aemond–” He interrupted her with a peck on her lips, moving his hand up to the curve of her jaw to keep her there, so he could stare into her eyes. And that is where they remained until there was a knock on the library door, and Helaena’s gentle voice reminded them it was time. 

Valeana sighed contently down at her embroidery. Basking in the perfect evening and the perfect morning was enough to drown out the macabre events of that midday. Now the image of Aemond’s hardened body and Aegon’s thick cock permated her mind, creating a warm stir in her core. Alas, she was still bleeding, and she was not going to risk getting blood under her fingernails and all over her sheets to satiate her carnal hunger. Besides, there was a knock on the door, effectively ending her lewd thoughts. Clearing her throat, she called out: “come in.”

Clement entered the room, closing the door behind him as he did, “How are you doing?”

She offered him a half shrug, “Fine, I suppose.” 

Her brother took a seat at the edge of her bed, his body twisted so he rested his knee on the mattress, where he could look at her properly. “You’re doing remarkably well for someone who just witnessed their first execution.” 

“I do well with gore, I suppose. Finding severed feet on the beach on a regular basis could desensitize you to it,” her jest came out awfully stoic, as if she was serious. Though Valeana tended to joke when she was on the verge of anxiousness or sadness, if she wasn’t already thrown into the maelstrom of a fit. 

“And watching yours decay whilst attached to your body,” Clement added, his dark humour similar to her own. 

“Hm, that too. Perhaps the Stranger’s mark on me still lingers.” 

He hummed in agreement, unserious in his consideration for the statement. But then his face fell, and Valeana geared herself up for the real reason why he was there in her room. 

“Valeana…” He looked down on the bed, where his hand laid flat. He drummed his fingers on the duvet, like he was stalling so he could find the right words, or to rein in his censure. “I feel like you have become a stranger since we arrived at King’s Landing. You have been pulling yourself away every day from our family…and I can’t help but believe it is because of the princes.” 

Valeana leaned back into her headboard with a sigh, her loop forgotten in her lap. “Clement, I have been a stranger to this family for years…” Her eyes drifted over to the balcony. The Hydrangeas that Aemond left her were now placed in a vase next to her bed. 

“Not to me,” he shook his head vehemently. “We are full blooded siblings, Valeana. You and I have a bond that cannot be separated.”

Val tilted her head at him, a single eyebrow raised, “Clement, for half my life we were separated. I was here, and you were on the Isle with Ursula and Arthor. I am twenty, and yet I’ve only ever spent half my life with you, brother, and during that time I spent the better part of it locked in my rooms, despondent and longing for death.” 

Clement let his head sag at that, then raked his fingers through his short silver hair. He did not like dwelling on that dark part of her past, it still made him feel like a failure of a brother that he was not there for her when it happened, nor was he able to coax her out of the abyss in the aftermath. He reached out then, placing a hand on the ankle of her prosthetic, and although physically she could not feel it, the phantom of his touch tickled in the back of her mind as if she could. 

“You are the closest thing I have to mother, you know,” he said quietly, thumb moving along the ball joint. “I might have lost her, but I gained a sister in her stead, in her very image. I vowed over her grave that I would protect you, and I have failed thus far… I do not wish to continue that path any longer.”

When Valeana felt her eyes begin to water, she shut them immediately and bowed her head till her chin laid on her sternum, “Clement–”

“I saw you,” he said a bit forcefully. “You held Aegon’s hand one moment, and then clung to Aemond the next. Whatever it is you are doing, you must know it will end in heartbreak. Please, for your sake, sister, let them go… Jacaerys is an honourable man, who can offer you a great future–”

“I do not love him,” the words came out before she was able to filter them. 

Clement furrowed his brow as he tilted his head at her disbelievingly, “Then who is it you love? Aemond the Blackhearted or Aegon the Whoremongerer?” 

Sorrow was quickly being pulled into frustration. Valeana shook her head, “You only know the princes by their reputation, you do not know their character, the way they are with me–”

Clement pulled away, scoffing loudly, “I know Aemond is the cause of your first heartbreak, the reason why you walk with a wooden leg, and I know Aegon is the cause of your self hatred and the reason why you hide yourself from the world. This is all I need to know… So excuse me if I cannot fathom why you wish to consort with either of them, let alone harbour feelings.”

Valeana took a steady breath through her lips, her eyes closed to ground herself in the darkness behind her lids. “They have both reconciled with me.”

“Oh, they have, have they? When will they seek out father’s forgiveness then?” His question took her off guard. “Father was just as hurt as you were. He ended his friendship with the King over it… let go of his position on the Small Council, and left King’s Landing. Do not think you are the only victim here, sister.” 

“Please leave, Clement,” she ran her fingers over her eyes, where a headache was starting to bloom.

“I will not. I am not going to let you ignore the truth, Valeana… You have been causing an immense amount of stress on not only Ursula and father, but our sisters and brother as well. Everything has been revolving around your scandals, your love life, and it has put poor Shyla and Floris on the backburner. Floris, the poor thing, weeps at not being married still at her age. How do you think she feels seeing her step sister being the centre of attention? To have this many men flock to you and not her?”

“Floris,” she nearly yelled her name. “Floris is the reason why people whisper about me! Her insecurities are not my bloody problem, Clement! She could have been married off years ago, but she lets her pride and narcissism get in the way of it.

“She envies me, that is the truth of it. It’s always been like that – do you even notice the comments she makes of me? Floris is just as terrible as Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys was to me, even worse because we are family! It has been like that my entire fucking life with that woman… And you, father, mother, Arthor, and Shyla choose to ignore her belittling comments about my figure, because of what, Clement? Because you do not wish to cause strife among family? To choose sides? Or is it because you all believe her? You all agree I’m too fucking fat, but unlike Floris you keep your opinion behind your buttoned lips and avoidant eyes?”

Valeana did not give him room to respond, if he had any intention to, if he had any strength to. She pulled herself from her bed, embroidery loop forgotten, and slipped her feet into her shoes. Then, she bent down and secured the shoe’s strap around her wooden ankle, mindful to not run off on insecure shoes like last time.

“Where are you going?” 

“Since you refuse to leave, I will,” she marches over the door, and pulls it open with a violet jerk. 

“And which prince will you flock to?” He is standing up now, looking at her retreating back.

She paused in the threshold, her hand flexing on the handle of the door. “Neither,” she replied flatly, then slammed the door on him. 

When Valeana left her family’s wing, she had spotted Ellyn and Wylla walking in the gardens arm in arm from the loggia above. She fled to find some corner of the Keep for solitude, but when she saw them, she craved friendship more. They were whispering about something, giving each other looks that Valeana could not quite make out from where she stood. When she called out for them, they looked up, completely startled. Their bodies pulled away from each other as if they were caught committing a crime. 

Valeana tried not to think too much about it, especially since her thoughts were already at full capacity. Though as they sat in the grass, underneath a cherry blossom tree, away from courtiers and servants, Valeana couldn’t help but feel suddenly paranoid. The two were sharing looks with each other that she could not decipher, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they had been talking about her. 

Eyeing them warily, she decided to test the waters, “You two seem quiet.”

They looked at her slightly surprised, with Ellyn the first to speak, “Sorry… That nasty business in the Throne Room, it… it was just not expected.”

Wylla hummed in agreement, “I’ve seen a few executions, done by my father… Never seen anything so savage, however.” 

Valeana nodded, still unconvinced. Did they see her cling to Aemond after it happened? It was possible, though she was behind the Targaryen princes at the time, and she was fairly certain that people were more preoccupied by Ser Vaemond’s scalp rolling around the floor. 

Narrowing her eyes, she decided to press further, a little more boldly, “Are there any more whispers about me?” At their collective confusion, she added, “Only because you two seem quieter than usual, and I’m starting to wonder if you’ve learned something unsavoury that I should be concerned about.” 

Ellyn’s cheeks went pink, her eyes darting from Wylla, to the grass she was picking and peeling. They both shook their heads and cleared their throats. 

This time, Wylla answered, seeming genuine.  “No, nothing new. Only that bets have been challenged now that Jacaerys is in the running for your hand.”

Valeana rolled her eyes, “He isn’t. It was simply a brief moment in order to appease our parents.”

Ellyn raised an eyebrow mockingly, “So there we are back to two princes?”

Wylla tilted her head, “Or just one? I saw you and Aegon holding hands in the Throne Room.” 

“Is that all you saw?” They both looked genuinely confused. It was a bit of a relief, at least she knew they weren’t gossiping about her clinging to both Aegon and Aemond so publicly and judging her for it. As of right now, Aemond and hers reconciliation was not public knowledge; as far as the court is concerned, he was still courting Maris, and it was only the whispers that breathed life into the rumour of him yearning for Valeana. It was…  true, and well observed, but Valeana knew better to encourage the truth. Aemond needed to gently rid himself of Maris Baratheon, now more than ever. Having noticed how Shyla was slowly usurping Daeron Targaryen from Floris Baratheon, the tensions between Celtigars and Baratheons were becoming very tense, and it did not bode well for Valean’a own precarious circumstance.

Wylla’s eyes narrowed, “What else was there to see, Valeana?”

Val’s eyes flickered to Ellyn, who stared at her expectedly. She trusted this Baratheon with her past with Aemond, her feelings for him, but she did not know Ellyn’s relationship with her sisters very well. Did she approve of Maris’ match with him, or merely tolerated it? Would she choose Valeana or her sister? And the issue with young Floris and Shyla was a whole other added problem. The last thing Val wanted was to put Ellyn in a position of choosing between friendship and family. 

After kneading her lip with her teeth in thought, Valeana tentatively asked: “Ellyn… Is Maris… quite fond of Aemond?”

Ellyn seemed quite taken back by the question, but otherwise she appeared almost like she was harbouring knowledge she had yet to share. With a great sigh, the brunette nodded remorsefully, “She is. I’ve never seen her quite smitten but… She seems a bit agitated lately. Ever since the Hightower dinner, which…I know you’ve told me about. Maris has given me her own version of it, as did Daeron when he visited Floris one afternoon. My sister was quite affronted. Her intelligence is her biggest pride.”

“So suffice to say she isn’t my biggest fan.”

Ellyn huffed a soft laugh, “An understatement really. Um, she has also noticed… Aemond has become distant with her, and she has deduced it may be your doing. From what I overheard from her and Cassandra yesterday, your step-sister has been insinuating that you’ve been trying to seduce him.” 

Valeana sighed, rubbing the spot between her eyebrow and nose, “Of course she’s doing that. I somehow wonder if my beloved step sister has a plan, or she is simply lying freely, trying to see what people will believe and if it will ruin my character.” 

“I am surprised you aren’t trying to seduce him,” Wylla admitted thoughtfully, regarding Ellyn’s statement, “Given what you’ve told us. Didn’t you want him back? Or…has Prince Aegon snuffed that flame?” 

Valeana has done nothing but disprove the whispers about her and Aegon, particularly after the Hightower dinner when they publicized their (fake) courtship just to make Aemond jealous. It worked, though faster than she anticipated, and now she gathered how confused her two new friends probably were, given how much she had not shared with them since their last conversation about Val’s lovelife. The context between that drunken night to the present had not been divulged to them, and that was not just because she simply hadn’t the opportunity, but because she wasn’t accustomed to sharing vulnerable secrets. Valeana never actually had friends she could trust, she painfully realized; not since Aemond, and look how that turned out. 

She glanced around them, making sure they were very much alone. They had trailed far from the path, hidden in the grassy knolls, underneath the cherry blossom tree, surrounded by hydrangea bushes of various colours. The bushes and florals do a good job at muffling their voices as well as the noises of the world outside of their little sanctuary.

Licking her dry lips, Valeana geared herself to confess her sins, hoping that they would not judge her too harshly for her weaknesses. Hoping that Ellyn would at most be impartial to Valeana’s hand at effectively ruining Maris’ chance at a royal betrothal. 

“There is much I should– no, need to tell you. So much has happened…I do not know where to begin.”

Ellyn reached out and patted her arm, “Start from the beginning then?” 

With a harrowing sigh, Valeana nodded and began her complicated, long tale. She tripped over her words and backtracked when she remembered information that added more context, but she recounted everything. From the moment Aemond pulled her drunken self out of the Throne room, to her eve spent with Aemond in Queen Aemma’s old quarters. Yes, she even told them of Aemond’s apology on Maiden’s Day eve. Valeana even admitted to Aemond ravishing her tits that drunken night in the passageways, the morning before the Hightower supper. Even told them about the night at the secret terrace with Aegon. She also mentioned how she lost her maidenhead to a bloody horse, which was her attempt at humour and alleviating the tense conversation. 

In the end, her fingers were pressed in the corners of her eyes, head bowed over her crossed legs in exhaustion. Her head felt dull and heavy from a steady headache, one that began with Clement earlier. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confessed defeatedly. “This is all so new to me… All my life, I was prepared to either be a spinster, a septa, or a despondent wife to a lord that did not care for me. I never even entertained the idea that a man might… desire me at all, let alone two.” It was addicting, she admitted to herself. Selfishly she thought perhaps she could have them both, like Catelyn Redwyne’s story, but she knew that was impossible…Aemond and Aegon would never share her. They would spend the entire time trying to lay claim on her, like two opposing conquerors. 

Wylla’s hand patted her knee comfortingly, “Your life never ceases to amaze me, Valeana. Most women would kill to be in your position.”

“I am not one of those women,” Ellyn commented good naturedly. “Though I admit that it is a privilege to be fought over by two princes of the Realm.”

Valeana pulled her hands from her eyes and blinked tiredly at both of them, “What would you two do if you were in my position?”

“Choose neither and become a Septa,” Ellyn shrugged dismissively, but at Valeana’s pointed look, she sighed. “Honestly, I do not know. I suppose I would try to figure out who I could not live without.” 

Wylla nodded her agreement, “You will be spending the rest of your life with this man… I personally don’t think it is disgraceful to explore who you are compatible with, both emotionally and physically. Most of us do not get the leisure of testing the waters before we are thrown in.” 

Val nodded, because she had no choice but to agree. It still did nothing to ease her stresses, though. “The problem is that my decision will be at the expense of the other’s pain. And I do not wish to cause anyone pain… Not even your sister, Ellyn. Even if – and forgive me for saying so – even if she is a pretentious bitch.” 

Ellyn huffed, shaking her head, “Oh, do not worry, I don’t take offense to that. Maris loves to call me stupid whenever she gets a chance, so she deserves the insult.” Suddenly the brunette looked down at her hands for a moment, brow furrowed as if she was in a battle with her own thoughts. “I love my sisters, truly… I wish to see them contented. Though… I do not believe that the princes would ever give them the happiness they hope to have with them. I think Maris and our Floris both are blinded by their titles, of the little fairy tale of becoming princesses rather than actually understanding the gravity of it all.

“I saw immediately that Daeron is far too self-centered to care for my little sister truly, and she is far too meek to stand up for herself. He never asks questions about her, and if she does not ask questions about him, then there is no conversation to be had. As for Maris, well…she likes the idea of Aemond. Of someone who actually enjoys her mind, and shares academic conversations, but,” Ellyn lifted her shoulders in a shrug, “As far as I’m aware, they have not shared anything deeper. Though, I dare say, with all my sister’s intelligence, she isn’t particularly educated in matters of the heart. If it wasn’t Aemond, any man that showed an interest to her intellect and mind would be enough to convince her that they are in love with her.” 

“That does not make me feel any better, Ellyn,” Valeana picked at the grass too, covering her skirts with it. 

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m trying poorly to convey something… What I mean is… Do not feel guilty about it. My sisters are not compatible with either Aemond or Daeron. Floris is young, beautiful, she will not suffer singledom long. However, I do worry about Maris, but not for reasons you think. Maris is not stable.” 

With a furrowed brow, Valeana peered at Ellyn carefully, “What do you mean?”

“She does not like being insulted, which you did, but she also sees Aemond's sudden distance from her as an insult too. Maris is calm most of the time but, when she feels like she has been aggrieved, or humiliated, she is… reactionary, for lack of a better word. And with your step sister’s ill counsel… I fear she plans on doing something explosive to get back at you. I just do not know what, or when, or if it’ll happen at all. I just know my sister… And since you are my friend, I only wish for you to be cautious. Perhaps do not make your affections for Aemond so obvious, until the sky is clear, until Maris cannot do anything.” 

Tentatively, Valeana gave a soft nod, “Thank you for telling me. Though now I have to deal with your sister on top of my own. Is there anyone else out there that is trying to sabotage me for reasons unknown, that I should be aware of?” She turned to Wylla, “Do you have a sister I do not know about that is plotting to kill me?”

Wylla softly laughed, “Gods, no. Well, I have a half sister. She is baseborn, but she is not here, anyway. Besides, we northerners have no interest in pretty white-haired princes with soft bellies or thin waists. We like our men towering, hairy, and smelling like a campfire.” 

Ellyn wrinkled her nose at that, but otherwise said nothing. 

Valeana hummed, lifting up her leg to rest her arm on her knee, “Your brother smells cedarwood and raw masculinity, which also smells a bit like roasted venison. It does things to me.”

“You still try to covet my brother even with two Targaryen princes at your beck and call?”

“Key word is try,” Valeana shook the grass from her skirt in exasperation. In total unseriousness, she continued, “Though he seems too preoccupied with Alysanne Blackwood, and I cannot compete with a woman who breaks horses and looks like she can kill a man with her thighs.” 

“And I am sure she has!” 

Their laughter pulled their outing to a lighter conversation about this or that, leaving the stress of courtships and family behind. Though despite the change, something dreadful settled in Valeana’s gut as Ellyn’s warning about Maris echoed in her mind like a bad omen. She couldn’t shake the feeling; it felt like she was an animal, sensing the impending doom of a large, disastrous storm. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO SNEAK PEAK Valeana flipped back over, only to see a shadow looming on the right side of the bed. Her heart leapt in her throat, momentarily gagging her as she jumped and gaped, a scream nearly escaping her lungs. His hand flew to her mouth.  “Shh, shh,” Aemond crouched down next to her bed, his grip over her mouth softening when he saw her shoulders cave. “It’s only me.” When he removed his hand from her mouth, she gave him a sharp whack on the shoulder, “Aemond, I swear to the old gods and the new, the next time you do that I’m going to throw you down a flight of stairs.” “Wouldn’t that be an interesting sight,” Said another, causing Valeana to jostle a second time. She and Aemond whirled their heads towards the door with wide and alarmed eyes. And there in the dim light she could make out the short wavy silver hair of Aegon. 

Notes: I hope that was worth the 2 week wait )x I still didn't do as much as I wanted in the last two weeks. Didn't realize how much I just needed to unplug during the holidays, what with work stress, among some other things and stuffs. Though the chapter I'm currently working on is nearly done. I just hope the one after doesn't take me just as long, otherwise I may need to do another two-week wait. Also I just wanted to point out...the amount of times I had to watch that Vaemond and dinner scene just to write this chapter, and the Fem!Aegon one shot was so absurd. It used to be my favourate episode, but now I can't even watch it again XD Anyway, once again, I hope everyone had good and safe holidays, <3

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

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Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[butteronabun]

// very, very indulgent !! superhero au below!! ✨

hi so i just watched the new superman trailer and i’m gonna indulge over a superman diluc au now ( BECAUSE I A M HOOKED AND SEATED FOR 2025 )

LIKE i freaking know diluc is so batman coded ?? but imagine a universe where crepus didn’t die and he and his wife raised this clumsy, awkward and innocent diluc ragnvindr with glasses in the countryside ??? and this boy grew up to become a sweet, and chivalrous gentle giant who’s always cautious and CAREFUL over his super abilities because he knows how powerful he is 😍

then, when he gets into the daily planet to work as a journalist ( or in this case, let’s make it the STEAMBIRD LOL ), diluc develops romantic feelings and has the biggest crush on the bold and hardworking adrenaline junkie reporter fmc who can only reach his chest — hhhhh

just frothing at the mouf over the idea of the dedicated fmc talking in front of the lovesick diluc. like yes. talk abt his alter ego more and huh. you seem to really like him. he’s not jealous is he. right? right????

PLUS PLUS PLUS aughhh so weak for superman! diluc carrying the fmc in his arms when he goes out to save her OR post-identity reveal when he finally kisses her on the lips while flying in the air ! 🫶🏻

how hot the range is. diluc’s hair is down btw when he’s just diluc ragnvindr and when he’s superman it’s tied into a ponytail. oh i’m just indulging actually i’m seriously just indulging I’m trying to make this work just so i can ramble abt a superman au GKDHDKDJ

bonus: post-identity reveal where fmc is just flirty and also. shameless because she’s just. touching him everywhere ( his biceps, his chest, his abs ) because she can’t believe how lucky she is, and superman diluc is just. embarrassed LOL

my next idea is a spider-verse au or a spider-man au. roles are reversed, so i’m thinking of a fmc who gets bitten by a radioactive spider, and becomes spider-man at night!

i’m not sure if they will be in high school or college, but the the fmc and diluc know each other from school. they aren’t as close but they do acknowledge that they have different worlds. fmc has a roommate she trusts, while diluc is the handsome and mysterious kid that everyone likes. ig they interacted once and i’m digging into the idea of them being socially awkward ??

like maybe the fmc tries to strike up a conversation with him but diluc’s replies are short and curt because he’s not sure of what to say. maybe he was thinking a lot of things during that time LMAO

anyway, spider-man fmc is chill. she actually likes being spider-man and enjoys her powers! she explores the city and finds it nice that she gains a new purpose in life: saving mondstadt city! she even has her own customized spider-man outfit <3

soooo. the plot then gets exciting when spider-man fmc finally encounters the “darknight hero” she’s been hearing from forums ( BECAUSE IMAGINE IF FMC THINKS THAT SHE HAS A RIVAL / A COMPETITION WHEN IT COMES TO SAVING !!! ) while fighting some crime in the outskirts of the city 🤭

and she likes to think that she has the upper hand over powers when she gets to know that darknight hero is just. well. a rich guy with no powers ( but also and APPARENTLY, physically strong ?? ) oh fmc thinks this is unfair

these two heroes become a lil hostile at each other at first because, well, strangers ( comically, imagine spider-man fmc telling the darknight hero that she can rescue that kitten, but said darknight hero beats her to it first and they argue like little children / IMAGE: it’s just fmc whining and the darknight hero listening amusingly — which he will not admit btw — ), until they team up sometime in the future when they understand that they share the same goal: getting rid of the evil that plagues their city!

i think it’s just sweet that they’re comfortable in their alter egos 🫶🏻

also what if someone gets hurt… Gnhdjhdk maybe spider-man fmc perhaps??? and she’s just… being cradled in his arms???? and the darknight hero is just so, so worried and also a little upset because why did you do that. he can protect himself. so why did you shield yourself for me.

and fmc says the classic thing - “it’s because i care for you, you dummy,” and also because she’s a damn superhero!!!! and you know where it’ll lead there - the beginning of their stupid and slow burn romance

[hcgossips]

The PR stunt with the latest PR (used as a diversion) adopted many strategies present in the other PRs. But, I want to call attention, not exactly to strategies, but, to the reasons they have been adopting them. For so, I need to point out a fact.

But, before the fact, I need to say you won't like nor accept what I'm about to point out, 'cause it threatens your belief and the adoration (not admiration) you have for him, which makes you blind. But, once you realize it, this circus becomes weak, unsuccessful and loses its meaning. And NV will lose her latest popularity.

He was expecting just one more PR stunt as many others he had done before (Lucy, Gina, KC and you name it). But, someone made him a fool and used it on behalf of NV. Did he end up getting sexually involved with some of his PRs? Maybe. He thinks these deals are also a way he can bang women safely, without further headaches. For me, it's a glamorous way to practice prost****"***on.

She became the main character for having this intention all along (what he didn't realize until he was trapped) and that led to this shenanigan damage control, which he had a choice to avoid, but preferred to accept. - That shows how his moral standards work.

The entire time, NV was used as a shield, a cannon fodder, a diversion and a tool against fans, in exchange for a blue check mark on IG and easy popularity.

As the reaction they had of the PR stunt with her was overwhelming compared to their expectations and they had lost control of the idiotic fandom, damage control was imperative. The PR had already started her own self promotion and they thought that ending the plot would cause him much more damage. The Me Too Movement could accuse him of misogyny.

But, the strategies used to regain this control was to provoke animosity among his fandom. First, to keep a part of it believing his persona and also, to use this part against the others, who they called haters, toxic and accused of jealousy. They intentionally, put fan against fan, so a part could do their dirty damage control job.

Many fake fan pages and fake chats were created to influence and manipulate you. Pages started blocking and reporting each other. Many were the pages using NV as a target and diversion. She, actually, put herself available for that to save his ass. This was partially predicted and expected by whoever was supporting her, planned this PR stunt and had a certain control of his social media (with his consent).

The goal was to confuse and gaslight, to make you believe he was out of job, fired by TW production and not being called to big and iconic roles. Being out of service was a strategy. This way he would continue as a victim and that would motivate you to fight and ask for him in social media, to campaign on his behalf.

The rumoured articles about his behavior on set or against women were planted to generate algorithms, commotion and make fans fight for him so he could regain your sympathy.

That's why he has been avoiding social media and has only been in cameos and accepting insignificant roles. The goal now, is to recover the credibility of his old image, but slowly. Making you believe he's being unfairly treated by the industry is a strategy. This way, you would ignore his lack of morality while priotizing escorting.

But, continuing silent, with dubious and contradictory comments on interviews, such as the one about his IG being fictional and playing the fake paternity plot is not helping. On the contrary. Instead of damage control, he put more fuel to fire and discredited himself.

It is clear you are here to make his likes and algorithm grow, most, to portray him as a victimized boy used by a slut and rejected by the industry. That's a fallacy! That's why he's into and in agreement with everything. He needs to deceive and recover the fandom he despised back there.

Well, the problem with all this damage control was that they not only threw the PR under the bus. They threw him! They had the intention to cause rage against the PR so he would be protected, not criticized for his lack of morals and seen as her victim. But, the rage not only was directed to her, but to him, reasonably!

HE was the reason for all of this circus. This PR stunt was to boost his image as straight, self-confident womanizer man. But, it had a mandatory change (as damage control) promoting the PR as a diversion. It is IMPOSSIBLE to believe his team didn't see it coming. And I believe whoever is behind this PR plan had that intention all along.

He not only ended up being used by this woman and her troupe, but also exposed as a coward liar and hypocrite. Maybe this trap was a Me Too Movement set up. He lost credibility and the respect of fans. By accepting this damage control strategies he put himself in the place of a guy who sees his fandom as a step.

Fandom has been immorally manipulated, gaslighted and used in this dirty damage control. He's slowly trying to go back to the old AVATAR, expecting his fans will forget and ignore the fact he sacrificed them for spotlight, vanity and fame.

He staged this indecent plot, accepted the immoral strategies, is using a fake paternity as self-promotion, to promote movies and a woman .....let's say, of a bad reputation, to avoid being honest, to avoid accountability and afraid of the gay rumours and The Me Too accusations.

The fact is he's not the AVATAR you sigh for. Yes, "he's gorgeous as a God, sexy as hell, sweet as honey" (something I saw on an IG page). But, that's a mask. This self-confidence, moral, good family man AVATAR doesn't exist. He may have a few features of the AVATAR, but, he's not it.

This AVATAR is a character to gain your sympathy, your love and adoration so he can be famous, rich, make you ask for him in every movie and spend your money in box offices. He's giving the fandom a big f**k. So, before defending his integrity ask yourself: Was this circus dignified?

"Dignity comes before fame. Dignity always comes before fame". His words on a podcast. So, where is that dignity now?