#man their speech patterns have changed

[paimonial-rage]

The biggest recommendation I can give on writing dialogue that sounds in character for the character to say is, not to read the quests they are in, but to listen to the English dub whenever you get the chance. This may seem difficult especially if you are used to playing it in another language, but listening is key to getting the vibe of a character down. What you pay attention to is, not what they say, but the cadence in which they say it. Pay attention to the emotion in their voice, the speed at which they say things, the volume, etc. Once you get this down, it becomes easier to get an idea of what “sounds” right and what doesn’t. Cadence is an especially powerful thing. By training your ears to a character’s cadence, you can get a better idea of which words they would prefer to use, the lengths of their sentences, and things of the sort.

For example, reader asks Zhongli to dinner and he accepts. How would he respond? “Hmm, I’m not busy this evening, so I accept. Thank you for the invitation.” But that doesn’t sound right, does it? Is Zhongli the type of person that uses many contractions? I don’t think so, so let’s fix it. “Hmm, I am not busy this evening, so I accept. Thank you for the invitation.” But would he say “I accept?” Perhaps, but it still doesn’t sound right. How has he accepted proposals in the past? A bit of research shows he has said “sure.” How can I mix that in? “Hmm, I’m not busy this evening, so sure. Thank you for the invitation.” But hmm… the second sentence doesn’t sound right. What else could he say instead? “Hmm, I’m not busy this evening, so sure. It would be my pleasure.” That sounds a lot better.

Some people may ask why you can’t do these things while listening to another language. Personally, I don’t believe you can. If you are not fluent in those other languages, your ears are not properly trained enough to understand the nuance of the ways they speak. The correct emotion and tone will come through, yes, but you still won’t be able to intuitively know what sounds right and what does not. You only will get this sense by listening to it in the language you choose to write in.

The only downside to this is that your writing will become based upon the English translation of the game. As many people know, the portrayal of characters in English often does not completely match the portrayals in Chinese. This is especially so for characters like Zhongli, Xiao, and Kaeya. A lot is lost in the translation and dubbing process. Characters do not vibe the same. Thus, your portrayals will be more true to English, but not how it technically is “supposed” to be. Personally, I don’t necessarily believe this is a bad thing. However, it is something that can bother people. The only way I can imagine getting around it is by playing the game with the Chinese dub and by following accounts that speak Chinese and can give insight on the literal translations and what they mean and imply.

[fridgevespidae]

to this day tumblr still confuses me!

[stra-tek]

Big random list of things that NEARLY happened in Star Trek with no context or citation...

Harry Kim was to appear in Picard season 3 as a Captain (possibly of the Voyager-B)

Sarek was to use the Guardian of Forever to go back in time to become Surak of Vulcan, in a Next Gen episode

An episode was pitched where an NX-01 med tech played by Alice Krige was captured and assimilated by the Borg, becoming their queen

A Star Trek movie was almost made about undoing the Kelvin Universe, and would have had Shatner and Nimoy appear

They considered having Will Riker die, Data become first officer and Thomas Riker the Ops officer in TNG's "Second Chances"

JJ Abrams wanted Nichelle Nichols to cameo as the mother of Zoe Saldana's Uhura

The first season of Enterprise was to be set on Earth, culminating with the launch of NX-01 at the end of the season

They considered a shock reveal in ENT season 4 that it was actually the Vulcans who split off from the Romulans, and Romulus was their original homeworld

William Shatner wanted to return as Kirk from the Mirror Universe, in an Enterprise episode that involved time travel and creating the mirror universe with the transporter

Elnor was going to "explore his sexuality" in early Picard season 2 plans, before a change of showrunner and his character mostly vanishing

The ENT writers wanted Shatner to play Chef, a Kirk look-a-like hired by Daniels and trained to act Kirk-like to give an important speech at some point in history the real Kirk is mysteriously absent from

Data was originally created by mysterious aliens, and was to have a twin sister

Prodigy season 2 writers discussed having Chris Pine's Kirk from the Kelvin universe join the crew for a few episodes

In the originally filmed cut of Star Trek: Generations, Kirk is shot in the back and dies

Very early discussions for what eventually became Star Trek: Picard considered an adaptation of the Star Trek: Destiny novel trilogy

These discussions span off from a Short Treks pitch where a young cadet Jean-Luc Picard met Nichelle Nichols' Uhura

Early plans for the 2009 movie had wholesale destruction of the Prime universe, including the destruction of Earth. Thank Perpetual Entertainment for getting the destruction scaled back to Romulus so Star Trek Online had a Federation left to feature

There's was a story treatment written for Star Trek III: The Search for Spock where Spock stays dead

This one might be a little sus, but Christopher Pike in Discovery season 2 was planned to be very religious and fall to his knees at one point before the Red Angel, and clash with Michael over science vs faith

Early ideas for Star Trek Into Darkness had Benedict Cumberbatch as Robert April, former Enterprise captain turned rogue

Seven of Nine was going to sacrifice herself in order for Voyager to get home

A time travel Justice League of Trek movie by Brent Spiner, bringing together all eras of goodies vs all eras of villains, was considered

Spock shot JFK to fix the timeline in a proposed sequel to The Motion Picture

Ripper/Ephraim was originally going to be a regular, if giant tardigrade, crewmember on Discovery

Prior to Leonard Nimoy's involvement in what would become the 2009 Star Trek movie, a story outline was written about prime-universe cadets Kirk and Spock, in a story inspired by TNG's "The First Duty"

The Enterprise crew went through a black hole, back in time and introduced primative man to fire in another 70's movie script

A TNG movie was written where Picard summons a hologram of James T. Kirk for advice

George Kirk was to be found in the pattern buffer of the wrecked U.S.S. Kelvin 30 years later and resurrected

Voyager's EMH was originally to take on the name of his creator early on in the show, and the first Voyager novels call him "Doc Zimmerman" assuming it would have happened by publishing time

There's concept art where the U.S.S. Cerritos is a Galaxy-class starship

Riker was planned to dislike Data, and treat him poorly because he was an android

They considered making Troi's loss of powers in "The Loss" a permanent thing, because of how much hassle they caused the writing staff

Harry Kim wasn't originally planned to survive Species 8472

[timmydraker]

Tim who’s a femme boy but not in a ‘skater skirt and thigh high socks’ kind of way.

No, he was raised by two people who value tradition and fashion, teaching him the ways of old money.

He watched his mother, who worked with woman who married into families and worse low cut dresses and diamond necklaces, hold the same power over men with only her wrist and head bare. He learnt that modesty was as equally powerful as nudity, that a woman could be devastating in any fabric if she out in the work.

Tim has always known he isn’t a woman, is comfortable being a man, but by all that’s natural does he not look at the way they dress and feel longing.

He’s twelve when he tries one of his mother’s dresses on for the first time.

It’s far too long, puddling at his feet, but he feels so beautiful in the mossy green fabric. The elbow length sleeves go to his wrist, but it still feels almost scandalous in a way that isn’t about the dress being on a boy.

He puts the dress away and begins to buy his own.

Naturally, he doesn’t risk his parents ire and keeps them hidden, but with them being gone so long it’s easy for him to spend some time by himself to dress up all he likes.

By the time he’s fourteen and has been around in for a while, he’s managed to go through a few different styles and find what truely feels like him.

He still wears his stupid science shirts and baggy hoodies over his formal dress shirts, it’s just that now he might add a simple long skirt instead of his dirty jeans. He won’t skate in a skirt, only because he doesn’t want to damage them and jeans are safer, but he also doesn’t leave the house in them for a while.

It’s not long after he’s recovered from Jason’s attack, his former idol still having trouble coming to terms with the lies he was told by the LOA, that he decides to see what Bruce thinks.

Ironically, it’s Jason that gave him the confidence.

Jason had made a comment when he was going on his rant to Tim about how Robin shouldn’t exist and he should get out, that he was warning the boy he should cut and run from Bruce. All he had said was that he was cutting his life short by being Robin and Tim felt that comment hit him harder than the bullet to his leg.

His time was short, most likely he would die before he got to marry or maybe even graduate (though he was considering dropping out anyway), so why hide?

Tim had been just about to get changed before he left to go see Bruce for a checkup on his mostly healed injuries when he caught his reflection and stopped.

The white shirt he wore was long sleeved and covered his neck, the buttons going up the front made of wood and shaped like hearts. His skirt, a dark brown flannel pattern prove that went just above his ankles, had a corset like fitting at the top that hugged his waist carefully. While he would prefer a more womanly figure, he wasn’t going to implement old Victorian body horror to get that.

Tim did go back to his room, but only to put on some simple heeled shoes of brown leather with a gold buckle on the side.

He put on a big shall over his shoulders, picking up his phone and putting on his headphones before he made the walk to Wayne Manor.

As usual, he didn’t need to knock as Alfred opened the door.

The man didn’t give any inkling as to surprise or shock at Tim’s outfit and simple said, “Glad to see you putting some effort into your appearance, Master Timothy.”

The snide comment made Tim relax greatly, quipping back about him being able to wear more than just jeans and t-shirts to the older man. The two talked normally and that made everything feel so much better than some grand speech on Tim accepted who he is.

Dick and Bruce are talking to each other in polite voices, both still a little awkward with each other even if they have gotten better, and both turn to great Tim as he enters the dining room for dinner.

Bruce looks shocked, showing he isn’t feeling too much like Batman at the moment, but he covers it up and says nothing and lets Dick speak.

Tim immediately feels stupid as Dick walks up to him with a big smile and opens arms, because Dick Grayson was raised in a circus! If anyone was going to accept ‘oddities’ in the family it would be him, “Timmy! Oh my little baby, you look so good! What’s the occasion? Oh! Do you have a date?”

His brothers teasing mg tone at the end makes him smile and shove him gently. “Not a date or anything else, I just… thought I’d wear something more my style out for once.”

Dick beamed, hearing the unspoken confession of trust and picking his brother up and spinning him around, “Oh, Timmyyyy! My baby, you look so beautiful! You can wear whatever you want, all the time, anywhere! I’ll will straight up eat anyone who has a problem, I swear I will do it, just say the word-“

Bruce finally talks just to cut Dick off, “Dick, no ‘eating’ anyone who hurts your bother. A lawsuit will surfice.”

Tim can’t help but beam at Bruce, knowing full well that those words are his weird way of showing his approval and acceptance. Him being more forward with it would have been nicer, but he was the most fluent in the language of Bruce Wayne outside of Alfred and so he was okay with it.

Dick went to whine, acting like a spoilt child while he secretly raged inside that he was being told not to commit a violent act. Honestly, Tim wasn’t sure if it was because it was in defence of his brother or because Dick was always secretly searching for something to get aggressive with.

Tim smiled happily, taking off his shawl and thanking Alfred when he swooped in to take it away for him.

As Tim sat at the table, he felt a peace build in his heart that he hadn’t felt… well, ever.

[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Characters Get Asked Their Pronouns

As requested by @dewypeach :)

I'm weirdly anxious about contradicting other people's pronoun headcanons, ha ha. But then...I guess the thing about headcanons is that everyone can have different ones... Anyway, here's how I think Cosmere characters might respond if asked their pronouns!

1. Shallan

Shallan: She/they. Adolin: Just out of curiosity, is the "they" a gender thing or an alters thing? Shallan: Yes.

2. Adolin

Adolin: I like to say that I use whatever pronouns are fashionable! Adolin: I like to say it around Sadeas. Adolin: It makes him shudder. Shallan: You should collect pronouns like swords. Adolin: You say that like I don't already.

3. Kaladin

Kaladin: I use he/him. [Adolin & Shallan look at him] Kaladin: What? I'm just a simple guy!

4. Syl

Syl: I use neopronouns! Kaladin: Y-You do? I thought you went by "she/her"! Syl: Yeah, exactly! Syl: I use the neopronouns that humans invented!

5. Pattern

Pattern: Cryptic pronouns are unpronounceable in the human tongue! Shallan: Are they...a math thing? Pattern: They're a math thing, yeah! Shallan: What do you want us to use in human speech? Pattern: You always use "he" which is mmmm an interesting lie!

6. Harmony

Harmony: As a being that is male, female, both, and neither, I let my followers refer to me however. Harmony: Privately, I think "they/them" fits the most these days.

7. Wayne

Wayne: Like, what I'm using right now? Wayne: It obviously depends on the hat, mate. Wax: I still can't believe you got he/him-ed yesterday. Wayne: I know! In THAT hat?!

8. MeLaan

MeLaan: [currently in the body of a tall, handsome man] MeLaan: She/her. Why?

9. Vin

Vin: I've always used whichever pronouns are safest in the moment. Elend: And if you were safe to use any of them? Vin: ... Vin: I still think I'd put on and off pronouns like a fancy dress, to be honest.

10. Vasher

Vasher: As far as you're concerned, I don't use pronouns. Vasher: How dare you refer to me

11. Dalinar

Dalinar: As a man who reads and writes, it's important to me to use "he/him." Navani: We're having to invent new forms of written pronouns in real time. Dalinar: Doing my part for change.

12. Nightblood

Nightblood: Oooh, what are pronouns?? Szeth: They're how people refer to you, Sword-nimi. Nightblood: My pronouns are Nightblood! Szeth: No, Sword-nimi. Like how they refer to you without using your name. Nightblood: My pronouns are screams! Szeth: ... Szeth: That does seem oddly correct.

13. Lift

Lift: Haven't got a gender. Wyndle: B-But mistress (Mister? Mastress?), how should refer to you? Lift: Sounds like a you problem.

14. Painter

Painter: ... Painter: ... Painter: YOU CAN CHOOSE?!?

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[a-hermit-pining]

Geto as a House Husband

Genre: Fluff Pairing: House husband Geto x Reader AN: I love him. He's so damn pretty. Who should I write next?

Have you seen him? He is mother material. Born to cook forced to slay. Let's say in a different world, you whisk this beautiful man into the domestic bliss of marriage.

Massive cottage core vibes with this one. He is very taken by the idea of not being regarded as a killing machine. Immediately busies himself with the task of decorating your shared home.

Just take this man away. Elope to mountains and save him (hermit begs you).

Wedding planning is another demon. He debates every single decision. Asking you about your preference between white gardenias or white peonies. (You love him and he is too sweet for you to say out loud that you for the end of the world cannot distinguish the flowers)

He creates elaborate flowcharts to compare the pros and cons of different cake flavors, or insists on stress-testing the honeymoon resort's structural integrity with a cursed technique (much to the staff's bewilderment).

Let's not even get into Gojo's best man speech. No one really recovered from that.

DIY projects are his shit. Renovating a raggedy old dresser into a vintage masterpiece is where his magic lies. Let this man cook.

Your home with him is a a whimsical blend of vintage finds and hand-stitched throw pillows adorned with subtle wards against lingering curses. Even the strategically placed spider plants weren't just decorative – they doubled as a natural barrier against negative energy (a discovery that both surprised and amused you).

His transition into a normal 'monkey' life was endearingly awkward, like the time he spent hours meticulously decoupaging a floral pattern onto a chair, muttering about the inefficiency of glue compared to a simple binding spell.

And the day Suguru is introduced to the world of crocheting, your world flips on its axis. The pure look of joy on his face unravels the seams of your heart as he presents you with the mood changing octopus on your birthday.

Weekends with him are craft days. With a classic rom-com in the background as he sits next to you, his hands busy in the dance of needles and yarn. Better even your fingers run through his hair, braiding his hair only to wake up to your husband with perfect mermaid waves next day.

You both are the kind of sickly sweet couple that cause Shoko to gag in cringe during holiday gatherings.

Your husband glows with the simplicity of life. His hands busy themselves with crafts, chores, gardening, never a moment of rest even in the hull of domesticity.

He is your Disney princess that rushes out to refill the bird feeder with the first rays of Sun, hums pleasantly at the sight of a perfectly baked batch of cookies, or paints the most delightful sceneries on your ceilings.

Geto Suguru was made to create. He loves the fresh scent of sheets, experimenting with new flavors of tea, or going down the path of BookTok with Faerie romances much to your astonishment.

It isn't long before, you both end up adopting teeny tiny twins from the local orphanage. Suguru's darling girls he spends his life nurturing.

He took to fatherhood with the same surprising zeal he brought to everything else. His days were filled with braiding tiny pigtails, reading bedtime stories with dramatic voice inflections (complete with a surprisingly convincing rendition of a grumpy troll), and building elaborate pillow forts that rivaled any jujutsu barrier.

And on nights when dreams of a different reality kept him away, you held his hand in yours. Calling your girls for a family sleepover in the living room. That was all it took to whisk the sadness away from your beloved's eyes.

[nightcolorz]

I think part of why communities autistic representation with Abed is so good isn’t just how it portrays the symptoms and experience accurately, but also how it conveys plot lines and story arcs about the different types of people and interpersonal conflict an autistic person would face. Community definitely isn’t the first show to have ableism as a conflict, but in my experience of watching stuff it’s the first show I’ve seen that has such a nuanced approach to so many different types of ableism and different realistic reactions and solutions (all while being a sitcom with a cast of morally corrupt characters and absurd fantastical scenarios).

Frankie Dart for example, who is introduced in season 6, is kind of that level headed business woman archetype, conveys that she has a lot of experience with disabled ppl in her personal life, and (as is later confirmed) a lot of affection for them bcus she has a sister with a high support needs disability. This draws her to Abed, being that he’s autistic, and the two begin and understanding and friendship. Frankie is very kind and unusually understanding and compassionate towards Abed and his needs, and communicates with him in a way that is refreshingly easy for him to understand. And at the same time, patterns of infantilizing and condescending behavior begin to occur in their dynamic, until eventually Frankie outright says that abed “doesn’t know any better”, conveying to him that she thinks he’s too disabled to be aware of what he wants and believes, or to make his own decisions without someone who knows what’s best for him to guide him. And the great thing is everyone who witnesses her say this is disgusted 😭🫶 she is berated bcus everyone who knows abed knows that he is a grown ass man who doesn’t need to be hand held or condescended to.

But what’s so interesting about this conflict with Frankie is that she does earnestly mean well, she’s not a one sided abliest villain, she’s a person who could really exist. What is conveyed is that Frankie infantilizes abed bcus she has an expectation of autism that does not apply to every autistic person. She assumes that bcus her sister has high support needs and needs help making decisions, that abed is the same way, bcus she thinks all autistic ppl r like her sister and acts accordingly. And then she learns that this is wrong, and abed is fully capable of functioning without her help. It’s great! There’s no moral speech about how autistic ppl aren’t babies or anything like that. Frankie means well, fucks up, and is forgiven when she changes her behavior.

I just love it bcus ableism and other forms of bigotry aren’t often portrayed with so much nuance. Ableism isn’t usually this big thing, most people r on some degree abliest, and a lot of the time people who have a lot of experience with disabled ppl and mean well (especially ppl with disabled family or siblings) end up having the most abliest biases, it just feels so real.

[novasolstarr]

BLEGH Man I was having an unreasonably hard time drawing this bastard what the hell

Uhh still not very happy with these sketches besides the horrible feral one but also my desire to ramble about this version of Arius is overwhelming my need to have better sketches

SO THIS FUNNY BASTARD ALRIGHT Based off of another version if him, therefore I'm gonna be kinda mismatching the two's lore

Gravekeep, Spectator, Undertaker; Z-32 has been assigned several names over the years.

However, most have familiarized themselves with Z-32 to be Arius.

Arius is an anomalous entity that previously was completely unrelated to Urbanshade as a whole. In fact, several attempts had been made to remove Z-32 as a whole. This included luring it out, locking down the facility, trapping it with other entities, and so on. These attempts, however, were stopped after Urbanshade attempted a more violent method and ended up with... a few casualties [sketch 5]. Surviving spectators described Z-32 as being "fearsomely animalistic," which was an unusual change from Z-32's normally docile [albeit, cryptid] nature.

Despite suffering several what should have been fatal wounds, Z-32 seemed to recover without assistance.

The injury exposing the right side of Z-32's jaw is completely irrelevant to Urbanshade. He had arrived at the Blacksite with this wound. Along with this, it would seem that Z-32 has shape-shifting qualities, as several personnel have noted his appearance is not the same as his first arrival. It's assumed these changes are an attempt to better blend in with the fellow entities.

Z-32 gathered its names the "Gravekeep" and "Undertaker" due to its habits of cleaning up gruesome scenes, regardless of whether it's an experiment or personnel. Though normally the task of janitorial staff, Urbanshade higher-ups were not about to complain about the free labor done at an exceptionally spotless degree. For several years, it was unknown how Z-32 so cleanly disposed of the bodies with little to no evidence. Up until personnel noticed Z-32 pull apart its very own chest cavity [sketch 4] and lower several corpses into this opening.

Much to the surprise of Urbanshade scientist Z-32 was not only cooperative but also willing to allow personnel to run a few tests on him. Here, it was noted that the opening Z-32 was superficial, housing normal organs just beneath the skin here. Along with this, the opening itself could stretch from the underside of his jaw all the way to its pelvis. Other additional notes thus far are inorganic objects can be kept within this "pocket dimension" indefinitely. Organics, however, appear to be affected by this strange occurrence, with it being noted that the longer organics remain the further they're degraded. Hours 1-2 had no effect. Hour 3 began to show signs of this breakdown. Every additional 30-45 minutes after this point would break these organics down further until the previous item was completely unrecognizable from a black sludge puddle. Even when contained within an inorganic item, such as a Tupperware box, these organics still decomposed. Unfortunately, it's unknown how it affects living organics, as Z-32 avidly denied allowing such tests to be run. Attempts to force Z-32 to comply were fruitless endeavors.

Information about Z-32's past is just as mysterious as his appearance. He refuses to speak upon himself and even appears cautious not to share such information. Its unknown what this reason could be.

Z-32 has been noted to be surprisingly social, commonly engaging in conversation with other personnel regardless of the individual. Though it has been noted that his body language and speech patterns change regarding the individuals in question. At first, it was assumed to be a morality related issue. Further studying found that he seemed more likely to engage with the more "unfortunate" personnel of Urbanshade. Those who had a lengthy criminal record publicly known or not, mentioned hardships or mental health concerns seemed to be his primary conversators. When questioned about this, he merely mentioned being "drawn to disaster." No further explanation was provided. Urbanshade employees were not the only individuals either. Fellow entities were regular companions for Z-32, seeming to have an easy time communicating with even some of the most unruly of experiments. Younger individuals he spent his time around the most and even appeared parental towards these particular few, noticeably being more easy to agitate when around them. This agitation would never be directed to the younger individuals.

This rambling is getting very lengthy and my brain is exploding again so uhhh.. if anyone's curious about him further, feel free to ask [He's my little mental illness. I love him]

[corroded-hellfire]

Prompt Day 28: Back to Indiana

Words: 976

Rating: T

Pairing: Eddie x Reader

CW: language, talk of bullying

Thank you to my editor @munson-blurbs ❤️

Summary: When famous rockstars Eddie and Jeff come back for their ten year high school reunion, Eddie runs into a friendly familiar face.

@corrodedcoffinfest

Welcome Back Class of ‘86!

The banner in the God awful combination of green and orange greets Eddie as he pushes into the gym. Jeff’s by his side as they step into the once despised part of their old school.

Eddie and Jeff had debated whether or not they wanted to come back for their reunion, but ultimately decided to go. They knew it was petty, but they wanted to see how differently the “Hawkins High Royalty” treated them now that they’re successful rock stars. And they get their answer almost instantly.

“Whoa, Eddie! I didn’t think I’d see you here, man.”

Andy was one of the worst douches of all back in the day. Now he’s acting like they’re old friends ? Nah, fuck that shit.

Eddie gives him a terse nod of the head and keeps walking.

Jeff knocks his shoulder against his band mate’s, laughing as he does so.

The pattern repeats itself, other former jocks and students who ignored or tormented them trying to talk to them as if it’s the most casual, normal thing in the world.

“Holy shit, man,” Eddie says. “This is fucking hilarious.”

“I am so glad we decided to come tonight,” Jeff says. “You know, I’m aware that these aren’t the tables from the cafeteria, but something about being back here has me itching to see you jump up on one and make some grand speech.”

“What, you think everyone here needs a lecture? Teach your kids to be nice to the freaks because they might end up Grammy winners someday?”

Jeff laughs. “Holy shit, it’s scary to think that some of these people are parents now. Oh hey, look. There’s the only reason you passed, what, three of your science classes?”

Eddie follows his friend’s gaze and grins when he sees you sitting at a nearby table. He can’t help but notice that you’re sitting alone. It seems like not much has changed, because you were always quiet in school and could often be found in a secluded spot with a book.

“Uh no,” Eddie counters Jeff, “she helped me pass two—no, shit, you’re right, three times.” He pats Jeff on the chest. “I’m gonna say hi. I’ll catch up with you.”

Jeff gives a small salute and heads further into the gym.

Eddie pulls out the chair that’s across from you at the round table, spins it around, then plops down on it. He rests his arms on the back of the chair and leans forward.

“Hey, you. Long time no see,” he greets.

Your eyes widen when you take in your former lab partner.

“Hi,” you say, unable to keep the surprised squeak out of your voice.

Eddie smiles and tilts his head. “How are you?”

“I’m-I’m good,” you say. “How are you?”

“Pretty good for being back in this place.” Eddie looks around the gym, as if he’ll see back in time to his six years here.

“Yeah,” you say with a small chuckle. “Why did you come back for this? We didn’t exactly go to school with the greatest people.”

“That was good practice since Hollywood isn’t filled with the greatest people either,” he says. “But figured it might be fun. Plus, I get to thank you for helping me graduate.”

“I don’t think I did that much,” you say, shyly ducking your head.

“Are you kidding?” Eddie asks with a disbelieving chuckle. “If I didn’t have you, I would’ve failed biology, chemistry, and anatomy.” He pauses a second, pursing his lips. “How did we end up having all those classes together? I mean, what are the odds?”

You nod and let out a nervous chuckle, avoiding Eddie’s eyes as you look down at the table.

“Y-Yeah, I know.”

The rockstar’s gaze narrows as he eyes you suspiciously.

“Okay, spill. You know more than you’re saying.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire as you release a breath and find the courage to meet Eddie’s eye.

“Well, uh, I was an aide in the front office,” you start. “And so they let me help with making student schedules.”

“And you put us in the same science classes?” he asks, a smile growing on his face.

“I did.”

“Why? Just to help me graduate?”

“Um.” You scratch at the side of your neck, your stomach doing a somersault. “Also because I had a huge crush on you.”

Eddie couldn’t look more surprised if you told him aliens made the class schedules.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes,” you answer before taking a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He’s still smiling, so that’s good. You were half afraid he was going to laugh in your face.

“Because,” you say with a shrug, “I didn’t think you’d want to go out with me.”

Now, Eddie frowns.

“Of course I would’ve,” he says. His eyes scan your left hand for a ring before he speaks again. “Actually…do you want to get out of here now? Get a burger or something?”

Now it’s your turn to look shocked.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah!” Eddie stands up and situates the chair back to its normal position. “It’s not everyday I find someone who liked who I was before I was famous.”

“How do you know I’m not lying?” you challenge, feeling slightly bolder.

Eddie laughs. “Because I had classes with you for three years. You couldn’t even lie to Mrs. Click when you were late to class because you wanted to finish the chapter of a book.”

The tumbling in your stomach turns to butterflies.

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

Eddie just shrugs, giving you a bashful smile.

“You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You were bound to stick out at this school of assholes.”

You stand up from your seat and place your hand in Eddie’s outstretched one.

“Benny’s Burgers?” you ask.

“You read my mind.”

[akingdomscrypt]

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part Five

Pairing : König x male reader (slow burn)

Word Count : ~6.75k

Summary : time to put those skills of yours to the test. and König definitely has a thing for size differences

Warnings : none? don't think. Maybe a slight dissociative state briefly. Very brief.

A/n : working on a few other chapters for this series at the moment too, dk when those will be posted tho. Also didn't know what to title this ch, so that'll probably change.

---"a test: p1"---

Without that looming feeling of betrayal lingering at the forefront of your mind, your thoughts have been a lot more clear lately. You're able to return to your normal self; to analyze your situation and puzzle out the best way to handle it.

This wasn't any average operation, not often did they send soldiers like you so far from the Nest. Perhaps this meant your past transgressions had finally been forgiven; that they no longer held them over your head, suffocating you with the palms of guilt clamped tightly over your mouth.

And with that fog finally lifted, you began to plot.

A switch seemed to have flipped in the other soldiers ever since you had chosen to come back to them, instead of choosing the obvious way out and abandoning them back at that train wreck of an operation.

You were still under intense supervision, always a shadow hovering over your shoulder, and you were only granted access to a few areas of the compound, but it was better. It showed some level of trust, or maybe not trust, but a common ground laid between you and the other five.

A mutual understanding of, though no one was overjoyed by it, this was the only viable option.

You'd been allowed a shower, even, now dressed in an everyday, military-esque outfit. Sure, it was.. a little big on you, but they hadn't had your size, and it was nothing a belt fastened snug around your waist couldn't fix. Though it was certainly nothing like what you used to wear; somewhere in your mind, a feeling of.. longing.. for your old home festers.

Comforted only by the idea that you would someday make it back there. Alive.

Your injuries had been healing well, too. No longer limping so much when you walk; gaining a bit more mobility in your shoulder. Your bandages were cleaned and inspected everyday—courtesy of König. And, all around, you were treated fairly well.

None of them had even hinted at torture, especially none of the kind you had been trained to endure, though you were certain it was likely to have been a topic at some point. As you were pretty sure people who took prisoners didn't also let them wander around their base.

You had never seen any of the captured prey leave in the same state they had come; not that any of that was your concern. You were just a soldier, a pawn, and that part of the operation wasn't any of your business.

It wasn't only König who was in charge of your person, though the man was your main babysitter, sometimes it was one of the other three. But that only really happened when the big man himself had other duties to attend to.

The only one who never watched over you was the captain, their leader. You hardly even saw the man walking around, and you assumed the guy was likely just busy taking care of bigger shit than you.

It wasn't easy to gain the- well, perhaps not friendship, but you were on better terms with the rest of the team.

What was easy happened to be picking up on each of their mannerisms and speech patterns, figuring out who favored who the most, and becoming that person around them. For example, the way you acted with Soap was different to how you behaved around Gaz, and so on.

König was more difficult, or rather, König saw more of you—the real you—than of what was probably in your best interest. You weren't sure what it was, but there was something that made it more.. difficult to put on that one-man show for him.

While the giant fit in with the team, there was a little something there, between them. You'd say a rift, but that was too strong. They watched over him the same way they looked over each other, but there was still something there. You were probably right to assume König was a recent member, while the others had most likely known each other for several years longer.

That curious little part of you, that often is what had gotten you in trouble so much in your younger years, rose its head at the string left dangling in front of you once more. You wanted needed to understand what made up each member of the team, who they were, what made them tick. Weaknesses and strengths, the do's and don'ts.

That was the assignment.

But when it came to König? There was something more. An itch you couldn't quite scratch, something constantly nagging at the back of your skull. Urging you to dig deeper, to take a better look. To find out everything.

The big and small. The information you needed to gather for Viktória, yes, but more. The little things they didn't need to know. The ones you could hoard and keep all to yourself. Could wrap up in a neat little box with a bow, then put that box in a safe that only you held the key to.

You just needed to come up with a way to pick the meat off his skeleton and suck the marrow from his bones without having the favor of his own claws and teeth turned on you.

“You are much more.. pleasant, when you are quiet.” König voices from where he sits on the bench beside you, the sound pulling you from your own, far more peaceful, thoughts.

You snap your head up to face him, but the man doesn't even glance up from where he's sharpening one of his blades. This one a more ornate piece, marginally different from any you've seen him holster on his person. You doubt the pretty little thing even needs to be sharpened, likely never even used; you file that curiosity away for a later date.

You had been staring up at the sky, admiring the cloudless sky, a soft, muted blue, almost grey, stretching for as far as the eye could see—which meant a lot, coming from you. It has been a while since you have last been able to simply sit and enjoy the comforts of the natural world- all abruptly ripped away by the giant, irritating babysitter to your right.

Your eyes narrow, staring at him a few prolonged seconds later before giving an annoyed huff and returning to the sky above. Winter was settling in now, the trees barren, the earth below dry and cracked. All other vegetation was gradually becoming yellow-toned and dormant as the days passed.

You were not planning on indulging in.. whatever the man was trying to goad you into, but you just couldn't seem to keep your mouth shut around him. Unable to help yourself as you grumble a low, “there is nothing to talk about.”

“That so?” König must've finally looked away from his knife, and you can almost feel that familiar, intense gaze burning into the side of your masked face. “You barely scraped past death twice recently, one would think you had much more to say.”

“Just.. lucky, I suppose.” You grit out, one word in particular leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as it was dragged past your teeth. Surely there was nothing lucky about having one's hands bathed in the blood of a dear friend. Frowning, you look back at König once more, “thought you didn't want me to talk?”

“Is just strange, is all,” the man shrugs, “you were in the blast zone of not one, but two bombs, and survived.”

You scoff, “where are you going with this, König?”

“Only curious.” He assures. “Once is a little weird, but passable. But twice..? It just makes a man wonder. Not to mention the instances of before we found you..”

The only reason you were allowed outside happened to be thanks to the man seated next to you, it is for that reason alone you don't rip his throat out for disrupting this scarce opportunity of peace—or at least your fucked up definition of it.

“If you have something to say. Say it.”

What was with all this lead up? Couldn't he just spit it out already? This was getting boring. Fast.

“Don't waste our time with this whole,” you wave your hand at him vaguely. “‘Say everything but what you mean’ thing you are doing.”

The others must have decided that you could not possibly escape with the big guy saddled up beside you—even though, up until now, he had not been paying an ounce of attention to you. You, too, had few doubts that König could easily wrangle you.. considering the events leading up to now.

Not that you planned on leaving anyway, not when you had only recently regained your purpose.

“Why you?”

That causes your thoughts to come to an abrupt halt, opening and closing your mouth a few times, brows furrowing as you ask a suspicious, “sorry?”

“Why you?” König wonders aloud once more, as if saying it twice is going to magically make it make more sense. He must notice your confusion, because he grunts and expands on the inquiry.

“We thought we were tracking a new entity when the first trail we caught of you went cold, but then we noticed a pattern.” He says. “Every single hit they made, both fatal and not, was in a city or country you had previously been in.”

You frown, favoring to keep your mouth shut this time around and listen.

“Then we noticed something far more intriguing. Slowly but surely, with every hit they made,” Keeping the knife in hand, König holds up both forefingers. Slowly bringing them together as he spoke. “They got closer and closer to where you had last left a body.”

Finally, his fingertips touch, and the man looks down at you. “Until the most recent hit, which was right beneath you. Truth be told, our original goal wasn't to get you, we had not even been tracking you at that point. That was until we got tipped off that you may be there, and with the bombings lining up so perfectly, it was worth a shot.”

He puts his hands down, resuming his previous position. Looking at you, those intense, oh-so-curious blues once again aimed and focused on you. Something in your body twinges, but it's not injury related, so you opt to ignore it.

“So all of you are under the assumption that I am somehow involved?”

König appears to think on it for a moment before deciding on his reply. “Well.. yes and no.”

“At first we had the idea that maybe you and them were working together, maybe they were a sort of “clean up” crew. Someone to provide distraction while you slipped through our fingers. But after this more recent attack.. with how close it had been to you, we are now leaning more into the idea that you are the.. target.”

“The target?” It makes sense, when you think about it. When it had happened, you had thought it had been König's team, trying to flush you out or something; which worked, but also made their job harder to a degree. Besides, aren't these ones supposed to limit civilian casualties?

“Ja, the target,” König says. “No one in their right mind would willingly put one of their own in such danger like that. The point of this hit, after looking at the finer details, was to kill you, and no one else. It does make us wonder how they knew you'd be there, at that time, in that specific spot.”

It made you curious too, and a bit confused. If someone had been after you, the others would have known. Someone would have pulled you off duty and back to the Nest, they wouldn't have left you to wander blindly, to walk into traps that they were aware of.

Though, you suppose, it did make for a great distraction while you fled the crime scene. Not that you needed the help.

Viktória had mentioned that they had intended for you to get caught, that that had been the goal of sending you there in the first place. But she had also let slip that, whatever damage you had taken, had simply been collateral, and she had also seemed surprised that you had survived.

At the time you assumed that the point was for you to die, for your thread to be severed, another loose end tidied up with a big red bow on top. But your handler had seemed so damn relieved when you answered the call, which led you to believe the bombing was not on their part.

If not your own organization pulling the strings, not König's team, then who, or what, was behind all of this?

You get cut out of your thoughts by a relatively new, but familiar, voice shouting at the top of their lungs. Or maybe that was just your enhanced hearing.

“König! König’s sidekick!” Soap calls as he makes his way over, the noise sharp enough to make you wince. The newcomer greets König with a nod and pulls your attention with a heavy, but probably not malicious, kick to your boot.

“Captain wants us to test yer skills, runt,” you glare up at him at the nickname, scowling behind your mask. There's no real heat behind it, and you didn't exactly hate it, but you felt the need to put on a show as if you did. You and Soap got along decently, despite you still, technically, being an enemy.

…and you weren't that small..

The other men around you were just unnecessarily large.

König doesn't appear surprised when you glance over at him, though that veil covering his face doesn't assist you in deciphering his feelings much. So you assume he already knew about this.

“C'mon you two, up,” König is already packing up his knife and sharpening tools, so you figure this is unavoidable. “Ghost and Gaz are already there, we're just waitin’ on you two rascals. So enough ‘a this weird bondin’ yer doin’ and lets goooo!”

With that Soap turns and is on his way, leaving König to presumably know where to go because you sure as fuck don't. There are only a few places you are allowed to go, and their version of a training sector definitely isn't one of them. Until now.

It's been a few weeks since you've last been able to freely move and keep up with your self-assigned, intensive training routine. One you usually do in the comfort of a rundown hotel room or in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the calm, steadying atmosphere of trees and soil.

Given your healing injuries and lack of recent practice, you doubt that you'll be at your top performance during.. whatever this is. The others likely don't even expect you to fare much above average, given the current state of your body, but there's still a part of you that feels the need to prove yourself.

Even if they currently had no idea what your given status was. They didn't know you as P-107, they knew you only as Mouse.

It was time they knew what they were really dealing with; all those years of training and experimentation finally out on display.

To show them what it truly means to be a Predator such as yourself.

König and you arrive shortly after Soap presumably does, the latter already chatting away with Skull Guy™ and Gaz. They all turn to you when König and you enter.

“Sergeant,” Ghost nods to König, then narrows his eyes at you, “Mouse.”

You tip your head slightly in greeting, feeling oddly exposed with them all staring at you like this.

“Stop intimidating the poor bloke and get on with it, Lt,” Soap huffs, nudging Ghost's arm with his elbow.

Ghost doesn't seem to pay Soap any mind, still locked in you with a certain look in his eyes that you could only describe as distaste, despite not knowing much about the lieutenant.

That little staring contest goes on between you two for a few prolonged moments longer before the man eventually just grunts a low, barely audible sound and moves on.

“A’right, runt,” seemed as though Soap wasn't the only one privy to calling you that. Great. “Seein’ how this has become long-term for now, we need to make sure you can keep up in the field. Now, König and Garrick said you performed decently on that last op, up until the very end, so this is just to get a feel for where you'll place on the team temporarily.”

You briefly wonder what they would do with you after this was over—if you didn't already have a plan to betray them first, at least.

“Go ahead and get warmed up. We regroup in ten.”

You may be on a bit of a time crunch, but you take your time enjoying the stretch and slight burn of your muscles after having not used them to their full capacity for what is nearing almost a month now.

As you prepare your body for whatever they are about to put you through, that familiar calm, silent headspace that always greets you in times like this, begins to settle over your mind like a blanket.

The other's, apart from Ghost himself, take the time to get their own little warm ups in, and all too soon the lieutenant is calling you back.

“First we will be testing how well you can hold your own against each of us, starting with Sergeants Garrick, MacTavish, and König, then finally myself, understood?”

You nod in place of a verbal response, feeling as though your mouth itself has been sewn shut. Another sensation that always seems to accompany this mindset, turning you more into a humanoid creature than an actual person. Something that appears and feels like a human, but acts nothing like one.

You will not disappoint Her, nor your handler, not again, not after what you did all those years ago. You have something to prove, and you will not be outmatched by a few nobodies such as themselves.

“Good. First up, Sergeant Garrick.” You had been standing a little apart from the group, and Gaz steps out from the pack with a nod to you before making his way to the large mats set out not too far from where the rest stood. “After you get through each of us, we'll move on to the agility course outside. Unless you're too tired, then we'll go ahead and move that to tomorrow.”

Your legs carry you over to join Gaz near the blue mats, Ghost's words background noise as all your focus pinpoints on the prey man before you. Gaze locked solely on him, categorizing every miniscule movement Gaz makes, analyzing his stature and running various predictions as to what moves he could possibly make.

Some part of your brain registers that Ghost is still speaking somewhere to your right, yet not a single word he says breaks through to your consciousness until that countdown, and subsequent, “Go.” rings clear. Then you're on the move.

This is the same man who had rammed the blunt end of a gun against the back of your skull; the only member of the team who had been fast enough to not only keep pace, but he was quick enough to get an advantage over you. You, a man who has been trained to deal with matters far worse than this your entire life.

Gaz had caught you in a bad state back then; delirious from blood loss and exhaustion, and even then you had almost escaped. You were better than that, stronger than they all thought you were.

You act first and hit hard. Past experience has taught you how quick your opponent is on his feet, and you will not be beat again.

It's over faster than it started; meeting in the middle, followed by seamlessly ducking under Gaz's arms when he reaches for you. A quick pivot of your right foot and an attack from the back.

Using your weight and the momentum carrying your body, it's easy to bring him down. Barreling into him from behind and latching on—hands on his shoulders and heels digging into his hips—, but jumping off right before the other lands.

A small huff of air is all the noise Gaz makes as he comes face first with the foam mat below, just barely getting his hands in front of himself before his face can make contact with the floor.

But it's not over. Your prey opponent isn't immobilized yet. He's still an active threat.

You don't give him a chance to recover; don't risk the possibility of him getting back up and giving you any trouble. In a split second you're on his back again, trapping his forearms together in both hands—curse these men for being buff as fuck—and pressing them uncomfortablly high to his upper back. Just shy of dislocating both shoulders if Gaz struggles too hard, and the man beneath you seems to know this. Relenting into a defeated limp with a slow exhale.

You're used to your prey giving you more of a fight, familiar with the grapple for control and venomous spats that comes with a situation like this, but that doesn't come. And the man beneath you isn't prey like all the others had been. Yet.

That realization shocks your system and with a sharp inhale you release your grip, rolling off Gaz and standing upright in one smooth motion. You don't look down at the other as you reach out a hand, offering to help him up, surprised when he takes it.

“Seems I underestimated you, eh?” Gaz’s voice breaks through your thoughts, the tone reads as friendly, if a little out of breath. And with the help of your hand, he's standing up straight beside you. “You were pretty out of it back then, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised.”

With a friendly pat on the shoulder from a heavy hand, the man takes his leave to stand by the others. Soap is up next.

Gaz had broken you out of that mindset briefly, but now that the stakes were up once more, it quickly flooded back in. Jaw set, eyes locked on your new opponent.

He's just barely shorter than Gaz, and definitely the most visually muscled out of the group in comparison to his size.

You go through the motions again, take stock of how Soap holds himself—right foot slightly out further than the other, posture held firm but fluid enough to absorb any impact that may happen head on—, the little tells you can pick out here and there.

Now that Soap has seen you against Gaz, they all have, you can't use the same strategy on him. You have to recoup and adapt, take him by surprise.

Your strategy with Gaz had been shock and speed, with this one you just want to avoid being caught. Once trapped in that cage of muscle there would be no other out beside lowly moves that, likely, wouldn't pass in front of this team.

As you assume they held some sort of defensive attitude towards their lower halves, not much of a concern for you. You could handle pain, have had much worse, and were fully sterilized. So that wasn't a problem either.

By the time Ghost once again commands you to begin, you easily hop into defense.

You two circle each other, neither taking the first strike but wound tight and ready to spring into action at the first hint of movement.

Soap makes the first move, lashing out with a fist coming up on your left. A hit you just barely doge at the last moment with a quick hop away.

Then it's circling again, a length of time that goes on far too long for the impatient man in front of you. Always so eager to jump in head first, you've noticed.

You have the upper hand for the most part, dodging and weaving whenever Soap strikes, trying to wear him down. Looking for a weak point. But by now you both are beginning to grow impatient, all of your muscles tensed and coiled to attack.

Slowly but surely, you begin to rush, circling tighter and tighter, gradually closing in on your opponent.

But you should know better than anyone else; nothing else is more unpredictable than a cornered animal.

Which is why the sudden launch your way, thick arms wound tight around your torso, locking in your own arms, restricting you, shouldn't have been a surprise.

Given the shocked yelp you let out, it definitely was.

The tackle sends you both rolling into the group, Soap's arms stiff and an unbreakable force securing you in place.

And that is when the panic sets in. That's when you give fully into nothing but the pure instinct that had been drilled into you. Wiggling and struggling against him, making it as difficult as possible for your enemy to keep a sturdy hold on you.

Grappling and heavy breathing as you two roll around on the floor, neither holding the upper hand until you manage to knock an elbow into the side of his head. His hold slackens just the slightest, but it's enough for you to break free and squirm away.

Only to quickly return.

Springing into his back before he has the opportunity to roll over, but even with both hands, you know you wouldn't be able to hold his arms securely. Unable to hold him down the same way you had with Gaz, you come up with the next best option.

Strangulation.

Or, not really. If this was a proper fight, you'd have cut off his air and snapped his neck. But that's not what this is and you have to settle for squishing his head in one of your arms while the other hand steadies yourself on the mat below. His arms trapped beneath your knees.

You hold him there for a good few seconds, tightening your arm whenever he tries to move.

3..

4..

5..

And that's time. One call from Ghost and you release the sergeant. Rolling off him similarly to how you had after your fight with Gaz, albeit a little slower than last time. And very pointedly ignoring the dull ache in your mostly healed wounds.

Panting softly beneath your mask, you do the same as you had done to Gaz, holding your hand out to help the other man up. That hazy mindset takes a moment longer to dissipate this time.

Soap takes your hand and pulls himself up with a grunt, releasing your hand with an energized, “Woo! Looks like you've got some fight in ya after all, runt!”

You shake your head at his playful demeanor, but only you know about the secret smile beneath the cloth.

Still primed for your next fight, you stand there, waiting, as Soap takes his own leave back to stand between Ghost and Gaz.

“O’right.” Ghost calls, nodding in your direction. “Let's take a quick five, then it's back to the mats, yeah?”

Giving your own signal of acknowledgment, the tension in your shoulders lessens slightly, that background irritation of your injuries returning with a vengeance.

You stretched your arms high above your head, releasing with a heavy sigh before walking over to where the others are.

Two down, two more to go. But, for now, a break. Some time to prepare yourself before facing off with the next two.

Soap had been a struggle, the only reason you got away with Gaz was by surprise, how would you fare against the other, much bigger, members of the team?

__

Fuckfuckfuck.

König hadn't cared for the thought much yesterday, when Ghost had brought the topic up with him. Had asked if he thought you were ready for something this intense. And given how you had gone into the field with them not too long ago, König has assumed it would be fine.

And it was.

You didn't seem to have much of a struggle, at all, really. So why the hell was König's mind having- having not so.. great thoughts.

Thoughts that centered around you specifically. And how you looked when sparring against his teammates. Of course.

You were still his enemy, technically; simply one that shared a mutual goal with them at the moment. And when the time came, they would cut their losses.

This was supposed to be professional. Just you and his team, one ending in mind. A plan set in stone.

The feeling König got when he let the idea of you squirming beneath him fester was, decidedly, not of the professional variety.

Your speed with Gaz had been impressive, and König had tried to focus on that. On logic and fact, that your skills were on par with the team. That you were a valuable tool to be used.

How you acted with Soaps was even better—that glazed over, near feral look in your eyes..—, then it was over, and with it came the realization that he was up next.

It wasn't that König didn't think he could take you on.. because of course he could! You may be fast, but he was much bigger, and definitely stronger. Had proved as much when he had lifted you up by only the arm without any struggle all those weeks ago.

So it was definitely not about physical capabilities. No.

It was the places his mind drifted to when concerning you; when wondering just how much of him you could take—andtakeandtakeandtake—before you broke. Before you shattered beneath him—and let König put you back together again.

He wasn't sure he was thinking about sparring anymore.

A five minute break, five minutes to get his ducks straight and in order. To remind himself just what this was; a test, and you were simply a means to an end.

König's ducks were so, so far out of line, and now his five minutes are up. And now you're by the mat. And now he is too. And now Ghost is giving him a weird fucking look. Verdammt!

You don't look any more phased than you had when up against Gaz or Soap; so to say, you didn't look like you gave a single fuck. As if all of this was no problem at all for you.

You were just staring at him. From past experience, that was already enough in itself to unwound König in record speed.

König isn't thinking when Ghost calls out the command to begin once again, all of his attention focused in solely on you, and only you.

He saw you narrowly escape that man from back in that little town, was there when you somehow managed to hear a damn ticking time bomb that König himself couldn't hear even when standing right next to it, and now he had seen you defeat not one, but two of his teammates—which.. should probably- definitely concern them all just a bit. So, surely, he should have some sort of advantage here.

König has seen you in action, but you have yet to witness him. He wasn't going to let those intruding thoughts from before get to him; he was going to do his damn job and be done with it.

He just had to touch you first.

But, see, that was another problem, he didn't want to. Which was odd, considering just how much he's been touching you since you two met.

This was.. different, and König chooses to willfully ignore the teasing his team has put him through as an explanation for his odd behavior. As he could say, with definite, absolute certainty, that their suggestions—stupid ideas, inklings of something deeper than what should exist between reluctant allies—were completely and utterly false. It was just jokes, just friendly banter amongst teammates.

There was not an ounce of truth to it.

A sudden burst of pain on his left flank shocks König out of his thoughts and he hops back at the same time that you return to circle him once more. It wasn't a complex move, and had been a hit he could have easily dodged if he hadn't been distracted. You had only caught him off guard because he was stuck in his thoughts-

Ah. The team was going to give him hell for this later.

The next hit you swing his way König seamlessly avoids with a smooth step to the side, returning with a jab of his own. Aiming straight for a heavy strike to the abdomen. Not too hard, he's not really trying to hurt you, but he also wants to get this over as quickly as he can. The longer he's in this mock arena with you, the more time he spends so close to you, the greater the opportunity his mind has to spiral.

The hit lands and you stumble, the breath forced out of your lungs, and now is the perfect time to tackle you and end this right here and now- but you don't react as you should.

You recover quickly, getting back into position, gaze still locked in him.

What.

That's not how the human body works, König would know. He's done this hundreds of times before; the body has dozens of weak points that are easy to exploit. A mean punch to one of those areas should've been a quick take down for someone of your stature, one that left you gasping for air; leaving just enough time for König to restrain you.

While König is busy trying to figure out the logistics of whatever the fuck that was, his feet moving on their own, you're going in for another hit, but this time he catches on. At the last moment he steps aside, not giving you the opportunity to back out, flipping around and slinging an arm around your waist.

König wastes no time, throwing you to the ground, with probably more force than necessary, and jumping on you. He can't let you get up, can't let you recover again. No. He has to end this.

Of course, you don't make that easy for him, squirming and flailing beneath him whilst he struggles to get all of your limbs under control. Grunting now and again with every thud of your fist and kick of your boot.

And König swears on his own sanity, that you fucking growl at him, and in the moment his mind produces a picture of a tiny snarl on that face of yours. A small huff of laughter escapes him at the idea, a traitorous part of him finding the image cute.

It would be so much easier if you would just stop moving. You don't grant him that generosity.

It's becoming quite the.. problem. To focus on anything but your body beneath his, almost entirely forgetting that you two are supposed to be sparring at the moment. And that you aren't alone right now.

God help him, König hopes they don't read too much into this interaction as well.

He doesn't have to see it from an outsider's point of view to know this doesn't look entirely.. professional right about now. His larger body positioned above yours, your legs locked around his waist, the heels of your boots digging into his back- trying to flip him, König knows. Hands scrabbling at his chest, the way you're squirming and bucking beneath him like a feral bull.. it all would read very alternatively in an entirely different situation.

Fuck him—or you, he isn't picky—, König's breathing is growing a bit heavier as time wears on, his body a little warmer. Both could be written off as exertion from the struggle, but König knows damn well they aren't.

“Stop fucking moving,” he grunts, low enough for only you too hear. The last thing he needs is for the rest of his team to catch into what's going on—if they haven't already. “You've lost, it's over. Just accept it already.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” you snarl right back, wiggling one of the arms he'd finally caught out of his hold once more.

Everyone is smaller than him, it's nothing new- so why does it feel so much different with you?

You're his enemy, König should be having entirely contrasting feelings on this situation. He shouldn't be.. shouldn't be enjoying how much smaller than him you are, how perfectly you fit underneath his hulking form.

All the people König has ever met have been small compared to him, but none of them have made him want- want. That's it. Yearning. Wanting. For things he refuses to name even to himself, in the safety of his own mind.

Admitting it would mean defeat, in a whole different context. And König isn't ready for that just yet. Ever.

He needs an out, and König gives it no thought before simply releasing his firm holding and dropping down onto you like a dozen sacks of potatoes. Or maybe more, it's not like he'd know his own body weight in potatoes.

“Mmph-!” Crushing you beneath him, there's no way you could escape that. Why hadn't König thought of it before? Could've saved himself so, so much turmoil.

“Time.” Ghost says, and König could've sworn he detected a hint of amusement in that gruff tone. He's never going to live this down..

He pulls himself off of you, shaking himself out before simply reaching down and grabbing you by the arm. Yanking you up and placing you on your feet, only letting go once he's sure you're steady.

You don't say anything, merely glaring at him, but König ignores it. Stomping away back to his place beside Ghost.

“Distracted, König?” The Brit says as soon as he's close enough. And, yep, that's definitely humor in his lieutenant's voice. Damn him.

“Shut up.” He scoffs, sending daggers Ghost's way with mental power alone.

“Wasn't sure if I could call time or give you two some privacy.” König was going to end him. Dishonorable discharge and such be damned, he was going to murder his lieutenant.

“Shut it.” He continues on his way, choosing to stand beside his fellow sargeants instead. Which he should've known would, also, be a bad idea.

Today was definitely not König's day.

“So,” Soap hums, his time casual but König can see that damned spark of impish glee in his eyes. “That how you treat all your “subjects of interest” or just him?”

Gaz doesn't add on, but König can tell he's enjoying this almost as much as Soap is.

“Shut it, Soap.”

“Think I ‘eard ya whisper somethin’ to him too, mind fillin’ us in?” Who is he kidding, Soap has never heeded his warnings. “Or is it just the runt yer keen on filling?”

König groans, Gaz trying his best to stifle his laugh.

“I don't know what you think you saw-”

“Oh, König, pal, we don't think we saw something. It was clear as day. Too bad Ghost called it, I wanted t’see how it all played out!”

“C'mon, Soap, you must be outta your mind,” Gaz cuts in, and for a moment he thinks the man will get Soap to drop the subject. “With that size difference? Don't think the poor little guy would make it out alive.”

König mentally jots down both of their names on the list he just made up after Ghost's first quip.

“Ha!” Soap laughs, nudging his partner in crime. “Good one, Gaz. But I rest my case, who said the runt would be on the bottom anyhow?”

König is out into a shocked silence, staring at the Scot wide-eyed, the tension only broken by Gaz’s bubbling laugh.

Letting out a deep breath, König grumbles, “I harbor a deep dislike for the both of you.” and is endlessly thankful he had decided to keep his hood on. It did well to hide the furious blush warming his face at the moment.

Drawing his attention away from the two idiots beside him, his gaze falls on you. Ghost is speaking, and despite knowing he won't be able to make anything out, König strains his ears to try and listen in.

It yields nothing, of course, but worth the try anyway. Ignoring whatever weirdness that hard sparked between the both of you during your fight, König was eager to see how this next one would play out.

Now it's time they put you up against The Ghost.

__

Masterpost | One | Two | Three | Four | Next

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[stealingyourbones]

Question! I have been getting into DC comics cuz of dpxdc, and I saw your tags on frank Miller on a recent post. One of my irl friends told me to read the dark knight returns and while it was occasionally hard to follow I assumed that was a result of when it was written rather than who wrote it? But I did overall enjoy it.

I guess what I'm asking is why you say frank Miller is a bad writer when it seems like the dark knight returns was so acclaimed?

(I saw the nazi thing too but that's something I can google so while it's news to me it's not my main question)

ok so. A lot of this is my personal opinion and I'm not too equipped to say shit about this because I'm not very political but I'm going to give it my best shot. Put under a cut so folks who don't want to hear about comic ranting can simply scroll past

I’m just gonna write a quick thing for the Nazi stuff, He isn't exactly a Nazi but boy oh boY does he set off many warning flags. Frank Miller is also the writer of the comic 300, if that sounds familiar that's because the movie you're probably thinking of is indeed based off these comics. The Spartan's ideology helped create the baselines of Fascism. Fascism is a pretty leading cause of commentary in Frank Millers work. In Batman: The Dark Knight he is a fascist. In Hard Boiled there's swastikas in the background every so often. (I even went back to reread it just to make sure and yep. they definitely were there) In 300 there's a shitton of Fascism... I could go on but still. His comics are incredibly gorey, have a discussion about a world gone wrong that can only be changed using force and weaponry (the whole Dark Knight "I am a surgeon" monologue for example), and the fact that he has Fascism as the main point of nearly all of the comics he's written... it doesn't sit right with me and it's a consistent pattern.

Now, onto the bad writing. I must firstly preface that these are my own opinions and that I didn't grow up reading Frank Miller's work. I think he was a good writer but isn't one anymore. His writing did incredible things for DC and you can see his influence in Batman even today. Works I've read and enjoyed of his are: Daredevil, Batman Year One, and Dark Knight. Nowadays you'll see many folks like myself talk about how Frank Miller has fallen off the deep end. A vast majority of Frank Miller's comics have reoccurring themes: politics, fascism, extreme violence, and so so much weaponry. Politics is in every comic book. There is no unpolitical comic, there ARE comics that are batshit wild with their politics and that's what I'm talking about. I'll get back to this later. He wrote many good comics, ones that first come to mind are Daredevil , Wolverine, Batman: Dark Knight, Batman: Year One, Sin City, Ronin, and 300. All of these comics are still credited by folks as amazing comics and hell, I recommend folks to read them go and check them out. Then 9/11 happened. That along with rampant alcoholism. Those reoccurring themes I mentioned? They become exponentially more blatant in his works. Especially on the political angle. You can see the difference between his works from pre and post 9/11. If you read Dark Knight and Dark Knight 2 back to back. It's night and day. He even made a comic during the post 9/11 panic called Holy Terror. The comic's title was originally pitched as Holy Terror, Batman! with the Gotham hero himself as the main character but it swiftly denied by DC, denied being published by DC, and changed to what it is now. The basic plot of this comic: A Vigilante named The Fixer fights Al-Qaeda after attacking Empire City. He doesn't even mention the word Al-Qaeda until 80 pages into a 150 page comic. The comic is some INCREDIBLY blatant post 9/11 propaganda that's ridiculously Islamophobic and anti-muslim. That isn't even my opinion, Frank Miller has said that's what this comic was. It is scattered with a ridiculous amount of hate speech written by a hate fueled man in 2007. Now onto comics that you'd more likely read. All Star Batman and Robin (2005). Oh boy. Let's compare shall we? Batman Dark Knight Returns (1986)

All Star Batman & Robin, The Boy Wonder #1 (2005)

mind you this is as Dick is being driven to GCPD for questioning RIGHT AFTER HIS PARENTS DIED. He gets kidnapped by Bruce out of the police car. Not calmed in his arms after the murder and brought to the manor. Kidnapped. All Star Batman & Robin, The Boy Wonder #2 (2005)

( a brief intermission of this sickass pose of a shirtless Alfred Pennyworth comforting Vicky Vale)

now back to the kidnapping:

[Skipping Bruce getting chased by the GCPD, Jumping the Batmobile ONTOP of a GCPD car, and laughing and talking to his car all the while Dick is absolutely terrified. They then use boosters that propel the Batmobile into the sky.]

Smashcut to #4 where they actually enter the Batcave.

I don't even think I need to explain myself. This is Spider-Man: One More Day levels of mischaracterization. Like seriously. Bruce kidnapping Dick after his parents were killed? Calling him a retard and hitting him during the aftermath (we can go on about how in 2005, the r slur was used commonly but this was just out of pocket), Leaving him in the cold batcave and told to eat rats? Frank Miller used to write some incredible works. Nowadays his writing is as decent as Rob Liefeld's art.

[williaml0ver]

Ok ok ok, hear me out- Naib x a charismatic!sunshine!reader who tries his best to cheer everyone up in the manor 👀👀

☆ <3 Naib Subedar With a Sunshine Like s/o ☆ <3

[🖇️] word count: 1213

[🖇️] warnings: g/n reader, Naib's a little grumpy

[🖇️] author's note: first of all THIS IS MY FIRST REQUEST EVER i'm emotional thank you so much 😭🫂 i honestly wasn't sure how to portray reader's personality well sooo this may not entirely be focused around it but i tried my best in sneaking some traits here and there, hope you'll enjoy this!

☆ ☆ ☆

-You make his stay at the gloomy manor more bearable.

-Wouldn't understand you at first, because what's so nice and exciting about having to stay in this cursed place?

-He would have some suspicions towards you. He would be convinced that you're hiding some cruel intentions behind this bright smile. You would quickly notice how strange he's acting around you, and yeah, he is kind of stiff around most people, but you're feeling a whole new level of coldness here.

-Naib's attitude would spark amusement among other manor residents, at some point the rumous get to you.

-What can you say, you did feel surprised, thought felt a little bad for the mercenary, his life was probably filled with many dangerous moments and he grew cautious of his surroundings. Who can blame him?

-You decided to get closer to him, step by step. Start with something small, like initiating short conversations. His answer would be very short at first. That challenge is not for the faint hearted. You won't give up.

-Naib would just notice a weird pattern how you recently started talking to him more and eventually sense danger. He'd make himself clear and possibly threaten you.

-I think the best way to make him let his guard down is to have a honest conversation with him. Let him known your thoughts. Naib, slowly, would actually open up to you.

-Whenever in a bad mood, he would unconsciously be looking forward to seeing you again. There's just something about your smile, positive attitude and the little jokes you make. He craves comfort.

-Let's make this clear: he has no idea why you're being so kind towards HIM. He'd see you casually handing out small trinkets and laughing together with other people who did much more evil things than him, but he would still be in denial, does he really deserve this?

-Yet something would make him appreciate your way of being. Something would make him want to be near you, spend more time with you... get together with you?

-Yeah, it was a hard thing for him to admit he's got a crush. How awkward would that be... he definitely isn't saying that out loud.

-Funny thing is that you've also grown fond of the green hooded boy. Overly grown. There just was something about his cautiousness and hints of mystery. You quickly spotted how diffrently he started treating you compared to others lately. You even caught him softly smiling during your small talk.

-It wasn't long until you became a couple. One would think Naib would not make the first move, however he wished to show his gratitude to you, he just wasn't sure how!

-The mercenary ended up giving you a simple boquet of flowers. But what really touched you was his speech. He was usually a man of few words, so you quickly understood how important this was to him. His speech felt very honest and emotional: Naib was touched by so many things you have done for him, although for you they were something absolutely ordinary.

-He would feel relieved that you accepted his feelings and feel shocked finding out you feel the same.

-Spending time with you on a daily basis made him change his personality a little. Yes, he would still be THE mercenary when needed, no doubt, but overall he'd become more open. Seeing him go from someone very closed off to a suprisingly cheeky person made you melt. You felt glad that you helped him grow.

-Isn't afraid of showing PDA.

-Whenever someone new enters the Oletus manor they would immediately feel like this is some inside joke between the both of you, because how would that even make any sense? A cold hearted mercenary walking hand in hand with the literal definition of a ray of light? Truth is, you are a great match for Naib! Your relationship is perfectly balanced.

-Perfect example of a grumpy/cheerful duo.

-It was not a rare sight to see the mercenary utterly tired after his matches. Being a rescuer was a demanding position. It was a good thing other players trust and depend on him, but on the other hand the big pressure can cause a huge toll on his calmness.

-If someone got chaired, everyone else expects Naib to go to the rescue, even if he's currently far, far away. Of course, Naib learnt to control stress and work in difficult situations much before he even found out about the manor, but that didn't change the fact that post-match he'd isolate himself from everyone else.

-From everyone else besides you.

-You are his escape from reality. His soft spot. Naib has no idea how you've did it, but you managed to win him over completely. You're always trying to make him smile with this mysterious comforting aura, whether it's with words of affirmation and telling him he's done all in his power, how strong and devoted he is or with gentle touches, like holding his hand and kissing his palms.

-It's therefore no secret that during his bad days he wants you to be near.

-You can spend several together hours together just laying and cuddling. He lives for your smile.

-Naib appreciates how you comfort him after tough days and he comforts you in hours of need as well:)

-I wouldn't say he's very private when it comes to pda, though he's not overly affectionate in public either. He would have absolutely NO SHAME. You're needy for his attention but there are other survivors around? Don't worry! Naib is already patting his lap, awaiting you. He loves how you don't care what others think of your behaviour.

-Does not care about his reputation anymore. Those people know you are his soft spot. Just because he's gentle with you doesn't mean he's going to be merciful for everyone else. Someone dare to complain about you being annoying - they would be quickly receiving the glare.

-Naib would ALWAYS feel very protective over his s/o, no matter what personality would they have. He is a mercenary, a soldier, if his loved one wouldn't have a thing against being with someone like this, he'd become a total keeper as long as he is breathing.

-And when you're so positive almost all the time? Wanting to make sure everyone is feeling good? He would be all over you. A lot of, if not most people, residing in the manor were, to put it simply, bad people, so to have someone so pure next to him would turn him quite possesive.

-Of course, he is aware you are not stupid. You are aware of who the people you spend time with are. The world is not all unicorns and rainbows, you know that. He's going to understand if you show you're feeling uncomfortable with being constantly monitored. He'd try to withdraw from doing it but sometimes Naib can't help it. It's both the protectivness and the jealousy.

-When jealous, Naib would love to come near you and the person you're talking with, hug you from behind and be very affectionate. At some point you both gain the reputation of those people you'd see in citties kissing and making everyone feel awkward according to other people in the manor. Naib loves it.

☆ ☆ ☆

Wishing you guys a good day/night 🫂🫂🫂

[babyblue711]

Loyalty

Aemond Targaryen (HOTD) x Alys Rivers - Part 1 Summary: Alys reflects on her time at Harrenhal under the reign of the Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen. Words: 2.6K

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Dubcon, Sexual Content 18+, Smut, War Things, Typical Westeros Misogyny A/N: I fully realize not everyone is an Alys fan and that is perfectly fine. Perhaps once the show airs, I'll change my opinion too. But, as of right now, this is fanfiction and, therefore, my fantasy. I personally tried to humanize Alys, which I hope you all will see. As always, I love reading your thoughts, comments, and reblogs! 😘 And - No tag list since I don't know who will be in to Alysmond. 💙 Beta read by the Queen herself: @arcielee 💙 Beautiful banner gif by the one and only: @myfandomprompts

The prince was insatiable at times.

Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes rough. Though she never knew what she was going to get, the news from the battlefront and the state of affairs of the kingdom often foretold the sort of night she could expect from the Prince Regent.

With the weight of the green faction firmly resting on his shoulders, periodically he would be consumed by raw desire; he was fueled by passion, fueled by rage, fueled by an innate need to dominate and control, as certainty was a rare commodity given the unpredictable nature of war. On those nights, his touch was borderline cruel, harsh and demanding, and she would brace herself, anticipating the forcefulness with which he would claim her, feeling a mixture of pleasure and pain as their bodies collided. She didn’t know how to tell him ‘no’. She didn’t think she could. She needed him just as much as he needed her… or so she was leading him to believe. 

But at other times, he would approach her with a soft touch, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns along her skin, his words filled with warmth, just like the first night they spent together. Those were the nights when she had felt cherished and safe, enveloped in his affection and care. She couldn’t ever remember a time where any man of higher standing had ever worshiped her in such a tender way. 

Presently confined within the ominous black walls of Harrenhal, tonight she is suffering the prince’s wrath. The recent tidings are dire: Kings Landing has fallen into the hands of the enemy, igniting the red hot rage of the dragon. She knows Aemond feels solely responsible for this significant blow to their cause, for leaving his family unprotected as he seeks out his greatest foe, terrified of what is happening to those he has left behind. Tonight, he uses their intimacy as a conduit for his pent-up emotions, unleashing his fury upon her in a desperate attempt to find temporary respite from the anarchy gripping the Seven Kingdoms and the chaos of his own soul.

In the dimly lit chamber, the air is heavy with tension and the scent of burning candles. Pinned to the bed underneath him, his long fingered hand is wrapped firmly around her throat as he thrusts powerfully, hips snapping into her with a brutal force, a look of utter madness in his lone purple eye. His grip tightens on her throat as his unhinged gaze flicks from her bouncing breasts up to her face. 

“Why couldn’t you have told me about this before?” he demands with a harsh growl that echoes off the stone walls, his fingers digging into the delicate skin of her throat so that she can barely breathe, let alone articulate an answer. She chokes slightly, wrapping a dainty hand around his wrist, begging with her eyes for him to soften his grip, which mercifully he does so she can speak.

“My prince,” she gasps as he continues to rut into her, “My visions do not work on command…” She attempts to explain but anger clouds his face and his grip tightens once more on her throat, cutting off any further speech. The Prince Regent does not want to hear her excuses. His desperation and anger is evident in every movement, in every harsh word, in every mark he leaves upon her body. She clenches her jaw and tries not to whimper as his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her neck and breasts, afraid weakness will spur him on further; mentally, she tries to disassociate from what is currently happening to her. She is fully aware that he sees her as a means to an end, a tool to gain an advantage in the chaos of war; she purposefully has supplanted herself in this position, just as he is her mechanism for survival in return.

She knows deep down that she cannot fulfill his demands; her gifted visions do not bend to her whim or will, and she cannot control what they show her. To admit this to him would mean certain death, and so she bears the pain of his grip, the forcefulness of his thrusts, and the weight of his expectations, all while concealing the truth that she cannot deliver what he seeks.

With a guttural groan, his hips stutter as he spills deep inside of her, his fearsome eye closed in some semblance of bliss as he reaches his peak. Without acknowledging any need for her pleasure, he tucks himself back in his pants and departs the room in silence, his rage barely satiated. 

Alys lays upon the bed, her chest rising and falling to catch the breath withheld from her while caught in Aemond’s iron grip. She shifts slightly into a more comfortable position, feeling the slickness between her thighs and, despite his brutality, she quietly hopes for a silver-haired babe, further securing her own position and a testament to her worth.

She wonders if Aemond does not think she is capable of having children and, therefore, is much less cautious where he spills his seed. Her moon’s blood is late, but that is not unusual for her, though she still thinks it is too early to tell if they have been successful yet. She rests a hand on her lower belly, willing her womb to quicken, something that hasn’t happened in years. 

Exhaustion tugs at the corners of her eyes as she rests, waiting for her soreness and aches to lessen so she may get a few hours sleep. Sighing deeply, she stares into the dying flames of the fire in the hearth and reflects on the last few months of being caught up in this accursed Targaryen civil war. Life with Aemond is, at least, a little better than when Daemon ruled these halls. The Rogue Prince had been a formidable presence, his sharp eyes saw through her facade of obedience from the moment he landed astride his fiery red dragon. She had never underestimated him, knowing that he would not be easy prey to be fooled by her own ambitions.  

But when Aemond descended from the heavens upon his colossal, ancient dragon, Alys suspected the young Prince Regent to be a lot more volatile, and thus, a little more vulnerable than his formidable uncle. Aemond was desperate to prove himself in the ongoing war, his ego inflated by the fact that he commanded the largest dragon in existence. His mere presence struck fear into the hearts of warriors, who readily bowed before him as he issued commands with an air of undeniable authority. Yet, beneath his bravado, Alys discerned a deep-seated fear—that of failing his family and being perceived as a disappointment.

Recognizing these traits, she decided to try to leverage this to her advantage. She harbored no ill will toward the prince; in fact, she had developed a fondness for the young man during his stay at the fortress. But she knew that sentimentality had no place in the games of power and politics that defined their lives; the world was cruel, especially to lowborn women, and no one in her position would turn down such an opportunity to wield the influence that came with being entwined with a Targaryen Prince. 

It still took considerable effort to gain Aemond's trust, considering his sharp intellect and initial tendency to see her as nothing more than a lowborn woman with limited utility. However, upon learning that she had some experience with the healing arts, he tasked her with tending to the injuries of his soldiers, which she executed without fail. 

It was one fateful night that the prince called upon her for help with his own affliction - the vicious scar that marred the left side of his beautiful face. She concocted a poultice aimed at soothing the damaged nerves around his missing eye that was causing him some discomfort that particular night. Witnessing the visible relief on his face once she had applied it, and taking advantage of being alone with the prince for the first time, she seized the opportunity to subtly offer strategic information, mainly concerning Daemon's previous tenure at Harrenhal. Aware of Aemond's desperation for any advantage in the ongoing war, especially for any knowledge that had to do with his uncle, Aemond clung to anything she could tell him about Daemon and his war strategy. She was aware of just enough information to be deemed useful and what she wasn’t aware of, she may have elaborated just a bit, as the prince would never know. This gesture swiftly elevated her status in his eyes, securing her a place in his inner circle sooner than she had even anticipated. 

But it wasn’t only Aemond she had to charm; she also understood the importance of gaining favor with Ser Criston Cole, the Hand of the King and Aemond's second in command. Although she suspected that Ser Criston could occasionally see through her intentions, she had a knack for manipulating him too.

Late one evening, after he had a few too many cups of wine, she prophesied his future, whispering words that she knew would resonate with him as they gazed into the flames of the fire. Men in positions of power and influence loved to be told exactly what they wanted to hear and Ser Criston was no exception. Soon, both he and Aemond would come to depend on her clairvoyance much more than either should, but war often strove men to desperate measures and she delicately played this hand when she had no other choice.

Another aspect she did not expect to contest came a few weeks after Aemond and his army came to stay at Harrenhal. It was Aemond who turned their relationship into something more physical; whether it was brought on by boredom or loneliness, she’ll likely never know, but she certainly had not anticipated becoming the Prince Regent’s bedmate. She remembered the night well, the way his fingertips grazed her wrist lightly as she poured him more wine. The intense look of his eye was…different that night, a primal look of longing coupled with a smoldering desire. The bulge in his pants was obvious and it was clear what was intended from her that night.

Worried to displease the prince by refusing him, she settled on her knees in front of him as he sat by the fire. She held his gaze as she slowly unlaced his breeches, pulling his thick, veiny cock from the confines of his trousers, and began pleasuring him with her mouth. Wetness had formed between her own thighs as she sucked him with abandon, enjoying the way his sharp face contorted with the gratification she was giving him. When he shot his seed down her throat, she expected that to be the end of it… until he asked her to show him how to pleasure her in return.

She could perfectly recall the earnest look in his eye as she stared at him with bewilderment; it was highly unusual for a man to be concerned with a woman’s pleasure, let alone a high-born royal like himself. After a moment’s hesitation, she willingly agreed to his request and they spent the night exploring each other’s bodies; she taught the prince about the bundle of nerves located above her entrance and the special spot buried deep inside her cunt. He was an excellent student, mastering her body quicker than she thought possible. His expression was hungry with intensity when he watched her unravel underneath him as she succumbed to his touch, and she knew this gave him a different sense of power over her body. She encouraged this, fully committing to being the prince’s loyal servant in all things, further gaining his trust and, in return, his protection. 

She lost count how many times she came that night during their passionate lovemaking, and her hopes ignited further when he shot his seed deep into her cunt. Since then, he had called upon her almost every night to visit his bed, torturing her deliciously as her velvet walls clenched around him repeatedly, milking him dry as her cries of ecstasy filled his room. Afterwards, she would pray to the gods to bless her with his child.

However, she was beginning to wonder if she had played her part just a little too well. Unfortunately, the prince, gaining confidence in their arrangement, had started to abuse his position of power, more often than not just using her body as a vessel for only his pleasure. Her disappointment was palpable; he had shown so much promise and she thought she could teach him to be different, that he would continue to treat her with respect.

But such wishes were not to be, as dark thoughts of the first time she had suffered the prince’s wrath resurfaced. On that fateful night, after a particularly fearsome thunderstorm culminating with bad news of the war beyond Harrenhal, Aemond and Vhagar had descended from the storm-stricken sky in a fury, his dragon’s wings clapping louder than the thunder itself. As was customary, she was summoned to his chambers. Lightning flashed as she entered his dimly lit room, illuminating his countenance —a hauntingly beautiful sight. But as she caught sight of his murderous expression, dread filled her gut and she knew she was about to face the consequences for whatever misfortune had transpired.

Afterwards, he seemed to emerge from a trance, apologizing to her as he gazed upon the red marks from his fingers on her neck, the bite marks on her breasts, the bruises that littered her body. She was dumbstruck once more, never had a man shown remorse for hurting her before. As their tryst continued, their passionate lovemaking became rougher and more animalistic, her own pleasure forgotten at times as he used her body as a means to his own end, but she made the best of it, knowing that to bear his child would outweigh her suffering and reward her tenfold. 

Back in the room, these memories of Aemond lulled her to sleep as she curled in his bed, warm and comfortable from the smolder in the hearth. The reprieve was short lived as she was roughly shaken awake, startling at his harsh touch.

“Wake up,” Aemond says gruffly. “We’re leaving.” He refuses to answer any of her questions, throwing clothes at her and telling her to get dressed in a hurry. She has no choice but to obey, noticing he has given her breeches to pull on as well as several warm layers, including riding boots and soft leather gloves. 

The moon shines brightly in the nighttime sky as Aemond takes her by the hand, leading her outside the gates of Harrenhal where the immense form of Vhagar looms in the distance. Alys pulls back on Aemond’s arm, terrified, slowing her pace, her unusual attire dawning on her as it is obvious that the prince means for her to fly on Vhagar. The energy that emanates from the massive dragon is unlike anything she has ever felt before. This was an intelligent being that could not be tricked by pretty words or prophetic visions that danced in the flames, for she was fire incarnate herself.

Feeling her tug on his arm, Aemond whirls to face her, impatient, furious. Vhagar rumbles like thunder from behind him, disturbed by her rider’s erratic energy, but makes no effort to move as she waits for him to mount her. 

“Aemond…” Alys starts to sputter, “I - I don’t think she’ll let me ride...?” Terror clutches at her throat as she tries to stress to him the dire warning in the pit of her stomach, but he only smirks, taking hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, his breath fanning her face. 

“Vhagar does as I command,” he says confidently as if this could assuage her fear, “but I am going to need your help with something else.”

>>>> Part 2

[livingtobethevillain]

IIt's my favorite thing when the batkids are like

"I'm nothing like Bruce/batman >:(" but are so violently intertwined with Bruce's habits and core characteristics that they have no choice but to be just like him.

I love this with Jason and Dick especially.

Jason would pull a Bruce when he gets worried about the outlaws after a mission. He'd be running on adrenaline and panic because one of them almost got hurt or worse killed, and jason (instead of telling them how much he cares about them and NEEDS them to be safer or even taking a moment by himself to decompress) just flies off the handle and all but barks out criticism he tells them how much they fucked up and he's absolutely giving "youre benched from patrol until further noticed" vibes without even realizing it because he's freaking out but he doesn't know how to tell them how scared he was so he just come across cold and controlling. Jason needs his chosen family to be safe. He needs them to be happy and healthy and alive. Because he can't lose anyone else. He can't do it not again. But he can't get that vulnerability across without it feeling humiliating so he lashes out.

Dick on the other hand I feel would be a control freak. He's a people person and he's an extrovert but if he's not leading the mission and he's not aware and informed of every detail he's restless. He also needs organization. If things aren't up to his standards (up to batmans standards) he freaks out. He doesn't always notice how he can get harsh and intimidating when he's tired and sore. He doesn't always notice how he looms over people so perfectly and how people lean away and cower in response.

(EDIT; also imagine how much more the lines would blur after dick had to *literally* be Batman for awhile. Think about the lasting changes to his Fighting Style. Think about his speech patterns and hell his own self expression. I imagine he picks up a BRUTAL resting bitch face after his time as Batman and literally has to be hyper conscious of the face he's making or it'll just drop back into a distintly unimpressed, vaguely threatening expression. That would fuck him up!!!)

They both try so hard to fight against the influence of the same man. But that man made them who they are and removing his influence would be as impossible as removing the blood that flows through their veins.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Paying Attention (Six of Crows One-Shot)

Kaz Brekker x GN!Reader / requests are OPEN

Summary: You're a little clueless, but the Crows are trying their best to get you to see the light.

SAB/SOC: @the-sweet-psycho (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“You-” Jesper said, sitting down at the card table, crossing one leg over the other and running a gambling chip down his knuckles in an impressive display of his dexterity. “Are clueless.” 

You practically choked on your margarita, eyeing him up and down and yanking the chip from his fingers before he had a chance to pull it from your reach. He cocked a brow at you in quiet respect and you clicked your tongue. 

“Really? How so?” You deposited the chip onto your stack and shot Jesper an award-winning smile. He grunted, not at all impressed.

 

“The boss man,” he said, picking up his cards to check his hand, “and his very obvious feelings for you, of course.” 

You checked your own hand, playing with the stack of chips. You risked a glance at the upstairs balcony area and who do you see? Kaz, of course. He’s leaning down at the tables below with that calculating glower that sends you mad with desire.

Jesper follows your gaze and has to stop himself from snorting. Kaz’s eyes flick over the tables and finally settle on you. The unexpected eye contact sends a shiver down your spine and a flush up your cheeks. Kaz arches one brow at you, expression otherwise not changing. You know him well enough by now to know that that eyebrow raise means ‘are you okay?’ 

You flash him a microscopic nod, which he returns before standing upright again and wandering off in the direction of his office. You know what that means- Inej is here somewhere keeping an eye on things. That leaves him to retire to his office and peer over ledgers and jobs for another several hours. 

“Hello,” a velvet voice says over your shoulder as the body that came with it slid into a chair beside you with such grace it couldn’t have been anyone else other than-

“Inej,” you greeted warmly, placing your cards down for the round. “Kaz have you keeping an eye on things at the Club tonight?” 

She’s barely moving, but you know she’s on high alert, watching and waiting for any sign of trouble. She hummed her confirmation. 

“Yes, he’s concerned the Dime Lions are getting a little too bold with their territory. Kaz wants to make sure they don’t cause any trouble for the Pigeons.” 

“Pigeons,” you reply, watching as Jesper finally makes his move. “Not language I hear you speak in very often.” 

Inej lets out a sigh, allowing herself to break vigilance for just long enough to rub her forehead. 

“No, but you stay in the Barrel long enough, you get used to the local speech patterns.” 

That made sense to you, yes. It was easy enough to slip into the language of the Barrel. Particularly when you spent time in the Crow club and the dodgier parts of town. 

“Inej,” Jesper piped up, that signature look on his face that told you he was about to stir shit up. “You know Kaz better than most- tell me, do you think he has a crush on our dear friend here?” 

You spluttered, slapping Jes on the shoulder playfully in disbelief. You were about to defend your fearless leader once again when you turned to look at Inej. She was usually so good at keeping things to herself, but one look at her expression and you knew she thought the same as Jesper. 

“Oh, no- not you too,” you protested. “You don’t seriously-” 

“Oh, yes,” she said, eyeing a patron by the bar who was starting to look like getting in a fight might not be such a bad idea after all. “Completely smitten.” 

You scoffed once again, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of it all.

 

“We’re not joking,” Jesper said, placing his hat on his knee. 

Your laugh died off and you frowned thoughtfully. It would be nice if he did have a little crush on you, given how he made you feel, but you weren’t at all convinced. 

“Well then,” you said. “Guess I better start paying more attention and see for myself.”