#and this one is different in a lateral way. if that makes sense

[firendgold]

Harry and Lily's motivations and thought patterns can be said to be similar, though, even with how cruelly they were separated.

Harry did not have the chance to be raised by Lily, true. Personality is not solely shaped by genetics: also true. But Harry still shares Lily's stubbornness, cutting tongue, and her strong sense of justice. He shares her belief in the value of sacrifice, even when that sacrifice is personal, final, and has no guarantee of leading to the most ideal outcome. Like both Lily and James, like Sirius and Remus, Harry has no fear of sacrificing himself for friends and family—no fear of dying for what he believes in. He believes in doing things for the benefit of the many, even at his own expense.

This isn't because he's been "groomed" to be that way. It is an innate part of his character from the moment we first meet him in chapter 2 of book 1. It is a part of his character that is clear to characters like Albus, Sirius, Remus, and Severus without Harry ever having to express it in words. It's not an aspect of his character many people like that much, much less accept, but it is a distinct tie between Lily's character and Harry's.

The wizarding world has only a vague idea of who Harry is, and Harry is only infrequently bothered by their opinions of him. His strongest rejection of any role they might put him in is during year 5, when the general public's denial of Voldemort's return is literally threatening his life. But the Ministry and the general public don't have the slightest idea of who Harry is and what he's motivated by—ironically, very similar to many members of Harry's own fandom.

As for Lily's home life, we know that her parents adored her and she had a strong friendship with Severus. But we also know that all was not rosy (no pun intended) in her early life before she grew up and joined the fight against Voldemort. She and Petunia had a rocky relationship which only worsened the more Lily leaned into her identity as a witch. Her first best friend splintered off at some early point during their school years, splitting his time between her and a group of people who thought she was sub-human and a thief of magic. Of the other close friends she may have had, none seem to have outlived her, and she spent at least some of her last days on earth getting news of their deaths.

Lily does not get the screen time she deserves, and much of her behavior is left only to our speculation as fans. But Lily's words and choices in light of the few things we do know about her speak to a deep strength of character, an inflexible sense of right and wrong. Lily Potter is an altruistic woman who is able to empathize with others even without suffering a quarter of the harm that her son comes to experience once she is gone.

Harry was most certainly abused: neglected, treated as less than his cousin, left alone to handle problems no child should have to handle. But I'd argue that these things did not take away his sense of identity, or prevent him from having one; and that it's a common fanon misconception that Harry is either a beaten-down butterfly or a blank-slate everyman.

One of the thing many fans miss about Harry (despite how much his mistreatment is discussed) is that even with the way the Dursleys treat him, Harry does not bend or break before them. A different child might have been submissive, shy, obedient. They might have taken on some of the same ugly beliefs as their 'caretakers'. At eleven years old, Harry is and does none of those things. He is defiant. He is snarky. He is strong-willed, and extremely opinionated, and loyal—though he doesn't fall in line behind the first person with power or wealth or even a winning smile. As he matures throughout the series, these core traits mature with him.

The Harry who sends his friends away for help and decides to face Voldemort at eleven, knowing he will likely die, is the same Harry who goes in secret to face Voldemort at seventeen, knowing he will most certainly die. And he shares this choice, and the belief system it's based on, with the woman who threw herself in front of her killer, her son's would-be killer, and said please not Harry. Have mercy.

Harry Potter wasn't raised to be a soldier or a self-sacrificial lamb. Harry experienced criminal neglect in his early years and realized that no one was going to swoop in and save him when he needed help. He took that to mean that if he wanted something done, if he wanted to help others, he needed to do it himself. By the time he met with adults who did want to help him, and could have helped him, their hands were tied by murderous half-dead men and bureaucratic conservatist systems and discrimination and their own misconceptions of him and a million other things—and that cemented the part of Harry's personality that insisted he must handle things by himself.

And that, acting where others don't or won't, is a choice he makes on his own throughout the series. Harry has plenty of chances to run away from his issues, and a host of people who might have been glad to let him do it. But he doesn't, because he never wants to be a bystander. He never wants to be the type of person who turns his back on the suffering of others—like Wormtail, like the Death Eaters, like the Ministry of Magic. It is a trait he shares with his mother, who could have just as easily packed up and moved clear across the world when Voldemort started terrorizing Britain—but didn't.

Whether they are loved or hated by others, villainized or lionized, both Harry and Lily choose to make personal sacrifices to fight for what's right.

All this to say—I agree with the OP. Harry Potter is not James Potter and he is not Lily Evans Potter either. But I also believe Harry does have some of his parents' less obvious traits, traits which shine through in some of his most perilous moments and give him the strength to overcome his opponents. Still, Harry should NOT be written or interpreted as a carbon copy of either of his parents, because it was Harry James Potter alone who had the personality, the strength, the wisdom, and the selflessness necessary to destroy Voldemort.

Harry Potter is an extremely complex character who deserves actual deep analysis of his choices and character that aren't tied to what his parents said or did or how fans feel about his sacrificial tendencies.

harry potter is NOT james potter.

I love parallels. I love people reminding others of those they've lost along the way.

But Harry Potter is not James . And that is so vital to his entire character.

When people see Harry, they see James. They see a James who sees the world through Lily's eyes. When they see Harry, they don't see Harry.

And that is so vital to his entire being. It's vital to how people see Harry. The people that didn't know James, see the Boy-Who-Lived.

The people who did, who were close to Harry, to James, to Lily. They see James and Lily Potter. They see the people who died, people they were close to, people they miss every day but will never see again.

Remus, Sirius, Snape, McGonagall.

At first, they see James and Lily. And then when they meet him - apart from Snape- they quickly realise he is anything but.

Harry is not arrogant, rich, spoilt. He doesn't have an ego, he doesn't play pranks, he isn't a chaser, he doesn't pick fights.

Harry isn't exceptionally bright at everything he does, he isn't inconceivably forgiving for those who don't deserve it.

He is not Lily and James.

When peole write Harry as a golden retriever, as effortlessly good at everything, they aren't writing about Harry.

Harry who grew up not wanted. Harry who grew up believing something was wrong with him. Harry who was forced into the wizarding world with no knowledge. Harry who is as stubborn as a mule,. Harry who is loyal to a fault, who forgives those he loves, Harry who isn't his parents.

He has traits of them, their anger, their ability to love, and much much more.

BUT Harry Potter isn't them. He isn't the 'best of them both' he isn't James or Lily or Sirius or Regulus.

Harry Potter is Harry. Just Harry.

And that is why he doesn't get along ith Snape. That's why McGonagall believes Harry dragged Neville out for a joke in first year.

When people see Harry, they don't see Harry. And by writing Harry as somebody else, or as 'so-and-so's child' you're not doing the character justice.

'I want a complex character with complex relationships'

'i want an angry character'

'i want to read a book that makes me think'

you couldn't even handle Harry Potter.

[casscainmainly]

A Deep Dive Into Why Cass Threw Dick Out A Window

If you've been here long enough you've probably seen or heard of this moment, which is super hilarious and iconic. It's mostly discussed in reference to Dick and Cass' relationship. However, in my opinion Cass throwing Dick out a window had very little to do with her opinion of him, or even of Barbara; it has more to do with her understanding of romance and love. I briefly touched on this in my gender/sexuality post, but I'm going to explain more in depth my interpretation of how Dick functions in Batgirl (2000) as a whole. (This moment is very open to interpretation though, this is just my opinion!). So let's try to answer Dick's question: what was that all about?

Love, Language, and DickBabs

While Puckett's run is notable for not having Cass date anyone, romantic love does play a role in Cass' early understanding of the world. It's the impetus that spurs her to write: in issue 2, she sees a wife read a letter from her deceased husband, and her reaction affects Cass so strongly she immediately starts trying to write. (She also kisses the husband on the cheek earlier, which may or may not be a crush). Romance, and the ability to communicate your love, is a fundamental part of Cass' desire to learn language.

So we have Cass, who has experienced neither love nor language, living with Babs, who's in a relationship with Dick. This telephone conversation in #4 (the issue where a metahuman changes Cass' brain into understanding language) again links romance to communication. Dick and Babs are talking on the phone, unable to see each other but understanding each other perfectly; Cass and Babs, on the other hand, live together and can't understand each other at all.

"She can't talk, so it's not all that different [to living alone]." Babs is telling an eavesdropping Cass that her inability to speak prevents her from love and connection - a love and connection symbolised by one of the first romantic relationships Cass is consistently around, Dick and Barbara.

Dick as an Ideal

There's a debate whether Cass likes Dick or not because half the time they're friendly, and half the time she's punching him or throwing him out windows. This disparity makes sense if you consider that Cass strongly associates DickBabs with communication, understanding, love - very idealised notions - but she does not associate Dick as a person with them. Her interactions with Dick (sans Babs) are cute and normal - Batgirl #29 and Nightwing #81 feature some very adorable Dick-Cass moments, with no real tension whatsoever.

It's only when Cass sees Dick in a romantic light (as in associated with Babs) that she makes him into a symbol.

Cass often tries to copy Babs, thinking it's the 'correct' thing to do - in DC First: Batgirl/Joker, she goes after Joker because that's what Barbara did; later in Horrocks' run she'll wear Barbara's outfit. In a way, Cass' affairs with Tai'Darshan and Kon - as much as I do think Tai'Darshan was genuine attraction - is another way to 'copy' Barbara. In #42, Cass stares at a picture of Dick and Babs while asking if Babs likes boys. Obviously Cass knows the answer is yes, but see what she asks next, and how Barbara responds:

She shifts from 'like' to 'love', and Babs responds that she 'care[s]' about him. For Cass, whose arc in Horrocks' run is about parsing out the nuances of attraction, understanding the difference between like, love, and care is incredibly difficult. She struggles to separate familial from romantic (Bruce in #50) or romantic from platonic (Kon, and in somewhat the reverse way Steph). In this conversation, Cass comes to associate Dick with like, love, and care - DickBabs becomes not just a symbol of romantic love, but of any connection whatsoever.

The Old Costume

I've discussed elsewhere that Cass wearing Babs' old costume in #45 is a representation of her desire to be 'girly', and how she associates girlhood with someone other than herself, discarding her own costume for Babs'. But putting on a costume is not the only prerequisite for being a 'girl'. In Babs' speech to Cass, she emphasises being sexually attractive to men, with her final comment being about this "particular look Dick used to give [her]". For Cass, visual language is incredibly important; putting on Babs' costume is not about being or feeling like a girl, but about being perceived as one. Dick is symbolic of the perceiver: the one who can essentially 'grant' women their femininity.

But Cass is disgusted when Tim calls her hot, which adds to her confusion - why should Dick being attracted to Babs make Babs happy, but Tim (who's not a sibling at this time) perceiving her like that grosses her out? Cass' inability to feel good - to feel 'feminine' - through the male gaze is another sign, to her, of her failure to be a woman.

Which finally brings us to issue 46...

That Ableist Kon Comment

Cass finds out Dick breaks Babs' heart and then starts hallucinating on a drug. One of the things she hallucinates is Kon saying "who wants to date a cripple? Ain't that right, Nightwing?" and Nightwing responding "not me--at least, not anymore."

For the first time, we get to the heart of why DickBabs mattered to Cass: it was an example of a disabled person in a loving, romantic relationship. It goes back to that phone call in #4, where Babs implies that Cass is hard to care about because she can't speak. The Kon comment suggests Cass has carried that with her all this time, trying to find proof that she can be loved, no matter her disability. DickBabs showed her it could be done - the break-up shows her now that it can't be done.

Dick's hallucination mocks her disability: "look at her--she can't even read!" Attributing this mockery to Dick (whose real-life counterpart, unlike the other hallucinations, has never said anything remotely like this) shows that this 'Dick-as-ideal' is intrinsically tied to Cass' self-worth.

Honestly this whole post stemmed from me thinking about this one panel. There is no real reason, from Cass' view of Dick as a person, for her to think he's brave and noble and kind (more so than anyone else). But it's in the DickBabs context - that Dick seemed to love, wholeheartedly, a disabled woman - that makes Cass think this way. And now that DickBabs is broken up, it shows that she, too, is rotten to the core; that someone like her cannot be loved.

And so when Dick shows up, she throws him out the window.

Conclusion

In this moment, Cass isn't just reacting to Dick breaking up with Barbara, she's reacting to what it means to her. If Dick can't stay with Barbara, then that means Cass, as another disabled woman, is also unable to be loved. This all leads up to #50, which features another Cass punch to Dick's face, but more importantly is when Bruce and Cass reconcile through Cass' first language. It's a confirmation that though her verbal skills may not be fully developed, she still can communicate, and she can love and be loved.

I don't think a lot of the ideas I touched on here are fully developed, or conclude cleanly. For example, how does Cass' 'failure' to be a woman relate to her inability to be loved? Is she able to have a stable romantic relationship? There are lots more questions, but the role Dick specifically plays in Cass' understanding of romance is probably not going to develop further. I just think it's interesting how Horrocks uses the Dick-Babs relationship to explore Cass' identity.

[heartandbow]

Midnight Blue

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER SMUT

summary: Bucky hated you in many different ways, and tonight was no exception. tw; smut, choking, dom!bucky.

Despite Bucky's reputation of being big, bad, and dangerous, there is yet to be a time he ever scared you. Even now, where he was in the very building somewhere to kill you, you knew his only weakness — he couldn't sneak around.

It's not surprising when you think about it. With his death stare and metallic arms, anybody would spot him coming from a mile away. You just have to make sure you're faster than him, which happened to be your specialty. Being a thief for the last few years taught you everything there is to know about blending in with the shadows.

Which was a shame, you thought, because I look nice today.

You did look nice. You were currently in a gala for some valiant cause or other, hosted by some rich businessman you hadn't bothered to catch the name of. You had on your midnight blue gown, embedded with pearls that reflected off the champagne glasses and Rolex watches.

"Excuse me," one of the attendees said, tapping your shoulder. "Are you Miss Malley?"

"No," you smiled broadly, knowing the guy was about to hit on you any second.

"Oh, my mistake." He had a sheepish grin. "I'm Shane. Can I buy you a drink?"

"The drinks are free," you said, grinning right back.

"I know."

"Aren't you busy trying to find Miss Malley?"

"Who?" The smile hadn't worn off.

This particularly uninteresting conversation was cut short by sudden silence at the gala. The foolish sack of a man had diverted your attention just enough that you saw a metallic death stare at the end of the gala — a stare that seemed just for your particular demise.

Don't panic, you thought, staring right back. He wouldn't dare hurt you with this many people present. Even then, he was making his way towards you. You moved away, silent as a ghost.

With each turn of crowd, you realized you might quite possibly be stuck. Bucky had brought in reinforcement ranging from Natasha Romanoff to Captain America, all of them in regal formal attire and in different corners. No one except Bucky had spotted you, possibly because he was the only person who actually had a personal vendetta against you.

Get out, your brain said clearly. Get out before they bring you to Stark. You had enough beef with that man to last for a lifetime.

You grimaced, then looked for the exit. Not the one that the attendees use, no, that would be too easy. You headed for the staff exit, the one behind the kitchen.

---------------

Half an hour later, you were walking through the dark alley, your heels clinking against the pavement. You were exhausted from all the walk, but you were used to this dance by now. Move until the target is off your back. That's how it's always been.

You wondered if you'd ever get tired of the steps.

Someone whistled. You turned to see a man around his late 40s, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"How much for the night, sweetie?"

You squinted. He looked harmless enough. You kept on walking, ignoring his continuous calls behind your back.

"Don't be like that! What, I'm not young enough for you? I thought your kind took money from anyone with a dick!"

You had half a mind to punch him in the face with the hidden knife.

No, walk on. Last thing you need is a corpse on the street.

A second passed, then two. The man's immediate silence ticked off your senses. You turned around to see him on the floor, unconscious. Somehow, it did not look like it was the alcohol that took him out.

You were almost impressed when a knife appeared at your throat from behind.

"You're getting better at sneaking around," you said proudly. "You didn't have to knock him out though. Chap was not laying a hand on me."

"Shut the fuck up." Bucky's raspy voice sent a jolt of adrenaline down your spine. His anger was controlled, but you still could hear it.

"Your wish." You stepped on his shoes. He let out a pang of hurt, not expecting your heels to feel that sharp.

One moment of distraction, that's what cost him. You whipped your gun and faced him, smile on your face.

"How did you find me?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"That hardly matters." He put his hand out, grabbing the gun, or trying to anyways. You stepped out of the way just in time and he grunted.

"You need to loosen up. Like the night we did the Catherbury mission, remember?"

That only seemed to rile him up more. You didn't think he even cared that much about the fact that you were in Avengers a good deal of time before you sneaked into Stark's office, got his card, stole a great deal of gadgets and sold them off the black market. You didn't think he even cared you were the biggest thief in the city, one that fooled even the avengers.

His vendatta against you was personal, because he considered you his friend. The cold, cruel Bucky was duped for the world to see.

"I really think we should sit down and talk," you said, the gun still held high. "Everything I did was business Bucky, stop taking it so personally."

Bucky's face showed just a tinge of hurt, but then he hurled — no weapons, no hesitation. Just full-on pounced on you, and your back hit the wall.

"If everything wasn't so fucking personal, shoot me," he practically spat out those words.

You realized you hadn't even thought of using the gun that lay hanging lifeless from your hands. You tried to grip it, but Bucky pushed his hand on top of it, bending the metal seamlessly in a way it was upside down. You let it go and tried to move.

Bucky clapped his hands on the wall on either side of your head. His eyes were smeared with charcoal and he smelt like musky cologne.

"Where's your disappearing act now?" he whispered, making you feel all sorts of things.

"Let me go," you said, gritting your teeth. God, he was standing too close.

He bent his head down and brought his lips near your ears.

"You've no clue how long I wanted to have you like this," he said, making your heart skip a beat. "Unescapable, vulnerable, scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You should be." He put his hand — the non-metallic one — over your throat. His touch was gentle, but the message was clear; he could kill you in a touch.

Though it didn't help that you liked it a little too much.

"How did you find me?" you asked again, calmly.

"Shane is my friend. He put a GPS tracker on you. I knew you'd run so all I had to do was wait."

You were impressed yet again.

"How did Shane find me? I was blending in the crowd well."

Bucky's eyes shone brighter. "You weren't going to blend in with a dress that beautiful," he stopped, removing his hand. It was as if he just realized how close he actually was to you. His eyes slid down to your lips just a second. His hands started lowering from the wall to your waist.

Then his lips were on yours, and you could have sworn he put all his anger into it. One kiss and he was prying your lips open, making out with you in that dark alley with a knocked out man five feet away.

"James," you whined between kisses, pulling him closer. The moans did things to his brain. He slid his hands through the slit of your dress, grabbing your thigh with a force that had you unnerved.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He closed your mouth with his other hand. "No, listen to me first. I want you to mean it. Completely. Because I don't know the things I'll do to you when you say yes."

In response, you took his hand from your thighs and slid them higher, right into your panties. You pressed your body against his and you could feel him being hard.

"I hate you," he said curtly, then picked you up with effortless strength. Two minutes and you were in a secluded part of the alley, and he was setting you down on an old bench. He bent down, keeping eye contact with you all the while.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, placing a kiss on your neck. You moaned, but didn't move. He dragged your lips from your collarbones to the edge of your neckline, and pulled the dress down.

Without waiting a beat, he took off your bra and kissed your nipples.

"Bucky," you whined, and all he did was bite down harder. He let his hand drag down and pushed two fingers right into your pussy. The pain was immediate and pleasurable. His pace was slow and you started grinding on his fingers for more friction.

"Shush," he said, taking off his fingers and setting you up straight. "Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?"

"Yes," you said, moving in for a kiss. He turned his head away.

"Beg."

"Fuck me Bucky, please." You moved your hand to his pants, and he looked like he might lose all control. A few seconds of unbuckling and he took you in his arms, pressing you down to the bench and spread your legs wide.

You were wet already, and the sight of his big, hard cock hadn't helped. You were dripping down your panties.

"Beg," he said again, taking off your panties and throwing them away.

"Please fuck me, James, fuck—" you gasped when he thrust his dick in you. A moment of holding onto his hand and he was fucking you like you were his. He leaned over and bit down on your neck. A kiss and a few sucking and you knew that was going to leave a mark.

You didn't care. You were being dicked out of your soul and you were taking every second of it.

Then it stopped. He pulled away from you, his dick still hard. You were confused to see that big smile on his face, even more so when he started zipping his pants.

"You left me three months ago," he said, straightening his hair. He leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Next time you think of me, I want you to think of me fucking you like you're my bitch. How having my hands on your throat was enough to make you wet."

Revenge. That's what it was?

"You wanted to fuck me to make me regret lying to you?" you asked breathlessly, feeling ashamed that it already worked.

Bucky smiled. "I wanted to fuck you for a whole lot reasons Y/N, but I also want you to knock on my door and apologize, preferably on your knees and begging. On all fours. I'd sacrifice the rest of the night to see that."

He pulled you up and put the dress on tidily. "Goodbye. And, you really do look beautiful."

Motherfucker, you thought to yourself as he left.

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commissions info

kofi

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[capitanooos]

coins and sapphires, swords and sandals // lucius verus x reader

-`♡´- pairing : lucius verus x reader (fem)

-`♡´- summary : when readers first betrothed unwillingly finds his way back to Rome as a gladiator, things go differently than he had expected.

-`♡´- warnings : violence, gladiator 2 spoilers, and 1 too i guess, kiss kiss mwahmwah. acacius as readers daddy. reader is about 25, lucius 27ish to make the timeline in my head work lol.

-`♡´- notes : i guess this can count as a summary, or introduction to a whole fanfic ill write soon cause i cant get enough of paul mescal as lucius hihihhihi

-`♡´- word count : 4538

dont translate, modify or repost my work. you do not have permission. not my gif

211 AD 

As the farewells came to an end and the halls of the Acacius villa emptied, silence returned once more. 

Ever since her father returned from his conquest in Numidia [Name] her life felt like a sick joke. From her black clothing, to the tear stains on her cheeks, to the constant visits of important people. Her second husband was dead. Her third love had left her alone in this world. The gods had damned her. 

As she sipped the wine from her cup she stared at the fish in the water. So carefree, swimming endless circles in the pool, not having to worry for a second of losing their loved ones. They looked stunning, the fire from the lanterns reflecting on their colorful scales as they let out small air bubbles. 

“Dear,” Lady Lucilla stood behind her, speaking to her softly as she moved to sit at [Name]'s side, also admiring the colorful fish. Now the two were connected by her father, Marcus Acacius, but before that their connection would’ve laid with [Name] her first betrothed. Lucius Verus. It had been nearly twenty years since his disappearance, and as time went, it became evident he would not be returning. He was presumed dead. 

[Name] had gone on to marry a high lord as was expected of her. The lord who died of illness that took him away quickly, not too long after their marriage. She knew his interests lay not with women, they had an understanding and he was a good man. Had he lived longer, she knew her life would have been well with him, for he would never have hurt her, but alas, the good never live long. 

Two years later, she remarried. As a lady of her status and bloodline, it was her duty. This time she married one of her fathers trusted advisers. A man, not older than thirty. With him, she had carried one child, who never lived to take his first breath. Two and a half years later, her second husband followed their child to the next world.

Now she had returned home once again, sharing a roof with her father and stepmother once more. The house that once kept Lucius safe and warm too. 

“I feel for you, daughter.” Lucilla spoke again softly. Her hand comes up to caress [Name]s in a sense of comfort. The younger of the two women looked up, the tears in her reddened eyes reflecting in the red of the fire. Unlike the beautifully reflecting fish, her tears were angry, full of grief, shame. They fell with no shame. Tear after tear, grieving all that she had lost, and seemed to continue losing.

“As the daughter of our beloved General Acacius we mourn with you, Lady [Name]. It brought us much regret to hear of the passing of your late husband.” Much to her surprise, Emperor Geta spoke as he looked at her when she bowed before him in greeting. She was invited to one of their parties, where they would allegedly show one of the barbarians they captured in Numidia. 

“Thank you, sire.” [Name] bowed her head at the Emperors again. They intimidated her, as they did with almost the whole of Rome. In the few times she had the absolute pleasure of being in their presence, she had always stuck close to her father, later on husbands, when they’d approach. The looks in their eyes scared her, they were like lions, able to snap and attack at any moment. 

“Ah, you’re the girl who was betrothed to Lady Lucilla’s boy?” Emperor Caracalla spoke up as he looked at [Name] with funny eyes. She froze before nodding, 

“Yes, sire, may the gods be with him.”

Emperor Geta gave his brother a look, seemingly confused as to how his brother would remember that given his… situation. He waved her away with a small half smile before returning his attention back to one of his concubines. 

Giving one last bow, she moved to the sidelines, her once black dresses now back in their usual colorful state. Jewellery adorning her neck, hands, arms, waist, and ears clicking like a soft jingle as she walked among lords and ladies. Eventually her eyes laid on one of her friends. “Fortuna,” she smiled as she approached the woman. “I’m so glad to see you.”

The woman returned her greeting, pulling the other woman in for an embrace. “I’m also glad to see you here, out of your mourning clothes with that.” She spoke as she linked their arms together and moved back through the crowd. “Father says he’s getting the fiercest of the barbarians your father captured here to fight one of the Emperors their own champion.” smiles were exchanged as they politely pushed through the people. “Here look, he’s sitting right there.” Fortuna pointed to an exit, there on a bench sat a young man, looking down at the ground. 

His dark blonde hair shone brightly from beneath the dirt that coated it. Cuts covered his face and arms, and probably the rest of his body too. She couldn’t see much more than that as Fortuna kept talking and walking to the front of the crowd to get a better view at the fight that was to happen soon.

“I saw him fight in the arena where my father bought him. He was biting away at some of the apes they fought. They call him the ape-eater.”

The guests cheered as the Emperors their champion was brought in. He bowed before the red haired rulers and they offered him a nod. [Name] her gaze wasn’t laid on either the Emperors or their champion. It was laid on the barbarian from Numidia who was being brought in. His shackles were undone when he stood in front of the Emperors as well. Up close she could see his bright blue eyes as they reflected in the sunlight that entered the big room. His facial features were sharp and he looked exactly like the statues of Roman heroes. [Name] her mouth slightly hung open as only one thought ran through her mind. 

Lucius

As the name ran through her mind like a mantra the barbarian looked at her, and his eyes grew a tiny bit. His gaze was fierce and his beautiful blue eyes were filled with rage and anger as he studied her own eyes. 

Lucius

His gaze swept over her face, down her body before snapping back to her eyes. His gaze now hardened as he looked at her again before turning his head away as a sword was thrusted into his hands.

Emperor Caracalla’s giggles and the screeches of his monkey echoed through the room as they fought, but [Name] her gaze was stuck on the same spot on the wall where the barbarian stood seconds ago. 

Yelps and screams snapped her out of her trance and her eyes looked around, breathing out in relief when she saw the barbarian unharmed, impaling the Emperor's gladiator with his sword. The crowd cheered and clapped as the fallen champion was dragged out. [Name] continued to stare at the barbarian, who resembled so much more than he realized, as he refused to speak to the emperor. 

His laugh echoed through the room as he finally opened his mouth after Marcrinus made up a lie. He stared at the Emperor intensely as he took a step toward him. The former took a small staggering step back as fear crossed his face for a split second, unknowing what the barbarian in front of him might do if he stayed within arms length of him.

“The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way. But…” [Name] her mouth fell open in shock of hearing Virgil, poetry coming out of his mouth, “...to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.” 

The edges of [Name] her vision began to go dark as she held onto Fortuna for support. The woman glanced down at her and upon seeing her pale face she brought her to a place to sit. The dark haired woman searched the others' eyes, not being able to find anything.

“What is the matter, friend?”

[Name] held a hand to her sweating forehead as she closed her eyes. Trying to get rid of her false hope and get herself together before anyone noticed that she was acting off. 

“I suppose my stomach can not handle violence and bloodshed from this close up.” she lied with a small laugh, hoping she didn’t act too out of character for herself. “It felt like I was about to have a fainting spell.” 

The other woman smiled as she offered her her drink. “I’ll have someone call for your carriage to get back home.”

The ride home was a blur. It must have been nothing more than a coincidence. It couldn’t have been anything else. She was greeted by a servant who accompanied her to her rooms and helped her change. The summer heat peaked these days and even the lightest clothes seemed suffocating if you wore them too long. 

She kept silent for hours. The servants assumed she was still mourning her late husband, which would make sense. Supper went the same, any questions were just answered with a nod or shake of her head, eyes cast down at the food on her plate or the wine in her cup. Lucilla and Acacius exchanged looks, and Acacius couldn’t help but see his daughter as herself from a decade ago. Rebellious in her teen years, maturing into a young woman, looking more and more like her biological mother who had left the world too soon. He could see past her facade, he could see the clockworks rotating in her head, focussed, thinking, lost somewhere deep in her own world up in her head. 

After dinner she had quickly excused herself before returning to her quarters. She stood in front of the collection of crystals, rocks, gems, and other small trinkets that laid on the desk. They had collected dust over the years that they had laid there. Their price value wouldn’t be that high, but their emotional value lay high. Higher than any money could ever buy. 

Back when Lucius and she were betrothed, she was no older than six summers, Lucius not a full moon above eight. Lady Lucilla had a big part in the betrothal, knowing the girl’s mother as a childhood friend from court and believing they would make a strong couple. The daughter of a general, and the Prince of Rome. When Lucius had found out, he saw it not as a betrothal but as a friendship, after all, they were both children, they wouldn’t understand until at least a little later in life. 

So always if Lucius found out [Name] would be in the city, he’d have his guards find her so he could give her small gifts. They were young but the pair grew oddly fond of each other and soon, a whole shelf of crystals and other precious shining items came to be in her rooms. 

The years after Lucius’ disappearance she understood more and more how much he had meant to her, what would’ve been if he was still here, how different her life would have been. The items meant everything to her, for they were her last real connection to Lucius. 

“You know, I would always be missing some items from my jewellery boxes when Lucius went out into the city. Or sometimes it was servants who reported missing items from the halls.” Lucilla said as she stood in the doorframe, admiring the young woman who had a bright green gemstone pressed against her chest. “It didn’t take long before I found out it was Lucius who took them. I followed him into the city, to the markets where I saw him giving you something. I watched as you took out a gold butterfly and smiled brightly. I never said a thing about the missing items, and often I laid out things for him to find and take.” Slowly she walked into the room and stood beside [Name] “He really loved you.”

The young girl nodded. 

“What is bothering you, daughter?” Lucilla took one of her hands, holding it tightly as she searched her stepdaughter's eyes. They were filled with sorrow, her whole face portrayed it. She felt [Name] grip her hand as she stared at her. 

“The Numidian barbarian I watched fight at the Emperors’ gathering…” she shook her head, looking down at the green stone in her hand. 

Even when all hope seems lost, know it will return. Little wise Lucius Verus’ words from when he gave her this stone rang through her head.

“Curls as blonde as your own, eyes as blue as the heavens.” Lucilla’s eyes were still on her, “The only thing I could think of when I saw him was Lucius. He recited Virgil; The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way… Lucilla, you mustn't think of me as crazy.” 

She felt the elder woman tighten her grip on her hand as she slowly pulled her along. They walked through the halls, crossed the courtyard, and entered the secret door that led to Lucius his former chambers. [Name] had only been there once or twice, years and years ago. 

Lucilla stood still as she looked up, where drawings and words decorated the walls. [Name] followed her gaze, eyes widening upon realization. The words laid right in front of her, the exact words the blue eyed barbarian had recited. 

The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way. But to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies. 

“General Justus Acacius, and with him his daughter [Name] and his wife, Lucilla! The daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius! 

[Name] entered the Emperor's box in the Colosseum behind her father and Lucilla, hearing the people cheer for her father as they were introduced. It would forever surprise her how loud, and how massive the place was. She did not attend the games often, for it was known the bloodshed often fell bad on her stomach, but now, she felt like she needed to attend. 

She took her seat next to Lucilla as her father spoke to the citizens. His voice rang through the crowd as they chanted his name. She saw Emperor Geta look in her direction, smiling wickedly when he caught her eyes before turning back around. 

As the announcer spoke up again, the doors opened and the first gladiators came out. [Name] held her breath in fear as she looked among them. Her hand was interlinked with Lucilla’s, who saw him before she did and tightened her hand so hard her knuckles turned white. She followed her stepmother's gaze, and her eyes landed on the blue eyed barbarian once again and she returned the grasp on her stepmother's hand. The gladiator's eyes shifted to hers, and his gaze held familiarity, but before she could react, he had already looked away.

The south doors opened and in came the Emperor's prized champion. 

“Hail Caesars!” he bellowed and the crowd followed with cheers and chants. 

The two women up in the Emperor's box held their breath as they exchanged a knowing look. A mutual understanding. 

Boo’s echoed through the stadium, cheers encouraged the gladiators, excitement buzzed and the emperors grew more blood thirsty every time a gladiator dodged the massive rhino. 

When the blue eyed barbarian thrusted his sword down into the sand, and bent down to grab two fistfuls of sand she heard Lucilla breathe out a shuddering breath as she looked at him in curiosity and confusion.

The rhino crashed into the wall of the arena, causing a stir in the crowd and the Emperors rushed to the railing to see what happened like two little boys. A fight broke loose, the rider of the rhino and the barbarian fought. The upper hand going to the rider of the rhino, he kicked and threw the barbarian around and Emperor Geta spoke up.

“Brother, it’s that poet, is it not?” he spoke as he watched his brother sit back down with the excuse of not knowing. “The gates of hell are open night and day… Smooth is… I forgot… Smooth the…”

“Smooth is the descent, easy is the way.” 

Below, the fight was still going, clouds of dust rising up in the arena as the crowds chanted for mercy. The chants turned into roars of excitement as the Emperor granted mercy in the name of the Gods. “No mercy!” the barbarian yelled, looking up to the box as he rested on one knee. “I would rather face your blade, than accept Roman mercy!” With that he stood up as the rhino rider charged for him again. 

It happened in the blink of an eye as he rolled around and sliced his sword into his chest, watching how he fell to his knees as he cradled the wound. Now the crowds chanted for the kill, and the barbarian complied. The crowds were loud before, but now they went ballistic, and [Name] was certain all of Rome could hear them chant the gladiator's name. 

“Hanno! Hanno! Hanno!”

The name continued to ring through [Name] her head as they made their way home. Lucilla had seen for herself what [Name] had told her days prior, and she too knew this was her son. Two decades had gone by since she had sent him off for his own safety. Two decades of wondering if her son was still alive, and now he had stood below her, captured in Numidia, fighting on the same ground where his father died. 

Marcus Acacius was now looking at two distressed women. The two women he held closest to his heart, seeming in utter despair as they held their silence. 

“Alright, what is the matter?” he spoke up once they reached the safety of their home, he couldn’t pretend any longer. He watched as the two women exchanged a glance, then stared confused as Lucilla ordered the servants out of the room. 

“Lucius is alive,” [Name] started and her father looked at her with widened eyes. Her eyes were cast down on the stones at their feet, hand wrapped around the golden necklace at her neck. 

Acacius looked at his wife who nodded, “He’s alive.” 

He closed his eyes, his memories instantly snapping back to the young prince he once knew as his future son-in-law. The small, blonde boy with eyes as bright as the heavens.

“You are certain?”

“Yes, I know my son.”

[Name] her father sat down, looking at her. The tears were gathering in her eyes, she had mourned that boy greatly for many years. For a while she had refused to marry her first husband, saying it felt wrong, knowing she was still promised to another. She had prayed to the gods, prayed for his safety, prayed for his safe return to Rome, and now it seemed it had become reality. 

“Father, I knew it was him when I watched him fight at the Emperors’ gathering. His reaction to seeing me was enough to prove my suspicions.” she met her fathers eyes, walking toward him and taking one of his hands in hers. “I know of your plans. I overheard the conversations with the senators. The dream of Marcus Aurelius. With Lucius alive, those two ginger maniacs have less claim to the empire. Please allow me to speak to him, get him to work with us. Fortuna won’t tell a soul if I ask her, she is like a sister to me and she owes me a favor.” 

If Lucius Verus was truly alive, and back in Rome, that would change everything. Their plans to overthrow the Emperors would be easier with a male heir, the heir of Emperor Commodus, Lucilla knew that too. So Acacius nodded at his daughter, whose teary eyes turned into a smile as she embraced her father. 

“Thank you, father.” 

Once she stopped in front of the gates to the place Marcinius kept his gladiators, she slipped off her horse. Her fathers personal guard stood at a distance, ensuring her safety on the road. She walked to one of the sides, looking for the window she knew too well and when she did she called out.

“Fortuna!” It was soft, but loud enough for the other woman to poke her head out of the window. She nodded and disappeared again before appearing at the side gate leading to her and her fathers house. 

“I want to see the gladiator Hanno.”

Her friend looked at her in shock but grinned as she took her hand and led her through the now dark courtyard. She was never more thankful for her friend as she opened the cell and let her in, standing on the lookout not far away.

“So, you’re the barbarian from Numidia.” [Name] spoke as she looked at the gladiators back. He wore no shirt and she could see the scars and wounds on his toned back. “Hanno, no?”

He turned around when she called his name, eyes once more growing in surprise as he saw her.

“My lady, yes.” he said, eyes tracing her whole form. From her dark blue dress to her dark robe, and the singular gold necklace, it was different as opposed to the light colors and many jewellery items she wore when he had first seen her. “What do you need from me?”

She studied his eyes, he was much closer now than he’d been in the last few days. The moon light shone in through the high barred window and fell on his face.

She took off her necklace and she held it up in front of his face. “Do you know who this is?” she spoke as the coin shimmered in the moonlight, illuminating the face on it. 

LUCIUS VERUS II it read around the face. 

“Lucius Verus the second?” Hanno spoke, reading it off the coin. 

“You can read, you know Virgil, I’ve been informed you know Roman history, you fight like-” fought exactly like the boy she used to watch as he parred with his guards. “Like a trained Roman swordsman. You are no Numidian, so don’t pretend to be one, Lucius.” 

He raised his brows at her, at her choice of words, at the name she called him. A cocky smile adorned his face as he took a daring step forward, his smile widening when she didn’t move back, instead only straightening her back and raising her chin to look at him.

“Whoever you think I am, you are wrong.” Hanno bent down a little, towering over her as she held his fierce gaze.

She reached into the pocket of her cloak, her fingers wrapping around the cold stone as she brought it out.

“Nineteen summers ago, I got this sapphire from my betrothed, the young prince Lucius Verus. When he gave it to me he said the words; even when all hope seems lost, know it will return. Not long later after that he disappeared. Whether he knew it then or not, he would be our hope in the future. He is our hope now. Not only to save Rome from the rule it is now under, but also to bring the dream of Marcus Aurelius to reality.”

Hanno looked at her, something in his gaze changed as he stood straight again. His gaze fell to the small treasures in her hand. 

“You carry the face of a missing prince around your neck? How your husband must like that.” he scoffed as he turned his back to her once more.

“He was a dear friend, and a great loss not only to me, but his mother too. I loved the prince, with my entire heart. I still do.”

That had Hanno turning his head around, looking at her as she turned to leave the cell before turning her own face back to him. 

“Lucius Verus is our last hope. Stay alive gladiator.” 

“Wait,” Hanno turned back around and took a big step forward, she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Why? Why do you think I am your precious prince.”

[Name] turned around to face him, her brows furrowed at his choice of words, his arrogant, nearly mocking tone. She looked at the necklace that was dangling between them. 

“The gods have damned me, but that does not mean I forget the ones I love. Some things do not change, can not change. You have three birthmarks on the left side of your neck. Along with a scar covering both of your calves from the same sword strike from when you insisted on practicing with real swords with your uncle, Emperor Commodus.” She reached a hand up to his neck, lightly touching the three birthmarks before trailing behind him, and sure enough, the white lines covering his calves stood out among his toned skin. “The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth is the descent and easy is the way. Those are the lines written on the walls of your childhood bedroom. I can go on, but I knew it was you from the first moment we made eye contact at the Emperors’ gathering.” she finished as she circled back in front of him.

Hanno looked at her with wide eyes, his breathing heavy. He had not counted on being recognised that easily. Hell, he had not even counted on seeing her. His eyes darted between hers before they fell on her soft, plush lips. All those years and she still remembered the smallest things about him, carrying his face around her neck, close to her heart. Kept the trinkets he had gifted her all those years ago. She risked her life coming here just to seek confirmation of what she already knew.

“We-”

He pressed his lips against her own, his worn and scarred hands coming up to cup her face as she returned the kiss. Her hands moved to his chest, one pulling him closer by the back of his neck as the other felt his heart go crazy below his skin. The kiss was slow but rough as one of his hands travelled to her lower back and pulled her body closer to his. 

They broke apart when they heard soft footsteps approaching. They looked to the door of the cell to see Fortuna motioning it was time for [Name] to go. 

[Name], who still held the gold necklace in her hand, looked up at the man before her. She reached for the necklace with her other hand before moving them around Hanno’s neck and locking it. 

“Remember who you are, and remember what is rightfully yours.” she cupped his cheek and he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. “Stay alive, Lucius.”

-`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´--`♡´-

dont forget to like and reblog <3 please😓😓

dont translate, modify or repost my work. you do not have permission.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Imagine Early Mornings with Bruce Wayne

Mornings in the Wayne Manor, you have found, are always a little disorienting.

You always wake alone, amidst sheets so soft that your bare skin tingles as you stretch against them.

There is a glass of water, drained, on his side of the bed. A bottle of painkillers, unopened.

There would be a note, short and painfully impersonal.

Left early for a meeting, it would sometimes say.

Or more rarely, it might say Library, a shorthand invitation to join him for a day of quiet reading.

More often, the note would simply say, Downstairs.

His codeword for the cave. By the time you wake, he would have been down there for hours.

In the first, few months of your relationship, you had found the notes amusing, if a little bit offensive.

“Those are not love notes,” you had complained to Bruce. “It feels like something my boss would leave me. Meeting this afternoon at three o’clock. Bring donuts.”

And while he had not laughed (indeed, he laughed so rarely that you sometimes wonder if laughter had calcified in his throat), but he had looked up from his notes and smiled.

The next morning, you had woken up to no note, but instead a mug of hot coffee and a brightly-colored box of donuts, the kind you’d see served in a business meeting.

His idea of a joke.

At least that was something you knew that the rest of Gotham didn’t: Batman actually had a sense of humor.

It is months later, when you wake to the sound of shifting cloth, and a sharp intake of breath, so soft it might as well have been silent.

He’s waking, you realize. This is the first time that you have woken up at the same time Bruce did.

Perhaps it’s the journalist in you, unable to be buried even after a year of being out of the business, or perhaps it’s simple curiosity, but you don’t move. You keep your eyes closed, struggling to keep your breathing steady. You pretend to still be asleep.

In all the time you have been together, you had never woken up the same time as him.

The first thing you realize is this: he wakes up in pain.

That should come as no surprise, you think, considering what he does. But this is the first time you’ve actually witnessed it, unchecked. Even in the Batcave, with Alfred, and later you, carefully stitching the muscle and fat and skin closed, he grits his teeth and barely makes a sound.

He does not scream.

(You often wonder if it is for your benefit. If he can read the distress on your face and decide to swallow down his pain rather than let you see it.)

But in the dawn of a new day, where there is no constant humming of his supercomputer, none of Alfred’s cutting banter, there is a nakedness to him.

Bruce lies on the bed for several minutes, so still that he might as well have been carved from stone.

It hurts him to move, you realize.

(And if you close your eyes, you can still see the injuries from last night, with startling clarity: the bruised ribs, the swollen eye, the gash that left his shoulder lay open the muscle and fat to lay bare the bone. You had swallowed down your tears the way he swallowed his screams.)

And then, Bruce does something odd.

He rolls to his side—

(A sharp intake of breath, so soft it might as well have been silent.

He is lying on his injured shoulder.)

And he holds you.

Bruce Wayne holds you.

One arm draped over your waist, squeezing once, so that you can feel the tension in the corded muscles, always so carefully hidden underneath bespoke suits and shirts that cost more than your monthly salary.

His lips find the back of your neck, the pressure so light that you could barely feel it.

The thought comes to you then, unbidden: he is afraid to wake you.

And that his lips are moving.

You wonder if he is whispering sweet nothings, like a lead in a romance film.

You wonder if he is praying.

And then, his arm tightens around you and you realize:

He is saying your name.

(And the way he says it, under his breath, against your skin, is it really so different from prayer?)

When he finally rises, it is just as quiet. The sound of skin against shifting satin.

You hear him drain the glass of water.

He picks up the unopened bottle of painkillers as if contemplating it, then sets it back down..

There’s the sound of a drawer opening, the scratch of pen or paper.

Your note for the day.

It does not take long to write a single word.

And soon, he leaves the note on top of the drawer, and he leaves.

You rise with your heart beating against your throat. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on the back of your neck.

You had never seen him like that. Felt him like that.

Not just loving, but worshipful.

He had spoken your name as if to draw strength from it.

You glance at the bottle of painkillers.

It’s unopened.

You pick up the note, on it is a single word:

Downstairs.

[aceday]

The Director’s Cut P2

links later

warnings: smut, age gap, dub!con themes, some bondage, threesome

The trailer makes a soft, almost imperceptible creak as you follow Rio inside. Agatha has her back to you two, only a soft lamplight illuminating the soft dark fabric of her shirt. You curl your fingers into your palms, remembering the feel of them digging into the shirt, into Agatha’s shoulders and hair. Your heart is thumping wildly. You feel Rio bump lightly against your arm, but when you turn, she doesn’t make eye contact with you.

There’s a soft clinking. Agatha turns around, a heavy cigar between her fingers and a delighted smile on her face. It’s this, you realize, this beautiful, genuine smile that makes you realize you never know what she’s thinking, not exactly, not even if it might seem like you do.

���Share with me?” she asks pleasantly, “Either of you smoke?”

You wait for Rio to react, hoping to take her lead, but she remains cool and silent. Still. You cough and shake your head.

Agatha tuts mockingly and walks over to you, putting her free hand on your cheek. It’s cold. “I forgot how young you are!” she says with the intonation of a stranger to a dog, “Just a baby.” She swivels to Rio. You feel the lingering chill of her touch on your skin. “Nothing? Hmm. Shame.”

She walks back to the end of the trailer, to a small corner desk. You hear the sound of a lighter, see its wobbly glow behind Agatha’s outline, and then Agatha takes a few smacking puffs. The scent of tobacco is now heavy in the air. She turns back around, crosses her arms, and the last etches of smoke spill carelessly from her nostrils. Like a dragon, you think, as another scaly grin stretches her lips.

“C’mon, you two! Why so dour? We’re celebrating!”

Agatha turns and puts out the cigar, then grabs glasses you hadn’t noticed before. A dark, golden liquid sits at the bottom. “Celebrating?” you ask weakly.

Agatha hands you and Rio the glasses. You sniff. Alcohol. She grabs one for herself. You hadn’t even noticed them before now. “The best shot we’ve done! Our best take, and the only one I’ve completely enjoyed thus far.”

You blink at the back handed compliment but Agatha takes no mind, downing the contents of her glass. She exhales loudly and dramatically. “To you two.” To your surprise, Rio slides half the bourbon (it might be whisky) back into her throat. A soft sigh from her nose is as fazed as she seems.

Hesitant, you tip the glass slowly to your lips and let a small amount dribble onto your tongue. Tastes like ass. As the glass falls back down, Agatha reaches out a hand and with one pointed finger pushes the rim back to your lips, tipping the bottom up slowly. “Ah ah ah, be good now and finish your juice. It’s good for you.” Panic jolts down your spine but, not knowing what else to do, you gulp the whiskey (it might be bourbon) down your throat, gagging at the very end, coughing some back into the glass, tears shooting to your eyes. Tastes like shit. Like hand sanitizer and dirt.

Agatha, beaming viciously, sets her glass down hard on the table. “Good, good job, kid. That’s the kind of initiative we like to see! I think I’ve held you guys around for too long, hmm? You’ve got a weekend to enjoy. We’re all SAG-AFTRA here. All union!”

She claps her hands and, wasting no time, you set the glass somewhere random and turn to the door. Rio is close to follow, handing the glass back to Agatha, until the sound of her clearing her throat stops you in your place.

“Actually, Rio, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. If you wouldn’t mind.”

You turn to Rio. Whereas Agatha’s emotions are so clear and bright on her face, their uncanny clairvoyance giving you the sense you really never know what she thinks, Rio’s is the opposite with the same effect. So stony, so clouded and stormy that you have no way of telling.

Now is no different. The longer you look, the more unreadable she becomes. “Sure, Agatha,” she says coolly, and steps inside the trailer. You are still staring inside when the door slams shut behind her. You startle and hurry down the rest of the stairs, eager to flee before Agatha changes her mind. And then you pause. Curiosity scratches temptingly at your fingers, then gets the better of you.

You inch carefully back to the trailer, seeing the shapes of Agatha and Rio inside against the faint lamplight. You strain to listen.

“… wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t…” Rio’s voice dips in and out of legibility, “… you’d enjoy it.”

Silence, or maybe whispering. You lean closer against the side of the trailer, and suddenly there's a thump against the wall, like something being slammed against it. Startled, you gasp and stumble backwards, landing on your ass in the grass.

Finding yourself suddenly in total view of whomever may be peering through the window, you hurry to your feet, running before you even think to spare a glance through the window.

-

The text comes at 9 am sharp the next morning. You don’t read it until you wake up, which, after a fitful night of tossing and turning in the waves of unrelenting dreams, wasn’t until past noon. You didn’t let yourself check your phone until you’ve stared meditatively (exhaustedly (exasperatedly)) at the wall for 5 minutes to half an hour.

One missed text from one Agatha Harkness and a missed call immediately following from another Rio Vidal.

My lovely actors, I’ll be seeing you both tonight at my home for dinner and drinks. 8:30 PM.

Sent in a grouped chat to both you and Rio.

Now, you scream and throw your phone off of your bed and retrieve it and weakly call Rio on the floor. The call rings out and eventually connects to her voicemail. Splayed dramatically on the cold floor of your bedroom, you fire a text off that reads, ‘Sorry I missed your call!’

She responds almost immediately while you’re sorrowfully pulling yourself to your feet.

No worries.

You bite your thumbnail, not knowing how to press for more.

What’s up?

With a frustrated groan you march into the bathroom. If you have to be seeing Agatha in 7 hours, you’ll be better prepared. A text from Rio.

It was nothing.

You sigh and turn your shower on, stepping out of your clothes. Another text from Rio.

I’ll see you tonight.

“Yeah whatever.” Your shower is long and hot and exactly what you needed, but you cast nervous, sidelong glances at your phone almost compulsively. Halfway through, you pat your hands on your towel and reach for your phone, damply sending a fast response to Agatha’s text and then composing a private message for Rio.

What are you wearing?

No response.

Hours trickle by. You waste time. The daytime sifts into night.

The tires of your car crunch up Agatha’s manicured driveway. You put your car in park, power it down, switch your headlights off. You’re toying with your keys, trying to tame your nerves before stepping out of the driveway, when your phone lights up. A notification from Rio. An image.

Rio leans on a chair, wearing a black jumpsuit that plunges down her navel. Her legs are spread, she wears heels and earrings and her hair is down. Her arms are also clasped behind the chair. Meaning she didn’t take the photo. An odd thumping in your chest as you contemplate the late outfit reveal. She looks beautiful, and you’re grateful for your choice of black slacks and a white dress shirt.

Grabbing the cheap bottle of wine in your passenger seat, you make your way carefully to her door. You ring the doorbell, and the deep sound booms dramatically through the house. The shoot has been taking place in Agatha’s hometown, and as your eyes drift lazily around the entrance the realization that this must be her home crosses your mind. Not like the glorified hotel room you’ve been staying in.

The door opens slowly. Your back straightens. There stands Agatha in a classic black dress. Her hair tumbles down her back. She smiles prettily at you, her head resting lightly on the door as she takes you in.

“Come in,” she takes your hand, “Come in. We’ve been waiting. You’re a little late.”

“Sorry,” you choke, your palm holding the wine bottle sweating a bit.

“Have you ever been to my home?” You shake your head. Agatha smiles. “Let me show you around before we find Rio. She can be patient for us, right?”

“When did Rio get here?”

“Oh, a little while ago.” Agatha leads you to her kitchen and uncorks a bottle of red wine as she speaks. “She likes to come early to these events, poor thing. I think she gets lonely.” You clear your throat awkwardly. Agatha pours two glasses, slightly fuller than they strictly needed to be. “Her father was a big shot in the business back in the day, but she’s always been one of the more talented nepo babies.” Agatha hands you a glass and you begin to sip it quickly, feeling heat rise up your neck. “Her status though, oh the girl is untouchable.” She shakes her head, sipping slowly.

“W-What’s for dinner?” your cheeks burn, but you’re desperate for a subject change.

Agatha laughs and waves you down the hall. She’s smiling broadly as she leads you to another room. “That’s why I like to keep her on something of a tight leash, you know? Her breakout role was in one of my films. She says yes to anything I ask of her now.”

As you begin to climb a staircase, you don’t know what to say. Your face burns, whether from the awkwardness of knowing all this information or from the wine, you can’t particularly tell. Your sips have become slow, long gulps. You’re running out of wine.

“And of course, everything I give her does wonderfully. It’s nice to have that sort of control over the darling girl.” Agatha flashes a smile back at you. “And she loves it too. Don’t let her tell you otherwise.”

“Miss Harkness…”

When she reaches the top of the staircase, Agatha whirls on you, a hand on her hip. “I’ve told you to call me Agatha from day one, kid. You didn’t seem to have much trouble saying it yesterday.”

You go bright red and Agatha downs the rest of her drink. She plucks yours from your hand, observes that it is empty, and sets them both down.

“Listen, kid. I know what you’re thinking. You don’t know why you’re here, or what I want, or why I’m telling you all this crap.” She steps squarely in front of you. “I just know you’ve been taking a lot of shit from me lately.” A gentility falls over her face. She blinks softly up at you behind dark eyelashes. Her fingertips reach up to play at the buttons of your dress shirt. Your breath catches. She’s a few inches shorter than you, which you suppose you never really notice when she’s directing or on top of you. Here though, as she looks downward, fiddling with your buttons, you feel something in you give.

You take her by the shoulders and pull her closer in. Agatha inhales sharply as she stumbles into you, her hands pressed against your chest. You begin to reach in for a kiss, but she grabs the collar of your shirt and spins you so you push her against the wall.

And when she kisses you, your eyes are wide in shock and you take a slow moment to react. Agatha moans quietly—unlike her—and keens into you. She has never felt small like this before, or maybe it’s that you’ve never felt this big. Not bigger than her.

Her fingers in your belt loops, she pulls, and you obey, crowding her against the wall. Agatha’s legs buckle slightly around your knee and you follow suit, pushing it between her legs. She’s leant on your thigh now, her knee-length dress crumpling up the length of her legs. Her hands slide to your front and begin to undo the button of your pants, and suddenly, the realization dawns on you that you are not in control of this situation, that you never were in control no matter how much you felt you were, and that you had played eagerly into another one of Agatha’s tricks. With a sharp inhale, you step back.

Agatha blinks at you, her lips red from your harsh kisses. Lightly tracing her mouth with the tip of her pointer finger, Agatha steadies her breath a bit theatrically.

“Well done, you. Big kid now, hmm? Tough guy on the block.”

You pant and furrow your eyebrows. “What are you-”

“Come on, pet. Let me show you the best part.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to spit out, your hands shaking. There’s a soft click and you realize Agatha has undone your belt. She loops it softly around your neck and pulls you forward, guiding you further down the hallway.

“A gift for you, hmm?”

She opens a door and pushes you inside the room. You have to adjust to the lower lighting, so you hear her first. Soft whimpering, the rustle of sheet, a wet slip.

And then you see her and you gasp, moving to step forward (or maybe backward, you’re not entirely certain) when Agatha comes behind you and grips your shoulders tightly, massaging painfully at the crook of your neck, and whispering in your ear.

“Pretty, right?”

Rio, handcuffed by a wrist to the corner post of a bed, her jumpsuit pulled off of her shoulders, leaving her bare to the waist, chest pressed against the mattress as her free hand disappeared under the jumpsuit, between her legs. A phone is face down next to her head.

“Rio,” you gasp quietly. She hears and looks up, her eyes heavy lidded and face flushed.

She begins to say your name but is cut off with a low moan, her hips rolling down into the mattress.

Agatha has released her hold on you and in one hand holds a small remote. She flashes you that sweet, genuine smile. Her thumb hovers over an “up” button.

“What did I tell you? A tight leash, she and I. I decided to take on the responsibility of punishing the poor darling for the little stunt she pulled on us earlier. I hooked her up there so she couldn’t run before you got here, and then gave her a little call so she could listen in on your big shining moment in the hall there. Not to mention the delightful little toy she’s got in her underwear. I thought it might make a nice gift for you, and the old girl agreed! What do you think, kid?” Your mouth hanging slightly open, your eyes wide, you can only shake your head slowly.

Agatha sighs and leans closer to you. Her breath is warm against your ear and your skin crawls.

“Come here. Let me help you get started, hmm? Do you want to touch her, kid?” You gulp down guilt. Fuck this heat in your stomach. Fuck how turned on you know you are, since making out with Agatha against the wall, and now you know you’re soaked through, watching Rio fuck herself against the mattress, and fuck, fuck, fuck this. You nod. Agatha chuckles. Stepping to face you, she begins to undo the buttons of your shirt, from the collar down. “Do you want to touch me, then, too?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Why don’t we draw out her punishment a little longer? Put all my hard work to use a bit?” She pops off the last button and lets the shirt gape open. “She looks pretty like this, doesn’t she?”

You swallow. It’s enough for Agatha. She leads you slowly to the bed, facing you and walking backwards, holding both your hands. The backs of her legs hit the bed and you, spurred, push her down by the waist. Agatha leans up on her elbows and crawls back, making eye contact with you while you chase her. You hold her by the thighs, pulling until she’s flush against you. You push her dress up, gathering the fabric against the sweep of your palms against her thighs. There’s a look on her face you could die for. Hungry, mouth partly open, staring at you from behind her eyelashes. Rio whimpers, her toes curling into the mattress, dangling down by Agatha.

“At the foot of the bed, partially under it,” Agatha whispers. You bend down, kicking at a small box. It’s half open, and you see a strap nestled amongst a few other toys. While you search, Agatha lays her back down against the mattress. She reaches for Rio’s hand, making eye contact with her while her other speeds up the intensity of the toy in her underwear.

You pull the strap up over the fabric of your pants, wriggling the vinyl tighter. You begin to sink to your knees, pushing Agatha’s legs apart when her voice stops you.

“No need for any of that, kid. Just fuck me. We’re ready for you.” She drops the remote and stretches out to you. You nod and rise, pushing her damp underwear to the side with your fingers and spitting on her already shining cunt. Her body flinches in reaction, the hand holding Rio’s squeezing.

You can hear the angry buzz of the toy making fast work of Rio, who squirms desperately, grinding her hips down onto the mattress. She tries to let go of Agatha’s hand, looking, it seems, to touch herself as she had been before, but Agatha doesn’t let go and Rio is left to pathetically hump the mattress, thrashing fitfully between the handcuff and Agatha.

Bleary eyed, your head feels light from the alcohol. Your vision is fuzzy at the edges, and you feel almost out of body as you turn your attention back to Agatha, who stares up at Rio with a heavy, unbreaking heed. With an almost delirium about you, you position the strap and slowly push it inside of Agatha. She jolts and moans, still staring up at Rio, and you couldn’t care less that she isn’t watching you, you barely even notice, flushed with heat, focusing intensely on the slow shift of your hips, rocking the toy in and out of Agatha carefully. She’s soaked. You move inside of her easily. Her hips meet your pace with a fluidity, rolling into the toy as if this were a dance you two knew by heart.

“That’s good, go ahead baby girl, that’s it.” You blink in confusion, looking almost sleepily up to realize that Rio is crashing into an orgasm that Agatha’s words gently coax her through. You stare, wide-eyed, thrusting gently into Agatha as the two of you watch Rio become undone, thrashing, moaning, cursing and panting out Agatha’s name, your name, sobbing into the sheets, her wrists white and red.

Agatha releases Rio’s wrist, her attention shifting back to you, a concentrated expression on her face. You groan, sat up on your knees, your hands aiding to lift Agatha’s hips in the air, one of her legs hooked around your shoulder, and thrust deeply into her. She braces herself on her elbows and shoulder blades, head tilting back, eyes closing. She curses rhythmically and your pace becomes heavy, not particularly fast but deep, punctuating.

You’re starstruck, focused with a sort of delirious tunnel vision. You can see Rio crawling weakly up to the bedpost where her wrist is still chained, see her struggling with the cuff. She gives up and kicks off the rest of her jumpsuit, pulling off her toy underwear with it, which still buzzes on a low setting that apparently Agatha hadn’t bothered to turn completely off. You watch, hypnotized, at the thin fabric of Agatha’s panties stretched to the side of the toy, watch every flinch of her skin as you thrust, grip the skin of her leg and hip in your palms. She groans loudly, unbarred, the noises from her throat all but ringing in your ears.

You watch her jerk awkwardly, her body suddenly tensing, voice twisted into a gasping choke. Her fingertips dig into the sheets with one hand, your wrist with the other, crescenting cuts slicing into your skin, but you don’t mind, just watch Agatha spill into orgasm and then collapse.

You pull out of her slowly, kicking the strap off of you and kissing Agatha. She bats you off of her. Panting and with a grin, she says, “You go take care of our darling up there first, kid. She needs you more than I do.” Her remote has disappeared and in her hand, between her fingers, she holds a key.

You nod, obedient, taking the key and shuffling further up on the mattress. “Rio,” you whisper as you crawl over her twitching body. She groans and rolls onto her back.

You remember the look on her face, so in character she had been while she’d practically fucked you on that camera, the cool look in her eyes, the heat of her breath, the sterile way she watched while she fucked you, not kissing you until she had to, to get you to shut up. There is something almost pathetic, Rio’s heaving chest, wet eyes flicking around your face. When she mutters your name, it’s so hushed, you almost hadn’t made out that it was you she called for, and her hands sneak under your shirt, buttoned all the way open and tucked into your pants. She pulls you down into a deep kiss.

“Wait,” you mutter against her mouth while she kisses you desperately, “wait.” You unlock the cuff and she whimpers, folding neatly into you, under you, and there’s again this feeling of being big, bigger than her, protective of her slight form underneath you, while you kiss her, your hand holding the back of her neck.

Her hands run up and down your ribs, your spine, and you sigh into the kiss, but her grip tightens, she makes a small sound of effort, and then you are flipped, her mouth still against yours, and you can’t help the groan that escapes your throat as she straddles your hips and pulls your shirt off.

It’s not that Agatha climbs into view, settling behind Rio, her legs straddling yours, her hands wrapped around Rio and covering her breasts, her mouth sinking into the crook of her neck and shoulder with a long inhale. “Say thank you, Miss Vidal,” she whispers, shooting you a sharp, unknowable look.

Rio straightens, falling back into Agatha’s front, letting Agatha’s hands run across her skin, tweak her nipples, scratch down her ribs. “Thank you,” she says, though it is half a gasp as Agatha’s hand slides down Rio and sinks to her cunt. Rio groans and bucks, wet and sliding on your stomach. You sit partially up to kiss Rio, and she whimpers into your mouth as Agatha fucks her.

Agatha’s chin rests on Rio’s shoulder, peering at you while the two of you kiss. You make eye contact with her. Agatha smiles slowly. “Do you think she deserves this? Was her punishment enough to satisfy you?” Rio whimpers in response and Agatha’s fingers inside of her jerk roughly. “I wasn’t asking you,” she hisses into Rio’s ear, biting down sharply on her lobe.

“What do you say, kid?”

Agatha Harkness x Reader and Rio Vidal x Reader

summary: you’re but an innocent young actor slightly in over your head filming a movie opposite rio vidal, directed by milf extraordinaire agatha harkness. what could possibly go wrong and what could possibly go right?

warnings: age gap, slight dub/non!con themes, fingering, oral, slight exhibitionist themes, public sex

*afab gender neutral reader

@covenofagatha @d-z20

i guess i straight fucking lied when i said i don’t do this last time bc here we are again whoop de fucking doo

The Director’s Cut

With a satisfying pop, Rio Vidal’s fingers slip out of your mouth. The fingers of her other hand tighten around your throat, wrangling a strangled moan from your lips, and she pushes you back onto the mattress. Your fingertips scratch desperately at her forearm, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you fight for breath, and Rio’s knee shoves your legs open.

“Got something to say now, hmm?”

You shake your head fervently, a plea in your eyes. Rio releases your throat and you gasp, only for her mouth to be on yours immediately, smothering you, her hands greedily grabbing at your hips, sides, ribs. Her mouth detaches from yours only to find itself immediately at your neck, her hands now attempting to tear your shirt off of you.

“Professor,” you gasp out, voice strained with blissed pain, with velvet panic. With some frantic struggle the shirt is wrenched off of you and the air nips at your skin. The hair on the back of your neck lifts. Rio finally stills for one cold, heavy moment, to stare at you under her, her face contorted in a cool sort of snarl, her eyes sharp.

“You act up, you play by my rules.” Her hand grabs your face, squeezing your jaw painfully. “Understood?”

“I-”

“CUT.”

A scatter of voices and murmurs arise immediately. Rio lets you go and heaves a barely-restrained sigh.

“Cut!” The voice of the director demands again, and both you and your co-star sit up on the mattress. You scratch awkwardly at your throat and look around for your costume shirt somewhere in the sheets.

“It’s wrong, really. Wrong. Fuck.” Agatha Harkness steps onto the set. You squint against the spotlights, feeling your face burn. You and Rio exchange a glance. “The energy, the dynamics. We’re going to have to totally rework this.” She paces furiously. Rio stands from the bed and grabs your shirt, which had apparently been tossed off in the heat of the scene. She hands it to you and you nod gratefully, pulling it back over your head. Agatha has been in an awful mood all day. “We’re going to take twenty. I want everybody to go splash cold water on themselves and get their heads out of their asses.”

You can’t conceal your exhausted sigh as you wriggle awkwardly off the bed. You’re about to go get some water when Agatha snaps her fingers at you, freezing you in your place. With an inward groan and your heart going a million miles a minute, you turn dejectedly to your director.

“Not you. You’re going to meet me in my trailer, asap.” You stare at her for a moment with bald-faced shock, but she’s already turned to her assistant director and is complaining her ear off. You swallow your… so many things, your pride, shame, embarrassment, fury, and stomp off set to the trailer lot.

You don’t bother waiting for Agatha to catch up to throw open the door and walk inside, toeing off your shoes. You’ve never been in her trailer before. It’s not as sterile as you would have imagined; there’s stacks of books and papers and binders and folders and a whole bunch of other boring shit on every flat surface, along with more than a few half-full mugs of what seems to be black coffee.

You slouch doggedly onto her couch, rubbing your eyes. It hasn’t been your best work, you know, but you’re certain you haven’t been bad enough to quite warrant getting chewed out in private. You stare out the small square window. It could be worse, you suppose, she could be chewing you out in public. This is easier to manage, even though you hate the thought of your director being unimpressed with you, but you might as well cut your losses now and move on.

As you sit and stew, the door flies open. Agatha marches in, doused in all black, the sleeves of her button up pushed up to her elbows and her hair tied up into a messy ponytail. She seems to have calmed down a little, a very little amount, well, maybe not at all, actually, maybe she looks angrier than she did before-

The door slams shut and knocks you out of your thoughts. There’s a sizzling silence. A huge knot forms in your throat.

“What was that back there, hmm?”

You don’t know what to say. You cried that take. “I cried that take.” It’s impossible to hide the desperate edge to your voice.

Agatha holds out a finger and your mouth snaps shut. “No excuses,” she hisses, “your face is fine, more than fine, but you act like you’ve never been fucked before.” A huge, violent, and deep blush spreads immediately from your collarbones up. You look away quickly. “You’re simultaneously stiff as a board and loose like a slinky. You wanna look like a slinky out there?”

Agatha has such a way with words. You shake your head. “No, I do not want to look like a slinky out there.”

Agatha doesn’t seem to notice nor care that you’ve spoken. The heat in your face burns brighter as she paces exasperatedly in front of you. Your fingers begin to scratch anxiously at your jeans. “Rio Vidal is a hot young woman. I can’t imagine that she’s not your type. And yet- hours of intimacy coordination later and we’re still at square one.” That’s firstly not true and secondly a bewilderingly unfair thing to say. The rejection stings. Tears well in your eyes and you blink them away furiously, adamant on keeping a tough front for your director. She paces furiously, dizzyingly, back and forth and back and forth. “Seriously, kid. Hours of intimacy coordination and talking and talking and going over the movements step by step. I could do your part in my sleep by now. And maybe I will!” She whirls on you, then pauses. You can’t imagine what you look like right now, your body unnaturally still to keep your leg from bouncing, feeling neon you’re blushing so hard, your jaw clenched, your eyes narrowed and wet.

Agatha has always had a way of being four steps ahead of you, always in the know before there’s even anything to know, so you shouldn’t be surprised when she takes one look at you and suddenly declares, “You’re a virgin,” as if it is the most obvious truth in the world. You look away, trying hard, desperately hard, to maintain your composure. But what can you do? She’s right, for the most part.

Agatha’s eyes narrow when you don’t reply. The manic air about her stills, and you’re suddenly wishing for her fiery temper instead of the cold, calculating dread that suddenly sits heavy between you two. She crosses her arms and continues pacing, but slowly this time, less like she’s being whipped around by her own anger and more like she’s a shark circling something tender and bloody.

“Well,” she says, gesturing lazily in the air, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“It’s not a bad thing.” You sound defensive. It’s because you are.

Agatha appears to be lost in thought, “No, no,” she hums. “Nothing bad about a little prude ruining my film, hmm?”

Well. That shuts you up. Your mouth is closed, your eyes are a little wide in disbelief, you’re pretty sure this kind of talk violates some sort of workers rights something, and upon seeing your speechless state, the ghost of a smirk tugs at Agatha’s lips. A shiver runs down your spine.

In stunned silence you flounder, opening and closing your mouth like a fish, while Agatha waits, leveling you with her knowing stare, sizing you up, her eyes tracing up and down your frigid form, for you to say something.

“I’m sorry?”

Are you apologizing or asking “Excuse me?” - you hardly know. Agatha steps in closer to you, your knees almost touching her legs, what is she thinking? Really, what could she possibly be thinking?

“Are you?” Maybe? Agatha sighs and sits next to you on the couch, an arm slung behind you. “How about I propose something for you, for us, hmm?” She turns to look at you, and you’re suddenly caught in the narrowed ice of her eyes as if under a blinding spotlight. She’s always had one of those absolutely shriveling stares that you can’t tear away from. You nod for her to continue, and a smile crawls on her lips. Something brushes your arm and you flinch, only to realize that her fingertips are floating lightly up and down your bicep.

“Tell you what, kid. I’m having a shit day, I’m definitely making it your shit day, and you’re a little prig that needs to loosen up.” She leans in closer to you, far enough away, but you can feel the heat of her breath, can see each delicate flick of her eyes around your face. Her voice drops to a whisper. “Why don’t I fuck you silly here in my trailer, blow a little steam, and teach you what it looks like to feel so, so, impossibly good?”

You blanch. A terrifying expanse of heat sears down your stomach, not out of embarrassment this time. “E-Excuse me?”

“Tell me, kid. What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“Agatha, I-”

“And don’t pretend like you don’t sneak glances down my shirt every chance you get. I see the way you look at me. The way you’ve been looking at me.”

“No, no, I-”

“Then I’m wrong?”

She’s so close to you now, her mouth hovering just above yours, eyes drifting lazily across your face. The worst part, the worst part about it, is that she’s not wrong, she’s not, you do stare, you do imagine, and even now you can feel sharp tendrils of lust unfurling inside of you, dampening your underwear.

“Come on, kid,” a low whisper, her voice like the trembling string dangling the carrot of her offer in front of your face. “Tell me what you want.”

Breathless: “I…” you shake your head, “I want-” to your infinite surprise, you cut yourself off, pushing your mouth against Agatha’s, your body propelling forward almost as if of its own accord. Agatha hums in delight. She wastes no time.

She climbs on top of you, pushing you back down onto the couch and straddling your hips. Her tongue slides between your lips and, hesitant, your mouth opens, and the kiss grows sloppy, wet, Agatha’s tongue and teeth and lips on and against and in you. You whimper, your hands finding her ribs, your hips bucking involuntarily as her knee slides between your thighs. Your muted breaths melt into a high pitched moan as her knee presses against your cunt.

“I knew it,” Agatha whispers when her mouth breaks from yours, and her head dips down to the soft space between your neck and shoulder. She bites, hard and fast, not enough to leave a mark but enough to send a pained spasm through your body. You tense and dig your fingertips into her sides, and Agatha chuckles.

“Come on, kid,” Agatha says, pushing up on her palms to look down at you. Your lips sting, your chest rising and falling heavily, your breathing audible, not quite gasping, but stuttering. “Pay attention, okay?”

You nod, and Agatha pushes your shirt to your collarbones. She kisses down your naval, down your stomach, her thumbs brushing your nipples and mouth hot beneath your belly button. She looks up at you, eyelashes dark, eyes pale and sharp.

“Are you watching?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Agatha’s fingers undo your jeans. Your heart clenches at the soft snap of the button being released from its denim hold, a cold sweat at the back of your neck as you hear the zipper being pulled down. Agatha looks slowly up and down, between your eyes and each new inch of skin revealed underneath your clothes.

She tugs your jeans off of you, your underwear going with it, the bits of your costume being shed from your body. Agatha sighs, relieved, the way a dog does curling up in a warm patch of sunlight, and your skin dances at the gust of breath crawling up your body.

“I needed this, kid. Let me tell you.” She leans close to your cunt, you already know you’re dripping, you’ve been dripping, but Agatha doesn’t remark on your pathetic state. Instead she hovers close and inhales deeply. “Fuck,” she whispers, barely audible, and your head falls back, a whimper dislodging from your throat.

Her tensed tongue licks slowly through your folds, the tip circling carefully around your clit, and the shudder you release grips your entire body. Your hands, which had, up until this point, been white knuckling the cushions of the couch, fly to your mouth, and Agatha is suddenly on you, lips and tongue breathing pleasure into you like a gust of wind, like fire from a dragon’s belly, and it’s intense, intense. You’ve been fingered a few lackluster times by lackluster people, but Agatha runs hot, runs feverish, and everything feels scalding, your pleasure, your — Agatha scratches down your sides — your pain, and you want more and more and more.

“Agatha,” you mutter. Your voice sounds like it’s being forcefully pulled from your throat. “Agatha.”

Agatha’s fingers play against your folds, joined with her tongue, and your hands thread through her hair. She lifts her head to look at you, and you can see the glisten of yourself on her chin. Her fingers work you, slowly, in tidal beckoning motions. Your pleasure, vague, dazzling waves, suddenly straightens, taut and defined, and you can feel your orgasm inching into you. Your breath becomes shallow.

“Let’s see,” Agatha murmurs, “how did the coordinator do this? Rio has you pinned, she’s being a little violent, there are tears in your eyes, and when she fucks you, she fucks you rough.” Agatha stuffs three fingers into you, setting a brutally slow and violently deep pace. Your yelp sounds more like a cry and Agatha narrows a cold glare at you. “Shut it, kid, I don’t want to have to do it myself.” You bring a hand to your mouth, stifling each staccato whimper to the tune of Agatha’s thrusts. “And I’m sure you don’t want that either.”

Strung with pain, your skin shivering, your heels digging into the cushions, Agatha’s pace finally relents, slows, and she studies you maliciously. “In the next sex scene, our Professor acquiesces, takes pity on her disobedient but young student,” she pulls your thighs over her shoulders. Her fingers slip out of you, and though your body aches with relief, the wavering string of your pleasure keens for more. Agatha chuckles. “This is my favorite part.” She licks a broad stripe against you. You shiver. “You should see the way Rio looks at you when we film this part. It’s perfect every time.”

Agatha crawls up, your knees still hooked around her shoulders, and you whimper, feeling impossibly small as two of her fingers bury gently into you, stroking gently against your walls, her thumb brushing a light touch against your clit. The beaten, puppeted orgasm you’ve been chasing swells once more against you, rearing, an animal about to pounce.

Agatha kisses you, and you’re ready, your lips parted and waiting for her tongue, which slips eagerly between your teeth. You taste yourself. You think of Rio, stripping you on that damn bed, all hard touches and stinging words and dark, velvet eyes, and Agatha behind the camera, in her all black outfit, blending into the shadows behind the key light like a predator, biting the knuckle of her pointer finger, watching and watching. Fuck. It’s hot. It’s so hot. Agatha’s fingertips curl against what you can only imagine is your g-spot and you gasp against her mouth, earning a quick nip of your bottom lip in response.

“You gonna come for me, kid? It’s about time. Just like you do for Rio right about now, hmm?” Your body teeters slowly, achingly slowly, into an orgasm, its golden edges fizzing like a pot about to boil over. You thrash against Agatha, your hands clawing desperately at her back but your body still trapped in the curled contortion she has you pinned in. “Good, good. Much better, right? You’ll be perfect in front of that camera. Just like that, kid. Perfect.”

The thread snaps. Your orgasm douses you. You throw your head back, the cry in your throat wrangled out of you, unbidden, until Agatha slaps a hand over your mouth. “Don’t ruin your pretty voice, kid,” she purrs wickedly, “Save it for the camera.”

Agatha holds you while you shudder through your orgasm, your vision blurred at the edges, eyes unfocused, and she gently frees your legs from her shoulders, kissing you softly. Your hard panting mellows, evening out steadily. Agatha checks her watch and clucks her tongue.

“You made good time, kid. Are you going to remember this?” You nod, running your fingers through your hair. Agatha rights your jeans and helps straighten your shirt, pressing a kiss to your head as you wriggle into your costume.

“Good, because we’re getting right in it. Be ready to run the scene in ten.” A knot of shock flashes through you. Director Agatha is still director Agatha.

“But don’t I…”

“Don’t you what? Smell like sex? Still sensitive in your cunt and legs? That’s the goal, kid. Now get out of my trailer.” She waves you off. You gulp, cursing silently in your head but undeniably relishing in the hot flush at your cheeks. You stuff your feet into your shoes and let the door swing shut loudly behind you.

The team is in motion, cameras adjusting, the boom guy talking with Rio, who has her arms crossed. She casts her gaze briefly to the side and catches sight of you. She pauses. Her eyes narrow. Your stomach flips, but before you can think of what that look could possibly mean, someone grabs your arm. You whip around and face your makeup designer.

“I’ve been looking all over for you! I-” she cuts herself off. You must look a little like a mess, flushed, wet-eyed. If you had to guess, you probably look like Agatha spent the entire break chewing you out. Chewing, no. Eating, on the other hand…

You chuckle dryly, and your designer takes a step back. “Nevermind,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “You look perfect. Break a leg.”

“Alright everybody. Places.” Agatha’s voice cuts like a knife over the noisy bustle. There’s immediate quiet as everyone hustles to their designated spots. “We’re starting from ‘Got something to say now’.”

You situate yourself on the bed. Rio climbs on top of you. A shudder runs unprompted down your spine. With horror, you realize that you are still sensitive. Violently sensitive. Above you, Rio’s eyes narrow. She inhales deeply. You think she’s sighing, but a treacherous thought flickers through your mind that maybe she smells you, smells Agatha, smells you on Agatha on you. Rio’s eyes trace down your body, seeming to clock every unfortunate and incriminating detail. Your messed up hair, your hot skin, your shaking legs.

You’re not sure if it’s to your relief or distress, but Rio chuckles lowly. “Extra lesson, hmm?”

You swallow. “S-Sorry?”

She leans down close to your ear. Her hands wrap slowly around your wrists, pressing them above your head. This wasn’t in the intimacy coordination. “That’s fine. If you’re going to get a little extra help, maybe we can have a little fun, right?”

A knot forms in your throat. Your ears feel hot. “I think-”

Agatha’s voice, booming, as if from heaven. “Scene 30. Take 7. And… action!”

Rio grabs quickly at your throat. You feel dazed, but vaguely remember your blocking and shakily hold onto her forearm. Rio flashes you a toothy smile, a creepy, toothy smile that hollows out your chest. “Got something to say now, hmm?”

You shake your head quickly, and to your surprise, instead of releasing your throat, Rio shoves a knee between your legs, knocking against your clit. You gasp out your next line, “Professor-” and Rio’s fingertips dig harder into the sides of your throat. Her other hand finds your wrist, slamming it above your head, her grip tight. “Professor,” you choke out again, finding Rio’s gaze, the wild, manic look in her eyes shooting guilty sparks of pleasure down your spine. “Please,” you beg, off-script, and this time, Rio relents.

She releases your neck. Your hand flies up to it, your breath scraping down your throat, heavy, but Rio catches your other wrist and shoves it down with the other. “You act up,” she hisses, “you play by my rules.” She gathers both wrists with one hand and strokes a manicured nail down your jaw. You strain your face away, breath light and fluttering.

“Understood?”

At the word, she grabs your jaw sharply, forcing you to meet her eyes. There’s something of a challenge in her gaze. You’d probably break if you weren’t so fucking turned on, but your own arousal dampens your underwear. You feel hot everywhere.

“I understand, Professor,” you whisper. A well timed tear traces from the corner of your eye down your temple. “Please, don’t go too hard.” You blink pathetically up at her. “I didn’t mean to.”

The double meaning is more than received. Rio laughs loudly. “Didn’t mean to? Yeah right.” Her knee pushes up into your hot cunt and you whimper loudly, your eyes rolling back. The hand squeezing your jaw drops down between your legs. You whine and buck your hips. Rio scoffs, shaking her head. It’s miserably clear to her that you’re not acting anymore.

“Pathetic,” she sneers. Her hand quickly unbuttons your jeans and sinks beneath your waistband. Usually, she doesn’t come close to touching you. The jeans are low-rise and loose, but this time, Rio has no qualms about pressing her fingertips against your underwear, no doubt feeling the hot, soaked cloth. She groans and curses.

“Professor,” you gasp, choked. Your tears flow freely now. Her fingertips dig blindly against your cunt, feeling through the fabric your folds, your clit, warm and sensitive. You feel raw from the orgasm you just had, so violently raw, and even the lightest touch sends a dark pleasure scattering through you. You jerk uncontrollably, writhing beneath Rio, feeling an orgasm, a fucking orgasm, climbing panicked below your stomach.

Rio’s mouth crashes down onto yours, as if trying, and failing, to mute each desperate noise that crawls from your throat. The result is you moaning wildly into the kiss, choking around her tongue, her fingers kneading into the cloth and sending you sputtering into a lingering orgasm that you’re not sure ever fully evaporated - a fact Rio seems to be well aware of.

Your body tenses and you careen through the waves of pleasure splashing in you, swallowing you whole. Rio pulls her mouth off of yours to watch the bliss bloom across your face and the cry that erupts from your throat is somehow both a whimper and a howl.

“Much better,” Rio whispers, pulling her hand from your jeans, kissing down your neck and stroking your cheek with her thumb. You can smell yourself on her fingers. You lay there dumbly, shivering through the dregs of your orgasm, sighing into an exhaustion you’ve never known. “That was good, that was really good,” Rio hums, pleased.

When your eyes meet, there’s a bit of tentativeness. This got out of hand. The smile you give her is, you hope, both wayward and reassuring.

“Did I-” you’ve started your line while still out of breath, and interrupt yourself to take a deep breath, “Did I do okay, Professor?” A phrase carrying a triple meaning, at this point. You’d give anything to look at Agatha right now, but manage to stay in character, keep your gaze trained on Rio’s glazed eyes.

“You were amazing,” she whispers, kissing you softly.

“Cut!”

Both Rio and you jolt in surprise. She peels off of you, lightly intertwining your fingers with hers, and you sit up, looking towards Agatha. You only see the camera, and in the darkness, her dark form slides from behind it. Her outline becomes slowly visible as she takes a few steps closer towards you two, though shadows still cut across her. You can see a smile stretch across her face.

“Now that,” she says. “Was perfect.” Agatha turns to face the crew. “On that note, that’s a wrap for today. Everybody go take a cold shower.” Agatha then steps fully into the light. The look on her face is indescribably malicious, a smile that could be angry or just evil, pale eyes glinting. You exchange a glance with Rio and notice a soft heat on her cheeks. “You two, meet me in my trailer first.” Agatha’s eyes narrow. “I want to discuss some notes with you.”

[kiemiu]

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓞𝐍𝐄: 𝓑𝐞 𝓞𝐮𝐫 𝓖𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

pairing kang sae-byeok x fem!reader | wc 1.9k

summary -> an unexpected arrival of a little boy and his sister has you working longer than you'd like. warnings -> trying to use y/n as least as possible.

( beneath the quiet masterlist )

8:56PM

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐘 was finally coming to an end. A huff of relief escaped your mouth as you leaned against the cracked wooden door frame of the children's playroom. When you weren't working as a barista at Café Gippeum, you were a helpful extra set of hands around your adoptive mother's orphanage.

You had just gotten off of an early-morning shift, the day dragging on longer than you would've like it too. Usually when you work a few hours at the café it's later in the night, giving you enough time and freedom to handle your tips appropriately when you get off because of your lack of obligations, yet today was different.

Having minimal time to do anything with the tips you earned besides stuffing them in the pocket of your cardigan and gently patting the pocket every now and then to make sure it was still there.

Taking care of children who were in the same position you used to be was a bittersweet feeling. Growing an attachment to them by giving each other nicknames, comforting them in their hardest times, and cherishing the fleeting moments that brought them so much joy and excitement, only to feel like you were losing a sibling of your own when they undoubtedly got adopted. You were happy for them nonetheless, wanting every kid in the orphanage to find a home with caring parents with a cute scruffy animal to go along with it. That's what every kid deserved.

Even as someone who got adopted and wished for that life you couldn't help but envy those who had the full picture perfect family that wasn't simply just for show. Your "Mother" who was once sweet, caring, and attentive had turned vicious, and evil during your prepubescent years. Rarely giving you grace for the mistakes you made and scrutinizing your every move.

She wasn't always like this, nevertheless there were still certain episodes she had where it seemed like a switch flipped inside of her that filled her with visceral rage every time she set her gaze on you. She had become your own personal hellscape, never knowing if she wanted to hug and make amends with you or scream and shout until her voice went hoarse.

She never acted this way in front of the other children, always saving her anger for you behind the scenes and away from prying eyes.

The deep furrow in your brows and downward tug on your lips lifted at the feeling of a gentle tug on the bottom of your skirt. "Miss Kim, can you tuck me in?" a soft voice asked.

Eliana, a chubby little 4-year-old who knew nothing of life outside of the orphanage besides the occasional field trip had become one of your favorites, not that you were supposed to have any. She reminded you so much of yourself in ways your mother despised which is why you liked her so much.

You smiled down at her, holding your hand out for her to grab so she could lead you to her bunk. One of her hands gripped tightly onto three of your fingers while the other made waves with her nightgown, light skips in her step as she babbled on about the bedtime story Mama Kim read.

You hummed to let her know you were listening, even as your eyes trailed over to the foyer in curiosity. Your head tilting to get a better look of your mom with her back turned to you, speaking animatedly to two unfamiliar figures.

One of them being a tall woman, her posture stiff and unmoving, she reeked a sense of resilience and guardedness. Her eyes sharp and unwavering as she analyzed the orphanage, if you didn't know any better you'd assume she worked for Child Protective Services with the way she examined every fixture and crack in the walls.

Her dark hair sloppily pulled back into a low ponytail, wispy bangs resting dangerously close to her eyelids as tousled hair shaped the sharp yet delicate roundness of her face.

Her clothes were simple and worn, fitting her thin frame like an afterthought. The subtle sag in her shoulders didn't go unnoticed either, as she held a firm unrelenting grip on who you assumed to be her little brother's hand.

The little boy who slowly inched himself behind her, held onto one of her hands with the same amount of force. His doe-eyed gaze, less sharp and slightly frantic as he inspected the place that would soon be his temporary home. You've seen children dropped off here multiple times a year, but never by a relative other than the supposed Mom or Dad, nor were they ever so young.

You couldn't be nosey for long, feeling a strong tug on your hand as Eliana dragged you into the 'Girls Quarters' where the rest of them bounced on their beds and brushed each other's hair before laying down for the night.

You loudly clapped your hands two times to give a signal that it was nap time in which the girls quickly scurried to their designated beds, giggling to themselves as they snuggled under the covers.

You let Eliana lead you to her bed, sitting close to the edge as you tucked her in with promises of playing Barbies with her tomorrow morning, a gentle ruffle of her hair to enclose your departure before you made your way out of the girls bedroom, wishing them all a quiet goodnight before turning on the night light and shutting the door.

Another sigh left your lips as you leaned your head against the door, the weight of today slowly lifting off of your shoulders at the simple thought of getting home and being able to soak in the bath after a particularly grueling day.

Just as you started to gather your coat and bag, a shout of your name halted your steps. Turning around you're met with the face of your Mother and the two unfamiliar faces from before.

"I'm so glad I caught you on your way out." Your Mother exclaimed, an excited smile on her face as she sauntered over to you, hooking her arm around yours. "This is my daughter, she's here nearly everyday to help out. So, if you ever need assistance and I'm not here, she's the best alternative." She exclaimed, gesturing to you before lightly bumping her hip into yours at your rigid stillness, giving you the signal to say something and not just stand there like a mannequin.

You opened your mouth to say something but no words wanted to come out, at least nothing worth adding onto your Mothers introduction. "Uh—hi." you awkwardly rasped, a limp wave being sent their way, as you turned your gaze to the ground. Doing everything in your power to avoid the sharp analyzing gaze of the girl accompanied by her little brother, as well as the disappointed side eye of your Mother.

A huff of slight annoyance from your Mother was covered up by a forced laugh before she continued on with her unneeded introduction. "Sweetie, this is Kang Cheol. He's gonna be staying with us for a little while until his sister, Kang Sae-Byeok can support the both of them."

You nodded "I-We're happy to have you here. He'll get the best care-" Before your rehearsed line could gain any type of wind, Sae-Byeok raised her hand to put a stop to it.

"We've had a long night, I just wanna get him settled." She uttered, slowly lowering her hand.

Even as she was berating you without any words besides a sideways glance, you couldn't help but slightly admire her. Her body, the poster board of exhaustion, her stubbornness and will to fight impressive. "And you?" Your Mother suddenly asked as if she was taking the words out of your mouth.

"I'll be fine." She affirmed, grabbing her brother by his shoulders, giving him a reassuring squeeze before gently nudging him in my direction.

Cheol looked over his shoulder at his sister, his steps heavy and hesitant as if he was unsure without her approval. She gave him a final nod, the slight upturn of the corner of her lips a comforting smile to encourage him into your guidance.

With one more final look back, Cheol made his way to you, "Show him to the 'Boys Quarters' dear, Miss Kang and I still have one more thing left to do." Your Mother urged with a gentle pat on your shoulder before gesturing for Sae-Byeok to follow her.

As you walked your separate ways, a particularly rough jab against your shoulder led you to tumble back a bit, not expecting someone of Sae-Byeok's stature to harbor such strength.

You blamed your lack of ability to stand straight on your drowsiness, swiping your hand down your face to awaken the last bits of energy you had left in you so you could properly take care of Cheol.

You lead him to the 'Boys Quarters' reciting the schedule of the orphanage's day-to-day to him, even in your drowsy state you were able to memorize and recite the ever changing schedule of the children's home as if it were the ABC's.

Helping him get settled as quietly as possible to not disturb the already sleeping young boys around him, you helped fold his clothes and put them away, not minding his silence as you went on a small tangent of all the fun activities he'd be able to do here.

Your sentence about 'Movie Night Friday's' dying on the tip of your tongue as you watched him sink into the plushness of the mattress, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier as he lazily dragged the blanket over himself.

You decided then to make your exit, unable to get far as you heard a quiet, raspy call of your name. You turn to see him fighting to keep his eyes open, the top of his head barely peeking over the blanket. You him in question beckoning him to continue. "Will you be here tomorrow when I wake up?" he softly asked, almost seeming unsure of himself.

You nodded in reassurance, "Of course." you murmur in which he simply replied a short "Okay." before fully settling into the bed, his eyes fluttering shut.

As you made your way out of the 'Boys Quarters' an unknowing smile on your face as you shut the door behind you, out of reflex you tap your cardigan pocket, only for a jolt of energy to shoot through you at the sudden flatness that your hand was met with.

"What the hell?" you muttered as you tapped incessantly at your pockets as if it would magically appear after the 10th pat.

You assured yourself that you would've known if it fell out in the boys bedroom, you hadn't been doing any excessive movement to where it could have fallen out.

Retracing your steps back to the art room and then the entrance to see if your money had been laying haphazardly somewhere.

A rush of frustration shot through you before spotting out of the corner of your eye, your Mother and Sae-Byeok discussing the payment for Cheol's stay in the orphanage on the front porch.

A familiar stack of folded ₩10,000 notes were brought out of her pocket and handed over to your Mother as payment. Your jaw going slack and a small huff of laughter escaping your lips out of pure astonishment at the amount of audacity to use the money you had made earlier that morning as a down payment.

Fucking Pick-pocket.

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 📷 : @miabcuzz @twicesuuui @kissyslut @kritkalhit @st4rcs @dumbbellxo @theforestchoseme3 @wlvlurvsfimmia @genshinenjoyer @theweirdanimation @ch-3-rry @nenukkjhj @giaqnn @crack240 @pookalicious-hq @laurenkenss @sheinhamood @pooksterrr @bbynai @diorzs @beaaluv @colorfulkittenperfection

[skyfallscotland]

🐉 ONYX STORM PROLOGUE, CHAPTERS ONE & TWO MY THOUGHTS: (god bless the dutch 🇳🇱)

So not totally verified yet, but it seems legit. This is absolutely the scene I expected us to be starting with, and despite the translation it does read like Rebecca. Thank you so much to @thestarseternaal for sharing it with me! You can find it here.

Ok, let's fucking goooooo! 🤘

· That trigger warning list? "The death of an animal" 💀😬 The "descriptions of sexual acts" though, thank god, though it's not looking promising for the two of them so far.

· Garrick and Bodhi KNOW?! Ok that I didn't see coming?

· "I can't blame him for wanting to know what he is" ANDARNA 😭 "I'm as much in the dark as he is, and you trust me." 😭 I want to hug the baby

· "Magic feels different when I change colours. When I used my power, it was like the venin transformed, weakening-" Ok so confirmed, she's the solution they're looking for *sigh*

· It's going to be unfortunate if the allies we're seeking are just Poromiel, and I think they are given both the excerpt prior to the prologue and the fact the Target edition map had only a few places in Poromiel on it and no Isles. I guess we're not looking for Andarna's family over there until books four and five? 😞

· Wait...what? Leadership knows what Andarna is? Everyone knows? Who TF told them? I was certain they didn't see? I can't believe we spent all this time worrying about people knowing she was a baby when she bonded and y'all just told everyone she was a super special rare breed right off the bat. SMDH.

· Aotrom's only 22? 😭 I'm older than Aotrom? RIDOC and him are the same age, that makes so much sense!!

· TAIRN CALLS XADEN "THE DARK ONE"? 😭 I feel like I'm not going to like Tairn much this book, and I feel like he's gonna ☠️ but that's for my theory post.

· "His soul is no longer his own" "That's a bit dramatic." VIOLET I LOVE YOU 🖤

· "You mean whether I'll support you in the thousand ways you want to face death to heal someone who's beyond redemption?" Oh Tairn...why do I get the really, really bad feeling you lied about Naolin?

· The truth-sayers have let Caroline Ashton off the hook? Hmmmm suspicious. Everyone's evil, I just know it.

· "Devera and Kaori will be back soon. They’ll straighten out the command structure once the princes have signed a treaty that hopefully grants us grace for even leaving in the first place." Ummm princes plural? So I guess Cam hid for nothing? Well not nothing, but he's...back with his fam? Also why would they be signing shit? Where's the damn king?!

· "The rarest signet, which appear once per generation or century, have been documented twice simultaneously with an equal counterpart, both during critical times in our history, but only once have the six most powerful walked the Continent at the same time. As fascinating as that spectacle must have been, I would rather not witness it again in my lifetime. – A study of signets by Major Dalton Sisneros" Ok could be a weird translation but I'm confused by this. The counterpart thing could be either a rider and a venin (ie. one of the venin can distance wield and we're getting a distance wielder) or dark and light, ie. shadows and light. Also six like the first six and they all had partners within themselves? Three pairs? Or? What even were their signets because I can't believe we've NEVER FUCKING ASKED? I've literally never seen that mentioned and it seems...so fucking relevant.

· Perhaps a more outlandish theory, but I think the venin with the silver hair who distance wields might be Xaden's mother. I'll elaborate later, but 😬😬

· Ok well, 1. I'm fucking crying already, and 2. "Even if I reached the rank of Maven, led armies of dark wielders against everyone we care about, and if I had to watch every vein in my body turn red because I had drained all the powers of the Continent, I would still love you. What I’ve done doesn’t change that. I don’t know if that’s even possible." That's a little bit storm in the quiet, I love it when the vibe is proven ✨correct✨ 😭 @justallihere

So all in all, 1. As expected, every excerpt, hint, and thing we've thought about it over in one-two chapters, 2. This is going to hurt so bad and I think it will go as I expected, and 3. I'm still not ready 😭

Send help 🥺

[burr-ell]

Bell's Hells gets compared to the Mighty Nein a lot, both in terms of narrative and party comp, but honestly, I think it makes more sense to compare them to Vox Machina. Back in Campaign 1, the deck was stacked against VM for several reasons in succession: the players had to port over from Pathfinder and learn 5e; Beastmaster Ranger sucks absolute ass; their cleric left in the middle of the campaign and was only available sporadically; and then their sorcerer left permanently. But they were able to build their characters to compensate! Scanlan took on the burden of arcane casting, and he, Keyleth, Vex, and later Vax all pulled their weight as healers. Keyleth was a Circle of the Moon druid, which is just a great subclass, and Percy not only had a great build but also took an ASI to give the party a higher INT score to better help with nerd shit. Vex multiclassed to play to more of her strengths when it became clear ranger wasn't going to do much more for her, and Vax's multiclass to paladin made for a formidable combination. It might have been nice if they'd had a wizard or if Pike had been available more often, but they still managed to find ways to work around it, and ultimately Vox Machina is still a really powerful and effective party.

Bell's Hells just...aren't doing any of that. Their party comp is ultimately just the sum of its parts, and not a particularly impressive one. They have a druid and two sorcerers and yet nobody has Teleport or Transport Via Plants (the Staff of Dark Odyssey needs charges and inflicts damage on the user for each charge expended). It was clear from early on that this campaign was going to have a lot of intrigue and conspiracy, but none of the characters had any reason to be invested in the worldbuilding or politics, so instead the party just followed breadcrumbs from lore dump to lore dump—Chetney didn't even get Grim Psychometry until level 10, and neither that nor Orym's knowledge of (mostly Vox Machina's) history were enough to make up for the fact that neither character had a real connection to what they were learning to give any of it real weight, and nobody else tried to make up the difference. Fearne and Laudna's multiclasses are both mechanically kind of a mess—it's not that they're not useful, it's that they're really not getting the kind of use out of their levels that they should be. (Is uncanny dodge worth being level 15 and not having any higher-level druid spells? Is it worth being a mostly-sorcerer multiclass when there's already a full sorcerer in the party?)

It's not that Bell's Hells can't accomplish anything; they very obviously can. It's that the players are making the kinds of choices that they were pretty deftly able to avoid ten years ago with fewer resources and years of experience than they have now, and it makes most of what the Hells do feel pretty designated and phoned-in at the end of the day. And frankly we saw that in last night's episode—they mostly just stumbled into their current party comp, and they mostly just stumbled into one of the dumbest decisions any CR party has ever made.

[yumeka-sxf]

Relatively short new chapter today, but still a lot to unpack! While we didn't get a ton of Melinda lore yet, as the majority of the chapter was Loid saying things to try and win her over, I found it interesting to see insight into one of his "fake" therapy sessions.

As usual with all the conversations he has with people in his "Loid Forger" persona, if the topic gets heavy, he'll end up saying things that are, what I believe, what he truly feels. This is usually preceded by him dropping the forced smile and showing a glimpse of a more thoughtful expression, for example, in the below panel when Melinda comments on how strong and "lively" she thinks Loid and Yor are. He then goes on to tell her that there's no crime or shame in not being strong enough.

While it is debatable whether he's being genuine here or not, I can't help but be reminded of similar conversations he's had with Yor in the past...way back in chapter 14 where he told her how tiring it can be to put up a facade all the time. And then much later in chapter 86 where she tells him, in her own way, that he doesn't have to be strong and "perfect" all the time.

I'm probably reading too much into it, but it's just something that came to mind 😅 But on the topic of Melinda saying they're "lively," the word she uses in the Japanese version in 健全な ("kanzenna") which is more like "healthy, sound, stable, etc" (the first kanji is "healthy/strong," and the second is "whole/all.") So yeah, a slightly different nuance than "lively."

I also smiled when I saw that Loid still calls Yor "Yor-san" in his thoughts ❤️

It wouldn't be a SxF chapter with at least a subtle hint at something "darker" going on or has gone on...in this case, we hear a bit of Melinda's thoughts about the post-war time.

But the big shocker was obviously the final page where she claims that Donovan is an alien. I checked the Japanese version to make sure, and she does indeed use the term 宇宙人 ("uchuujin"), which is "alien" in the traditional sense.

Upcoming plot twist...this previous Endo art for short mission 10 will turn out to be canon 🤣

Joking aside, I don't think that Donovan is literally an alien, as mixing a truly sci-fi element like that into the world of SxF would be too jarring. So probably something that Donovan has done made Melinda come to that conclusion. As for what it is about him that that would make her think this is debatable - his involvement in science experiments/Project Apple? If he actually has the ability to read minds, is this the explanation she's come up? Or maybe he wants her to think this for some reason? There's also a theory that she doesn't actually believe he's an alien and is only saying it to test Loid in some way. Whatever the reason is, we'll have to wait until next time for more answers!

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part five

I've officially gone back to work full time, so I might be a bit slower with writing, but hopefully not too much! I'm really excited keep posting this little story with all its twists and turns 🤭🤭 (That being said, the end of this one will prob make zero sense but TRUST ME, it will make sense later on)

Warnings: more of the case, more arguing, depictions of a panic attack, more vagueness about Reader's backstory 👀

Hotch watches you through the two-way glass as you speak to Richard Monroe once again. Rossi stands at his side, watching him watch you.

“She’s doing good,” Rossi comments. “Considering she just started.”

“She’s hiding something,” Hotch says quietly.

“Aren’t we all?” Rossi tries to make light of the moment, though it clearly doesn’t work. “What’s got you spooked?”

Hotch shakes his head slowly. “He recognized her somehow.”

“You’re sure he’s not toying with her?” Rossi asks. “He’s obviously attracted to her. He’s been flirting with her since she stepped in there.”

Hotch can’t explain why but that makes anger burn inside his chest even hotter.

“Relax,” Rossi says. 

“I am relaxed,” Hotch says too quickly, too defensively.

Rossi stares at him. “You’re on edge because she’s here again, and she’s on edge because you’re making her on edge.” He points between the two of you to emphasize his point.

Hotch isn’t ready to back down so easily, but he does ease slightly. 

He is on edge because you’re here again. He was on edge during that case all those years ago for a reason he couldn’t place — he still can’t place it. Not to mention, you seemed determined to push any and every button of his that you could find. And then some. He lost it, you lost it; it was a disaster. He was as happy to leave as you were to see him go. It’s barely been forty-eight hours since you’ve been back and it’s obvious the same pattern is repeating. Only this time, you’re both stuck with one another. For the indefinite future.

Because, at the end of the day, you’re good at your job, and Hotch is glad you’re here because you’re so good at what you do.

Hotch casts his eyes back to Richard. Is he flirting with you? Hotch can’t exactly tell, yet Rossi says he is. Or did Rossi only say it to get a rise out of Hotch? Not unlikely, knowing David. But it doesn’t make it sit any more right with Hotch.

But you’re getting somewhere with him. That’s important; that’s worth focusing on.

Richard admits that there is one person in particular who had it out for him more than the others. The problem is, that person is in prison. Or he’s supposed to be. Because Richard had him framed.

“Already on it,” Rossi says, putting his phone to his ear. He rattles the name off for Garcia and she goes to work.

Inside the room, you’ve leaned over on the table, your chin in your palm. Clearly sympathetic, trying to get more out of Richard.

Hotch sees it now, the way Richard is looking at you. And he doesn’t like it. He straightens, uncrossing his arms, ready to haul you out of there any second. 

+++

You’re getting good information out of him. You haven’t shown him the phone yet, but you will. You wanted him to warm up again first, and he has. You hope Hotch is eating his foot right now from how much he doubted you. And you hope Rossi is laughing at him.

You almost laugh yourself, but you stop, and just in time too, for Richard to throw another curveball your way.

“I think I know what it is,” he says after a moment of looking you up and down — which he won’t stop doing. “You’re all grown up.”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at. “What?”

“Why I didn’t realize it at first,” he continues. “You’re different from the pictures. Older.” He narrows his eyes. “But it’s definitely you.”

“We’re not talking about me,” you redirect him. “We’re talking about Lila.”

“We could talk about you,” he ignores your bait. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Where would he take Lila?” you plow through. “Think about your daughter, Richard. If he has her, where would he take her?”

“He probably just wanted me to turn myself in, the bastard,” Richard says. “Give him a few hours. He’ll let her go.”

“Will he?” you ask. He doesn’t seem at all upset that someone has his daughter. “What about what he’ll do to her? What he’s probably already done?”

He shrugs, then a sinister smirk crawls onto his face. “You were let go without a scratch, weren’t you?”

You can’t hide your reaction. It’s impossible to, when that— that is the last thing you expected him to know.

Before you can react — or realize the laughter you hear is coming from Richard — Hotch is throwing the door open and ordering you out.

“Out, Y/N. Now,” he repeats, glaring at Richard. Not you. Surprisingly.

You stand and leave, your feet working on their own. You pause just outside the room, pulse racing in your ears. The door shuts and Hotch is at your side, looking at you weirdly -- or is that sympathy in his eyes? You don’t know. And you can’t hear a damn thing, but you see Hotch’s mouth moving.

“Y/N,” he says. “I said are you okay?”

“Fine, don’t touch me,” you swat his hand away, not that it was anywhere near your arm. He’s just standing too close and looking at you differently and it’s setting you off all over again. “I’m gonna go get some air.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t try to stop you or lecture you, both of which are a feat for him. He should be proud of himself.

The jab is weak, even in your head. You’re too disoriented to even try something harsher.

You’re out the front doors of the precinct before you can blink, and pacing the sidewalk before you can breathe. 

You still can’t breathe, actually. You can’t at all. That’s a problem.

You lean against one of the BAU cars and try to inhale, but it’s like your lungs refuse to expand. They’re shrinking with every passing second and—

You’re sitting on the ground and someone is hovering over you— No, they’re kneeling. They’re saying your name, saying breathe, and you’re trying, but—

“Look at me, you need to breathe, come on,” Hotch takes your hand and presses it between both of his, trying to ground you. “With me, okay?” He takes in a deep breath and you nod, mirroring him, or trying to. You swear you’re trying.

It takes some time, but eventually your breathing evens out again. Reality comes crashing back to you — and Hotch too, apparently, because you both split apart from one another like you’re burning.

“Thanks,” you say, taking in another deep breath.

“You’re welcome,” Hotch replies. He doesn’t sound at all angry, but he won’t stop looking at you.

“No.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” you repeat. “I’m not talking about it right now.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

You scoff. “Sure.”

He pauses. “We will have to talk about it.”

“For god’s sake,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead with a shaking hand. “Not now. And not until we’re back in Quantico. Okay?”

Surprising you, he nods. “Okay.” He waits another beat, still studying you. “Take your time. Come back in when you’re ready.”

You blink after him as he walks away, wondering if that really was Hotch that you just talked to. And not some nicer alien who replaced him.

+++

When you walk back into the precinct, the entire team tries — and promptly fails — to not give you pitying looks.

“I’m fine,” you bite out when Morgan opens his mouth.

He snaps it closed. “Cool. I was gonna ask if you wanted some coffee.”

No he wasn’t. But you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you.”

You settle down in the conference room next to Reid and JJ. Apparently Emily is trying to talk to Richard now with Hotch and Rossi watching, but you’re not sure how far she’ll get, if anything. He seems done being cooperative now. He got what he wanted. Which, for some reason, was to rattle you to your core.

You’re still just not sure how he even knows any of that. The world of serial killers can’t seriously be that small, can it? There’s no way he could’ve known your father and the man who kidnapped you when you were a kid. 

And how the fuck are you going to explain any of this to Hotch? He’s not going to let it go; you know he won’t. He will corner you the second you’re back in Quantico and demand answers. Even if you tell him to leave it alone, you know he’ll try to find out in other ways. Because he’s a stubborn jackass like that.

“Here,” Morgan says, handing over a steaming cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” you take it and offer a smile in return. He squeezes your shoulder as you take a sip.

It might be police precinct coffee, but it’s good enough, and it helps. That’s about all you can ask for at this point.

The four of you go over what you know so far once again. Garcia calls with no new leads from the most recent rabbit hole Hotch sent her down, and a promise to keep digging. 

“Thanks, Garcia,” you sigh, putting your head down on the table as the call disconnects. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan sighs with you. “I mean it’s been well over the window for—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, but loud enough that he stops. “Don’t say it, please.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Morgan whispers back, resting a hand on your back.

You lift your head. “We’ll get her back.”

JJ and Reid share the same sad look. You hate it. You hate this.

You were gone for two days when you were a kid. You were found on the morning of the third day. There’s still time. Just because it’s been over twenty-four hours doesn’t mean she’s—

Hotch enters the conference room looking just as disturbed as he was when you left the interrogation room earlier. Rossi and Emily trail behind, both watching you closely.

“Morgan and Reid, I want you to go speak with Mrs. Monroe again. Reid, take a close look at Lila’s room, see if there’s anything at all that we’ve missed. Actually, JJ, go with them. Talk with Mrs. Monroe. Update her on everything.”

The three of them nod and begin gathering their things to head out.

“Prentiss, I want you and Rossi to go back to the area where Lila’s phone was found. Canvas the area, keep open eyes. A few officers are already there to help.”

That leaves you. With Hotch.

“Call me with whatever you find,” Hotch tells them. “No piece of information is too small or insignificant right now.”

“Roger that,” Prentiss nods.

One by one, the team files out of the room, and the door shuts behind them. You swallow thickly.

The conference room suddenly feels far too small.

Hotch pulls out one of the chairs next to you, sitting down. He leans his elbows onto the table, not looking at you. Earlier, he wouldn’t stop looking at you, and now he won’t even meet your eyes. You’re five seconds away from tossing this lukewarm coffee in his face.

“Richard mentioned—”

Make that two seconds. “Hotch,” you interrupt him immediately. “I said I’m not talking about this right now.”

“Richard mentioned,” he starts again, ignoring you, “something earlier that startled you.”

You scoff, pushing back from the table. You need to pace. You can’t sit if he’s going to start hounding you for answers now. Right now, of all times.

“We have a missing kid,” you gesture wildly. “In case you forgot.”

Hotch leans back. “We do. And her father seems to know more about your past than I do.”

“Well, you and I aren’t exactly friends.”

“Are you and Richard Monroe friends?”

“What? No!”

“Is he a family friend?”

You freeze. He’s getting too close to the truth already. “What the hell are you getting at?”

Hotch stands slowly, and you take a step back even though he hasn’t moved toward you at all. He notices the action and tilts his head ever so slightly. Fuck. You’re not going to make it out of this. Not when he reads you like a damn book. 

“When he said you were let go without a scratch,” Hotch presses. “What did he mean?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. He meant nothing by it.”

“Really?” Hotch continues. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be trying to flee this room.”

You blink and realize you’re much closer to the door than you thought, your hand reaching behind you for the door knob. You stop, dropping your hand.

“He mentioned your father,” Hotch says evenly. “But wouldn’t give us a name. Why?”

“Ask him,” you growl. “Ask him these questions since he knows me so well.”

“I’m asking you.”

“What?” you yell. “What the hell do you want from me, Hotch?” There are tears pricking your eyes and you hate it. You hate him. “Now is not the time to go digging through my past just because you have it out for me. I get it, okay? I get that I am the last person on this planet that you wanted to join your team. Believe me, you are the last person I wanted to be working under. But these are the cards we were dealt, alright? So I’d appreciate it if you’d just for once in your sorry, stubborn little life show me some goddamn mercy and leave this alone.”

A tear has escaped that you wipe away quickly, pissed that you let it fall in the first place.

Whatever expression he wears, you can’t read it. “If you’re connected to this case, I need to know. If there’s anything—”

“I would’ve fucking told you already,” you hiss, ready to punch him square on the nose. “I told you to drop it. I can’t do this right now.”

His phone rings, saving him from attempting to say anything else that you might want to deck him for. Thankfully, Hotch answers it. 

“Hotchner. Hey Rossi,” he watches you as he talks. And he freezes. “What? Where? How?”

“What happened?” You surge forward, trying to get closer to listen to the call.

Hotch pulls his phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker. Rossi’s voice rushes through.

“An ambulance is taking her to the hospital, but she seems alright,” Rossi says. “We’re going with her.”

“Good, don’t let her leave your sight,” Hotch says. “Are the police canvassing the area?”

“Doing everything they can to look for him.”

“Good. We’re coming to join them.”

You look at Hotch wildly, not exactly excited for sitting in a car with him for hours searching the area for who kidnapped Lila. Not to mention, you seem to be the only one who knows damn well that whoever it was is long gone by now. There’s no way he’s sticking around, or that he’d be dumb enough to turn himself in like Richard.

“We’re not gonna find him,” you mutter.

Both Hotch and Rossi stop talking. “What?” Hotch asks.

“We’re not going to find him,” you repeat. “He’s long gone.”

Both men are quiet. You and Hotch stare at each other. He knows it, too. He knows it’s the truth.

But still, you canvas the area. You sit in the passenger seat as Hotch drives, less reckless than usual. You know it’s no use. You also understand the feeling of guilt that would’ve come if you didn’t at least try.

+++

Lila is sitting up in the hospital bed looking perfectly healthy and intact when you arrive with Hotch. Mrs. Monroe wraps you in a tight hug the second she sees you.

“Thank you,” she says. “For bringing my baby back to me.”

You politely thank her, telling her the entire team helped. You offer a smile to Lila who returns it with a little nod.

You ask some questions, but truthfully, Lila is okay. Shaken up, but she says nothing bad happened. You’re not sure if she’s blocking it out and will one day remember, but all that seems to matter is that she’s back with her mom, and the two appear to be on better terms. 

Unsurprisingly, the man who had Lila didn’t tell her his name. He let her see his face, though, which is odd. Bold of him. Hotch makes sure the police know to get a sketch artist to see Lila for a full picture. 

Hotch asks as pointed behavior questions as he can, but again, Lila says it was fine. He was irritated, grumpy. Seemed to be waiting on something, but didn’t say what. She was in a house not far from here, in the basement. The police have already swarmed it, but it’s empty, of course. They’re collecting evidence, but Hotch isn’t sure what they’ll find, if anything.

Richard Monroe will keep his deal of life in prison, not the death penalty, if he continues to cooperate. The police seem to hope that with the sketch and Lila’s descriptions, Richard might recognize the guy. Or maybe his face will pop up in the FBI’s database, and Richard can answer questions about him. Until any of that happens, though, Richard remains in custody. And still wants to see his daughter.

You’re not sure if Mrs. Monroe will allow it. Your mom didn’t. 

You still don’t know if you wish she would’ve or not. Some days you’re glad she didn’t. Others, like today, you wish she had. There are so many questions you don’t have answers to. So many that you know you’ll never get them all.

[whywouldisayprinter]

It's thinking about reverse age Batfam kids/ Robins hours.

Like. It just. Shifts all of the dynamics and especially Bruce's character, but it still is so wonderfully cohesive!

Let's start with Damian.

Bruce is in his mid-twenties, going strong and building a rapport as Gotham's protector when, one day, Talia al Ghul rings on his doorbell with a tiny 7/8 yrs old shadow. It's their son she says. His heir and apprentice, the shadow, Damian, says.

Damian is well trained, as stubborn as his parents and determined to follow his father's footsteps, so Batman gains a Sidekick. A sneaky little thing that seems as much as a mythical creature as its mentor.

After some time, a new kid falls into Batman's path. Duke is bright and righteous, and if Batman didn't decide to train him, he would lead his tiny gang of determined children right into the thick of it without being able to make it through. So Batman trains him, even though Duke returns to his home at the end of the day.

There comes a time when Damian is restless. He wants to train with different masters, go on missions with his team, and make sure that one day he is worthy of being Batman's successor. So he leaves the cave and Batman without a sidekick.

That is until Bruce stumbles over a tiny stalker with absent Parents, who knows their identities. Tim is quick to learn and just as sneaky as Damian and while Damian is proud of his ability to match batman in a fight, he hates that this new kid seems to match Batman's abilities as a detective, even surpass them. Until Tim Drake, Heir to Drake Industries, gets an assassin send after him, and kills him in a frantic fight for survival. He crossed a line. The line. So Bruce sends him home.

Then the Joker decides that this little detective is just so fun, not as stuck up as old Batsy and wouldn't he like to be Jokers sidekick instead? No? What a shame. Especially as his parents just so happened to be in. A bit of a pickle. You see it was easy to kidnap them on their way back from the airport and are you sure you don't want to join the Joker? A well, have FUN at your little family reunion then.

Tim dies laughing against his will.

A few months later, Batman gets hit by a brick in the back while punching a purse snatcher black and blue. Steph is angry. Angry that her father rots in jail. That she wasn't fast enough to safe her mother. That Batman almost killed a guy who was just trying to survive. Angry that Batman is dishonoring Tim in such a way. Her friend would hate to see what his mentor - dad. Almost- became, so she decides that she will make sure Batman stays in line.

She is at his side for almost 4 months, bothering him with a sharp tongue and burning criticism, keeping him upright and most important, himself. Then Batman finds out she's pregnant. He benches her. Of course. She hates it. She hates that she can't argue against it. That it makes sense. That she can't help people anymore and be in the thick of it. Can't keep her Baby and her role as a protector of Gotham. Her family is understanding. They all know the itching under your skin. The burning need to go out at night. So they try to help her. Alfred is the one to suggest turning her focus to the Wayne side of their life's. To use her knowledge of the streets and poor parts of Gotham to help the money flow to where it's needed. She grumbles. But takes the opportunity.

Jason's story stays almost the same. What else is there to do than be a ballsy little kid in the face of Batman. Than to bare his teeth in the face of danger. He's only supposed to stay at the manor for a few days. Until the system could find a better, long term place for him. In the matter of hours Steph and Jason become inseparable. He looks at her like she hung the stars and she regales him with greatly exaggerated stories of her time as Batman's sidekick. They all know that Jason isn't going anywhere after that and Batman needed a new sidekick anyways. (Jason takes his, from Steph appointed, "Batman Wrangler" Job *very* seriously)

Several years later, there's a new player on the field. Cold calculated and able to stay three steps ahead of Batman. The Joker dies. The head is mailed to Wayne Enterprise. A gift, the card says, from Drake Industries. A promise, a threat, for flourishing business relationships. The Joker is dead. And Tim Drake has returned. (Deep deep down in the shadows of Gotham a court of Owls welcomes their newest member. They're like spun sugar, wrapped around his finger)

Darkseid happens. There's a letter addressed to Damian Wayne. A letter telling him that Bruce isn't dead. There's only one person who could have the resources to prove that claim. Prove that the research and theories are indeed fact. So Damian faces his heritage.

When he returns from the League, it's with Bruce Wayne and a shadow. A tiny girl named Cassandra. It takes some time for him to notice, but he wasn't raised by the Bat himself to be unaware of his surroundings. So Damian helps. He sees himself in Cass, a warped and distorted "what could have been". If he wasn't the heir to both the Demon and the Bat. If his parents were just a bit more cruel.

After everything it all ends how it originally began. A visit to the circus. A daring show of skills. A snapped line. And an orphan. Dick Grayson joins the Batfamily, the Waynes last. Hurt, angry and demanding revenge for his family. They all know what it feels like. They all know how to deal with a tiny child with big emotions. He stays. He is loved. And with some time he's no longer angry. You can't be angry when you're an uncle afterall.

[faithsotherhouseofchaos]

hi! can I please request carlos x female autistic! reader where the reader is having a off day and just needs to be distracted (can include smut if you’d like)

- a fellow female autistic :)

Cloud Gazing and Quiet Moments||Carlos sainz x fem!Autistic!reader

Summary- after a tough day Carlos distracts you with a drive and gazing at the clouds

Word count 471

Carlos had always been patient, but today, he could sense something different about you. You’d been quieter than usual, your responses short and your usual spark dulled. He noticed the way your hands fidgeted, your eyes darting to avoid his, the weight of the off day pressing on you like an invisible fog.

He didn’t push or ask too many questions. Carlos knew that sometimes words only made things harder, so he took a different approach.

“Hey,” he said gently, breaking the silence. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You glanced at him, hesitant, but the idea of being somewhere else—anywhere else—sounded appealing.

Minutes later, you were in his car, the gentle hum of the engine filling the quiet. Carlos didn’t bombard you with conversation. Instead, he let the road do the talking, driving through streets lined with trees, the sun peeking through the branches.

After a while, he pulled into the parking lot of a small, quiet park. Grabbing a blanket from the backseat, he gestured for you to follow. You found a spot under a big oak tree, and he spread out the blanket, sitting down with a grin.

“I brought snacks,” he said, pulling out a bag of chips and a bottle of your favorite drink. “Thought you might need a little pick-me-up.”

You sat down next to him, the soft rustle of leaves overhead blending with the faint chirping of birds. Carlos handed you the snacks and started talking—not about anything heavy, but random, silly things. Like the first time he tried to make pancakes and ended up with a kitchen disaster or the conspiracy theory his neighbor swore by.

He didn’t ask how you were feeling, didn’t try to fix anything. He just was there his presence a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone.

Eventually, a small smile tugged at your lips as you bit into a chip. Carlos noticed but didn’t point it out. Instead, he leaned back, hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice light, “if you stare at the clouds long enough, they start to look like weird animals. That one looks like a llama.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the fluffy cloud he was pointing at. “That’s a duck, Carlos.”

He gasped, mock offended. “A duck? No way, that’s definitely a llama. Maybe with a weird beak.”

You chuckled softly, and the sound made him glance at you with a satisfied smile.

For the rest of the afternoon, you sat there together, pointing out clouds, munching on snacks, and letting the weight of the day melt away. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it didn’t need to be. Carlos had a way of grounding you, of making the tough days a little easier to bear.

And for now, that was more than enough.

[tackykachowch]

Jinx's appearance in s2 ep9 is a tragedy for her character. The writing throughout the season already tried its best to destroy absolutely everything meaningful to her and who she is at her core, and now we get the chance to see it visually.

I'll get this out of the way so nobody bothers me about it later: yes, I personally hate the design overall. But despite that if it was truthful to her character and reflected her journey well I wouldn't even squeak. Well, maybe one tiny time, but not make a whole post about it.

Alright, so right now I'm going to lign up all 3 of her designs and compare them in a sense how they represent Jinx as a character. I apologize for using The Wild Rift model because it's actual hell to find her s2 ep9 look in good quality and with a good view of the details.

There's a pretty stark difference between Powder and Jinx. The only element they share is gloves, but on Jinx they are modified and have a different color. There are however also similiar "motifs"(?), like purple stripes on clothes, Jinx's belts are positioned in a way that mirrors Powder's blue...thing on her pants; also Powder has a small braid on the side of her head, as well as golden hairpins, while Jinx has two braids that are waaay longer, but she still has golden elements that support her braids.

Now, the differences. Powder's clothes are layered and are made from different fabrics, covering almost her entire body. This represents that she's a shy, frightly girl with very low self-esteem. Jinx, on the other hand, has waaay more open skin, even to a somewhat inappropriate degree. This shows us that she became confident and doesn't care what others think of her, maybe even to a fault. Her boots in some way resemble jester's shoes, showing us her more light-hearted attitude, especially towards violence.

Also, unlike Powder, who only ever shot from a toy gun and made bombs that didn't work, Jinx is a prodigy bomb maker and a master shooter with (what seems like) a hand-made pistol, and on top of that has an also self-made machine gun. So from all of this we can pick up that this is the same person, but she changed in a huge way, hence why even her name is different.

Now, onto the Jinx we see in s2 ep9. She cut off her braids, colored streaks of her hair, especially on the bang, replaced her pants, top, and belts, made herself a hood, painted over her tattoos with x-es and Ekko's symbols, fused her machine gun with Fishbones, her recently made rocket launcher (ignore the wild rift picture for this part), and completely remade her pistol. The only things that carry over from her previous outfit are gloves, boots (which are now fully laced), her necklace aaaand yeah that's it. Motifs are left the same, except for her hair of course.

Now, I want to talk about a couple of elements in detail. Her hood is made from unknown material, and resembles some kind of monster, rather than a monkey, raven or shark, her previously established symbols. Like someone pointed out, it probably resembles drawings on Isha's helmet.

Also Jinx has pink markings under her eyes, just like Powder from Ekko's vision in season 1 ep7.

The bandages that replace her top are the same ones Vi has.

So, with all of that information, what can we tell about Jinx at the end of her journey? The obvious answer is that she decided to move on, but in what way? Accepting both "Powder" and "Jinx" parts of her? But then why did she paint over her tattoos? Something permanent, that shows how irreversibly she changed over the years, and will never become the same girl again? Moreover, why didn't she make the new tattoos, pink bullets? Yes yes, pink bullets. Both LoL Jinx and even s2 ep9 skin for Jinx in The Wild Rift have pink bullets tattoos, but arcane Jinx doesn't. Why tho? Well, of course, it's our good ol' pal Silco erasure. Because, you see, Jinx killed Silco with her Pow-Pow, and when she shoots with it, the bullets are seen as pink projectiles. So, not only does Jinx figuratively want to "paint over" her past with Silco, she also in no way wants to capture what she did to him and that in the very same night she finally accepted herself as Jinx. Of course we know that s2 writers didn't want to follow up on this decision, but adding a couple of effects onto her model isn't that big of a job. Anyway

Why did she go back to covering her legs entirely? Is she more careful now, orrr perhaps she seeks protection from someone? No. Why does she have paint all over her, and Ekko's symbols in particular? Is she a part of the Firelights now? Even if that's the case, it was never confirmed on screen. Why did she completely change her haircut, only leaving a bang? I guess hair holds the memories or whatever, so to start a new life you shouldn't have any memories of the previous one? Idk. Why did she replace her top with bandages like Vi's, if the last time they saw each other Jinx told Vi to let her go and forget about her? Idk. Why did she fuse Pow-Pow and Fishbones together? Idk.

The only things I more or less don't question are the hood and markings, but then again, I'm not really happy with the fact that we see Jinx in them in her "last" moments either. That's the part of my biggest problem with all of this, actually. It took around 10 years for Jinx to have such a big difference in how she looks, but the latest change happened literally overnight. No matter how you try to explain this, this is objectively terrible writing. In less than one episode the main character of the series drastically changed her appearance in ways that should tell us about a big character development, but we didn't get a chance to see any of it. Not the process, nor the development itself, because Jinx behaves in ep9 the same way she behaves in the rest of s2.

So, what was that all about? I guess they wanted to fill out the quota of a minimum of two outfit changes per season, but it's in no way justified within the show. And that's why this is a tragedy. Jinx went from the most well-written character in the show with incredible design and conflict to the writer's toy which only function is to be sacrificed.

[petermorwood]

Various interesting features here:

Look how colourful their clothes are - okay, these are high nobles, but according to Dung Age Hollywood there was no difference between nobles and peasants, everyone wore dingy cloth or black leather or dingy black leather.

The battle scene on the background tapestry shows how important bright colours could be: Know Your Ally, Know Your Foe. Mistakes (and "mistakes") did happen...

Lapdogs are allowed on the table but greyhounds aren't. I think this may have to do with size, though it may also mean there's a chance to catch a thieving lapdog but a thieving greyhound can be in the next county with half a roast beast before anyone is out of their seat.

The lapdogs are Being Good, eating from their own dish rather than pinching from the platter of roasted quails behind them. This is almost certainly artistic license combined with a lot of optimism, as anyone who knows Pekes, Poms and indeed cats can tell you.

The ship-shaped thing on the table beside the lapdogs is a container for salt or spices and is called a nef, which means "ship" (or at least a kind of ship) and may have been shaped that way either because salt came from the sea or because spices were transported by ship from far away, though YMMV on that one.

Part-coloured hose is clearly in fashion, as is wearing spurs indoors. Sir Standing Blue is wearing just one spur, which is almost certainly Significant in some way, but I have no idea what that might be.

Also, I think that pattern on the floor is mean to represent rush matting. This makes a lot more sense than the usual "strewn rushes" like a badly scythed lawn, especially in periods when the fashion of the day was for floor length gowns such as houppelandes. Those would raise bow-waves of loose rushes with every stride and leave clean-swept lanes in their wake, all of which sounds a bit unlikely.

More wishful thinking? More "for high nobles only"? Again, YMMV, but weaving rush mats strikes me as another means of income for peasants. Scattering aromatic herbs that smelt nice when trodden on (and could be brushed up later) is another matter.

Finally, Sir Standing Green and Sir Standing Blue aren't flashing their junk, those are dagger hilts. The weapon was called a ballock dagger.

Guess why.

‘January’ in the ‘Tres Riches Heures’ - Probably Pol Limbourg.

[nothoughtsjustfic]

Hunted - Y.JH

🩸Who: Yoon Jeonghan (Seventeen) x reader 🩸What: Vampire au. Vampire Jeonghan. Human Reader. 🩸Wordcount: 2.4k 🩸Warnings: Blood. Biting. Injury. Typical vampire stuff. 🩸Summary: " Jeonghan has always loved the Hunt, loves finding a tasty little human to prey on and sink his teeth into their neck. When he spots you one day and catches your irresistible scent, Jeonghan can’t help but make you the focus of his latest Hunt. "

Masterlist

A/N- Thanks to @ddeonghwa-s for suggesting vampire Jeonghan on the hunt!

It’s an outdated tradition, sure. But Jeonghan loves it. Thrives on it. Something about it always sends a thrill up his spine.

Jeonghan has been alive for so long, he has seen so many things come and go; fads and crazes that light up his interest only to fizzle out. Yet after all these years this remains.

The Hunt.

Finding the perfect prey.

Stalking.

Luring.

Trapping. Sometimes he stays on this step longer just to watch the silly little humans panic. Sometimes he lets them go to give them a false sense of freedom, which always sweetens their scent, only to sweep in moments later and sink his teeth in. Drink down the joy fizzing in their blood before the fear can sour it again.

Though inevitably, the Hunt must end with his lips pressed against a racing pulse and warmth spilling over his tongue. Feeding.

Tonight is no different.

Jeonghan first spotted you days ago. He caught a whiff of your delectable scent as you passed him in the market, smelling more mouth watering than any of the sweet and savoury treats available for sale.

He knew right then that he had to have you.

For the past few days he’s been Hunting you; watching you to learn your routine and planning how to take advantage of that routine to lure you into a trap.

Which leads him to this point; standing in the shadows of the roof of your apartment building where you always step out in the middle of the night to look over the city. To admire the illuminated signs of life still in the city centre, a fair distance away from your residence where the light sources are fewer and further apart.

The perfect place to lay a trap.

Jeonghan feels smug satisfaction twist his lips into a smirk when you flinch at the sound of the roof door slamming shut. You spin around quickly, eyes darting to the door then around in search of who could’ve removed the brick propping the door open. Yet he knows humans can’t see him, not when his natural affinity for darkness as a vampire allows him to blend so seamlessly with the shadows.

“Who-who’s there?” You call out with a thick swallow.

He can just about catch the slight rise in your heartbeat from across the roof. It strikes him as a little odd that he can’t hear it jackrabbit with fear, as he is more accustomed to during his traps. But then he notices the way the wisps of your hair which are not tied back securely whip around in the wind and he realises that the wind is working against him.

There are few cons to not being sensitive to the weather and being able to withstand almost anything mother nature throws at him, and this is one of them. He hasn’t had to think once, let alone twice, about the weather, bar the sunshine, in centuries and tonight had been no different; he hadn’t added the wind to his plan.

Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things. He doesn’t need to hear your heartbeat perfectly or easily catch your scent as if you’re right by his side, not now that you’re exactly where he wants you.

Of course, Jeonghan doesn’t respond to your question, he starts to prowl in the shadows without removing his gaze from your tense figure.

Slowly, you relax and let out a huff of laugh to yourself while softly reprimanding yourself for not putting the brick properly in place knowing how easy it would be for the strong wind to catch the door and blow it shut.

Instead of going to the door to try and open it, you turn to peer over the edge of the roof to your balcony a floor below and to your left a little. You’re too busy mumbling to yourself about the practicalities of getting from the roof onto your balcony, and wondering if you left the balcony door unlocked, that you don’t hear Jeonghan approaching.

Jeonghan watches as the fine hairs on your neck begin to prickle and stand on end the closer he gets; your instincts sensing something that your meagre human brain can’t comprehend. There is a predator behind you, and you are not safe.

He stands perfectly still and silent a few metres behind you, enjoying his own little game of hide and seek, even if the seeker is unaware there is someone to be on the look out for. It’s one of the parts of being a vampire that Jeonghan adores endlessly; the ability to stand so close, practically within arm’s length yet entirely out of a human’s senses. It makes his Hunts both easier and more entertaining for him.

As you lean a little further over the edge of the roof, your hands move along the brick ledge by your waist to balance better and something a little sharper than the rough surface of the bricks catches your finger. You flinch and lift your hand to eye it, yet the lighting is too low for you to notice the tiny pinprick of blood on your fingertip.

Jeonghan, however, can perfectly see the little bead of blood and although he can’t smell it with the wind carrying your scent away, his hunger burbles to the surface and his focus changes from playing the game to winning his prize.

He isn’t so quiet as he glides over to stand directly behind you. You hear the scrape of his shoes against the fine natural grit on the rooftop and tense a split second before his right hand lifts to clamp over your mouth.

Sometimes humans still try to scream but Jeonghan is glad that you don’t, he really hates it when they do that; it ruins the experience for him.

“That’s it, good little human, you keep that pretty mouth shut and I’ll be gentle on you,” he coos teasingly, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “If you try to escape or call for help, I’ll rip your delicate little throat out and let you painfully bleed out right here. Understand?” You immediately nod shakily. “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth, and remember; keep those lips together or I’ll really give you something to scream about, okay?” You only nod. “That’s a good little human.”

Although you’ve agreed and he can feel the scared tremble of your body against his front where he’s lightly pressed against your back, he doesn’t entirely trust a silly little human to stick to their word, so he moves his hand from your mouth ever so slowly, ready to move it back if need be. But you stay quiet as agreed, earning a hum of approval.

“I wish more humans are more like you,” he comments as his hand slides down your throat to gently grip and tilt your head aside so that he can eye your neck hungrily. You let out a short exhale of air, he assumes it’s some kind of strange human response and thinks nothing of it. He’s too focused on brushing his lips against your skin and inhaling that unique, mouthwatering scent clinging to you and begging to be let free from your veins.

There truly is something endlessly enticing about your scent, which only grows stronger the longer he’s so close to your skin. His gums ache as his fangs force him to let them free ready to feed.

Jeonghan lifts his left arm up to wrap around your waist knowing that humans always flail for the first few seconds.

He can’t blame them though, the pain is excruciating the very first time being bitten, but it flows away as the venom numbs the pain and makes the human compliant. Many humans even enjoy it and become willing blood bags for a vampire. Jeonghan doesn’t like that, he thinks it’s despicable for a vampire to tie themselves to a human; to swear loyalty and take their feed so easily.

It’s lazy. An insult to the very nature of a vampire.

Vampires are predators, hunters. There is nothing more gratifying than a successful Hunt.

Jeonghan can’t wait any longer, he drags his sharp fangs over your neck, only harsh enough to leave faint lines; his favourite trick to add a little tang of utter terror to the blood before he bites down.

Immediately, Jeonghan knows something isn’t right.

You don’t flail. You don’t make a noise past a soft grunt as his teeth pierce your skin and that’s not right. He is never particularly gentle when he feeds, he doesn’t care for the comfort of his food to even attempt to be careful except to allow the little human to live and block the memory for them to not bring attention to his hunting grounds.

Yet you’re quiet, far too quiet for the amount of pain you should be in.

Perhaps it’s not the first time you’ve been unknowingly hunted and fed on, it wouldn’t surprise him at all; vampires all over would love to get their teeth in you and your blood on their tongues.

Jeonghan ignores the niggling in his mind that something is wrong as he reasons with himself about why you’re so still and quiet, and he starts to drink.

As soon as your warm blood pools on his tongue and starts to slide down his tongue, Jeonghan realises that he should’ve listened to his instincts.

It burns. He pulls away from you as quickly as he can to try and spit out the mouthful of blood already blistering his tongue and throat.

With blood trickling from your neck, you turn to look at Jeonghan with a grin, but he doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy on his hands and knees in excruciating pain.

You know that his vampiric abilities will start to heal him soon, so you don’t have long to bask in the sight of the old, powerful vampire suffering on his knees at your feet. Though you do take another few seconds to admire the scene and take a mental picture before you step over and take the thin silver chain from your inner jacket pocket.

Jeonghan yelps and tries to move away as soon as you wind a section of it around his throat from behind and loop it a few times, but every movement makes the silver singe his skin painfully. He tries to pull it away with his hands, but it burns his fingers, and you simply take the chance of him being on his knees with his hands by his throat to wind the ends of the chains around his wrists and yank them behind his back while he wails in pain.

“Now, now, Sir Yoon, you really shouldn’t make such a fuss, it’s just a little silver and holy water rich blood. Surely such an old, powerful vampire as yourself can handle that, right?” You tease, connecting the ends of the chains together at his lower back with the padlock you pull from your pocket.

“Y-you’re a Hunter,” he realises, voice raw and rough from the burns of the holy water within his throat. It sounds like it’s painful to speak and you mentally applaud him for pushing through just to sneer at you with pure hatred.

“Makes two of us, huh?” You retort and circle around to stand in front of him. He’s glaring up at you yet makes no attempt to get up from his knees.

Either he’s smart enough to know that an experienced Hunter, like you clearly are, has more than just these two tricks up your sleeve, or he’s dumb enough to not realise that he could break the chains apart if he’s willing to grit his teeth through the pain of his flesh searing from the silver.

Regardless, it makes your job easier, and you take your phone out to send the confirmation text to your team to let them know that you have Yoon Jeonghan chained and ready for pick up as planned.

Jeonghan is still staring at you icily when you look back at him while slipping your phone back away. “How does it feel to be the one Hunted for a change, Sir Yoon?”

“Stop calling me that, I renounced that title long before your conception, human,” he hisses. You just scoff a laugh. “I should’ve ripped your throat out the second I felt mine burn.”

“Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.”

As expected, you’re not given much longer to gloat as your team rush onto the roof from the door one of them has the sense to prop open again, with all the necessary equipment to properly bind the vampire and incapacitate him. They dose him up with a powerful sedative and once he’s an unconscious lump, he’s carried off by most of the team while the rest get busy cleaning up the roof of your shared blood.

“Another successful Hunt, you’re going to get that promotion any day now,” your right hand man and favourite medic, comments as he approaches you with his medical bag on his shoulder and doesn’t wait for your permission before turning your head to look at the harsh bite mark on your neck.

“Head Hunter has a nice, punny ring to it, don’t you think?” You muse.

“That reminds me, the boss wants to see you about the present you left him last week.”

“He said he wanted Countess Cho’s head on a silver platter, I just gave him what he wanted.”

Soonyoung tries to give you a flat, unimpressed look, but it lasts for all of two seconds before you both start to giggle.

“I stole Yoon’s wallet, drinks on him?” He says a few moments later when he’s looking at your neck again as he cleans it up and covers it properly.

“Hell yeah, he drinks from me, I drink on him.”

“It’s only fair.”

The two of you share another look and giggle before heading off together ready to spend every penny present in the wallet of Sir Yoon Jeonghan, ancient vampire, and prolific human hunter, now nothing more than just another trophy for the Hunter’s Association.

It’s funny, really, that after all his years evading the even older association, all it takes to get Yoon Jeonghan on his knees and bound is turning his own game back on him, making the Hunter the Hunted.

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