#if i prefer all of the bat descendants to be in the game

[oifaaa]

100 years later do you think Ras would still be around? That he’s only person who MIGHT (100 years is a Long time after all) remember Jason?

Otherwise I imagine that whoever has taken up the mantle(s) has to deal with a teenager who’s claiming to been Robin (which, pfff, yeah RIGHT. They’d remember a Robin like that in the stories) and then they have to deal with the worlds most homicidal teenager whos gotta grapple with the fact that he’s not even remembered enough to be passed down in stories.

Nah I don't think ra's would be around I know he's already lived for 600 years bit for some reason in my head I just think something would happen to him and he'd stay dead for good

I am struggling to figure out as well how Jason would react to finding out hes completely alone in the universe like would he react in anger and if so who would he direct it at would he go after the descendents of his family or would he have to actually face his feelings and the source of his emotions so many thoughts

[multifandom-worlds]

Party Like a Rockstar....Fuck Like a Pornstar

Genre: Almost smut? Like, smut adjacent.

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: Alcohol, fairly descriptive talk of sex, mild derogatory language

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x reader x Theodore Nott

Authors Note: This is my first fic for this fandom. Probably pretty out of character for them. Please let me know if there is anything I missed, anything I should do differently next time, etc. Thanks for reading!

“I don’t understand why they prefer to spend time with her rather than with us?”

You listened to a group of random Slytherin 5th years as they fawned over Theodore and Matthew, watching them at their Quidditch game against Gryffindor. You were used to other students wanting your boys, even though the three of you did not keep your relationship with each other a secret. It just came with the territory—you had two of the hottest Slytherin boys wrapped around your finger, doing whatever you asked of them as the obedient little dogs they really were. 

“Look at her, seriously? Look at all the hickeys on her neck. She’s so trashy!”You chuckle to yourself, stretching out in the bleachers and enjoying the sun on your face. If only they knew how you got those hickeys, how fuck drunk you were on their cocks just the night before as they ruined you, leaving you a dripping, overstimulated mess on Theo’s bed. If only they knew how you had Theo whimpering,  begging to be touched while you rode Mattheo’s face. 

You watch, along with the other fangirls, as they fly around overhead, watching their muscles contract. You press your thighs together, feeling heat start to grow between them—they were losing, and you knew whenever they lost, especially to Gryffindor, they would be angry and take all that pent-up emotion out of you. Not that you mind, you had no issues being their little fuck toy, mainly because they would shower you with praise once they felt better. 

While you were daydreaming, Slytherin had caught the snitch and won the game. The entire Slytherin bleachers erupted into hoots and hollers as they descended on the field. “Party in the Slytherin common room!” Blaise shouted above the din. 

You watch as that gaggle of 5th years swarm Mattheo and Theodore, pressing themselves all up over them, batting their eyelashes and flirting relentlessly. 

“You played so well!”

“You looked so hot up there!”

“Come back to my dorm, and I can help…relieve those sore muscles of yours. I’m really good with my hands.”

Theo dramatically gags, hearing what they have said, causing the rest of the team to laugh. He turns his attention to the 5th year directly in front of him. “And what’s your name?”

“Lacey, Lacey Goldrun. You’re Theodore Nott! My friends are Tara, Serena, Elena and Sophia. We have been yours and Mattheos' biggest fans ever! We come to all your games and know your whole schedule, even where your dorm is!” One of them responds, her face lighting up at the fact that Theodore Nott was talking to her.

Mattheo looks at them suspiciously. “That’s stalkerish.” 

“Well, Lacey Goldrun,” Theo began, looking down at her, eyes boring a hole into her. “You must be new here because everyone knows Matt and I are spoken for, so if you dare touch me again, I will…” 

You stick your finger and thumb in your mouth, letting out a high-pitched whistle, attracting the attention of every person on the Quidditch field. Theo draws his eyes away from Lacey before he and Mattheo begin to push their way through the crowd to you. 

“Walk 'em like a dog, sis!” Lorenzo shouts as you begin to walk back to the castle.

“Walk am like a dog!” Draco echos, erupting into a fit of laughter.

Both of them roll their eyes and flip the group the bird before diligently following you back to their dorm for their after-game ritual. Most would assume they planned on bedding you, but the reality was much softer. They took turns taking a shower to clean off all the sweat before the player who scored the most points in that game got to steal you for a nap.

Theo came out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his hips, seeing you and Mattheo fast asleep on his bed. The faintest smile pulled on his lips before he kissed both your cheeks and went to get changed and go for a smoke. “He scored one more point than I did, cara mia; how is this fair?” He chuckled to himself before leaving the dorm.

You moan into his kiss as he presses his body into yours from the front. You could feel just how hard both of them were, and it was all because of you. With Mattheo’s lips on your neck, your free hand slides down between your bodies to palm Theo through his jeans. 

Hours later, the Slytherin common room was packed - drunks were flowing, music was blaring, and the party was in full swing. You were grinding against Mattheo, your arms around his neck while his hands were on your hips, holding you tight against him. “You’re so fucking perfect, mon petit coeur. This dress..” He trails off, his hands sliding down your legs, playing with the hem of your admittedly concise dress. You continue to gride on him, making eye contact with Theo, sitting a few feet away.

“Fuck, cara mia, you look so fucking good griding on him like that.” Theo groans, walking over to you and Mattheo. He grabs your cheeks in one hand, forcing you to look up at him before he claims your mouth, his hand falling from your cheeks to your throat, squeezing gently. 

“Merlin, I wish that was me,” A very drunk Lacey whines. She was trying to make it look like she was talking to her friends, but she was staring straight at the 3 of you. You pull yourself away from your boys, strolling over to her before leaning in close to whisper in her ear.

“You want to be this trashy, do you little one? You want to be so cock drunk that you don’t even know your name, and you can’t sit on your ass for weeks because of how many times their hands came down on your ass?” You give her a quick once over, clicking your tongue in disgust. “You couldn’t handle this being you; you’d break before they even got started.” 

Lacey looks at you, eyes glassy in her drunken state. You squeeze the bridge of your nose. She didn’t understand a single thing you just said to her—which is probably a good thing. You didn’t necessarily want to traumatize the poor girl. You turn to her friends, “Take her back to her dorm; make sure she stays there. I don’t want to see any of you until morning. Do you understand me?” 

The other girls nod quickly, fear prevalent on their faces as they quickly pull Lacey away, disappearing into the crowd. You walk back to Mattheo and Theo. “That was one of the hottest things I have seen you do in a long time,” Mattheo says, grabbing your ass and pulling you close, stealing the words right off your tongue. 

You hardly had a moment to breathe before Theo's nicotine-stained lips made contact with yours. Mattheo lets go of your ass, disappearing into the hordes of people. You were so lost in Theo’s kiss that it barely even registered that he was gone. 

He bites your bottom lip, pulling away every so slightly before letting it go. “If you weren’t so drunk right now..” He began, hands on your ass, “I would drag you update and fuck that mouth of yours. Matt was right; that was one of the sexiest things you have done in a while, telling people what kind of perfect slut you are for us.” 

You go to say something, but you are interrupted by a shot glass getting shoved between your tits. You know who that hand belongs to - you look up at Mattheo, fire whiskey in his hands. “Celebratory shots, Theo?” He questions, pouring the alcohol into the shot glass.

“After you,” Theo says, taking the bottle from the other boy's hand. Mattheo smirks, shoving his face between your tits, wrapping his lips around the shot glass before lifting his head up and back, downing the liquid in one swallow. He takes the glass out of his mouth before handing it to Theo.

“My turn, Cara Mia, be a good girl now, and I might reward you when you sober up,” Theo says, placing the shot glass back between your tits. He poured some fire whiskey until it was overflowing. “Whoops,” he smirks before he, too, shoves his face between your tits and takes the glass between his lip.

[minsimagines]

stars, part. ii

pairing; pro hero!midoriya x f!reader

word count; 5,8k

parts; one, two 

warnings; MDNI!!! SMUT. fulfilled yearning. friends to lovers. unprotected sex. piv. heavy on the overstim. hint of choking. whimpering boys.

+ gaaaaaahhhh... he makes me feral. requests are open. <3 this is not proofread, so just be warned lmao

you’re braver than you give yourself credit for. 

“i… would like that,” you breathe, and a small smirk curves his mouth at the corners in satisfaction, but he’s not cocky in realizing you feel for him—quite the opposite. he’s humble as ever.  soft and sturdy and deceptively innocent. 

you’re not usually one to dive head-first into anything, preferring to stay back and test the waters much longer than necessary before slowly descending beneath the surface. however, his patience — this gentlemanly behavior — makes  you feel a certain confidence in taking a lead. it’s clear you both want something more.

you won’t take the lead though,  because he is izuku midoriya. he is the most perfect man you have ever laid eyes on, and you are terrified of messing something up now that he’s here with you. you want him to take the lead, above all else, because it’s impossible for him to mess up with you — you’ll take whatever he wants to give, suddenly so desperately needy for him to have his way with you. even if he simply wanted to speak to you and nothing else, you would take it. you’d listen to whatever he wants to tell you. 

his eyes are staring at your lips as though you are the lifeline of the two of you, and your body flushes with heat that centers itself in your belly, erupting into some kind of feral flight of butterflies at the idea that he finds you special enough to want to hold onto you. 

scratch that, there aren’t  butterflies in your belly; they’re bloodthirsty bats who want you to bite and lick the thick fatty muscles across his whole body.

you’re not usually so wicked in your desires, but he is being too slow in his advances — you have weeks worth of shy conversation to catch up, so why not slam all those words into one big act of selfish intimacy? or ten. you wouldn’t mind going overboard. this water is tempting.

he’s been looking at your lips too much now, and you’ve been looking at his, and you think you might lose your head if you don’t feel his mouth on yours within the next minute.

but you don’t want him to think it’s only sex you want. because it’s not. even if your mind is screaming for you to jump him. you want him, period. all of him. whatever that would entail — you could handle it. as long as he never ignores you again. 

so you lift the hand you hold in yours, feeling the calluses of hard work as you hold his fingers in front of your mouth and press your lips to his knuckles. his eyes flicker down to his hand against your lips, and his smile turns a little shy. 

“you’re soaked,” you mutter against his fingers, more for your own benefit than his comfort, eyes fluttering as you look at the outline of the thick muscles of his chest, a furious blush rising on your cheeks. you want him to take off his shirt, and the fact he wants you as much as you want him makes you feel powerful and bold, and you really, really want to feel his skin under your fingers. 

izuku studies you, hungry gaze slitted as he takes in the silent request. he’s patient with all of this, but he catches on, thank heavens. 

slowly, he slips his hands away from you and wrings the wet shirt over his head, and you think you may need to step into another room to take a breather or to drink a glass of water, or to touch some fucking grass, because he is so unfathomable and beautiful and so horribly thick that you don’t even know what to do with all of him now that he’s been given to you. 

his gaze descends to your tank top, your heaving chest, down to your bare thighs, before they come back up to linger at your hips. he takes liberties, sensing in the air that you’re game for whatever he wants to do with you, and he reaches for you. big hands pull you in by your waist, and tentative as you are, you stumble into him, palms slapping against the damp, hot skin of his chest. 

you think you see the heat of a blush on his cheeks as his nose brushes yours, a drunken smile on those pretty pink lips, his hands sliding down to your hips, fingers tugging at the hem of your top. you lift your arms to let him slip it off of you. 

his fingers are delicate as they find your bare waist, brushing over the skin as he slowly takes a hold of you. goosebumps shoot across your body as he holds you close, and you look up at him through your lashes, wondering if he can see how bad you want to kiss him.

he lifts your chin with gentle fingers, tilting your head a tad backward with those calloused hands that are capable of such power, and he looks at the shifting emotions in your eyes for a moment before his mouth presses against yours. your eyes slide shut, savouring the sensation of his warmth against yours. sweet, short. 

your mouths part slightly, but not a moment later he has your lips against his again. smooth, velvety — you don’t see stars, but you feel the bloodthirsty bats in your belly flapping their wings throughout your entire body. 

the shift of his hands turn less timid as he lets perhaps a sliver of his desperation take over, large hands gripping your waist, drawing you up against his chest, tongue parting your lips as you both fall into a rhythm. your own hands support yourself on his biceps, and the feeling of his hot, damp skin and thickly wired muscles warps your wistful mind into precious cotton, all sense of the world around you leaving with all notion of any sort of shame. 

one of his hands move up, sliding over your shoulder, fingers descending into the hair at the back of your neck, gripping it and setting your body ablaze with longing. it’s more than a longing, but you don’t have the mind to dwell on what it is that truly simmers between the two of you, and you definitely wouldn’t have dared hope either way. he is izuku, after all. the great deku. the one. the largest and brightest star in any universe you want to know of. 

the deceptiveness of his innocence flickers, the hand on his waist slipping down to grip your plump ass, forcing your body closer to him, the hand at the back of your head taking charge of your entire frame. 

to stand within his embrace, to feel even a hint of the strength that truly rests under that calm and sweet exterior is exhilarating, and while you don’t want pain, you don’t want him to hold back too much either. you feel him smile against your lips, as if the way your fingers tighten on his flesh  gave away your thoughts. 

to your great mortification and alleviation, the hand on your ass slides up to the clasp of your bra, and while it impresses you it also send your mind whirling how he so expertedly releases your breasts from their holder with one hand. the release of tension on your shoulders and chest gives you a sudden sense of falling, a dread rushing through your veins. he is so familiar with this action that he must have done it over and over; what if you are not up to his standard? you are not the most confident in your body, you often see more flaws than anything else, and thus those flaws must be visible to him too.

and he isn’t as shy as you have made him out to be within your mind’s eye. he parts from your lips, he leans back and he slips your bra down your arms, and he curses under his breath as your nipples tighten in the chill of the air. 

his hands aren’t nearly as timid when he reaches out to grip your waist, pressed against the underside of your boobs, eyes lit with some rough possession as he stares at your bare torso. a shudder rips across your skin as his thumbs stroke over your tits, over the pert peaks, and any doubt you might have had seemed to fly away with your exhale. his big palms cup your breasts, as though he too can’t seem to understand this is happening. 

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters, as though enchanted, his dark gaze finding yours again. you’re exposed, and you don’t find that to be the most comfortable of experiences , but it strokes your confidence and so you manage to keep from covering and hiding. you do blush though. 

one of his hands find your neck, your jaw, tilts your head up as his lips hover above yours again, and you grow dizzy when he says, “you’ve been hiding all this from me, hm?”

it’s yours, take it. i’ll never hide again, you want to say. you don’t because your words fail you and you don’t dare mess anything up. 

your shy fingers find his strong stomach, ghosting over the skin and muscle there with deliberate tardiness on their way up to his chest. your feel the scars, the evidence of the hard life he lives, the life he makes look so effortless and valiant. 

you can’t get yourself to look directly at his scars but you map them out, taking notice of how he tenses slightly, how he watches you intently, how he lets you do what it is you wish to do. 

“did they hurt?” you don’t actually dare to hear the answer, because you’re deep in him now and you fear his pain might easily become yours, and you’re no good with pain. 

“i don’t remember,” he says, voice soft and warm, even while tinged with somber memories. his thumb brushes over your cheek. “probably.”

“i’m sorry.”

his brows lower. “no fault of yours.”

“i mean…” you trail off. you feel guilty. “i was mad at you. you don’t deserve that.”

“i fight my battles because i choose to. i hurt your feelings by choice as well, even if it was not intended to hurt.”

“but you are someone important. i’m not.”

his eyes search mine. “do you honestly believe that?”

“that you’re important?”

“that you’re not.”

“i… of course. you’re a pro hero.”

“baby,” izuku breathes, shaking his head, and you are thankful for the hold he has on you, otherwise your knees might give out. “you are someone.”

“not someone special.”

“you’re special to me,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “and i’m going to show you just how special you are,” he tenderly smiles against your lips, a little cocky now, as though he knows he’s going to show you the stars you’ve envisioned. 

he kisses you again, deeper, stronger, and his tongue slides against yours, and you shiver and sigh through your nose, standing on your tippy toes, afraid you can’t get close enough. through your kiss he lets out a scoff of a laugh through his nostrils at your efforts, and you blush, but he doesn’t let you grow shy — he holds you tighter, slides his hands down your back, fingers dip into the hem of your soft shorts. 

parting from your lips, he suddenly removes his hands from you, only to bend down and pick you up by the back of your thighs. you startle, you want to protest, afraid you’re too heavy, but he lifts you up and you wrap timidly around him with a small, shy laugh as he carries you toward the only other door within the apartment — your bedroom. 

his lips are on yours again by the time he drapes you across the slightly chill fabric of your bedsheets. he leans over you, one knee on the bed between your legs, hands on the sides of your head, holding himself up. 

then, he kisses your jaw and down the sensitive skin of your neck, and it’s almost painful how your skin blossoms into goosebumps in the wake of his soft kisses. 

everwhere his lips touch, the skin stings with cold when the soft flesh of his mouth leaves your skin. 

“i’m going to make it up to you,” he promises against your sternum. 

“for what?” you breathe. 

“for making you feel like a nobody,” his kisses trail down to your chest, eyes flickering up to take in your expression and you’re happy to see he’s blushing just as you are. “when the truth is that you are the only body—” his lips brush your nipple, “i care about.”

you can’t reply, can’t think to form word even if your butterfly bats run wild within you at his words — his damp lips close around your nipple, his tongue drawing a slow circle around the peak, and your back arches, chest presses up toward him. oh, sweet, dreamy electricity pulses through your body. 

he stays there, and there is such pleasure from the gentle slide of his tongue over the sensitive bud, but there is also a painful ache. a longing that has been building up far too long. you adore the sight of him, your whole body loves his mouth on your breasts, but its not enough. there is something wicked inside you that craves more. 

even if you think to yourself that you are already heaving for breath at his mouth on your skin, how on earth will you survive the feeling of him inside you?

“i have wanted you,” he confesses, “for a long time. i just didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.”

he has the balls now, that’s for sure. 

you can’t breathe. 

“i thought for sure—” his lips trail kisses to your other breast as he whispers the inner workings of his mind to you. “you just found me annoying. had i known you were pining same as me…” his wet lips press kisses around your nipple. “i wish i could say i would have had the balls, but i still probably wouldn’t have,” he scoffs, and you want to laugh with him, you want to make him see you find it endearing that he’s not a cocky bastard who assumes. the very thing he thought you didn’t like about him was the thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

brilliant, considerate  pro hero deku who seems unable to decide whether he is bold or timid. 

all you can get yourself to do is reach up and run your fingers through his thick, dark, dark green hair. you grip the hair at the back of his head, delicately, and tug ever so slightly, and while your demure takes away any domination in the movement, he still sighs and latches onto your nipple again, before he lets his lips travel down your stomach. 

he drapes himself over you, coming back up to your face, and you lok at him in a soft haze. 

“i want to make you feel good,” he whispers against your lips. “can i do that?” 

“yes,” you whimper. “please.”

he kisses you, soft and firm and steady as his hand takes hold of your shorts, and you’re so dazed you eagerly help him rid of the remaining clothes on your body. you hardly feel the cold air, his warm body pressing against yours again.

you can hardly piece together a thought as his firm hand finds your bare hip, slowly slipping down your thigh, and when it reaches your knee, he hikes your thigh up on his hip, and you sigh against his lips when he grinds his clothed cock against the apex of your thighs. 

he lingers there for a moment, letting you feel him through his sweatpants, a warning and a promise of what’s to come. then he lowers your knee enough to slip his hand between your body, as the arm holding his weight by your head, slides under your head, embracing you as his fingers between your bodies  find your wet, soft folds. 

your breath hitches in your throat as his fingers slowly drags through the wetness, from bottom to the top, putting delicious pressure against your clit, enough that your hips curve upward toward him, a silent demand for more. 

his fingers move slowly but surely, imprinting the memory of the feel of you into his mind. he takes his time, watches what makes your body react, watches to see what you like. 

when his long middle finger slide into you, your eyes rolll back. it’s not so much the very feeling of him inside of you (even if that too feels like some sinful blessing), but the very fact it’s him. the very fact he yearns for you too. the very fact he is so beautiful and he finds you beautiful too. and he’s so hot. it’s enough to ignite you on its own, but now he’s added matches, and fuel, and wood. 

he groans at the feeling of you clenching on his finger. he slides in and out, as slowly as he moved prior, feeling you and recognizing you, taking note. he kisses your throat as he adds a second finger, and now you’re close to blacking out from the sensation pressing against your insides alone. 

but you cannot blackout, because the sun is right above you, staring at you with glowing, half-lidded eyes, eclipsing the whole of your horizon. 

you don’t see stars, but you feel like the very ether floating between them. it doesn’t feel like you have shape, but his fingers paint it out for you, and as his digits curl inside your soft, wet walls, your body shudders into existence once more. 

a breathy, whiny moan leaves your lips as the pads of his fingers press just right against the sensitive tissue, your fingers gripping onto his biceps with vigor, hips grinding against his hand. the sun sees everything its light touches, and your every reaction is catalouged and utilized. 

izuku curls his fingers perfectly, and you gasp and gape and you can’t keep your eyes open, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you ride his hand from where you’re laying. 

“you like that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, and you clench down on his thick fingers, feeling once more that wicked desperation growing within you, overtaking all forms of shame. 

you can’t get yourself to answer, your throat barely able to let out the moans and whimpers his fingers are begging for, but you whine and nod your head. 

“use your words, baby,” he demands softly, and everything shimmers extra bright for a moment. 

“yes,” you gasp. 

“good girl,” he says against your ear, and everything goes blinding white for a moment, and you’re suddenly on the edge of an orgasm. 

“oh god, fuck—” you cry, as it builds and builds, and his fingers are steady as they curl against that sponge inside me, the slurping sounds of your wet pussy echoing between your bodies. 

something snaps inside you, throwing you right into the depths. your body tightens, clenching around his fingers, all sound stuck in your throat. 

he kisses your throat as you lean your head back, body curling against him as his fingers still work your cunt, a shameless cry leaving your lips. 

your eyes are open, yet you’re only seeing lights and darkness against each other, fingers dug so deep into his skin that you’re sure you’re about to add to his collection of scars, but you cannot get yourself to care. 

slowly, he calms his fingers, though he watches you like a man starved — his hunger is insatiable, and this was not even an appetizer. he doesn’t want to stop, you realize, but there is something more you both want. 

he makes quick work of his pants and his boxers, and you wrap around him desperately as he lays himself on top of you again. you feel his hardness against your opening, but he kisses your lips, licks into your mouth, and you moans at the feeling of him. you take notice of every single inch where his strong body touches yours. 

“so pretty,” he breathes, gathering you to him, wrapping an arm around you, holding you like something precious to him. 

you whimper, slightly overwhelmed by the feeling of being wanted. 

“i’ll take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips. somehow, you’re certain he means more than just right now. you’re almost positive he means to take care of you for a long time, in all ways. 

“izuku,” you breathe, because it’s the only thing that makes sense to you and it’s the only thing you want to say. 

he groans, one hand gripping your thigh, lips devouring yours again. he lifts your knee again, hikes it up on his hip, and the tip of his cock presses to your folds. 

“i’ve wanted you for so long,” he sounds as breathless as she feels. “i’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” his voice is like a deep velvet, wrapping you in comfort as he waits for you to nod your head. your pussy is so wet it takes almost no effort to bully his tip inside, even if he is big and you gasp softly, gripping onto him like the lifeline he is. 

“shh,” he comforts you, whispers soft confirmations in your ear, and you can’t understand how you got lucky enough to have a reality such as this. 

bright and blinding izuku, who is a sunrise that hardly fits in your sky, but he’s here and he’s vibrant. 

slowly, he presses further, the thickness of him almost unbearable, but in the good way. it makes you wonder how it is possible to feel so good, so right, so delicious. it shouldn’t be. 

he slips back, pulling a soft moan from your lips as your eyes meet his as he settles deep sindie you again, your lips parting further. he lets out a shudder at the sensation, and he watches you, holds your gaze as he drives into your with slow, deep strokes, making sure you feel every inch of him. 

he’s not all the way in, he can't fit it all, you can feel it, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

you’re in love anyway. 

he kisses you, warmly and softly and lovingly. 

“i’m sorry,” he mutters after having pressing the thick length of his cock into the depth of your overly sensitive walls and then stilling, and you don’t have half the brain to ask whatever he’s sorry for—

he pulls his hips back, and slams them back against yours, bottoming out with a force that sends your head into the clouds, stars right into your eyes. they’re all you can see as he sets a pace, thrusting his cock into your gummy walls with the ferocity of a man whose hunger cannot be quenched no matter how much he indulges in.

you can hardly make a sound, all noise stuck in your throat as your body struggles to decipher the pleasure he provides as he pounds into you. 

“oh fuck,” he moans breathlessly in your ear, and it triggers something profound within you — you need yo hear that sound again. your pussy clenches all on her own, clamping down around him, sucking him back into yourself.

he groans at the feeling, head hanging against your shoulder as he grips the underside of your knee, pushing it up toward your chest, giving himself more leverage. his grip on your leg is iron, but it is nothing short of wonderful. 

you moan at the pulsating waves that shudder through your body, fingers digging into his back, terrified that if you let go, you will fall into a million pieces. he is so big, so broad and all-encompasing, he may as well have been breaking you in two, but you never wanted it to stop as your hips involuntarily moved up to meet his thrusts. 

“fuck, baby, do that again,” izuku frowns deeply, pushing himself up enough to look down at his cock thursting into your cunt. 

as you lift your hips, grind them up against him, his lips part as his eyes stay locked on the mesmerizing sight of your little pussy sucking his big cock in, your hips moving so sweetly against his — he groans, gripping the underside of your thighs and pushing them up to your chest. he leans up, sitting on his knees as he hold onto the very upper part of your thighs, thrusting into you, unable to look away from the sight of him inside you. 

from the look in his eyes alone - the inability to fathom the pleasure and emotion of this reality - you feel your body curl as you’re slowly inching onto that edge again. 

the sound of his hips slapping against your skin fill the room, the slurping of your wet pussy, the breathless moans and whimpers. 

“god, you’re so fucking perfect,” he he utters like a devotion, like he can’t believe what he sees is real. 

your eyes roll back again, and he notices because of course he does — he presses your knees to your chest and leans forward, pounding so hard into you that you think you shouldn’t be able to do anything but fall apart. 

you do — you fall apart in every good way you could ever imagine. 

you’re frozen, body unable to curve and curl under his grip anyway. you gape, feeling the relentless tremors of your orgasm crashing through your body, and you slowly let out whiny cries from the blinding lightning that strikes through your veins with each of his deep, powerful strokes inside you. 

he slips out of you, and he uses his hold on your thighs to turn your over, and even as sensitive as you are, you get onto your knees and elbows as he tugs you back toward the edge of your bed. he stands behind you.

“fucking hell,” he curses, hand running over the flesh of your ass, making your pussy clench.

“look at you,” he marvels. 

he runs a finger up your slit, and you arch your back downward, ass pushed up to meet his finger. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen.”

he pushes his dick back inside you, and you can do nothing but grip the sheets beneath you in a white-hot grip as the overwhelming feeling of him pressing against the sponge deep inside you threatens to make your body collapse. 

the pace he sets is almost gruesome, his grip on your hips so ferocious you can’t help but press your ass back on him to feel more of it. you don’t want him to hold back. shy or not, you want him to take what’s his. 

he let’s out a rough laugh as he leans forward, grabs a hold of the back of your neck, and pounds into you. you cry out, and he slams into you over and over and over and you can barely find a single thought within your mind that is not about his cock or his hands or his whimpering whines. 

taken over by a soft tremor as you lean up onto your hands and turn your head so you can meet his eyes while you grind your ass back on him, wanting him to see just how bad you want him.

he blushes as you lock eyes with him, but whatever shyness he feels, it doesn’t deeter him. 

his grip slips to the front of your throat, and he tugs you up toward him, holding you firmly as he thrusts up into you, your back arched almost painfully as he forces you back against him. you gasp at the change of angle, and the way he wraps his arm around your waist. you grip his hands desperately. 

“oh, you wanna fuck me, baby? is that it?” he all but whimpers in your ear, and you moan shamlessly at the sound he makes, pussy clenching on his cock at the very thought of sitting on his dick, threatening to throw you into the open arms of another orgasm.

“yeah?” he breathes heavily, and you nod desperately. you can feel by the way his hips shutter slightly that he’s close to cumming as well. 

he slips out of you and you whine at the loss of fullness, and he turns you around, gathering you to him as he shifts to sit on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. you straddle his lap, breathless and face flushed as he places a firm slap to your ass, making you jerk forward, leaning on him. he reaches for his cock, pushing it up agaisnt your folds. 

you sit up on your knees, hovering above his lap as you slowly take his dick inside. your head rolls back as you lower yourself onto his fat cock. you can just barly see his forrowed brows, his parted lips, as his hands caress your hips, thighs and waist as he watches you. 

as you sit yourself firmly down in his lap, taking almost all of him, you curve your back and press your chest towards him. he sucks your nipple into his mouth and your pussy grips onto his dick like a vice, and he moans against your breast. 

you’re determined to hear more of his whimpers, and so you lift your hips, and lower them again. the tremor that runs through your body from the motion makes you think perhaps you will bend first with this kind of pleasure, but you’ve set yourself on a mission and you desperately want to make him cum. 

it takes a few moments to find the grind and pace you like, and you can’t help gripping onto your other boob, taken over by the dreamy, soft and tense feeling in your body. 

you bounce in his lap as he gapes at the sight of you, breathing heavily as he grips onto your hips with desperation. 

“that’s it, baby, move those hips,” he encourages. “fucking god—”

you support yourself on his shoulders, focusing on the way his hips shift under yours, his heavy breaths turning into incoherent little cusses, no doubt about to cum. 

“yeah, come on, fuck me,” he begs, head falling back. “you’re doing so fucking good, baby,” he murmurs, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you. 

you cry out, feeling yourself tumble over yet another orgasm as your body trembles on top of him, gripping him so tight it was impossible it wouldn’t leave marks. 

“shit,” he hisses. “that’s it, baby, that’s it.” 

you shudder atop of him, but his thrusts are erratic. he’s close. 

“fuck, you’re gonna fucking make me cum too,” he grips you tighter. “oh my god, fuck—”

his hips shudder, and his cock swells inside you, and you slow your movement a little, shifting to slowly ride out both of your orgams, even if every nerve ending within you is fried and you cannot feel your toes. 

he lets out whimpers under you at the way you still ride him, and you’re reignited. 

lifting your hips, you lean forward onto him, focusing solely on the movement of your hips, grinding your pussy up and down his throbbing shaft. 

izuku grips onto you. 

“oh my god, oh my god, oh—fuuuuck,” he whimpers, and you bite the side of his throat. his hips tremble under you, his hands on your hips brutal, but he doesn’t stop you. 

he shudders. “fuck, fuck, fuck, please,” he begs, and you can tell he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, his turn to see stars and taste the white-hot flame of oversensitivity. 

it almost hurts to move, your insides so well used and beaten, but you are sick with some insatiability that won’t let you stop. 

his words turn to incoherent strings of cursewords and begging and whimpers that curl around your body. 

you sit up, bouncing fully on his dick again, reaching down to rub your clit as you take him. the filthy squelching between your hips echo, and your fingers press into the mess on his lower stomach every time she lowers on his cock, middle finger rubbing such heavenly circles on her clit, eding herself onto yet another orgasm. 

he watches almost breathlessly, hips shaking so bad beneath you that he appears to be thrusting all over again. the way he writhes, the cries for mercy that leave his lips, tell you that it’s not the case; he is no longer in control of himself. he could have simply tipped you off of him, could have easily stopped you. 

it can only mean he likes this. 

you’re exhausted, you’re well spent, and you don’t know where you get the energy from, but you leans forward, whispering in his ear. “you like that, baby?”

he all but crumbles under you, not a single word making sense, as he tenses impossibly, hips thrusting up into you as he cums again. 

the sight sends you into your own orgasm, and this time, he grabs your hips, holding you still on his lap as you pulse around his dick. he shudders, eyes closed tightly as he holds you. 

you can hardly keep your own eyes open, and you slump forward. he catches your body, efficiently lifting you off of his dick with a soft moan, and he lays you down on your bed, before sliding down to lay flat on his back next to you. 

your eyes are closed, your breath heaving, your legs tense and painful, your pussy throbbing. he is just about the same, but he finds the energy to put his hand on your thigh. 

in the cooldown, you’re very happy about that very small action of reassurance. as soon as the clarity returns somewhat to your mind, you’re afraid you went too far, but his touch calms you. 

he lays completely still for a long while, until he moves the arm up to curl under your neck and pull you into his side. 

“sorry, baby, i’ll… clean you up later,” he mumbles, half-gone into a dream already. “just gotta…” 

you follow suit, a heap of legs and arms against his chest. he holds you close until you finally dare think to get up from this soft, sweet moment.

big, sweet pro hero deku, who blushes as he fucks you

your izuku, whose stars aligned with yours perfectly.

[hershey-not-the-chocolate-maybe]

hershey🎀

they (more preferred) (but she is fine too)

17 (age <13 and nsfw dni)

pronouns , pls refrain from using female terms on me unless it's mentioned here (or just ask me)

my aesthetic

hello fellow people of the tumblrworld,

if u wanna be friends pls slide in my dms or asks i love them! :>

ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

click for palestine

HOMOPHOBES , ZIONISTS AND TERFS DNI

books - the perks of being a wallflower, the goldfinch , hunger games , the illiad , pjo and etc. etc. , kotlc , solitaire , not even bones (love the comic as well) ,shadow and bone there's more but I can't think rn

shows - arcane , dead boy detectives, good omens , prisma , everything now , young royals, heartstopper, i am not okay with this , the end of the fucking world, gilmore girls , skam, house MD, friends ,atypical , anne with an e, series of unfortunate events , the sex lives of college girls and more

movies - bottoms , it 2017 ,the holdovers , do revenge , ladybird , barbie(2023) , girl interrupted, my girl , all the spiderman movies , doctor strange ,10 things i hate about you , birds of prey, challengers , but im a cheerleader , mean girls ,all the hunger games movies , cruella, maleficent , descendants(first 3 only) , love simon , home alone and sooooooooooooo many more that I can't think of rn

horror/psychological thriller/apocalypse movies/shows (yes this deserves one whole paragraph) - the crow(1994) , scream (only the first one) , the blair witch , monster 2023 , pearl and X , bones and all , ravening , mummy (entire series) , creature 3d, train to busan, don't worry darling , black swan , jennifers body , fear street , the babysitter , bodies bodies bodies , midsommar and more more more more

comics/manga - uzumaki, tomie , the guy i was interested in wasn't a guy at all , death note , dc comics (usually tend to stick to bat fam or teen titans lore) , nevermore , stagtown , cinderella boy , sasaki to miyano, sable curse, school bus graveyard , and a lot more

music - usually everything ( mostly focus on rock )

ive been on the hellsite for like ... 6 yrs now? had another acct but deleted it due to some stuff but i came back to haunt this site again heh

☆¤♤¤☆°~~°☆¤♤¤☆°~~°☆¤♤¤☆°~~°☆¤♤¤☆

my weakness

coffee coffee coffee

penguins

turtles

andalusian horses

my guitar

brownies

pasta

biology jokes

women

[tree-of-blue-squirrel]

Limbus Company Canto 7 theorizing

With Don´t canto being close, but still pretty good distance away, I have some things to propose. Not touching on possible events of the Canto, just the possible worldbuilding around it. Most of information stems from the events of Murder on the WARP express, so if you are not caught up, there will most definitely be spoilers below cut.

So, from the MotWe, we know that the canto will take place in P corp. We don´t get to see much of P corp, just the train station, HOWEVER, it is stated in the Intervallo itself that the WARP stations embody the cultural nature of the District, with T corp´s station being very Victorian with steampunk elements, as is the rest of the District.

So, what does the architecture of P corp show ?

kind of a lot, while not so much. The architecture has a lot of curved arches, narrow windows and a LOT of small detailing. That alone fits it neatly into possible gothic influences, though futurized for the setting of the City. One thing that immediately stands out to me is the curved, almost bat-wing shaped overhangs/roofs and the small archway structure connecting two buildings in the background, slightly to the left.

The former specifically reminds me A LOT of Leonardo da Vinci´s flying machine, the Great Kite, especially with those supporting curved beams.

Leonardo da Vinci specifically, couple with the wide range of curvatures, overhangs, etc. would set P corp somewhere in Italy. My educated guess is Venice in particular, for multiple reasons.

First off, Leonardo spent much of his life in Venice, specifically working as an engineer. If he is referenced as an illustrious fixer/inventor, I would not be surprised. Agatha Christie is already an in-universe character.

Secondly, the most recent railway is literally named Masquarade, which could just be reference to the Envy Peccatula, or Don´s true nature OR also reference the Carnival of Venice (considering that Midnight Carnival exists and I have seen early theories connecting it to Don´s Canto, there is a chance they will come up again and Italy District would make perfect sense).

Speaking of Don, while theorizing on Carmen being a Bloodfiend (more crack-theory than theory, but there are some details that fit oddly well), I did note that Don, being a title, has two meanings.

First is the meaning of a simple honorific, the other has particular ties to mafia/crime families. Notably, Don Lastname is American custom. This is pretty important, given that Cassetti in the Murder on the Orient Express is very much American, while being a leader of a kidnapping/ransom gang.

Cassetti also presents as a "deserter" of the Bloodfiend Family. Strong inner structure is implied, which is also quite important in crime families. Supplying information from wikipedia, Don is the title of second highest level in the Mafia hierarchy, surpassed only by the Godfather, boss of all bosses. Ergo, in this situation, the Bloodfiend Prime, whose identity is unknown.

Don being named the Second Kindred would make sense in this type of hierarchy. She doesn´t have to be the second bloodfiend ever, but is of second generation, direct descendant of Bloodfiend Prime. This could introduce an interesting connundrum if the Bloodfiend Prime is big bad of canto 7 and can´t be killed without permanently erasing Don from existence.

I will not theorize on the actual plot of the canto, I´d rather wait for the actual story. One thing I do find fun is that despite Dante being the Manager, and thus Don´s superior, she refers to him as Manager Esquire. Which is notable, as it is title one rank directly below Knight.

So, maybe Don isn´t unaware of her Bloodfiend identity but keeps the pretend game up just because she doesn´t want to confront her true nature head on and would prefer to maladaptively roleplay her humansona (or possibly her pre-bloodfiend-self ?)

[biteghost]

Blueshift TTRPG Season 1 Character Portraits (Part 1)

Since Tumblr increased the limit on image posts, I thought now would be a great time to do a couple huge portrait posts for the TTRPG I DM for my roommates! In order of appearance:

Dicho (he/him) (PC): Demon (Domain of Shadow) - A man haunted by his past, looking to remain anonymous and find what peace he can after a life of mistakes, tragedy and regrets. His wish is for a clean slate.

Greip (he/him) (PC): Celestial (In A Human Body - it's complicated) - A Moon of Saturn who is on a quest of revenge against his planet. His wish is to get his original Celestial body back.

Vivienne De'Gallant (they/them) (PC): Beast (Horse/Unicorn) - A denounced and betrayed former heir to their family's company - the Hydra-Argon Shipping Conglomerate (HASC). Their wish is to gain the power to pay back those who have wronged them.

Alcyone (he/him) (NPC): Celestial (Star/Blue Giant) - A god-like entity who resides over the demiplane known as "Lucifer's Landing". He's cruel, twisted, childish, annoying, inscrutable omnipotent and seemingly immortal. He plucked up the souls of the PCs after they were caught in a terrorist explosion, and gave them the option to either work for him or take their chances against Cross. Of course, working for him comes with the perk of "I'll grant you any wish you have."

M (they/them) (NPC): Human - A standoffish member of Lucifer's Landing who has been with Alcyone the longest. Serious and distant, they exude "I'm tired" and "leave me alone".

Chloe Godrick (she/her) (NPC): Beast (Bat/Nosferatu) - A cheerful and soft-hearted member of Lucifer's Landing. Her wish is to be with her loved ones when they need her.

Jimothy Criquette (he/him) (NPC): Human - An arms dealer with the worst luck in the world. The game's shopkeeper NPC. His wish is to have more time to pay off his debts.

Vamaserathi (she/her) (NPC): Celestial (Pulsar/Binary Pulsar) - half of a binary who was torn apart by Minerva's Celestial Experiments. She was found lost and grieving in the dark recesses of Jimothy's warehouse and ultimately brought home by the PCs.

Beryl Lovstrom (helmet & non-helmet) (she/her) (NPC): Human - A warrior and final living descendant of the great legendary figure, Dalibor Lovstrom. Stoic and strong, she wields dual hand axes.

Cross (he/him) (NPC): Celestial Demon (Death/Shadow) - The Grim Reaper who is trying to collect the souls of the PCs, which he feels are owed to him. (They DID die, after all.)

Gall (he/him) (NPC): Celestial Demon (Fire) - A powerful being who constantly has the case of the nerves. Would prefer to spend his time playing.

Ire (he/him) (NPC): Celestial Demon (Earth) - Currently subjugated by one of Minerva's experiments into Celestials. His retainer is Verpa.

Anthony Breeze (he/him) (NPC): Human - Chairman of the Hydra-Argon Shipping Conglomerate's Hacea Division. A completely average, normal and boring man.

Co (she/her) (NPC): Human (Flora Affinity) - part of a trio of gangsters who were hired to take care of any trouble that popped up during a fancy rich-person gala. She wields daggers and plants.

Blair (she/her) (NPC): Demon (Domain of Electricity) - part of a trio of gangsters who were hired to take care of any trouble that popped up during a fancy rich-person gala. She wields lightning and chains.

Powell (he/him) (NPC): Beast (Snake/Cerastes) - part of a trio of gangsters who were hired to take care of any trouble that popped up during a fancy rich-person gala. He wields venom and knives.

Carmello Irving (she/her) (NPC): Beast (Rabbit/Jackalope) - Sportball star, captain and key basketball sinker for the United Mallards.

Babe Brady (they/them) (NPC): Human (Fire Affinity) - Sportball gremlin, clean-up hitter for the United Mallards.

Junior Robinson (he/him) (NPC): Demon (Domain of Sight) - Sportball brick house, big and quiet quarterback for the United Mallards.

Lionel Platini (he/him) (NPC): Human (Water Affinity) - Sportball coward and ace goalie for the United Mallards.

Minerva (she/her) (NPC): Human - A woman with fingers in every pie who has a particular hatred for Alcyone and those associated with him.

Madame Elizabeth Doris (she/her) (NPC): Human (Air Affinity) - A socialite in a big hat who seems to be motivated by money. She hates the PCs quite a lot.

Verpa (he/him) (NPC): Human (Earth Affinity) - A ghost from Dicho's past who has found himself working for HASC, and more specifically, as an assistant to Minerva. He is the retainer of Subject 06: "Ire".

Angela Forest (she/her) (NPC): Demon (Domain of Radiation) - A HASC employee who is easily overlooked and forgotten. She worked with Minerva on her Celestial Experiments and became the retainer of Subject 04: "Therune" - the other half of Vamaserathi's binary.

[maxwell-grant]

Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one. 

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction. 

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else. 

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea  considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play? 

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.

[hardyimagines]

A Crave For Fame

Would love a Forrest piece, maybe where you’re cornered by some bad guy and Forrest steps in and you nurse him. Bandaging his wounds and what not. You get really close to his face and he acts nonchalant about it but you’re really shy. Ends in a heated kiss. Lots of fluff.

TW: Mild Violence

———————————————————————

1932.

The bar smelt like thick liquor and dried throw up. The top of your nose was red and cold from the chilly wind as it whipped around outside swirling in circles, shaking tree branches until they were forced to drop their leaves, whisking up grains of dirt and sending them flying in the direction of those who were outside. It was a dust storm of some sort, that’s what people were referring to it as. The air outside was orange and murky, it looked as if the clouds had descended and were making the world all puffy and one big blur.

The tips of your painted nails slid along the straps of your bright red apron. Unhooking the fabric from the silver hook on the wall, you briefly ogled the peeling paper, crisp and dangling like a hangnail waiting to be ripped off. The apron wasn’t exactly required, but you found that it definitely helped to wear something in order to prevent having alcohol sloshed and spilled and stuck on you when rowdy customers would shake their heavy fists and bounce their heavy, drunk bodies on the counter stools.

Regardless of how many times you wiped down the counter, it always seemed to have a slick, sticky feeling to it and the lemon scent only masked the stench of whiskey and rum for a limited amount of time. The sign outside read ‘Restaurant’ and the sign further forward read ‘Gas station’, and while there was a small supply of gas and a short list of food items on the menu, that wasn’t at all what this place was truly selling.

It was the prohibition era. People were parched and the only way to quench their thirst was by giving them a cold beverage that scalded their throat as it went down. The smooth liquor was rich, bitter, sweet, plain. Everybody had their preference. You weren’t much of a drinker, but pouring beverages was easy enough and from the looks of approval you received all the time, you’d assume you were doing a pretty good job.

Working for bootleggers was never something that had spiked your interest in the past - and maybe it wouldn’t have when you had sauntered up the hill when it was pouring down rain a year ago, but one look at the man had charge had sent you reeling. You didn’t want to work anywhere else.

Forrest Bondurant was one of, if not, the most attractive men you’d ever seen. He had big blue eyes and a head of constantly gelled hair. Why he went through the trouble of styling such a mess, you didn’t know, majority of the time he wore a hat on top of it anyway. He was always strolling around in his big gray cardigan with a button down or another sweater underneath. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’d overfilled the shot glasses on the bar and spilled liquor all over your fingers and the counter, just because staring at him was such a distraction. He didn’t notice though, and if he did, he didn’t say anything.

The front door opened with a loud creak, the hinges loudly alerting whoever had just entered that they were in no shape to be handled so roughly. The door swung shut, slamming loudly behind the new guest. His eyes shimmered green and his teeth sparkled white. The man removed his top hat and strode up to the counter with so much confidence you could’ve upchucked. Men like him made you want to spit in their drinks.

“What can I get for you?” You asked, not bothering to stop and give him the eye contact that he was clearly searching for.

“Something light.” The man said. “I won’t be staying long.” He pressed his elbow against the counter, but made no mention of the filth or the stench.

It wasn’t busy yet, but there were always people inside. Either they slept the night at the bar counter, on the floor, at a table, or outside, or they showed up as bright and early as the sun did, ready to start drinking the day away. Most of the customers that tended to be here so long just made their own drinks when you rested. Forrest knew them, you knew them, so there was no harm done. But this man, he was a completely new face.

“Something light as in water?” You said, pouring a shot of water and replacing it with the shot of vodka that one of the men had been drinking. He was green in the face and looked about ready to faint. You knew he needed to be eased off the liquor, you couldn’t just flat out say that - people reacted too differently to know if it would be a threat or not to cut someone’s intake off.

The man snorted. “Why would I come into a bar for a glass of water?”

You arched a slow brow. “The same reason you’d come in and ask for something light - we have liquor, straight from the bottle. It’s not dolled up and pretty, we don’t have any mixers, it’s just straight alcohol.” You didn’t say another word, instead you finally let your eyes flicker to his own, resisting the urge to glare. But your patience was wearing thin. You didn’t have time for games and he was beating around the bush.

The man sighed. “Moonshine.” He said before lowering himself down on the stool. “And maybe a drink of you?” You could hear the amusement in his voice, as if he were positive you’d take him up on his offer. He found himself hilarious.

Turning on the heel of your pointed boot, you wrapped your slender fingers around the neck of the silver bottle. Rotating, you poured a perfect glass of moonshine and then set the glass down in front of him. No spillage. The liquid was filled to the brim. Extending your arm, your palm creased as you curled your finger inward, waiting to be paid.

Instead, the man grasped your wrist and pressed it against the bar counter. “How about you give this one to me for free? Since I don’t see you marching that ass of yours from out behind the counter.” He patted his lap for good measure. “I went ahead and saved you a seat,” He motioned to his thigh again. “but you know, you’re being awful rude.”

Your eyes creased in the corners, stare hardening as the man tightened his hold on your wrist. Forrest was a shout away, but you were a big girl, not some maiden in a tower waiting to be rescued. Attempting to jerk your arm back to yourself, you hissed under your breath when he turned it at an odd angle. All the other men in the room were out old or oblivious. You could scream their names and they probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

You flinched as he began to rifle through his pocket.

“I’ll give you something.” He said, masking the tone of his voice for a more gentle and apologetic one. But you weren’t an idiot, so you didn’t let your guard down. But it wasn’t as if you could just rip your arm away from him. He was insanely strong and you, unfortunately, didn’t get much upper arm strength pouring drinks. Before you could utter a word, he pressed a cigarette against his lips and lit the end. The brownish-orange tip of the stick illuminated with bright orange embers as he inhaled and the smoke lifted from the end of the form of payment.

“Let me go.” You insisted, practically ripping at your arm so hard that your wrist had gone numb from his tight grasp.

“After I pay you.” He said. You didn’t know what to expect, a puff of smoke being blown in your direction? The man pinched the stick with his knuckles, clasping it between his pointer finger and his middle finger. He rotated it swiftly, pinching it then between his thumb and pointer finger. As suddenly as he moved the smoking tip toward your flesh, your eyes flickered with realization. And then you began to squirm.

“Hey..” You pulled harder. “What are you doing?” It was so obvious. But in a panicked state of mind were you expected to speak adequately. “Let me go, please..” Begging was never one of your strong suits. It just didn’t fit you. You hated it, having to ask someone to have mercy on you. But you didn’t fancy smelling burnt flesh, or feeling the pain that would come along with seared flesh. Scream for help, your brain said. You’re a big girl, but you can still ask for help, it reminded you.

The ashes fell from their loose spots on the cigarette, floating across your skin, dusting it with kisses. The ashes gathered on the counter as he lowered the hot tip of the cigarette toward your flexed forearm. Forrest’s name was on the tip of your tongue, but the pink muscle felt swollen and useless. There was a block in your throat that wouldn’t let your voice free and for the first time in a long time, fear surged through you like a whirlwind, resembling the very state of weather outside. Your body ran hot with fear and as you jerked your elbow to the side, the glass of moonshine toppled over and clattered against the floor.

Pieces scattered along the floor as the cup smashed on impact. If that wasn’t enough to lure Forrest out of office, then perhaps your cry of agony would. But the bloke was just a sliver of a second too late. The tip of the cigarette grazed your skin, enough to leave a slight burn, but as quickly as the glass had broken, Forrest had appeared.

He didn’t hover in the doorway to inspect what was going on. Someone had their hands on you and right away, it was unacceptable. The big, burly man strode forward. His thick fingers curled in the caramel flannel that the bastard was wearing. Forrest snatched the cigarette from his pinched fingers and immediately snubbed the lit tip out by pressing the hot surface against the man’s cheek.

The bloke let out a nasty yell, finally releasing your arm. You lifted your hands, on instinct, to cup over your ears, blocking out the sound of his pained shouting as best as you could.

His cry was like a signal though. The doors flew open and three other men piled in. It was rumored that the Bondurant brother’s were all invincible - especially Forrest. He’d survived a lot - brutal attacks, life-threatening illnesses, having his throat slit, his heart broken, wars. But could he take on four men?

Dropping your hands from your ears when the yelling stopped, you crouched down and began to twist the knob on the safe. It was a sixteen digit pin, so it would take a moment to open, but the revolver inside had six bullets, so you be able to wipe out all of the men with that if it came down to it. You weren’t peering over the bar counter to see what was happening. You were scared - terrified. A part of you wanted to leap into your boss’s arms and give him a bear hug, another part of you wanted to hide in those big arms of his and just forget that your arm had almost been burnt to a crisp. Instead, there was just a very small burn. It was nothing to worry over, nothing in comparison to the burn on the man’s face.

“What the fuck are you all standing there for!” The man rasped loudly, clutching his hand to his face as if the skin on skin contact would help him. “Get him!”

All three men moved forward. One was smoking a cigar - very nonchalant as he marched toward Forrest, one was sweating like he’d just ran a marathon, and the other was blinking furiously as if the dust outside had momentarily blinded him.

Forrest stuck his hand in his pocket and used his fingers to make the shape of a gun. The outline was bulky and visible and the three men hesitated, if only for a second. “I’d think very carefully on what you’re ‘bout to do next, boys.” Forrest spoke softly. His voice was quiet, slow. It was silky against your ears.

You poked your head out for half a second, blindly rotating to nozzle all the way to the left - 11, and then all the way to the right, 5. Inputting every single number as quickly as you could, you jumped in fear at the sound of a sickening crack. You jumped up, expecting to see Forrest laying in a heap on the floor, but instead it was just one of the other men. Forrest stood with his bloodied hand hanging at his side. Blood dripped from the brass knuckles he wore, droplets staining the wooden floorboards. Forrest sneered.

“Who’s next?” He inquired. “The man with the cigarette burn, the broken jaw, the blind one, or the sweaty one.” He flexed his fingers for a moment, waiting impatiently for one of them to charge at him.

What he didn’t expect was for the untouched duo to jump toward him at the same time. He sent his fist flying directly into one of their spine’s, but with the help from the bastard who now had a permanent scar on his cheek, Forrest was sent directly down and on to his back. The men tackled him and you trembled on the spot.

Shakily crouching back down, you began to finish off the code. Forrest’s groans of pain were evident. He was rasping, moaning, putting up as much of a fight as he could. He swung his arms and tried desperately to cover his face. Two men grabbed his arms and pulled them apart, leaving his face and stomach vulnerable to their boss.

The man’s cheek was sunken where the hole was forming. His eyes were red and watery and his stance was slightly shaky. But he had the upper hand as he moved forward. His hand dropped to his pocket and without any hesitance, he pulled a knife free from a holster.

“Now then, why don’t I reopen that cut on your throat?” The man sneered, already beginning to crouch down. Forrest’s nose was bleeding, his eye was swollen and purple. You were sure his stomach would be doused in bruises in the morning and his fingers would be cramped, locked, and jammed.

The safe opened with a quiet buzz and you, with an eagerness, desperately grabbed the handle of the gun and stood. Your hold was steady and your aim was perfect. You’d been working here for a little more than a year, and Forrest had taught you how to shoot within your first few weeks.

Extending your arms out, you held the gun steady as you cocked the revolver. “Hey, asshole.” You said breathily. “If you lay one more finger on him, I’ll kill you.” You could tell by the man’s tense back and resistance to look in your direction that he knew you weren’t bluffing. He slowly tucked away the blade and then sucked in a deep breath of air.

“You’re the first group of people to put up such an unnecessary fight. My brother’s and I, this is what we do, free alcohol from the bootleggers and pretty women are an extra bonus.” He snorted before looking in your direction.

You scowled, before demanding. “Leave..” And although you wanted them to, to all just pile out toward the entrance and get the hell out of here, it worried you. What if they came back sometime in the night when everyone was vulnerable and sleeping? Your eyes were distant as you pondered how this would end. You could blow another hole in his other cheek, though that one would be far more deadly. Or you could let them go.

“Forrest..” You whispered. His guidance was definitely a necessity right now. It wasn’t too often you found yourself in this position. The floorboards creaked underneath you as you shuffled your weight from foot to foot. Forrest sat up with a low grumble, clearly trying to hide the fact that he was in pain. He jerked his arms free from the hold the men had had on him and as he began to stand, he spun around and grabbed the back of their necks. Shoving them toward one another so their skulls rammed into each other, he shoved them both to the floor and then retrieved his brass knuckles. Two opponents down, and one more left.

Forrest gave each of them a few extra punches to the face for good measure, wanting them to realize that they truly weren’t a match for the invincible Bondurant. He whirled around to face the last man, the one who thought he could lay a hand on you, the one who thought he could use you as an ashtray and that would be fine.

The man did that to all of the bartenders, marking them in each town he passed through. His real name wouldn’t live on in the history books, but what he’d done would. Who wouldn’t want to read about a man that burned bartenders with a cigarette butt as a form of payment? It made him want to laugh on the spot.

Instead, he dove head first across the bar counter and directly into you. When it came to fight or flight, your reflexes were clearly to just freeze. His body sent yours crumbling to the floor. It was sticky and disgusting because you only mopped on the weekend. You have a sharp cry of pain and fear as he ripped the gun from your hand and pressed the tip against your chin. “Now then,” He sneered down at you. “You didn’t want a cigarette burn, maybe you’d like a bullet wound. I won’t kill you, I need you alive so you can tell the story about me.” His eyes creased with his lopsided grin and his breath - it stunk of peanuts and smoke. He didn’t even take a sip of the moonshine, it sat prettily on the bar, the liquid shaking from all the movement in the bar.

Forrest stepped toward the bar to help you, just as the man jerked you up and to your feet by your hair. Your eyes were opened wide and your eyes were pleading. The barrel of the gun caressed your soft skin, stroking your chin until he dared to move the gun to your lips. You jerked your head away, scoffing under your breath at the audacity of this man. He must’ve thought he was in a movie with the way he was behaving, talking about himself as if one day he’d be some big story. Your watery eyes moved to Forrest. He hadn’t budged. His knuckles were bloody and dripping - his blood or the men’s blood he didn’t know. All he saw was red. He felt hot and irritated, at a loss of control.

“What do you want?” Forrest said. His voice was so monotone. He sounded like he was taking someone’s order for food, not trying to save your life.

The man chortled. “I want you to light a cigarette and put it out on her body. I’ll let you choose where.” The man moved his hand to the back of your neck, roughly pinching it before he shoved you as hard as possible out from behind the bar and in the direction of your boss. He didn’t follow, he kept four feet between himself and the two of you. The gun was cocked and pointed, all he had to do was shoot.

Your feet didn’t cooperate with your mind, especially not after being forcefully sent flying forward. You rammed right into Forrest’s broad chest, arms immediately lifting so that you could clutch on to his cardigan. No part of you worried that he’d actually do what he was told. This was Forrest, he had a way out of everything - you hoped. Lifting your watery eyes to his own as he pressed his thick fingers against your elbow, steadying you, he checked your face for any signs of injury before slipping his other arm around you as well. You’d never been so close to him, pressed flush against him with hardly any room to breathe.

The man reached up and pinched the front of his hat. Removing the accessory, he lowered it to your head, shielding you from what was to come. Should he be shot, he didn’t think that was something you should see. You blinked slowly, your breaths seeming louder than usual beneath the oversized hat. You couldn’t see much, nothing but the ground and his belly as it rose and fell with every inhale and exhale.

So what happened next made you flinch. It was loud, so loud, there were screams of pain and the sound of cracking bones. Forrest hadn’t moved, he was still standing firmly with his feet planted against the wooden floor. His fingertips dared to brush along your arm, slow and assuring as he watched the scene play out. His brothers weren’t the best fighters, they weren’t the best when it came to confrontation, but regardless of what was happening they’d always have his back like he had theirs.

Without explaining what was going on, Forrest merely lifted the front of his hat so that he could see your features. Inspecting you closely, he let out a quiet grunt before giving you the best smile he could muster. With a swollen lip and a bruised eye, the expression didn’t seem fitting. Who’d be happy at a time like this? Relief colored his features as he slowly brushed his knuckles along your warm skin before he parted his lips to speak.

You beat him to it though. “Thank you..” You whispered softly before dragging yourself back. You didn’t want to suffocate him or make him uncomfortable by clinging to him. There was no longer a threat. “Come on,” You murmured softly. “Let me look at your injuries.” Peeling the hat off of your head, your slender fingers slipped through his own and you slowly guided him toward one of the tables. It was wiped clean, void of any crumbs or liquor, so you set the hat down on the surface and then nudged him gently to take a seat.

Forrest’s knees popped under the pressure and his bloodied hands moved to his stomach. It was only then, when he felt the pressure of the brass knuckles, that he realized he hadn’t taken them off. His fingers felt swollen and stiff and his arms refused to move for a few moments.

You have him a soft smile before slowly reaching for his hand. Your touch was delicate and slow as you pried the brass knuckles off of him. Setting the tool on the table, you turned around to fetch the first aid kit from behind the bar, just as Howard and Jack were hauling the bloke toward the exit. They’d be back for the other three as well.

You stepped over the unconscious bodies on the floor - some drunkards, and the three others were Forrest’s attackers. Retrieving the fallen revolver, you uncocked the weapon and slipped it back in the safe before securely closing the black case and then retrieving the plastic first aid box. The white handle fit snugly in your small palm as you pulled it free from its place under the bar.

You didn’t have the confidence that you’d be able to fix Forrest up as good as new, but you were certain that you’d be able to prevent anymore swelling, help some go down, and patch up the spots on his face that were bleeding. Your boots clicked softly against the floorboards as you made your way over to the table. Setting the box down, you undid the clasps on the front and then pushed it open. Dragging out the small container of alcohol, some gauze, a few wipes, and an ice packet, you gave him a small smile.

Forrest watched your every movement through one good eye, and one half-opened, swollen, purple eye. His nose was busted and bleeding and purple in the center. It didnt look broken, but it certainly looked bruised.

“Could I wipe your hands clean?” You asked softly. There was always an ever present shyness to you when it came to the man seated in front of you. You didn’t know what it was about him that made you feel so nervous, but you felt the need to shy away after every word exchanged.

He gave a quiet hum before lifting his hands and laying them on the table. His knuckles were tense and bleeding in various places. The impact of the brass knuckles hammering against a man’s face, still brought a small amount of pain to the man’s knuckles. He shuffled, watching you as you slipped your hand into his own and lifted it. The sun poured in through the window, falling across the injury so you could see perfectly. You opened the bottle of alcohol, dousing the cloth in it before you gently began to wipe away the smudges of blood and then cleaned the opened wounds, cuts and scrapes that bled like gashes.

He didn’t wince or jerk away even though it stung horribly. It wasn’t a matter of protecting his ego, everyone experienced pain at some point in their life. Adjusting his hand lightly, he cleared his throat before letting his thick fingers drop to his lap when you were finished cleaning them up. “Would you have really shot him?” He asked suddenly.

Your eyes lifted to his own as he asked such a thing. You stepped away again to retrieve some ice, but his words burned your ears. As you filled the ice pack, you couldn’t help but wonder what the honest answer was. Would you have shot him? Blinking a few times, you carried the ice pack back over to your boss and slowly lifted it so that he could hold it in place over his eye. “Yes.” You said after what felt like an eternity to him. “In the leg.. perhaps, or the arm.” You offered. “But I don’t think I couldve killed him.”

Forrest gave a soft nod. “I didn’t expect you to.” He assured you before giving you the best smile he could muster. “I’m incredibly grateful that you.. well, put your life on the line for me like that. He could’ve killed you.”

You snorted. “You and me both. But we’re fine.” Guiding his hand to the ice pack so he could hold it on the wound, you then began to tend to his nose. There wasn’t much you could do, apart from clean up the dried blood that rested underneath his nostril. He had stubble, dancing along the length of his warm flesh. His cheeks and his jaw were coated in the fine hairs, giving some texture to his face as your hand cupped the sharp surface, thumb grazing his chin so that you could tip his head back.

The close proximity was numbing. You felt like you’d been swallowed by a flame. Maybe it was the way the sun illuminated the both of you, but the heat you felt was completely internal. Fidgeting for a moment under his unwavering stare, you watched as the white cloth turned red and his red skin returned to the initial paleness it ordinarily was. Crumbling the rag, you laid it on the table before leaning into him so you could get a better look at his eye. You moved the ice pack, squinting as you inspected the damage.

“I’m not doctor, Mr. Bondurant.. you’re probably better off having this injury looked at.” You suggested before straightening. Your arms slowly crossed over your chest, warm fingertips tracing the sleeves of your shirt.

Forrest grumbled something incoherent before giving you a soft nod. “Feels just fine.” He lied.

“Forrest.” You scolded him. “It’s swollen shut.”

The man arched a brow. Very rarely did you use his first name. His large palm lifted, covering his eye so that he could watch you through the swollen one. “See. Works just fine.”

You squinted challengingly before shaking your head in mild amusement. The man was insufferable. You made movement to turn to clean up the first aid kit tools, but he grasped your forearm tenderly in his large palm.

“Id know if something were wrong with my eye, Y/n, because you look just as beautiful through my swollen eye as you do with my two good ones.” He pulled you in his direction, his expression a pleading one. “Perhaps you should take one more look at it.”

Your brows furrowed at the compliment he’d given you before you stumbled in his direction. Laying your nimble fingers against the unsturdy, wooden arm of the chair. Inspecting his eye as he asked, you gave him a small, shy smile. “Mr. Bondurant, I believe you..” Though you weren’t sure if you did or you just wanted to put some proximity between you and his body. He was so warm and inviting, it drove you up the wall.

Forrest leaned forward. He enjoyed seeing you squirm so much. You were riddled with your fear of being unliked by him, even though it was clear he felt the same things for you. The man’s hand was gentle as it slid up the length of your arm so he could brush a few of your tresses back and out of your eyes.

Your cheeks felt unbelievably warm in this moment. You were sure that if they could be, they’d be the color of a ripe tomato. Lifting your free hand to steady yourself, you pressed it against his strong shoulder. “What are you doing..?” You breathed, attempting to rack your brain for some sort of explanation for his actions. Your brain refused to help you, it was completely blank. The closer your face grew to his own, the hotter you became and the more your brain shut down. You felt like a blob of jello.

He couldn’t help but smile. He sensed your shyness, which was exactly why he didn’t offer any words. Just actions. He figured they’d speak louder. Besides, he had to thank you in some enjoyable fashion. Why not with a kiss? The man spread his thighs wide enough to give you a place to stand. Drawing you forward, he moved his hands to your curvy waist and held on to you as his hot breaths began to mingle with your own.

All at once, your brow smoothed and your mind was completely blank. You saw nothing but him, heard nothing but the hammering of your own heart, smelled nothing but him - and he smelt like smoke and liquor, you felt nothing but his hard body under your palm, and soon you’d taste nothing but those big, pink lips of his. Your own mouth parted, incredibly too willingly, and all at once your mouth’s molded together like long lost pieces to a missing puzzle.

Your body fell into his lap, arms appearing to be insanely slender as they curled around his wide, broad, muscular shoulders. Forrest moved his hand to your leg, steadying you with one hand on your thigh and the other laid against your back. His mouth was slow, tentative, and curious as it moved in sync with your own and your’s was hungry, exploring, and needy. The shyness you felt crept away, but it didn’t go too far, it was just silenced by the romantic exchange he was leading.

His lips were as soft as you were imagined, and he tasted like honey and coffee. You pressed the crook of your elbow against the back of his neck and let a sultry moan fall from your lips in approval. Every brush of his fingers against your spine and feel of his tongue gliding against your own, sent sparks of electricity jolting throughout your body.

You still didn’t understand why he was kissing you, but was there really a point in questioning it? Maybe he was just grateful. Maybe he’d been hit so hard in the face he thought this was the right thing to do? And maybe, you hoped it was for this reason, the incident had helped you both find the confidence to grow suddenly closer. You were careful not to let your nose bump his or your hands to stray too far in fear of hitting an injury. What this meant and how far this would go didn’t cross your mind though, because in this moment there was only him and those sweet tasting lips of his.

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Tag List: @saved-fanfiction @thephuonganh @theaamberr @innerpaperexpertcloud @darklydeliciousdesires @thebeckyjolene @mollybegger-blog @travelingmypassion @caffinated-tree @tcmhollnd @br0ck-eddie @ellar21 @advictedtohim @river-rain-water @crldrr2 @louloudeug99

A/N: This is my first fic in almost a year so please bear with me🖤 ( ALSO NOT MY GIFS ) also it’s been soooo long since I’ve uploaded, I can’t remember how to do a ‘keep reading’ on mobile, so please message me and let me know how!!

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

The Proposition

Fandom: Casillero del Diablo, The Thief

Word Count: 1520

TW: f!reader, Wagering, Breaking-In, Stealing

Part 1 of Like A Thief in the Night

He smirks to himself as he watches you slip between the displays that line his ground floor. You dart from one to the next, hiding in the shadows and avoiding anything that may alert anyone to your intrusion. He has to admit that you are good. Chances are anyone else would have missed the slight shift in the lighting or the rare tap of your foot. But he is not like everyone else and he sensed your presence the moment you slid through his window.

As you pull yourself flush against the back of a suit of armor, he begins to descend the stairs, purposely making each step thud loudly against the marble floor. “Well, well, well,” you freeze at the sound of his voice booming throughout the room. “It seems as if a sly little fox has found her way into the hen house. There is no point in hiding any longer. I have had my eye on you from the moment you set foot in my home.”

For a moment, the room is completely silent and still as not even a shadow moves within the darkness. But then, you slip out from behind the armor and plant yourself in a sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window. Your dark, stealthy attire still hides most of your features yet as you pull down the hood and black cloth covering your face, your haughty expression beams brightly even from across the room.

“If I am the fox, does that make you the hen?” you ask with a soft chuckle. “I was wondering how far you would let me get before calling me out. It’s not like I really tried to hide my presence.”

He ignores your teasing comment and addresses the second part of your statement. “Not trying to hide, hm? Is that why you were slipping through the shadows?”

“I figured you would be more intrigued that way. But of course, I didn’t want to give away all my secrets straight off the bat. That would make the game no fun.” Your voice is melodic and light with a playful edge to your words, and he notes that it would be a lovely addition to his collection.

As he begins descending the steps once more, he asks, “And what game would that be, my dear?”

You pull yourself up to your full height (which is still much shorter than he is) and declare, “I am here to issue a challenge. A bet, of sorts. From one thief to another.”

He chuckles. “Ah, so you fancy yourself a thief? And what sorts of things have you stolen?”

“It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t believe me anyway even if I told you. My specialty is stealing what I want right in front of your face in a way where you will never even realize it is mine until it is too late. And even then, some people will never notice its absence. Unlike you who prefers to wave your accomplishments around and let the whole world know what you have taken. But then again, I am the better thief.”

He scoffs as he stops a few inches from where you are standing. “I regret to inform you, but I am the greatest thief in the world.”

You shrug. “So you say. Which is why I’m here. I’ve been watching you for almost a year now. I was there when you stole the Saxon Crown, the Countess’s diamond necklace, the Starry Night. But I know you never noticed me. That’s okay, you weren’t supposed to.” He starts to protest but you cut him off. “Don’t deny it. I told you, I’m just a better thief than you are, and I only let people see me when I want to be seen. And I decided it was time to reveal myself to you so we can determine once and for all who truly is the greatest thief in the world.”

“And how do you propose we decide that?”

“You are in possession of something that I want. It is the thing you hold most dear in your life, and you guard it more heavily than anything else. And it is my intention to take it from you.”

His eyes narrow as his mind quickly flashes through his many possessions to determine what you are after. While he quickly eliminates most options, there are still a few items you may be alluding to depending on how closely you have studied him. “And what item is that?”

The same gleam in your eye from before returns. “Where would be the fun in telling you that? I can’t give you all the advantages now, can I?”

He purses his lips in annoyance but continues on, “That hardly seems fair given the sheer magnitude of items you could be referring to, but what sort of challenge do you have in mind?”

“It’s simple. I move in here with you for six months and attempt to take the item. At the end of that time, the winner will be whoever then possesses the item, and they will be given the title of the greatest thief in the world. In addition, if I win, I get to keep it and do with it whatever I please. But if you win, I leave, and you’ll never see or hear from me again. The title will be yours forevermore.”

“That’s it? You reward me with something which is already mine?” he says with a scoff. “And what if I refuse? I could just tell you to get out of my home right now. How is the result any different if I play and win?”

The corners of your mouth curl up into a sly smile. “It’s not. Not really. However, by playing you gain one thing: peace of mind. You believe you are the best thief in the world. I say you’re not. So, if I walk out that door right now, will you ever be able to stop wondering? Will you ever be able to silence that little voice in the back of your head from whispering those two little words which will continue to grow until they shake you to your very core…. What if?”

He considers for a moment. “I see you’ve prepared well for this meeting. You seem to have the answers to my every question or concern.”

You lift your head proudly. “I don’t ever go in blind. I see what I want, I wait however long it takes, I plan out every last detail, and only when I’m certain I can obtain my goal, do I strike.”

Your left hand shoots out, grabbing for the crown sitting atop his head but his hand is faster, pinning your wrist between his fingers. He smirks at you, but his expression falters as you smirk just as smugly back at him. Silently, you hold up your right hand where his watch now dangles in your grasp. He glances at his now bare wrist before his eyes fly back to you in astonishment.

You grin as you offer the watch back. “Do you still think you’re the best?”

No one had ever stolen from him, not since he had discovered the art of the steal. It was one of the reasons he had considered this entire offer ridiculous. But if you managed to rob him right under his very nose….. This might be more interesting than he originally anticipated. 

Yet, one thing still nags at the back of his mind. “That was quite impressive, and I am intrigued by your offer. But tell me this, how does you not stealing from me make me the better thief?”

Nodding, you explain. “There is more to being a thief than just the act of stealing. There is the planning, the technique, the execution. You have to be aware of any sudden changes or alterations in the environment, in the people around you. So, a truely great thief should be able to spot another thieft in progress. And as the one currently holding the title, it falls on you to protect it by playing defensively.”

Somehow, everything you said made sense in a strange sort of way. So, with a nod, he says, “Fine. I accept your challenge. But six months seems a little excessive, doesn’t it? One month should suffice.”

You laugh. “It will take me an entire month just to visit every room in this place, let alone sort through your thousands of trophies. Four months.”

“Three.” You hesitantly nod in agreement, yet there is something about it that makes him think that you just got what you wanted all along. But he shrugs it off and sticks out his hand. “Three months. And if you haven’t managed to steal what is most precious to me by that time, I never have to see you again. Deal?”

“Deal.” You slide his watch back on his wrist before shaking his hand and sealing both of your fates.

As he runs his thumb lightly over the back of your hand, he asks, “Well, my sly little fox, when do we begin?”

[yikestripes]

Dirty Little Secret

a/n: pennywise taunting richie tozier or epic song title by the all american rejects? that is for you to decide, my pretties. (jokes on me it’s not even an IT imagine it’s a crim imagine heheeeee)

here you go, @hommoturttle !! i had a much easier time writing this than i thought i would LMAO. i really hope you like it!!!

You should have known that going to a party at Rossi’s was going to involve not only alcohol, but the relaxed atmosphere that you never got to experience with your co workers, let alone your supervisor. At Rossi’s, although you mostly referred to the others by last name out of habit, if you slipped and called him Aaron he didn’t bat an eye. Not only that, but flirting back and forth was not un-welcomed either. As a matter of fact, he initiated sometimes. Hotch took another sip of his beer before laughing at something Morgan said.

“Okay okay, we have to try that some time!” Morgan was saying to Prentiss, in regards to some wild drinking game she had been telling everyone about. Hotch was laughing at how eager Morgan was to play a drinking game. It didn’t exactly come as a surprise to you, but then again, nothing really did with this group of people.

“I’d LOVE to try that,” Garcia purred, mostly to Derek. Derek raised an eyebrow, but grinned in her direction.

“Dear God, Woman.” He said. Garcia rested her hand on his forearm and wiggled her eyebrows, causing the table to break out in more laughter. These were the moments you lived for, being able to see your teammates so relaxed.

You chugged the last few sips of your Twisted Tea and made your way to the kitchen to grab another. When you returned, the conversation had taken a sharp turn, and you couldn’t believe your ears as you approached the table.

“That’s a KINK?” Derek asked, incredulous. Hotch choked on his beer and poor Reid just looked confused.

“Oh yeah, baby. It’s actually quite popular.” Garcia grinned, inching slightly closer to Morgan. He took it in stride, grinning back.

“Well, we’ll just have to see about that.” He said in a low voice.

“Alright alright, where in the HELL did kinks come up?” You asked, sitting beside Hotch.

“Well, first we were talking about that drinking game, and then we started talking about how the different types of alcohol can cause different reactions in certain people, which led to the discussion of how tequila makes Prentiss cry and makes Garcia, um, more sexual, and then we started talking about things of, uh, that nature.” Reid looked more uncomfortable the more he recited. You shook your head and took a long drag from your drink.

“Ooh, you know another wild kink? Bondage.” Prentiss said, her eyes wide. Derek grinned and Reid made up some excuse to go to the kitchen, Rossi following closely behind him.

“Alright little miss, you’re pretty quiet.” Penelope turned her attention to you, causing your own eyes to widen. “What’s your dirty little secret?” She grinned evilly.

“Uh, I don’t really have any.” You said, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. An obvious tell that you were lying. Being surrounded by profilers was suddenly worse than usual, and all eyes were on you.

“Bullshit, (Y/N)!” Derek said with a laugh. “Everyone has somethin. Come on, I'll share if you do.” He looked at you over his glass, raising his eyebrows, begging the question.

You looked to Hotch to save you, but he looked away, cheeks pinkening.

Interesting. You thought to yourself. He’s hiding something too.

“Come on, out with it!” Garcia pushed.

“Uhh… roleplay, I guess.” You said in a small voice, taking a few more sips of your tea.

This seemed to satisfy Garcia and Morgan, as they began discussing Derek’s sadism kink.

“That seems pretty on par, don’t you think?” Hotch’s voice said beside you. You looked at him and raised your eyebrows. “Morgan’s, that is.” He said quickly, realizing what you were thinking.

“Yeah, it sounds about right. Did Penelope happen to share hers while I was in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, the same as Derek.” You giggled a little bit, starting to feel the alcohol take effect. Spencer and Rossi returned, having cleaned up the entire kitchen in the time it took for the conversation to finally move forward.

Some time had gone by, and Rossi had retired to bed.

“If you can’t think straight, you can’t drive. Help yourself to a bedroom.” Rossi said, holding his hands up in surrender as he retreated up the stairs. Reid had gone home a little while ago, complaining of a raging headache. Alcohol sometimes had that effect on him, so it definitely wasn’t the first time that had happened. JJ couldn’t make the party since it was her only night off and she wanted to spend some family time with Will and Henry. That left you, Hotch, Prentiss, Morgan, and Garcia.

“So, Hotch, how does it feel to know the sexual history of not only your friends, but your employees?” Derek grinned, raising his eyebrows again.

“Well, it’s different. I thought I knew you pretty well before, Morgan, but now I know you a little too well.” Hotch laughed a little, a rare sound.

Morgan shrugged, moving a sleeping Penelope slightly.

“I guess I should get her up to bed, she’s starting to drool.” As he said that, a small snore came from Garcia. Morgan frowned as he guided Penelope upstairs, who was complaining about how she wasn’t sleeping, she was just resting her eyes. Morgan shut the door behind them, leaving behind just you, Hotch, and Prentiss.

“Well,” Prentiss slurred. “How about another round?” She tried to stand up, but began swaying. Hotch grabbed her arm before she almost toppled onto the floor.

“I’ll be right back.” He said, guiding her to another room in Rossi’s endless mansion. You picked at the skin around your nails, something still bothering you. Although you’d shared your sexual preference, Hotch never really commented on it; he was clearly thinking along the same lines as you. Could you possibly get him to admit it? Technically you were alone now. A small, evil grin crossed your features as he descended the stairs, rejoining you in the dining room. You were about 4 Twisted Teas in, and all your inhibitions had been successfully lowered. Hiding your crush on Hotch was at the back of your mind, if it was on your mind at all.

“So,” You began, scanning Hotch. He raised his eyebrows as he took a couple gulps of his beer. “You never told us what your kink was, Mr. Hotchner.” He grimaced slightly.

“No, I didn’t.” He said, his voice even.

“Mmm.” You hummed into the quickly emptying bottle. “You can tell me. I won’t share.” You cocked an eyebrow, encouraging him.

“And how do I know that?” He said, lowering his voice as he inched a little closer.

“You’ll just have to trust me.” He scanned your face for a moment to gauge how truthful you were being, and ultimately decided you were being truthful.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Remember what you said, about roleplaying?” He asked. You nodded. He sat back and smiled a little, without another word. Now your attention was piqued.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your faces were so close, you could close the gap and be kissing him in mere seconds.

“Hmm, now that is interesting.” You said, resting your hand on his thigh. He didn’t move and you could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and back up to his eyes, and he closed the gap. You were kissing Aaron Hotchner. You kissed back excitedly, allowing his tongue to explore your mouth a little bit before breaking away for some air.

“You need to go to bed.” Hotch said with a small laugh as you pouted.

“Why?” You asked, sounding more like a small child instead of a grown adult.

“Because, you’re drunk.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not!”

Hotch took a few steps back.

“Walk over here without tripping.” It sounded so much easier than in practice, because you immediately tripped and fell into his arms. You melted at his touch and he helped you stand up, raising his eyebrows as if to say “I’ve made my point”. Before you could process what was happening, Hotch picked you up bridal style and headed up the stairs, plopping you down on a bed. He turned to leave when he felt a hand grab his wrist.

“Stay.” You whispered, looking up at him, your eyes sparkling. Hotch glanced from you to the door, weighing his options. He ultimately decided that it was safer to stay, he didn’t feel drunk, but he wasn’t exactly sure how many beers he’d had since arriving 6 hours ago. Granted, he had eaten, but there was no telling what could happen.

He laid down beside you, as you laid your head on his chest, allowing his steady heartbeat to put you to sleep. He kissed your head and drifted off himself.

The next morning, you woke up in the spare room by yourself, to the sound of people shuffling downstairs. Your head was aching, but from what you could tell, you didn’t throw up the previous night. You didn’t even feel nauseous; you even felt hungry.

“Thank God.” You muttered to yourself. Throwing up was by far the worst part of a hangover, and you’d managed to avoid it. You considered that a win. You threw a hoodie on and made your way downstairs; Prentiss looked a little pale, and was drinking water sip by sip. Clearly, she hadn’t been so lucky. Hotch stood by the island, drinking coffee and chatting with Rossi. He glanced over at you and sent you a quick wink before returning to his conversation with Rossi. You smiled to yourself and kept your dirty little secret, and his, to yourself.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Omertà👄2

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (sexual intercourse); tags to be added throughout series

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: We vibing these two bad boys so here’s chapter 2. Be safe.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The dress was plain, but you were certai, nice enough for the occasion. You didn’t expect Loki’s approval, that was a rarity, but you were content in your malicious compliance. The long burgundy crepe was held up by thin straps and hugged your body enough not to be entirely baggish. You wore a thin black shawl over your shoulders as you hailed a cab and gave the closest intersection to the underground club.

You hadn’t been this dressed up since your regrettable prom night. Then you were still naive enough to dream about a Lizzie Maguire fairytale. You hadn’t even been arm candy that night, you had merely been a ploy to make some other girl jealous. You’d left early upon the realisation. ‘Fuck ‘em’, your dad had given his usual snipe and since your inner monologue tended to echo him.

A decade later, a little more than, and your cynicism had aged like a stringent and oaky whiskey. You hooked the strap of your small beaded clutch around your wrist as you got out of the cab and peered down the street. Streetlights illuminated the smoke blowing up from the sewer and distant neon light stared back at you from the end of the block.

You would appease Loki and whatever game he was playing. You knew his moods, his tricks. He grew bored often and quickly flitted to his next delight. You suspected he was merely reminding himself of his power after a near disastrous war. And you, too.

You descended the iron steps and knocked on the painted door. The tiny slat slid open and a muffled din wafted through. “Slate,” A voice cut through the night and you replied swiftly, “Pyramid”. A heavy lock turned and you were let into the dark corridor.

You’d been here once before. You were sixteen, your father had been with you. He’d played a game of Hold ‘Em with Diablo and won a few times too many. The two of you had barely escaped before the droopy-eyed owner caught on. That was long ago and yet, nothing had changed.

There was a thick velvet curtain at the end of the hallway. The doorman escorted you to it and pulled it back to reveal a bright room full of men in tailored suits and women draped off their arms like peacocks. You shook your head and stepped through. You needed a drink. You needed an excuse to turn back. But you went on.

Loki was slender but tall, a few inches above most men. You saw him amid the crowd, a snifter held to his nose as he inhaled the scent of the dark liquor. You passed a man in a crushed velvet jacket and his eyes caught yours. His arm was around a slinky redhead distracted by another boisterous guest. He winked and you scowled.

You wove through the bodies and appeared at Loki’s shoulder.

“Where do I get some of that?” You pointed to his glass and he looked down his long nose at you. If he was surprised, it was hard to tell. Only the slight part of his lips cracked his stony veneer.

“Darling, I’d stick to the wine,” He preened.

“Darling?” You scoffed. “You know my name.”

He smirked and turned to you entirely. He was overt as he looked you up and down and touched the fabric at your waist.

“I thought I said to wear something nice,” He muttered. “At least I can see your eyes.”

“You told me to wear a dress. Should I have gone with the black victorian number?” You challenged.

He considered you as his smirk fell.

“Kitty has found her claws,” He taunted. “Best she keeps her growls to herself.”

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” You said. “Tell me you couldn’t find a better date among your harem.”

“Harem? You make me sound a king,” He mused. “As you are so generous to yourself. This is not a date, darling.”

“Then what is it? Is it really necessary for you to wag your--”

“Watch it,” He warned as he pointed his long index finger at you. “You’re not playing at this anymore. You are made or you are burned. There is no in-between.”

“I tend to doubt your concern for my standing so long as my work benefits your own,” You said. “So forgive my suspicion.”

“Your father was on the scene, he made a name, as detestable as it is, and your grandfather has not been forgotten either,” He said. “We are both a part of this city’s legacy.”

“Mm,” You arched a brow. “I still don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you will.” He shrugged. “But best to start thinking for yourself before another does it for you.”

You squinted and looked around. A woman in a feather dress carried a tray of tall wine glasses. You preferred another taste but you would settle for the pale chardonnay. You beckoned her over and took one as Loki perused the room.

“Is this all you do at these things?” You sipped. “Coil like a snake in the corner?”

“I observe. I learn.” He grinned. “And the snake does not bow to the mice, rather they cower before him.”

“Poetic,” You said dryly. 

“Well,” A deep voice came from your left and you looked to the man you vaguely recognized. His golden brocade was embroidered with dragons; a gaudy Oriental knock-off. Finely tailored but still ill-fit to his person. “Is that Georgey’s girl?”

You greeted him with your usual straight-lipped stare. You batted your lashes sharply and he chuckled.

“I remember you,” He carried on. “You’ve grown.”

“As have you,” You gestured to his stomach, poorly hidden beneath the gauche jacket.

He laughed even louder and turned to Loki.

“I did hear you had the bookie’s daughter,” He boomed. “I wouldn’t trust that ilk to keep my books but call me prudish.”

“Don’t you worry, I wouldn’t touch your books over my father’s dead body,” You snorted. “Even I couldn’t untangle that knot with a blade.”

“Oh, I see,” Diablo shook his head. “The mouth on her.”

“Yes, rather endearing, isn’t it?” He sneered.

“Not sure anyone else would agree,” Diablo said. “The prettier one’s are much quieter.”

“Yet--” You began.

Loki raised his hand to silence you. You clamped your ships and your nostrils flared in anger.

“Let us excuse ourselves,” Loki gestured Diablo away. “And discuss in private, yes?”

“Best while everyone else is distracted,” Diablo replied and peeked over at you. “I dread our next meeting.”

“As do I,” You assured him.

Loki looked at you from the corner of his eye as his lip curled. He directed Diablo away from you and you watched them go, a smirk slowly spread across your face. You never wanted to make your father proud but he would’ve been beaming. 

You finished your drink and searched for a table to dispose of it. You set it down carefully on a tall corner table and slipped your shawl down around your elbow. You glanced around. You thought of fleeing as Loki was distracted but you knew he wouldn’t forget you. In fact, it seemed he had grown intent on you for whatever reason.

A shadow blotted the edge of your vision and you turned to greet your assailant. You were slightly surprised to find Bucky Barnes closing in. He smiled and tilted his head as he stopped before you. He wore a deep violet jacket over navy trousers, his eyes shone in the contrast.

“I wasn’t sure you got my invitation,” He said.

“Invitation?” You shook your head. “What--”

“Loki, he-- I mentioned I’d like to see you again,” He said staunchly. 

“What?” You scrunched your brow.

“I like the colour,” He admired your dress. “But I think a different cut might suit you better.”

“Oh, I didn’t take you as a purveyor of fashion. Well, nothing beyond a g-string and stilettos.” You huffed.

“Ah, I run a pretty classy joint,” He winked. “My girls have nothing but the best, even if it isn’t much.”

You pushed your shoulders back and looked around once more.

“Well, I was not told my presence was at your whim,” You said. “In fact, my being here is entirely undesirable.”

“If I had my way, sweetheart, you’d be doing a lot more than just standing here in that pretty little number,” He snickered.

You looked at him sharply.

“I need a drink,” You stormed off in search of the girl in the feathered dress.

You sensed him following behind you but ignored him. As you made to swipe a glass from the tray, he reached around you and grabbed it first. He caught your hand before you could take another and drew you back to him as he placed the slender flute into your hand.

“I wasn’t done, sweetheart,” He closed your fingers around the glass. 

You were livid. Had Loki brought you here to whore you out? Another pawn to secure his peace?

“Loki’s my boss but he is not my pimp,” You pulled away from him. 

“I didn’t say that,” He said. “I didn’t think it, either.”

You flicked the glass at him so the chardonnay splashed across his front and dripped down his face.

“Not interested,” You snarled and swept away with the empty glass.

“Sweetheart,” He sang from behind you. “I wouldn’t do this.”

“Get away from me,” You rushed away from him towards the door. “If you see Loki, tell him I’ll see him at the shop. To be frank, I don’t care either way.”

“We can just talk,” He purred. “Come on. You haven’t even given me a chance.” He caught your elbow and turned you back. “No other girl has ever thrown her drink in my face because if she had, I’d break hers. Now, I have no intention of hurting you. You see, I will look past your little slip.”

“I came here for business, or so I was told,” You said. “I am not interested in talking to you about anything beyond that.”

“Is this about the boss, hmm? This has nothing to do with him or our relationship, if that’s what you think.”

“I think you are all the same. You all just like to poke and poke and poke at each other until guns come out.” You said. “And I’m not going to be a part of whatever you two are doing.”

“Your loyalty is admirable, especially around here,” He kept hold of you. “Loki doesn’t even know what he’s got.”

“Let go,” You ripped your arm away. “I am not interested in being a comare. Especially yours.”

His brows lifted and slowly he smiled. His blue eyes twinkled and he wiped away the last of the chardonnay with his sleeve as the rest soaked into the front of his jacket.

“Comare… noooo.” He coaxed. “No, you’re not that type.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him. His arm shot out and he planted his hand against the wall to block you. You sighed and crossed your arms.

“Look, I know you, you’re just like the rest of them. You don’t like being told no. Little baby.” You snarled. “But I don’t like to repeat myself. So--”

“There you are,” Loki called from behind you. Bucky pushed himself straight as you looked over your shoulder. “Barnes…” He lifted his chin as he approached.

“Loki,” Bucky’s jaw squared. “I was just getting to know your little secretary, but she’s not very chatty. Hasn’t even given me her name.”

Loki snickered and peeked over at you.

“Don’t be rude, darling,” He said. You bit down and looked at Bucky and stiffly recited your name. He smirked. “She’s shy, that’s all.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bucky countered. “I feel like you’ve been sneaky, hiding her away.”

“Well,” Loki’s arm slowly snaked around your waist. “I thought we agreed to keep to our own territory.”

You went rigid and tried to pull away. Loki tightened his hold and kept you against him. Bucky watched you squirm and his thoughts wrinkled his forehead.

“And I thought we were just becoming friends,” Bucky returned.

“Allies,” Loki corrected. “Have I not been peaceable?”

Bucky poked his cheek with his tongue as he glanced over at you. You stared at him blankly and he nodded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He cleared his throat. “Both of you?”

“Of course,” Loki spread his hand over your hip and squeezed. “You know where to find… us.”

“I do,” Bucky affirmed and turned away.

You watched him go and wished you had more wine to throw as you stared at your empty glass. You tore away from Loki and jabbed his arm.

“What the fuck was that?” You snapped.

“That, darling, was how you play the game.” He grinned.

“You’re disgusting.” You glared at him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t deny that but you see, that man, oh, he is a tough nut to crack but I’ve finally found something he wants.” He said. “Something he really wants, not just some stretch of land.”

“No, no,” You spun and set your glass down. “No, I will not do this.”

His heels clicked behind you as you closed the distance to the curtained door. He shoved you through and pulled the velvet back into place as he grabbed your wrist.

“You will do whatever I want you to do.” He lowered his voice as his shadow loomed over you in the dark corridor. “You are good at what you do; your numbers, and I am sure you will recall a little jot in your margin. That one marked with the star.” He squeezed your wrist. “That’s you, darling.”

“Me?” You sputtered.

“Diablo, along with Viscardi, old pals with your father.” His other hand played with the strap of your dress. You gulped at the latter, the name of your father’s killer. “That bounty was not just for old Georgey, that was for every drop of his blood left. You…”

“No, no.” You said.

“I paid that bounty. I still pay it and it keeps you alive and in my pocket, until I should need you and your time has come.” He taunted.

“I don’t--”

“My father always said the best investments are people.” He touched your neck and tickled. “They are the most useful tools in this business. The most profitable.” He drew away and stroked your chin. “Know your worth, darling, and you might just prosper from it.”

[thelreads]

Off topic and this might be unpopular, but sometimes I'm tired of the absolute "killing is always wrong" that pops up in some superheroes stories. Life has more nuance than that and I'd prefer superheroes who are less close-minded to grey areas or less-than-perfect resolutions. What about self defense, what about defending others, do we need to consider the subjectivity of morality and ethics across cultures/species/dimensions, is killing always counter to valuing life or can it be an extension of that value in extreme situations?

It's easy to say "slippery slope" and default to an absolute "killing is bad and we're good" to cut short debates and avoid the possibility of plots with messier ends than most would prefer, but absolutes are just as much an answer to the implied nuances behind these questions and I sometimes wish there was more space for those messier uncertainties.

That's an interesting point of debate right there, and honestly I agree with it. Sure, not every single situation needs to descend into murder, but honestly, there are points where it not happening is the most stupid decision possible, and it only sets more problems to happen later on in the story.

I'm particularly not fond of the "If I kill you I'll be just as bad as you" trope, because holy shit that's the most idiotic thing possible. Even worse when it happens AFTER the protagonist mow down hordes of henchmen without batting an eye to get to the villain, it pisses me off.

One moment that needs to be mentioned about this is the All Might situation against AfO, because I liked how it was handled. All Might did try to kill AfO, and he really thought that he had succeeded in doing so, but the second time he let him live, but it made sense. The first time it happened in a secret battle, the second time it was in front of the whole world, and although he wanted to rip his head off, he knew that the symbol of peace killing a villain like that would completely destroy everything he worked years to build; in that particular case, killing AfO would led to his victory, the trust in heroes would be shattered, the Symbol of Peace would die with him.

That was one of the situations where I agree that although killing the villain was necessary, it would be a terrible option, because it was a Xanatos gambit. If he died, AfO would've won, and although he's in jail, but we know he'll break out of it eventually. He set the game so he would win, but not killing him when he had the chance gave All Might a chance to fool his plans, by giving the next generation the passing down of the mantle, and inspiring them to continue their fight.

[listentothelittlebird]

Today I bring you: an alternate Super Sons meeting! (This is a scrapped scene from my Code Bat series on ao3, but I think this is still enjoyable without context!)

The rewrite of this is here!

“I told you, coming with me would be boring.”

“Tt. Whatever, Drake.”

The nickname had long lost its malicious tinge. Tim rolled his eyes, trying to quell the fond smile that was twitching at his lips by ducking his face back down towards the paperwork on his table.

He was in a usually vacant office, at the Wayne Enterprises building of New York. Damian was playing a video game of some sort on his phone. Tim leaned over to peer at the boy’s screen. Damian tried to jerk away from his view, but Tim had already caught sight of the display.

Tim snorted, “Is that Dragonvale?”

“Shut up,” Damian snapped, his emotions betrayed by the reddening of his cheeks. Tim laughed lightly before returning to his work, the office descending into companionable silence, the only sounds coming from Tim shifting around the papers and clicking and unclicking his pen.

Damian had insisted on coming along for Tim’s business trip to New York. Not because he wanted to have a hand at the business, no, but because the young artist was interested in sketching the streets of the city - especially from the more illegal perches they could find on the tall buildings.

A ping from Tim’s phone caught his attention. He frowned minutely, enough of a change for Damian to raise an eyebrow from where he had positioned himself in the corner of the office, right next to the window overlooking the street below. Damian had already grown bored of the same view, having sketched the same perpsective for three days straight.

“So much for a peaceful business trip,” Tim murmured, signing quickly to Damian from behind his desk, where the camera in the room was unable to see, “K-O-N is in town. Pursuing T-O-Y-M-A-N.”

Damian tilted his head to the side, a silent question of “How?”, because New York was not exactly a neighbour to Metropolis. Tim shrugged with a disgruntled look, “Let’s go. I’m pretty much done with what I have to do right now. The rest can wait until later.”

Damian kept pace with Tim as he made a quick detour to access his spare costume before exiting the building. They were becoming more and more like real brothers each day - just the fact that Damian was here with Tim, without any of their other family members, already spoke volumes on their improving relationship. “What do I do?” Damian wondered curiously, “I know you’re intending on meeting up with him. Would my presence be distracting?”

Tim pursed his lips in thought. He had to admit, Damian’s new costume - the robe dyed with faint colourings - was pretty neat, but also very easily located. Damian would definitely stand out, if he did suit up. Not to mention that Damian had little to no exposure to any metas besides Duke, and would struggle to hide from Kon’s super senses.

“If you’re ready to make your debut, then I’ll see you at the destruction zone,” Tim clasped his hand briefly on Damian’s shoulder before ducking into the nearest alleyway. Damian would take more time to make it to where Toyman was currently wreaking havoc, since he had left his robe in their hotel room.

Sure enough, when Red Robin swooped down from the nearest rooftop to land a direct hit on Toyman’s newest creation, the flash of Damian’s white costume was still nowhere to be seen.

There was, however, another tween present. It did not take a genius to realise from the boy’s red cape and blue Superman tunic that this was Kon’s younger brother, Jon.

“How did Toyman get all the way to New York?” Red Robin aimed the question at his teammate, electing to ignore the presence of the younger boy for the time being.

Superboy huffed, visibly annoyed. “He let loose a ton of smaller toy robots, miniatures of the one he’s currently on,” Kon pointed to the UFO-like contraption that was zipping about the skies. He then directed a glare at his younger brother, “And somebody decided to ditch homeland, so that their Pa has to do all the work taking the robots down himself.”

“Pa can take care of the robots just fine!” Jon yelled, angry tone still dangerously close to a whine, “And I can help you! It all works out!”

Kon looked ready to argue back, so Tim cut in with a quick, “Less talk, more work. We can deal with family squabbles later.” Both Superboys instantly fell silent.

Toyman was rather irritable, Tim realised. Particularly so for him, since he was unable to fly and was restricted to the rooftops or fire escapes along the sides of the buildings. It was one of the few times that he wished he had incorporated his gliding wings into his Red Robin suit instead of his Gotham suit.

The villain also seemed to have a shield around his robot, preventing them from inflicting much damage on the UFO he was in. Tim was also constantly weary of the civilians - they were unable to properly clear out of the way, since Toyman kept switching streets and running off in different directions.

Jon tried to punch straight through the shield, but the shield deflected the force of his blow right back at him with a displacing wave of energy, sending the boy hurtling into a nearby building. The boy growled and got back to his feet, aiming to punch the shield a second time. The buildings around them were already unstable from the force of the first blast.

“Kid, don’t!” Red Robin called, but Jon had already flown straight into the shield, forcefully flinging his fist into the barrier.

-

Damian arrived on scene just as the buildings began to crumble. He stayed crouched a distance away, just shy of the main impact zone of the concussive wave.

Damian first noted the failing infrastructures of the buildings nearest to the blast. He was moving before his thoughts had fully formed, diving quickly through the sizable hole in the building and sprinting towards the unlucky civilians that were caught up in the chaos. He had to clear the building fast, before they were crushed under it.

He lowered the last person to the ground with his grappling hook, only to look up and note the presence of not one, but two Superboys. The smaller one looked to be around his own age, which was both intriguing and concerning.

The second Superboy now looked down at him from where he was holding up the upper half of the building he had just exited. “Who are you?” the boy asked in bewilderment. Damian backed away before ducking into the alley beside him, making his way onto the rooftop of a stable building.

“I could use some help!” Red Robin yelled from one street over, where Toyman had retreated to. Red Robin was using what looked to be electrified bird-a-rangs, which were just barely able to get through the shield, but were not doing much in terms of damage.

Damian slipped a small throwing knife into his hand, aiming his shot carefully. Toyman was facing away from him, and his control panel was on full display from where Damian was crouched. He waited until Red Robin readied another bird-a-rang, before throwing his knife in sync with him.

The shield malfunctioned for a split second once more, and it was all that was needed for the knife to slip through at the same time as the bird-a-rang, planting itself neatly into the controls. The wiring fizzled for a brief moment as Toyman cried out, whipping his head back to meet Damian’s blank mask.

The shield disappeared, and then Superboy - Kon-El - was delivering a sharp punch that crunched through the robot’s metallic body easily. The younger Superboy came soon after, hanging back as Red Robin and his older brother subdued Toyman properly.

The boy wrinkled his nose briefly, before looking directly at Damian, his expression brightening. Damian took a cautious step away from the edge of his rooftop even as Superboy flew up to him, landing heavily enough to crack the concrete slightly.

“You’re the guy from earlier!” Superboy enthused, and extended a hand, “Hi! I’m Superboy!”

Damian gazed warily at the boy’s hand. “Will you crush my hand if I shake yours?” Damian blurted out. This was his first time holding a conversation with one of the Kryptonians, he realised.

Superboy froze, and his face fell as he retracted his hand, “Ah, maybe. Sorry, I- I’m new to the hero gig,” he smiled hesitantly, glancing around him, “This is the first time I’ve been Superboy in any city other than Metropolis, actually. It’s… different.”

“I can imagine,” Damian commented, shifting tensely on his feet. Superboy frowned at him, “Your heartbeat’s going kinda fast. You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, right?”

Damian huffed, wondering belatedly how his brothers dealt with their own teammates. “I’m not afraid,” he clarified, “But it isn’t every day you meet an alien.”

“I’m not- okay, fair,” Superboy paused abruptly to glance down at the street. Kon-El and Red Robin appeared over the rooftop’s edge.

“Who are you?” Kon-El questioned, more forcefully than his younger brother’s harmless query. Damian shrugged. “Canvas,” he offered, “That’s what I would prefer to be called.”

The older Kent’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t exactly explain who you are very well,” he stated slowly, “What were you doing in the area?”

“Passing through,” Damian quipped easily. Kon-El’s frown deepened, but lifted as Red Robin pulled up several news articles on his holo-glove.

“His appearance matches reports of a white-robed traveller in numerous countries,” Red Robin summarised, and Damian knew immediately that the older boy had planned this statement, “Reports say that he was always found returning something, like an artefact or valued possession, to the communities he visited. He was also reported fighting off supernatural beings and protecting civilians from them.”

When the two Superboys looked back at Damian again, their expressions were contemplative. “So you’re a solo vigilante who’s even more nomadic than Red Robin,” Kon-El concluded, earning a disgruntled noise from the aforementioned person.

The younger Superboy suddenly lit up in an excited grin.

“Bro!” the punch that he gave his older brother made Damian wince slightly, “Teen Titans! Let me join!”

“I’ve already said no, countless times,” Kon-El stated in exasperation, “I’ll only let you on if-”

“If I’m ready, I know, but what if I go through like, a trial period, you know? Just in case I really am ready,” Superboy pointed towards Damian, “And Canva can accompany me, because he’s experienced already, then he’ll be able to tell if I am ready!”

“It’s Canvas,” Damian snapped, before the boy’s words sunk in. Teen Titans?

“You need to ask him for permission,” Kon-El scolded, before turning towards him, “Well? Are you interested in joining a team?”

“I…” Damian was at a loss as to how to respond. This was not what he was expecting.

“How about this,” Red Robin suggested, pulling a communicator from one of his pouches and tossing it over. Damian caught it on instinct.

“Contact us if you’re interested. The offer is open.”

Damian pursed his lips under his mask and nodded mutely, pocketing the device before taking off.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Blood in the Rivers: VIII

A/N: I apologize for the wait (again). Thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, and commented on the last chapter. And thank you for all the shenanigans about dogs and unicorns last night. You all make me smile

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand x F!Reader (Tully)

Rating: T - mentions of death, unhealthy coping mechanisms, my continued overuse of italics

Word Count: 9.2k (Don’t look at me)

Read Chapters I-VII here! Or on Ao3!

Chapter Eight: Pockets Full of Pebbles

“Raise your elbow.”

The bow was a bit too big for her little hands, even if it had been specially made just for her. But she did as her father bid and tried to focus on the target just a few feet away in the courtyard outside the keep’s armory.

“Perfect. Now loose.”

The arrow soared through the air and hit the side of the target. A shrieking giggle soon erupted from her throat as her father’s strong arms wrapped around her waist and hoisted her into the air.

“You are a natural, my darling girl! My little warrior!” His smiling lips pressed a kiss against her cheek as she continued to laugh.

“Oh, Brynden. You will have her running wild if you continue,” Vaella said, fondness in her tone betraying her love for her husband and child.

Brynden adjusted his grip on Y/N so he could hold her a little closer, little legs wrapping around his waist, and he pressed another kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “She is already wild. Aren’t you, Y/N?”

There were few rivers in Dorne. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course. But the nearest was too far. She would not delay his soul’s rest any more than necessary. “All rivers lead to the sea, darling girl,” her father had once said. So, the Summer Sea was her only choice. It wasn’t the muddied rivers around Riverrun. It wasn’t The Trident in The Vale where her father had laid her mother to rest. “All rivers lead to the sea,” she repeated her father’s words.

She barely remembered filling a small boat with kindling and stones and small slips of parchment before carefully placing her father’s head inside, atop the makeshift body she’d made from rolls of black fabric and straw.

She would never recover the rest of his body. There had been a note shoved behind his teeth: his body was fed to a caged bear at Harrenhal. Another desecration. Oberyn had matched it by having Ilyn’s body hacked to pieces.

The words of a familiar prayer slipped by her lips as she finished, hoping his soul would find rest in the Seven Heavens and that he would be reunited with her mother. “Goodbye, papa.” The words were strangled in her throat.

Ellaria quietly stepped to her side. Oberyn soon followed. Harmen and Daisy took their places, too. Without a word, they each placed a hand on the boat and helped shove the small tender out onto the gentle waves of the sea. Her heart was in her throat as she watched it start to pull away from the shore and then Daemon was there, handing her the bow and arrow. Y/N nocked the arrow with her bandaged hand and murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ to an injured-but-healing Trystane as he lit the end, letting it blaze with orange fire. A steadying breath is all she gave herself before she pulled the bow taut with perfect posture, just like her father taught, and let it loose. The arrow hit the boat and it erupted in flames. Her hands shook as she finally let the bow drop to her side. The stitches on her palm had torn. She didn’t feel it. Blood dripped onto the sand.

The boat drifted away and she watched until it sunk beneath the water.

**

The Realm had descended into chaos. Myrcella and her Lannister guards had disappeared the night Ilyn had tried to kill Trystane and Doran. Westerland armies tried to cross the Red Mountains into Dorne on the Prince’s Pass but were largely pushed back by the House Fowler armies. House Yronwood raised their banners and fortified the Bone Way, waiting for the Lannisters to try again.

Y/N had been wordlessly invited to join Oberyn, a healing Doran, and the lords and ladies of Dorne who had been at the Water Gardens for the feast and never left. All of them were calling for retaliation. For war. The men and women sequestered in the cooled undercroft serving as a war room did not bat a lash when she joined them. Some even voiced their approval for her plans, stating that she was a natural tactician, “a woman after Princess Nymeria’s own heart!” It almost made her smile. It was a small solace, to know that her opinion was valued enough to earn a seat at the table.

But it had kept long hours. Longer still when she would hide away in Sunspear’s grand library, poring over centuries-old texts about the Red Keep or Casterly Rock, trying to find some slip of information that could be used as a tool against the Lannisters. It had almost become some sort of sad little game to wonder who would be sent in to ask her back to bed.

“You are falling asleep in your seat,” Sansa would say. “Go to bed.”

“You look ill. You will be ill if you do not sleep,” Arya would grumble.

"You must sleep, My Tully,” Ellaria would whisper as she would gently massage the back of her neck. “Come lay with me.”

And sometimes it would work. But sometimes she would wave them on. But she found a surprising companion. Obella, not yet seventeen, quietly helped her find books in the library and show Y/N her own findings—mostly battle formations that had faded from common knowledge but would be brutally efficient. They came to a soft companionability, taking turns to bring food and hot tea to the library when the night grew dark or relighting candles that snuffed themselves out.

“Why do you come here?” Y/N finally asked after their fifth night together.

“I cannot wield a sword like Obara or a bow like you—or even a lance like Elia. But I do want to help.”

She said it with such conviction that it fractured a part of Y/N’s already broken heart. She only nodded and pushed a steaming cup of tea toward her with a sad sort of smile. “You’re helping more than you know.”

Obara, Elia, and Arya were her companions at the training grounds. The two Sand Snakes seemed to innately know the anger that had infested her bloodstream and would silently bandage Y/N’s fingers when she would rub them raw with overuse against the string of her bow.

She was a fine archer and Obara had taken it upon herself to find Y/N a Martell guard who preferred the short blades she was more comfortable with to help her train with those as well.

Her hand ached. She pulled the stitches from her skin on her own, too early for the ugly, jagged wound to be fully healed. But she did it anyway in the dead of night, tired of feeling the scratch of the knots against her palm. Obara said nothing when she saw the messy work when she bandaged Y/N’s hand the morning after

Obara would stand behind her father’s chair when she cared to attend the war stratagem but largely kept to the training grounds with their cavalry and infantry.

Time had turned strange. Days and nights melting into each other without any sort of rest. Tracking the date had not been a necessity or want. She simply needed to do all she could to help. To train. To lend her voice at the stratagem meetings. She could rest later.

Just before one of these meetings Y/N noticed a shaking servant, holding a crumpled missive in his hands. The seal of the Tyrells was broken at the edge. The poor soul looked like he was headed toward the gallows. “I’ll take it for you,” she murmured.

The servant mumbled a quiet but reverent “thank you, Princess,” before all but shoving it into her hand and then pulling open the heavy door to let her in. Her thumb slid beneath the broken seal and she quickly scanned the words, stomach curling with each line of ink

Oberyn noticed the fright on her face within a moment. “What is it, my moonlight?” He asked and pressed a kiss to her cheek before she handed him the letter.

She was thankful that only Doran was present when Oberyn’s beautiful face slid into something monstrous as he read. He curled his fist around the letter as Doran lifted his head from the pile of missives from far-off Lords from the east coast of Dorne, keeping him abreast of any movement or changes in scheme they needed to employ. “Oberyn?”

“Myrcella and her guards washed up in Blackwater Bay.”

“And the Lannisters think we had a hand in it?”

“According to Olenna Tyrell, yes; Cersei thinks we killed Myrcella and she wants all of our heads on spikes.” Oberyn threw the remnants of the warning onto the table with a snarl.

While Y/N knew she would pray for the little princess’ soul to be carried off into the Seven Heavens when she was alone that night, her mind quickly turned toward how they would deal with this newest development. “They must have sailed near the Stepstones. Pirates and raiders-"

“The Lions do not care for logic, my moonlight. They have deemed us guilty.”

Her gut churned. She wanted blood, yes. But not Myrcella’s—not the innocent.

Before any other arguments or plans could be made—the door burst open and Elia was careening into the room, out of breath and dark eyes wild. “Ships! Greyjoy and Stark banners!”

Y/N scarcely recalled leaping up the stairs or dashing through the fortress and out into the dying sunlight to see the ships on the horizon—swathes of grey fabric and black wood rising from the waves like the Deep Ones of legend. Small tenders were already in the sea and rowing toward the shore. One of them had tied a bit of white fabric to their bow.

“Should we trust them?” Y/N asked.

Oberyn, at her back, sighed. “The Starks have not betrayed us yet. Remains to be seen with the Greyjoys.”

**

The fortress was abuzz with movement as the Northmen settled into their temporary lodging Sunspear was providing (the Ironborn loudly voiced that they’d rather row back out to their ships for rest). Battle plans were being drawn and redrawn. Alliances and promises made.

Y/N learned that after the Boltons had tortured and killed Theon as they took over Winterfell, Yara sent a raven to Robb. He would help her claim the throne of the Iron Islands against the claim of her uncle, Euron, in exchange for drawing the Boltons out beyond Winterfell’s walls so Robb’s men could attack them from behind and finally reclaim Winterfell and wipe out the Bolton line. They both had vengeance with the act and gained an ally.

The North was once again under the rule of House Stark. But Y/N could not delight in that bit of happy news as word was sent that Yara Greyjoy required a private audience with Y/N.

Daemon rowed her out to the Black Wind and promised to stay until she personally told him to go or she came back out to the tender to be taken back to Sunspear. “I would not have you languishing with the Ironborn longer than necessary, my lady,” he muttered before a rope ladder was thrown down.

As she reached the deck of the ship, several of the crew looked her up and down. She caught whispers of “the Mountain” and “princess” before she was led below deck by a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and cold, green eyes. He knocked twice on a sea-weathered door before a gruff, feminine voice called to let him in.

Y/N stepped inside and tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell. It reeked of old hay and excrement—probably a holding cell. Yara was waiting, standing under the single beam of light the room had and holding a chain in her hands. It snaked across the hay-strewn floor and disappeared into a dark corner. This was the first time Y/N had come in contact with Yara Greyjoy—but her reputation obviously preceded her and was well earned. The smirk she had splitting her face was enough to warrant the rumors of callous humor and bloodthirsty nature.

“Ah, you’ve come. Perhaps you can get something out of him before I rip his tongue out. We caught him just off the Stepstones, trying to hide his hideous face under a hood.” She pulled at the end of a chain. The metal links seemed to sing as she continued to yank until the prisoner stepped into her line of sight.

Y/N nearly balked at the sight. “Lord Tyrion. A surprise to be sure.”

Tyrion looked no worse than he did all that time ago in the Water Gardens but his limbs were now all encased in heavy steel and his hair was a little more unkempt. “My lady.” He even bowed a bit.

“The Imp refuses to speak to anyone but you,” Yara said as she stepped forward to hand Y/N the end of the chain with a curled frown. “Was this the one you were intended to marry?”

Y/N bristled but was unsurprised that Yara knew of the Lannisters’ plot. All of Dorne seemed to know it, too. “It was Tywin, actually. His father.”

Yara sneered. “I guess the old lion does still have a cock.” She then left without another word and the door closed loudly behind her.

With a sigh, Y/N set down the chain and wiped her hands on her skirts. “Why have you asked for me, Lord Tyrion? Prince Oberyn or Doran would be the only ones to grant you more comfortable accommodations in exchange for information.”

Tyrion shook his head. “I do not trust them, just as they do not trust me.”

Y/N hummed. “I am surprised they kept you alive at all. The last time you were in the company of Starks, you were accused to trying to murder Bran and only survived Catelyn’s wrath by the gods’ grace and the help of a sellsword.”

“It was more the sellsword than the grace of the gods, my lady, I assure you. But it was under Robb’s instruction that the Ironborn did not tie me to the front of their ship to be pecked to death by gulls.” He pursed his lips. “I was nearly to Essos when my ship was blown out of the water and I was scooped up like some dead fish.”

“Then perhaps you should consider it luck that they found you and not your sister. She wants you dead. Robb wants leverage.”

“If you had counseled your dear king, he would have known that I will hold no leverage as a hostage. They would prefer me dead.”

Y/N paused for a moment, thoughts stirring in her mind. “You asked me here for a reason, Lord Tyrion. And it is not because you fear me the least. What is it you’re offering?”

Something crossed Tyrion’s face then. It was almost a smile. “You would have made a fearsome Lady of the Rock, you know.” But as quickly as it came, it disappeared. “Tell me, are the rumors of Myrcella-”

“Dorne had nothing to do with it. Doran and Oberyn may not care for your family but they do not kill children. They know the ache of the loss of a child.”

Tears gathered in Tyrion’s eyes and tracked down his dirty cheeks. “She was good and gentle.”

“She was,” Y/N said softly. “And I am sorry that the gods have called her home so soon. But we need your help to see this through. You have my word that Tommen will not be harmed when we take King’s Landing.”

Oberyn and Ellaria were waiting for her when she stepped back onto shore hours later. Y/N had slips of parchment crumpled in her hand and streaks of ink staining her fingers and across her cheek. “Is Sarella still in Oldtown?”

**

“You cannot believe him!” Robb snarled.

Y/N pivoted in her seat to glare at him, uncaring of the other lords and soldiers in the room. “What cause does he have to lie?”

“He is a Lannister!”

“He is hated by his family. They tried to kill him.”

Robb’s face continued to contort in rage as he stood from his seat, fist slamming against the wood of the table. But whatever words he had wanted to say stilled in his throat as Oberyn stood from his seat, too. Oberyn said nothing as he loomed at Y/N’s back. He did not move his hand to the pommel of his sword but the promise of violence was not missed.

The King in the North seemed to swallow his pride at the quiet show of strength but did not sit down. “There is no way to see if this is not a trap.”

And that was when Y/N had a smirk of her own, pulled the rolled missive, stamped with the seal of the Citadel, from the folds of her dress and unfurled it on the table. “Tyrion’s claims of the cisterns and drains of Casterly Rock have been verified, as have the rumors of Wildfire under the whole of King’s Landing.” She pushed the parchment toward Robb and watched his face as he read Sarella’s handwriting. Her findings had given Y/N hope that this war could be won without an unending number of battles. Less bloodshed. Fewer dead Dornishmen. Fewer families without sons and husbands and brothers. Tyrion had told her of how he used to smuggle his favorite girls in and out of his rooms by the way of the drains of Casterly Rock and how that flaw in the Lannisters’ fortress could be exploited and allow for an outside naval force to sack his ancestral home. He’d provided crude drawings of how the tunnels curved and turned from the cliffside up to the balustrades and towers. Tyrion’s placement of the wildfire under the capital were less precise but still damning.

“And what does The Imp want in return for this information?”

“He wants to be set free-” There was an immediate and expected uproar from the Northmen and Ironborn and a handful of the Dornish lords and ladies but Y/N pressed on. “-to live in Essos with little Tommen when this is over.”

Robb held up his hand and quieted the rabble as his lips pressed into a thin line. “We will need scouts in the Westerlands to know of any movement of their armies.”

Lady Maege Mormont, pallid face red with the heat and slicked with sweat, suddenly moved her dark eyes to Y/N and the Dornish prince at her back. “The Riverlands armies are still waiting for command.”

“The Riverlands have not declared to King Robb’s cause aside from a handful of men who still hold Riverrun,” gruffed an Ironborn who tried to hold Oberyn’s gaze but quickly wilted under the Prince’s unwavering stare.

“That is inaccurate,” Robb said, voice cutting through the room’s din without effort. “There is still a small battalion of men loyal to Brynden Tully waiting for a command just outside Pinkmaiden. It would be a sufficient number.”

Oberyn’s warm hand reached down to gently grasp her shoulder and squeeze. A quiet show of support. “Why have they not joined you in Dorne?” Y/N asked, voice steady.

That was when Robb finally sat again and he tried to look her in the eye but failed and glanced down at the maps in front of him. “Your father was waiting for my command to take the Golden Tooth.”

Y/N nodded. He had never made it to Pinkmaiden.

And everyone in the room knew it.

But Y/N’s face did not move and Oberyn’s steadying hand did not falter in its grounding warmth. “Then it seems you have your scouts.”

The meeting continued on into the night and only adjourned when Lord Stonehouse let out a snore, slumped over his plate of half-eaten supper. Y/N wrapped a bit of chicken into her napkin and set out on her own after kissing Oberyn’s cheek before he went to Doran’s side.

She was…exhausted. But, she still sought out the one frivolous activity she would allow herself. Grey Wind, Robb’s hulking direwolf, was curled on the cool marble of the grand hall and lifted his large head when he heard her approach. Ned had told her stories of direwolves during her time at Winterfell and she, a bit childishly, wanted to see one as close as she could manage. Y/N unwrapped the chicken and held out to him with a small smile that grew only a fraction bigger when it was quickly devoured and her fingers were licked clean, too. The direwolf sniffed at her hand for a little longer before pressing his head against her palm, wanting to be pet. And that almost made her laugh, this giant animal who unnerved most others he encountered was gently asking to be scratched behind the ears. (Robb had grumbled his acceptance of Grey Wind not being present in the war room because of how uncomfortable it made some of the lords and ladies of Dorne.)

“You’re just a big pup, aren’t you?”

Grey Wind whined, offended.

“My lady?” Daisy’s voice rung out in the hall and Y/N quickly gave a handful more scratches before trying to find her handmaiden. When she did, Daisy explained that Ellaria had requested Daisy get Y/N “in bed with no distractions!” when she heard the meeting had been adjourned early. So, she let Daisy lead her back to her chambers with a sigh and fuss for a moment or two before she helped her out of her clothes and into her silken nightgown with a small smile. “I feel like I have not truly spoken with you in ages, my lady.”

“I apologize, Daisy.”

“Think nothing of it. I know your heart and mind are occupied.” When she finished, Daisy lingered at her back with a nervous expression. “I know it is not my place-”

“You are my friend, Daisy. Speak freely.” She turned to softly squeeze at Daisy’s fingers before dropping her hands back into her lap.

“I worry about you. And I know others do as well.”

“I am going to sleep-”

“It is not your lack of sleep that disturbs me, Y/N. You…you are not yourself. For as long as I have known you, you have worn your heart on your sleeve. Only tucking it away when you think someone will betray you. I know your heart is broken. Let it be broken. A heart that bleeds alone still bleeds. It is easier to bear with someone at your side.”

Y/N frowned. “You are with me-”

Disappointment colored Daisy’s face as she sighed, cutting off Y/N’s words. “I know you are not this stupid, Y/N. You know exactly what I mean.”

And that poked at the festering wound Y/N had tried to seal over with brick and steel in the cavity of her chest. “When this is over, I will… I will mourn as I should. It would be selfish to do it now.”

Daisy clicked her tongue with a shake of her head. “I have been told that war makes animals of men but I did not think it would make your heart stone. It is not selfish to love your father. It is not selfish to feel.” Before Y/N could even come up with some sort of rebuttal, her friend was striding toward the door and pulling it open. “Sleep, Y/N.” And then she was gone.

But Y/N did not sleep. She sat on her bed and listened to the night’s chatter die down as time slipped by. The fortress grew dark as only the necessary torches were kept aflame. The stars glittered in the moonless sky. Even as her body yearned for rest, she could not sleep.

All she could do was stare out to the sea.

But then she was moving. Slipping off her bed and slinking out of the fortress, wordlessly passing the stationed guards who made no move to stop her but watched her with careful, curious eyes.

“All rivers lead to the sea.” The words were murmured but felt like a rock had dislodged itself from the recesses of her lungs.

Cool marble gave way to paved stone and then to cold, wet sand she let squish between her toes as she walked closer to the sea’s edge. The water was calm. Gentle waves shimmered in starlight and lapped against the shore. She let the cool water splash against her ankles before she discarded her dressing gown. She took one step, then another, another, and another until she was treading open water in just her chemise, feeling the wet fabric glide around her in the water like a curious, silken fish. She dove beneath the waves to feel the chill and rhythm of the sea settle in her bones. For a moment, she wondered if she could spend forever at the bottom of the sea, looking up at the stars through the clear water, weighed down by pebbles sewn into her pockets. But when her lungs started to burn, she rose to the surface slowly and pulled in a deep breath of warm night air as she crested like a leviathan.

Y/N had always been a strong swimmer. Edmure had once joked that she was truly part trout when she would spend hot days swimming against the current of the waters around Riverrun. But she did not want to swim tonight. She wanted to simply feel the water on her skin. To feel the waves beat in time with her heart. To know that the water would always have a place for her.

Her legs stopped pumping and she let them rise to the surface and she floated atop the waves like a wash of seafoam.

The stars were shining above her in their celestial beds, bright and welcoming even as drops of salted water managed to sting at her eyes. She followed the lines of the constellations she knew by heart and licked the salt from her lips.

With each wave, she knew the shore grew closer. She could let herself mourn until then, let the salt of her tears finally meet the salt of the water. She could let herself cry here, mourn here, in the water that welcomed her family home.

They came slowly and then all at once. Great, heaving sobs shook her entire body and nearly took her under as water filled her mouth when she let out a wail—the sounds wrenching themselves free from their hiding places within her tired soul. She cried and sobbed and wept. For her father. Her mother. For Ned and Catelyn. For Rickon and Bran and Hoster. Finally letting herself feel something for longer than a few stolen minutes. Y/N barely registered the arms wrapping around her shoulders and under her knees, the grip keeping her head safely above water.

It wasn’t until the tears ebbed enough to clear her vision that she saw Oberyn standing in the water, cradling her weightless form against the waves. His features were soft in the starlight and he said nothing as her sobs came again and she curled further into his grip.

He let her cry until she was spent and then walked her closer to the shore and helped her stand.

Ellaria was waiting just outside the sea’s reach with a stack of linen towels neatly folded near her feet. She plucked one from the pile and wordlessly started to dry Y/N off with a gentle touch before wrapping another around her shoulders. Oberyn slung one around his damp breeches then leaned forward to press a kiss against Ellaria’s temple, lingering for a moment, before doing the same to Y/N.

“The night is losing its battle with dawn, my loves. We must sleep,” Ellaria said, reaching out to tighten the towel around Y/N’s shoulders.

Y/N nodded, beyond exhausted. But her heart felt the smallest fraction lighter. And perhaps it was not the end of her grieving—it was just the start. But she knew it was a step forward. When Ellaria pushed her into the warm silk and linen sheets of her and Oberyn’s bed and then climbed over her to settle like another blanket, Y/N knew she would finally sleep. Peacefully. Oberyn climbed in after them and murmured soft ‘sleep, my darlings. We will speak in the morning’ into their skin and snuffed out the single candle on the bedside table. One hand brushed against Ellaria’s back as his other brought Y/N’s palm up to his lips to breathe in the lingering scent of salt and water as his eyes closed. Oh yes, she could sleep for eternity if they just held her like this for a little longer.

And the sound of the water, ever-present and ever-moving, lulled them into a quiet, deep sleep.

**

Morning came sooner rather than later and Y/N woke to Oberyn pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, fingers sliding under the thin strap of her chemise to revel in her soft skin. Much like Ellaria had the night before, he was lounging across Y/N’s back, weight pressing her into the featherbed with a comforting pressure. Ellaria was sitting up, held up by her elbow to look down at her with a soft smile.

It was something Y/N could get used to seeing every morning. She breathed for a few moments, simply wondering in how quiet the room was, how gentle Oberyn and Ellaria were with her. Briefly, she thought of how her life had changed since she had sent that first raven to Dorne. Being this comfortable, wrapped in blankets that did not belong to her, in the arms of not one but two people she was not married to—the scandal of it all. It was a soft sort of loveliness, even with the hurt of her loss. It seemed the water and the forgiving touch of the couple she loved had given Y/N her soul back; fractured and hurt. But hers once again.

“How are you, my moonlight?” He asked, voice quiet in the still of the room.

“I think I will carry this ache until my soul leaves to join whichever of the Seven Heavens the gods deem fit for me. But I know it will be easier to bear with time. Just as it was with my mother. Knowing they are together again gives me a small bit of happiness.” Y/N tapped at his thigh so she could turn to face him, letting her fingers trail through his hair when he laid his cheek against her stomach as they once again settled in the mess of blankets. A handful of grey strands pulled her attention as she let her nails gently scratch against his scalp, gaining a soft groan in return. “Thank you for last night. You… you both seem to know what I require before I even speak.”

Oberyn looked up at her, dark eyes warm but sad. “We each have had our own brushes with loss, my moonlight.” He paused. “We watched you close yourself off to everything aside from the coming war. Your eyes did not sparkle. You did not laugh. We had you, could touch you, feel the warmth of your skin. But you were lost to us.”

Ellaria hummed her agreement and reached over to let her fingers roam across her exposed collarbone and the corner of her mouth tilted up when she heard the next breath catch in Y/N’s throat.

“It was never my intention-”

“You have spent too long in places where you cannot feel. You have swallowed your pride and anger and joy and grief in order to survive.” Ellaria said, fingers continuing to trail, burning her in their wake. “That is not how we live here, that is not the life we want for you.”

Y/N pushed out a long breath and let her hands drop to the back of Oberyn’s head, twisting the black and grey locks around her fingers without thought. “What is the life you want for me?”

Oberyn suddenly moved. His hands planting on either side of her shoulders to loom over her like some beautiful, terrible heavenly body. Her legs parted as he moved, cradling his hips with her thighs. “We want you to live, my moonlight. To live freely. Without restraint.”

“We want you to be angry, to be sad, to be joyful—to feel,” Ellaria said, hooking her fingers under Y/N’s chin to make Y/N look at her. “We want you to feel.”

They spoke of their hurts and anger, of their happiness and triumphs as the sun started to rise. “But none of it means anything if you do not feel it.” Oberyn leaned down to steal a kiss and sighed against her mouth as she lifted a hand to slide against his side, delighting in how he shivered. “We want you to take the day. Do not attend the meetings. Do not go to the training yards. Sleep. Pray if it helps your heart. Eat something. Speak with Sansa and Arya. Let yourself feel.” He kissed her again before Ellaria stole another, too. But they eventually all made their way out of the haven of their soft blankets and dressed unhurriedly to meet the day.

“Join me for lunch. The little ones miss you,” Ellaria said, catching Y/N’s hand before she left.

“I will find you,” Y/N promised with a squeeze to her wrist before setting off to find Sansa.

The day passed smoothly, for the most part. She let herself cry again when she spoke with Sansa and joined Grey Wind and Arya in the sea before setting off to join Ellaria and the younger Sand Snakes for lunch as promised. The afternoon was filled with a trip to Sunspear’s sept for prayer and speaking with Daisy. No plans for battle. No talk of alliances. It was not all her heart needed to heal from her loss. But it was another step toward acceptance. As night descended on Dorne, she was rewrapping the leather binding on the handle of Dorea’s Morningstar, having nearly stepped on it when she was walking back to her chambers. The leather had been ripped and torn under Dorea’s exuberant thrashing and Y/N had a bit of leather to spare, not minding to part with it. Oberyn found her as she finished and smiled as she, a little bashfully, showed him her work.

“She will love it,” he said with a warm smile and tired eyes.

Oberyn led her toward Dorea’s chambers and they found Ellaria asleep in Dorea’s bed with a book of fairytales from the Riverlands opened on their laps. Oberyn only tiptoed in for a moment to press a kiss to his paramour and daughter’s cheeks. Y/N had followed to carefully pull the book away and set it on the bedside table and made sure that the blankets covered the pair, tucking them into bed against the sea-scented night air. She placed the Morningstar atop a table before they both slipped out.

“She must have had a nightmare. She rarely lets us leave her bed if some sort of monster has creeped its way into her mind,” Oberyn said softly as he closed the door.

“Does she have nightmares often?” Y/N asked.

“They come and go, as it is with all children.” He grasped her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers with a tired smile. “You will see when you have babes of your own.”

“You want more children?” She asked, head filling with something other than plans for war for a brief moment.

Oberyn’s smile widened and he pressed a hand over her stomach, fingers splaying. “I want as many children as you desire to give me.”

Something playful and teasing and almost unfamiliar bubbled in her chest and she smiled and covered his hand with hers. “Oh, I see. You’ve seduced me in some attempt to fill these halls with little Martells. You have no love for me—just my ability to give you more heirs.” She even laughed, quiet in the hall.

But Oberyn did not smile now and his fingers curled into the fabric of her dress and yanked her close. The heat of his body enveloped her instantly and the burn of his gaze struck at her heart. “Do not say such things.”

“It was-”

“I love you, my moonlight. Even in jest, I will not have you speak of yourself that way.” He released his grip on her dress to gently hold her face in his roughened hands and swept his thumbs across her cheeks. “But it is good to hear you laugh again. I have missed the sound.”

Y/N nearly melted into his grip with a soft sigh and closed her eyes to savor his touch a little more. But then her mind started to wander, back to when she was still untouched by war and courtly politics. “I’ve always wanted one or two.”

He leaned forward to press his head against hers and Y/N could feel him smile as he kissed her forehead. “I can give you that.”

“I want them to have your eyes and good heart.”

Oberyn chuckled and then wrapped his arms around her, dragging her a little closer. “As long as they are healthy, my moonlight, I will be happy.”

And as she curled beneath her blankets that night, mouth still tingling from the kiss Oberyn left her with, she thought of little Loreza and Dorea trying to teach two little ones how to read on the shore as the Dornish sun warmed their skin.

And the thought carried over to her dreams where Oberyn crooned in her ear some lullaby she couldn’t place, a babe in his arms.

**

“Could you throw one more?” Y/N asked.

The young squire chuckled and nodded, pulling another bruised blood-orange from the pile collected from the groves and threw it into the air. Y/N quickly pulled back the bow’s string and loosed another arrow. It soared through the early morning air and pierced the skin of the orange and ripped through before it sunk into the target. It lined up almost perfectly with the six other speared blood-oranges on the target, dripping red-pink juice across the wood.

Y/N waved off the squire moving to clean off the target and said she didn’t mind the work. “I am sure I have kept you from your duties for far too long.”

“It is a pleasure to serve, Princess. You are a formidable archer.”

“Flatterer,” Y/N mused and watched the squire try to hide a shy smile before bowing and dismissing himself. She carefully pulled the arrows from the target and licked the juice from the tips and threw the discarded oranges out into the garden to let them feed the soil. It was still too early for most others to come to the courtyard to train. The last handful of days had seen most of the Dornish armies leave Sunspear to relieve the sorties at the border and to lead an incursion into the Stormlands.

A sudden noise had her turning and ready to nock another arrow. But it was just Robb, still haggard from sleep, with Grey Wind trailing beside him. The pair stared at each other for a moment and Y/N had to will herself to loosen her grip on the bow and carefully place the sticky arrows back into a pile. Robb approached her slowly. Much slower than Grey Wind who nosed at her leather breeches before letting out a low rumble as her gloved hand found the spot behind his left ear he loved having scratched.

“We have not spoken properly, cousin.” His mouth opened and closed twice. “I have missed you,” was all he managed.

Y/N nodded. She did miss him, too. “We are a long way from Winterfell.”

Robb’s smile was small but sincere. He took a step closer. And then another. And then his arms were wrapping around her and pulling her to his chest in a tight hug. Y/N’s arms wrapped around him tightly without a thought or care. Tears gathered in her eyes and she quickly shut them in a half-hearted attempt to keep them at bay. But then she was holding him in earnest and remembering how he and Jon would laugh in the Wolf’s Wood and string blue roses behind her ears with dirty fingers and would always make her smile whenever they could. It was so strange to see him now, the burden of a bloody crown on his head and scars littering his skin. It was strange that the boy she knew, full of smiles and fond of laughter, was now so quiet and serious.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

The tears were coming in earnest now and she felt Robb’s own trickling onto the shoulder of her tunic.

“You saved Sansa. Arya. You kept them alive and I repaid you with your father-”

“Don’t say it,” she said, biting back a whimper. “Do not say it.”

He held her tighter. And she tightened her hold, too.

“What happened to us, Stark?” She whispered.

The claimant king shuddered in her grip, the tears continuing their descent. “I do not know.”

And the pair held each other for a little longer until they heard other guards and soldiers approaching the training ground. Y/N stepped back first and noticed the sadness in his eyes but he blinked and turned his head and it was gone. The careful mask of kinghood was back in place. “I did come to speak to you of something else, Lady Tully. If you would permit me a moment of your time.”

She nodded, her own mask upon her face, too, and let him lead her toward a quiet corner of the training grounds with Grey Wind trailing beside them. And with each step, she noticed how Robb seemed to hold his shoulders higher to his ears. “What is it?” Y/N whispered when they finally slowed to a stop, mask slipping.

“Your father’s men want to fight. Riverrun still answers to the name Tully. And you, dear cousin, are the only Tully left alive and out of bondage.” When Y/N was quiet, Robb continued. “We sent the raven to Pinkmaiden—they responded that they wanted a commander. A leader.”

“And you think that I-”

“You are a Tully. You are Brynden Tully’s daughter. You have outmaneuvered the Lannisters at every turn. Who else would I send?”

**

She had kept Robb’s request to lead the Riverlanders’ forces to herself for only a handful of hours, trying to find the words to tell Ellaria and Oberyn. She thought time alone would help her, but all it did was wear on her nerves. A nervous tittering called her attention and she turned to see little Loreza staring at Grey Wind—the direwolf had made it a habit to splash around in the cool water of the Summer Sea at least a few times a day and was currently submerged up to his neck in the water, letting the waves wash over his back.

Y/N smiled despite her heavy heart and walked to Loreza’s side, biting back the question of how she’d managed to evade her Septa’s watchful eye this time. Seeing Loreza so nervous broke her heart a little. She was too young to be so scared. “He’s very big, isn’t he?”

“He’s almost as big as a horse,” the young girl murmured, dark eyes flittering back to the direwolf. “Obella said she saw him eat a man!”

“Obella is just teasing. Grey Wind is gentle—especially to little girls.” Y/N knelt down to Loreza’s level with a smile. “Would you like me to prove it to you?”

Loreza seemed to ponder it for a moment before nodding. Y/N held out a hand for her to take and led her over to the lounging direwolf. She held out her hand for Grey Wind to sniff and quickly lick before she scratched behind his ears. The water was starting to soak through her leathers but she turned to show Loreza how he liked to be scratched.

“Give him your hand, just like I did. Let him smell you.”

Loreza held out a shaking hand toward Grey Wind who sniffed all around before licking a wet strip across her little fingers and Loreza let out a loud giggle at the sensation. Her little dress was floating around her like a pale yellow lily pad.

“See? He likes you.”

Grey Wind continued to nose at Loreza’s arm as she started to run her fingers through his dark fur. “He’s soft!”

“I heard King Robb brushes him every night,” Y/N said with a waggle of her eyebrows. Loreza smiled at that and then let out a surprised squeal when Grey Wind licked at her face. “I think he likes you more than me!”

Loreza finally pulled her other hand from Y/N’s hold and happily pushed her little fingers through Grey Wind’s damp fur. A particularly tall wave washed over them and Loreza laughed as Grey Wind licked the water from her hands. “Would Father let me have a direwolf?”

“Direwolves are of the North, like King Robb and Sansa and Arya. And they are rare there, too.”

The girl pouted at that but did not stop her petting. “Will King Robb let me pet him while he is here?”

Y/N nodded and promised to speak to Robb on her behalf before she noticed a figure standing on the shoreline. “It seems your father has discovered us.”

Loreza looked back at the shore and grimaced. “I did miss my lessons today.”

Y/N urged her gently to find her septa, promising to speak with Oberyn, and watched her dash away through the water toward the sand and dodged her father’s hand as he reached for her with a teasing smile.

Y/N eventually pulled away from Grey Wind and squared her shoulders before pushing against the water toward Oberyn who waited for her.

“It is good to see you with them. You are gentle—but I do think you let them get away with far too many follies.”

Y/N smiled. “Even I missed a lesson or two when I was her age. A little rebellion is good character.”

He shook his head with a soft laugh and pulled her close despite her wet clothes before brushing his lips against her forehead. “I’ve spoken with Doran. He wants me to lead a command of my own into the Crownlands.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage. She knew he was a seasoned commander but the thought of him leaving the safety of Sunspear had not come to her. Perhaps she had deluded herself into thinking he would always be safe.

“And the wolf king has told me of his plans for you.” Oberyn looked at her and she held his gaze, even as she felt his sigh against her wet skin. Slowly, far too slowly for her liking, he reached up to hold her cheeks in his hands. “Do you truly mean to lead them? If this is the wolf king pressing you-”

“I have to, my prince. Robb or not.”

“Does your honor demand it?” He asked, almost teasing. But his tone lacked its usual warmth.

“It does.” Y/N reached up to cover his hands with hers and keep him close, half-scared that he would walk away, too. “Just as yours requires you to do the same.”

The pair was quiet for a moment, only the sound of the waves against the sand to listen to as time stretched on. Oberyn was looking at her, truly looking at her all the while and it was the sadness and resignation in his eyes that dug straight through her heart. He kissed her softly without a word before stepping back. “I would have you safe.”

And Y/N wanted to ask what he meant but he grasped at her hand and led her without a word toward the armory. “She is an archer, she needs to be able to move,” Oberyn said as he started to dig through the careful stacks of pieces of armor and accoutrements the blacksmith had forged for the Dornish forces. He quickly found pieces of light armor; shining mail, vambraces and pauldrons stamped with Martell suns, a light cuirass which would fit her feminine form. And as she gathered all of her armor to her chest, equal parts excited and anxious, she watched Oberyn turn to her. His dark eyes held some secret sentiment. Sad and proud and something else she could not place.

When they found Ellaria, she seemed to already know their news. “Oh, my two warriors.” And then she was gathering them close and lathing slow kisses against their lips and pushing them onto the bed. “Just let me have tonight, my loves. Just tonight before the Realm rips you away from me.”

And there was nothing carnal in the way they all burrowed under the blankets as the sliver of the moon rose or the way hands roamed and lips parted with gentle sighs. It was just love, simple and soft.

**

The younger Sand Snakes filtered into her rooms throughout the afternoon to watch Y/N pack away the essentials, just enough to fill two small saddlebags. Dorea tried to give Y/N her beloved Morningstar, “to keep you safe!” but Y/N quickly and gently pushed it back into the young girl’s hands. “You have to keep your mother safe until your father and I return. You cannot do that if I have your Morningstar, right?”

Elia sniffed at that and suspiciously turned her head away.

“And your sister, Elia, she will protect you," Y/N said, acknowledging Elia's pain without making it a point of conversation. Elia did not like to dwell on emotion.

It earned another sniff and a curt, “don’t die. I like having you around.” ("I do, too!" Dorea added.)

Nymeria and Tyene arrived soon after with words of encouragement and two matching vials of poison. “Just in case! Father likes to slick his blades with it. Perhaps you could dip a few of your arrows?” And that spoke volumes, at least to Y/N, about how they cared for her in their own way.

But Sansa was near tears despite the steadiness of her voice as she let herself into Y/N’s chambers. “Must you go? It feels like I've just had you return.”

“You know I must, little one. Robb’s asked it of me and I know you would do the same if Winterfell was still under Bolton colors.” Y/N reached out and pulled the redhead into a familiar hold and said nothing when she felt tears start to wet the fabric of her tunic. “But I will come ba-”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say something you cannot know to be true.”

Y/N pulled back and grasped at Sansa’s chin. “I am coming back. The Stranger themselves could not stop me.”

Sansa nodded with a watery hiccup and pulled her close for another hug before there was a knock at the door. Y/N kissed Sansa’s forehead before calling out a welcome to whomever it was. Ellaria stepped in, a roll tucked under her arm and Sansa quickly excused herself and shut the door tight on her way out.

Ellaria was quiet for a moment before she walked to Y/N’s side. There was a quietness to her features now but tears still pooled in her beautiful eyes. She pressed a kiss against her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, before touching her lips to hers in a soft, reverent kiss that tasted like citrus and salt. She sniffled just once as she pulled back and she handed the bundle to Y/N with a single wobble of her chin.

Y/N unwrapped it and marveled as more and more of the gift was revealed. The bow was black, darker than night and stronger than steel. It was dragonbone. A rare prize indeed.

“Father said it was one of the smaller bones from Meraxes. It was meant,” she had to clear her throat. “I meant to give it to you as a wedding gift. But I would rather you have it now. I know your aim will be true.”

Y/N quickly set the bow down on the bed and pulled Ellaria close without a word, trying to somehow convey the hope that she would return through the touch alone instead of words she knew would fail. “I love you,” was the only phrase she dared whisper. I love you. I love you. I love you.

When dawn broke the next morning two Northmen Robb entrusted with her care were waiting for her at the stables. Qēlos nuzzled into her palm as the mare's tack was secured and Y/N smuggled her an apple to devour as she swung up into the saddle. Y/N was finishing saying goodbye to a tearful Sansa when Ellaria and Oberyn appeared at the stables. Oberyn was already dressed in his light armor and Ellaria had donned a fauld of four lame across her waist. A little armor of her own. Everyone around them seemed to understand the need for privacy and quickly vacated the area or decidedly avoided pointing their gazes toward them.

“We will not try to dissuade you. Your wrath is justified and glorious.” His hands reached up to cover hers on the reins. The warmth slowed the wild beating of her heart just a fraction. “But we will ask that you do not forget us.”

Y/N’s poor heart leapt into her throat and she hurried to move her grip, pulling Oberyn’s hands up to her mouth to press a kiss against his knuckles. “The gods themselves could not take you from my mind or heart, my prince. I will see you again when this is over, when the Lions are dead and the Realm can have peace.”

Oberyn untangled his hands from hers only to grasp the back of her head to kiss her, artfully stealing the air from her lungs with ease as his mouth moved against hers in slow, unyielding ministrations. As he pulled back, he pressed another kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair for a moment before releasing her. His fingers trailed down her arms to tighten the lacings of her vambrace. “Then I shall see you again, my moonlight.”

Ellaria was quiet but kissed her soundly. “Come back,” was all she said.

“I will,” Y/N whispered in return.

And then they were off. Y/N looked back at the gates of Sunspear after every new turn on the road, watching it grow smaller and smaller. The Northmen offered no words but did give sympathetic smiles after they caught her sad expression.

But then there was a thundering of hooves against the sand-covered road and Obara was at her side in a moment, dressed for battle and saddlebags packed. “You will not fight alone, Little Fish.”

And then Arya, on a horse that was definitely not hers, was galloping to her side, too. “I’m coming, too!”

Y/N knew she should tell them no. Send them back to Sunspear and Oberyn and Robb and Safety. But one look at their determined faces left her sighing. “Your father and brother are going to kill me, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Princess,” Obara said with a smirk. “I’ll protect you.”

A/N: Please let me know what you guys think! I really appreciate it. :)

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @roxypeanut​ @lostinwonderland314​ @fandomreblogsnoshame @arianawills​ @nyrnerosmartell​ @5hundreddaysofsummer​ @honestlystop @huliabitch​ @youhavemyfantasticbeasts​ @karmezii​ @thesadvampire​ @sarcasmisakindofmagic @alexa4040​ @paintballkid711​

[octalove]

III: We Met

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader goes out, and finds herself in an alley with no one to call. An old memory is brought up. Part one and part two.

Who the fuck leaves a batarang lying around when they’re spying on a supervillain?

A week had gone by. A week where every day I tried to wake up and smile at my family and go to school and do calculus, but all I kept wondering was what kind of idiot leaves a batarang when they’re spying on a supervillain? I glanced over at it; I’d left it lying on my desk as a reminder. Every time I looked at it, I felt the sharp edges biting into my palm as his hands closed around mine. I smelled leather and the musty scent of unsettled dust in the warehouse. It was the same shape as the angry red bat on his chest- eye level with me.

How did he know who I was? How did he know I was there? How was it he just knew I’d show up to that same warehouse four days afterward in the middle of a school day?

“Tell Batman,” He’d said. If the secrets weren’t ringing around my head already- there it was. The line that kept echoing. Tell Batman, tell Batman. Telling Batman wasn’t an option. He’d lock me in the cave until I was thirty and growing liver spots. I’d never be Batgirl again. No way in hell was I standing before that black cowl and confessing two weeks worth of bad decisions.

That blue evening, Gotham was alive and breathing with the heat of something organic; rhythmic heart-beat in the muffled cars on the street, and the jazz clubs, eyes wide open in the bright, excited lights dotting the spiring skyline. The breeze bit subtly as the city shook the shackles of summer, and moved into early September.

I stuck close to Batman, almost apologetically obedient for the night as I tried to convey some sort of negotiation on my part; I’m sorry for acting weird, I’m on my best behavior tonight.

Robin didn’t so much appreciate that sentiment, because Batman’s side was his place, but patrol began civilly enough. Car theft on Nettleton (Red Robin dealt with), some questionable sex work in the Row (I oversaw and made sure the women were safe and willing), a robbery call (Batman and Robin checked it out- false alarm). By one in the morning, we were all mostly still in one piece, and lulled by the mildness and coolness of the night. I was dragging my gaze over Haytham Parkway when Oracle’s staticky voice came through the coms.

“Batman. There’s been a Red Hood sighting at the H&P in Gotham Village. It’s Falcone’s men.” Swiftly and gracefully, the three of us scaled rooftops, pillars and cell towers. We arrived within twelve minutes, and then planted ourselves like gargoyles. Listening. The Village was one of the more quiet parts of Gotham. It was all settled with blue collar, passive criminals, instead of outright violent ones. A few minutes passed. The building looked undisturbed.

“Do you think-“

Bang.

A gunshot followed by glass breaking. In a hair’s width span of time, Batman, Robin and I descended on the building and swung through through the shattered display window. Inside, broken glass littered the floor, along with disheveled items from the shop, stung around haphazardly. Two men were dead on the ground, blood around them like a premonitory chalk outline. They were unassuming men, but I recognized the patches on their matching shirts as Hadley’s Deli. They were Maroni’s men.

“Robin- the back rooms. Batgirl- check the perimeter. If he left the building, he won’t be far.”

I shot past them and into the dark, grappling to the roof for a better vantage point. From there I swept my gaze across the northern and eastern neighboring streets. Movement. Like a twitch in the darkness. I raced down a fire escape and into an alley adjacent east of the H&P. It was quiet. The sound of my own boots on the asphalt as I halted. It was small and enclosed- the shadows weren’t deep. If he was here, I’d know.

Click. And now I did.

“Easy,” He said, a rumbling, buzzing sound that was becoming familiar. “Easy.” The second order was much slower. I felt his presence as it drew closer, but I didn’t turn around. I was a damn good martial artist, but a gun would always be faster and deadlier than me.

“I just keep findin’ you, don’t I, little bird?” He stopped a couple feet away from my back. “Where’s Batman?” He asked. I scowled.

“He’s with the men you murdered.”

A deep chuckle. “You saw that? Maroni and I have been havin’ a… disagreement. He’s comin’ around.”

“What, he won’t submit to you?” I pressed, hoping since he was so keen on entertaining me, I might be able to probe for some information- figure out his long game.

“Something like that.”

“So all this. Is it just to get to Batman?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward. I tried to look for something to catch his reflection in- a window or something. I felt the cool metal of his gun part my hair like a curtain and press against the nape of my neck. Then, slowly, his gloved hand ghosted lightly across the side of my face, slowly, slowly, upward toward my temple until he found the button. Click. And just like that, my coms were down. No Batman’s voice in my ear. No updates from Oracle. No calling for help. How did he know that was there?

“What do want? Who the hell are you?” I said, letting frustration and anger deep into my voice. I stood cemented to my place as he drug himself around to stand in front of me, until I was staring back at that angry red bat on his chest. He’d holstered his gun.

“Why don’t you find out?” It was one part threat, one part joke that I wasn’t in on, growled contemptuously in that electronic flare that masked his voice. Whether it was rhetorical, or a genuine invitation, I took the opportunity to cautiously raise my hands to his helmet, feeling along the edges of the jaw until I found a matching set of release triggers. The architecture of the helmet was oddly congruent with something Bruce would’ve cooked up. Another mockery- like the bat.

His passive stillness terrified me. Like he knew just what was under the mask and just how I would react. Like it was all part of his plan, and I was playing my dutiful role. I pressed. A hissing noise as the inner workings went slack and released, giving me the freedom to push it up and over. When I saw his skin, then his mouth, I stopped. I stopped because he was actually letting me- and there was no reason he should be letting me except if he planned to kill me afterward. There was a long strangulation of the air between us. Gotham City- the buildings and streetlamps and gaudy, glittering marquees- seemed to quiet just to watch in anticipation. In a very coy way, his lips battled a grin. I felt like saying something witty, but stayed silent for fear of pushing time back into motion. He leaned forward, and lightning leapt in my stomach, despite myself. The dusk had alleviated, leaving only black across the sky that was rather vapid in comparison to the shining city reflected on his helm, still covering his eyes and nose.

“Scared?” He asked; quite spitefully considering my hands were trembling. Of course I was scared. But his voice was so human- smooth, but a little raspy, like anyone who gave orders for a living might have. It was low and deep, and I preferred it to the voice scrambler.

A dog barked from somebody’s fenced balcony, and some passing car shook with jaunty bass. Loud engines, sirens, honking, distant voices. The sizzling of a street taco stand. And still, somehow I was close enough to hear his drawing breath as his chest rose and fell. I went to push my fingers along the bottom of the helmet, to remove it entirely, but he grabbed my wrist.

A tiny, pinpoint red light was flashing on the breast of my suit. Batman was trying to contact me- unable to reach my coms.

“Daddy’s calling.” He looked wolfish there in the dark; featureless but a mouth displaying a cheshire grin that was wickedly snide. In a fluid motion, he released his grip on me and replaced his helmet, turning on his heel into the shallow shadows.

*

6 years prior

I hated this. The music, the marble, the champagne- all of it. I caught Alfred’s eye as he exchanged formalities with some distant-cousin-twice-removed of Bruce’s. I knew what he was looking at me for. The glint in his eye said it all.

Please behave, was the message. I’d already heard it twice this evening; Bruce told me how important this party was for the investors (aka, please behave), and Dick gave me some casual line about how he’d been looking forward to tonight all month (aka, please, please fucking behave).

It’s not like I had anything better to do. I couldn’t drink (no, not even the wine), and the only thing I had in common with company investors was that I was under Bruce’s thumb, too. Occasionally, some sweetly overbearing lady would appear, pinch my cheeks and pat my head, then disappear just as quickly. Thirty minutes passed as I sipped my ginger-ale and counted untied shoelaces, until I decided to find my brother. It was easy, really- just follow the laughter.

Dick wasn’t born in Gotham- not like me- but his rearing in the city had no doubt left a strong imprint. Everything about him proposed Gothamite glamour- even his voice. Far removed from the expensive private grammar lessons Bruce had bought him, he swung his vowels, and let his ‘a’s hang in the air, leaving an irresistible air of cocky, laid-back swagger. Some equilibrium between wealthy socialite and ‘man of the people’ he seemed adept at finding.

I found him at the snack table. He wore a perfectly-fitting suit of all black with navy satin accents, dark hair slicked back, and a very beautiful woman (I would come to know as Maya. Or was it Moira? Mara?) on his arm. A couple of his academy friends stood around him- freshly graduated, and so much wiser for it. It all suited him well. Not as much could be said for me.

“Hey.” He said, throwing me a grin.

“Hey.”

Maya Moira Mara excused herself to freshen up for a moment, and Dick put his hands in his pockets.

“Make any friends?” That was always his first question. I rolled my eyes.

“No. But you have.” It was a pointed jab- he and Babs had just taken a “break” and Maya Moira Mara’s silky red hair marked her as a painfully obvious rebound.

He sighed, decidedly ignoring me. “What about uh... what’s her name?”

“Who?”

“Ah, I forget. Her parents are international law something or other. Bruce works with ‘em. They have a daughter about your age.”

I just grunted. No use in making it seem like I was desperate for company now, considering I’d spent the last hour alone.

“There-“ He pointed to a girl standing alone, apparently abandoned by her respective international lawyer parents. Before I could slap his hand down and tell him it was rude to point, she spotted us. Following that, I’d look even weirder if I didn’t say anything, so after a nudge from Dick, I walked over to her.

“Hi.” I said, immediately wishing I could take the monosyllabic word back and try again. “I’m Jason.”

The girl smiled at me. A small, bashful sort of smile that you give when you’re the only people your age at a christmas party, so you slam together like two magnets.

“I’m Y/N.” She replied.

[annatao]

[ -  Bad English - ] This was a necessary update, because in the comic book, that's exactly what she looks like+ it must conform to the canon. I also updated the information about her.

Cona Dei Basic information

Class: Alchemist Type: Protection Health: 135/in uber – 245 Speed: 110% Team: RED Weapon To kill effectively, the Alchemist must increase his damage with his potions. The main thing: the Scorpion submachine gun is an experimental weapon that was developed by the “MannCo” corporation intended as an upgrade for the standard class. However, it was stolen by a certain thief who had all the necessary access. Later, this weapon underwent a change, and then went to the Alchemist. Ammo is coated with acidic composition. - 20% damage + causes bleeding from burning acid Burning sensation: 4/sec x 5sec Secondary weapon: a one-handed crossbow that fires poison bolts. *If hit in the head-crit * damage 25-60. Depending on the distance Close Combat: Hopesh is a cold weapon that was once given by Henrik as a decoration. Now she uses it in battle. 4 slot: potion set. In total, Kona can carry one potion of 3 types with her. For example, a regeneration potion (for yourself), a poison that causes bleeding, an acid bomb. * In the game, the mechanics worked like this: holding down the 4 button and scrolling the wheel, you select 1 of 3 potions that the player selected in advance in the menu. After use, they would recover for about 30 seconds. The distributor has about 20 seconds (She would take resources from there) Special opportunity: Margo the rat – if you sneak up on the victim from spita, the Alchemist will release his pet and it will get under the enemy's clothes and start biting, thereby causing bleeding for 6 seconds. Alchemy Kit There are 3 categories in total: *For yourself *For your team *Halloween

For myself: *Fire Resistance Potion-Reduces fire damage by 50% for 5 seconds *Potion of the feather-gives the effect of a smooth fall, thus it saves itself from damage. The effect passes as soon as the Kona touches the ground. *Regeneration Potion-the effect lasts for 5 seconds and restores 5 health points each. For the attack and for your team: Potion of power-Gives mini-crit. Apply an effect can, as well as himself, and on any player from his team, but only one. The effect lasts for 5 seconds. Freeze Potion-slows the victim down, and the victim takes a small amount of damage for 6 seconds. You can get rid of the effect if the friendly Pyro warms up with his flamethrower. Poison Potion-a small dark cloud is created when thrown. Causes poisoning within 5 seconds, removing 4 health points each. Bacon's Potion-removes negative effects from the team A bandage-An alchemist can give a bandage to a teammate who is bleeding. If this effect is not present, the item will not work. It does not regenerate and does not heal, only removes this effect. Acid bomb "surprise" - is a throwing glass projectile with acid. When it hits the ground, it releases an acid cloud. * Works on both enemies and allies. *When igniting such a cloud, it deals additional damage to everyone who was in it * Only an Alchemist or a first-aid kit at the base can cure this "poison". * Does not work on the Alchemist himself, as the cloth that hides her face is soaked with the antidote and does not work on the Arsonist, as well as on those who are in the uber. Halloween ones. On maps where the Alchemist acts as a boss, these potions are available to mercenaries ONLY in the alchemy machine (there are 3 of them for the entire map) : 1. Explosive potion "Griffin's Feather". It is enough to throw a potion at your feet and it allows the player to jump high and smoothly descend without any damage. Valid for 20 seconds. It works by the type of parachute. 2. Death Potion-turns the player into a zombie (cosmetic effect) 3. Potion "???» - an unknown potion that, once applied, turns the player into toads, deer, elephants, jackals, panthers, chipmunks, bats, cats, and otters (cosmetic random effect.) 4. Reduction Potion-turns players into toddlers that squeak like chipmunks. It also gives you the ability to fly, but you can't use weapons. Exc: Taunts, Machine Gunner's food. 5. Potion of Fear-Scare the shit out of your enemies! But be careful, because it works not only on the enemies, but also on you, too. It can be repelled with compressed air. 6. Potion "blood of the Vampire" - causes a thirst for blood in the owner and if he does not "drink" it from enemies, he will slowly lose health. This poison works for 30 seconds. 7. Potion "Magic for weaklings!" - prohibits the player from picking up and using spells. A potion for those who want to play the classics on this map. 8. Potion of Regenerations – is there no Medic in the vicinity or does he not hear you? Were you injured or had your arm torn off? No question, use this tool and your problems will be solved quickly! Valid for 7 seconds. 9. There is also a new spell during the boss battle (Marasmus, Cona Dei) - challenge Margot. Summons a mutant rat that walks on its hind legs, wears skin clothing, and uses a heavy wooden hammer as a weapon. Health – 460 units. * Rarely when using this spell, during a battle, Kona may resent that Margot " betrayed her» Biography Age: 27 Origin: Greece Bad habits: no Motto: "You need to start all over again" Appearance: Dark brown hair, brown eyes. Normal build. From clothing she has a T-shirt, over which she wears a bulletproof vest with straps for securing weapons. Dark skinny trousers,army boots. On the belt there are two pouches, and there is on the leg. Description Little is known about her past. She doesn't really tell outsiders about it, rather evasively and reluctantly, missing a lot of details. She keeps silent about how she got into the ranks of the mercenaries, because she doesn't really want to talk about it. However, her current goal is to start all over again. Many people will think that she has a secretive character, but in addition to such a trait, you can notice calmness, and an Alchemist can easily be caught off guard when a girl is passionate about something. If you make her angry, the girl will think of a very good plan of revenge, and as for the consequences for her victim, she will not care much. Good and bad qualities: a good friend, not against putting his shoulder to "tears", lack of sleep often cause her indifference to the environment, with which she began to struggle, before she could score a bolt on it. She is careful in her work, but when it comes to working with a Medic, she puts more effort into it. Attitude to other mercenaries Scout-friend (the best option for a direct attack, like " hit and cover») Soldier-dislikes, often comes into conflict with him. This is mostly due to misunderstandings, or the Soldier starts them himself. Arsonist – best friend (fire-acid duo-effective, especially ambush attack on the very crowd of opponents) Demoman- friendly. Do you have someone to borrow gunpowder for experiments Machine gunner – at first she was afraid of him, but over time she became more friendly to him Engineer-work colleague Medic - Teacher-Student relationship Sniper-neither friend nor foe Spy-neutrality Ada Gilbert-passive-positive. Sometimes Miss Gilbert's obsession annoys her Jeanne-neutral Evidence * The last name " Dei "is taken from the song "Green day" and supplemented, since she does not have her own. * The Alchemist keeps a pet-a lab rat named Margo. *Her first mercenary friend was an Pyro. * The girl participates in a joint project with a Medic and an Engineer, building the first prototype of a helmet for viewing dreams, which also records them. *Because of her 8 years of solitude, it is difficult for her to communicate with the rest of the classes outside of combat. *The Alchemist has a thick notebook where she draws different happy moments from life. *The Alchemist has no education, but she was taught all the standards and everything else by her so-called brother. * In non-combat, he wears light but closed clothing, and prefers to wear an arafatka over his face. * The alchemist almost never takes off his gloves.