#or they are DEFINENTLY on the brothers of all time list

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

too many things goin on in my brain tidbit tuesday not enough. gotta throw in a wip Wednesday every now n then to keep it fresh🙂‍↕️

I guess I don't realize how much trouble I'm in til I'm in the back of the cop car. Which is pretty stupid 'cause I had 'bout a million chances before we got to this point to think about it. But I s'ppose that's why Mace is always gettin' on me. I don't act like I got any brains in my head. Or rather, to take Mason's words out his mouth the lights are always on but ain't nobody ever home.

I frown, kick out a lil' at the back of the seat in front of me, sulkin', 'n Johnny ducks in beside me. The cop shoots us both a final glare before slammin' the door with a quakin' finality. 'N I kinda feel like I could start bawlin' which is real stupid so I just squeeze my eyes shut real tight.

"Tex?" Johnny presses up against me 'n I can feel him shakin' vaguely, tryin' to hold himself still.

"Yeah?" 'N it's becomin' a real effort to hold everythin' up 'n in 'n together so I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. Mace weren't ever gonna forgive me for this. I got a real sudden image of bein' in that cell when I was twelve, all the walls foldin' in on me. Like how Rowdy got when I didn't take him out ridin' one bit the first week Johnny got his bike. Just all filled up with the urge to jump straight outta that car while I still had the chance 'n run 'n run. But I dunno where I'd even go to so I just stay right where I am.

"We're really in it now, huh?" I could see the eyes of the cop as he stared back at me in the rearview mirror. He had the same color as Pop. I touched my cheek thoughtlessly, right where he'd belted me that day I got hauled in for borrowin' that truck.

"Yeah, Johnny. I reckon we are."

[dailynnt]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Hello dear army 💜 I decided to make a list of my recommendations for the stories I read and liked the most. Each of these works sank into my soul and I consider these writers very talented and they literally made my heart flutter! Inspiration to you my dear to create even more beautiful stories! 🫶🏻

Most of these fanfics contain explicit scenes, so read at your own risk 😉

𓏵 The mask of purity by @lostinbangtan7 | ongoing

— Jungkook idol x Y/N famous/artist/singer

— Rough sex, unprotected, overstimulation, impregnation

ᝰ In a world where desire and ambition intertwine, Y/N and Jungkook share a secret that threatens to consume them both. When jealousy takes hold of Jungkook, he reveals the possessive darkness lurking beneath the mask of purity that defines his public image. What began as clandestine meetings evolves into a mutual obsession where desire and danger merge, challenging them to confront an unsettling truth: their connection transcends the physical, but it could destroy them.

𓏵 cruel secrets - J.JK - epilogue (M) by @hellokittykookies | finished

— doctor! jk, twin! jk x fem! reader

— murder, identity fraud/theft?, doctor! jk, twin! jk, fraud, divorce, escaping/moving away, labor, pregancy sex, unprotected sex, public sex (plane), oral..? (Male)

ᝰ Marrying one of the twins, especially if they're identical, can be fun. but what if one starts pretending to be the other? especially murder involved, but what you don't know won't hurt you.. right?

𓏵 Hot and pissed and on the pill by @hellokittykookies | finished

— oc is tipsy but sober enough to know what she's doing, riding, jk having a lil thing with oc and her skirt, praises, jk calling oc "slut" once, spitting, hairpulling, slapping, dry humping at first, jungkook asking if she's sure first, oc breaking his window lock lmaoo, big c! jk, unprotected sex (USE CONDOMS FOR SAFETY YALL), praise, oc taking the initiative, the heathers inspired, dead girl walking from the heathers, literally porn and lastly it's not proofread

𓏵 “3 words, 8 letters. I mean it” - J.JK - Mini (M) by @hellokittykookies | finished

— j.jk x fem! Reader

— chuckblair inspired, limo sx, gossip girl parties setting, unprotected sex (yk what to do babes), riding, praisekink, comparing, big c!jk, slight public sex, not proofread, lemme know what i missed!

𓏵 ego season masterlist | jjk by @sparklingchim | ongoing

— hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, college!au, fwb, brother's best friend

ᝰ your ex-high-school crush is now your fuck buddy. you just gotta make sure that your older brother taehyung, jungkook's best friend, doesn't catch you red-handed.

𓏵 𐙚 safeword (smut+comfort) by @redcherrykook | finished

— daddy!jungkook and sub oc, "bunny, doll, sweet girl , baby, princess", usage of safeword "melon" , doggy, choking(?)/ face into pillow, spanking, rough, soft make up care, praise, very sweet dom JK, size kink, oc has pink tones in her skin, crying

𓏵 𐙚 bad boy, good girl / highschool sweet♡s by @redcherrykook | finished

— highschool sweethearts, parking lot blowjob, backshots, they r lovebirds, dirty talk, praise, big cawck JK, creampie, desperate seggs, getting chased by cops, jungkook smokes and sells weed, is tatted UP, oc is a quiet good girl nerd

𓏵 𖤓.ೃ࿔* WARM + jeon jungkook by @mmegwrld | finished

— angsty, hurt.. comfort, situationship jk, you’re too patient with him.. crying, slow build up? a little bit of smut - praises, oral (m receiving), JK IS AN ASSHOLE IN SOME PARTS

ᝰ you and jungkook are college roommates, but sometimes you two hook up. all the time, actually. he continuously pushes you away.. and you stay.

𓏵 she's not me - JK - FF - ONE SHOT (M) by @hellokittykookies | finished

— ex!jk x ex!fem!reader

— ex2l, cheating, smut, fluff if you squint

ᝰ He said he moved on, but why does your toothbrush still stand next to his, even when he has "someone new" already?

𓏵 Pose for me by @hellokittykookies | finished

— Model! jk x Photographer! reader (y/n also ji ah)

— slow burn, fake dating, forced proximity, angst, romance, mutual pining, emotional hurt/comfort, smut, hidden identity, jealousy, Fashion industry au.

ᝰ After years of running from the life you never wanted, you thought you had finally succeeded. erasing y/n, becoming ji-ha, and leaving your past behind. But then came him. A model you accidentally brought to a cotillion, a man effortlessly loved by the woman who had become family to you. And it just so happens He was connected to the one person you abandoned nine years ago. You were supposed to avoid him. To walk away. So why did you keep finding yourself right next to him?

𓏵 Just one night by @gleamingseok | finished

— Smut, Soft Dom Jungkook, Club AU

— Grinding, public touch, dom!Jungkook, car fingering, overstimulation hints, soft dirty talk, protected sex

𓏵 A Black Eye & Two Kisses. by @igwb | finished

— strangers to lovers au, angst

— angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarchal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, blood, & violence, jk is the only good man here♡, mentions of; sexual contents (no actual smut!), womens struggles & having to fight for a place in a patriarchal society

ᝰ you knew life wouldn’t be easy as a woman in a world built by men. you had grown up knowing that it was only a matter of time before you, too, would face that same brutal reality. even as you dreamed of something else—something as simple as independence—you understood how utopian that idea was for a woman in times like these. but who could have known that, sometimes, freedom could come from a man himself? a lost soul, like you, caught in the same struggle, trapped in his own way. a soul that, despite everything, might just understand your pain.

𓏵 Lines of fate | jjk by @kookiestarlight | ongoing

�� tattooist!jungkook x f. reader

— apocalypse au, exes to lovers (?) dad!jungkook, survival, angst, eventual smut

ᝰ the last thing Jungkook ever imagined was an outbreak that turned the dead into the living. But even more unexpected is seeing you—an ex he’s known nothing about in the past four years—with a small child who bears a striking resemblance to himself. As Jungkook grapples with the shock and the city spirals into chaos, the two of you are thrust back together, forced to confront unresolved feelings, long-buried truths, and the horrors of the deadly virus taking over.

𓏵 "something" in @awrkive docs 🤭 | finished

— dol!jk x producer!(fem)reader, they are mean to each other 😬, just.. weird dynamics tbh. explicit sexual content: unprotected s*x, multiple positions, cre*mpie, brief c*nnilingus

ᝰ where you and jungkook are in a situationship and you kind of hate each other but the sex is great

𓏵 jeon jungkook - handle with care by @dreamersparacosm | finished

— oral (f recieving), he hits it from the back, hair pulling, blue collar dick🚨🚨

ᝰ in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.

𓏵 Parasocial | jjk (m) by @youthguk | finished

— smut, best friends with benefits, a little bit toxic, jungkook and reader are a little messy and ruin life’s of people around them

ᝰ Everyone in your circle knew that where there was you, Jungkook wasn't far behind. It was just your natural state of being - together. Your relationship had this beautiful, messy way of coloring outside the lines of typical friendship. But somewhere between algebra homework and growing pains, his protective streak went from "adorably concerned" to "intensely involved in literally everything."

𓏵 𐙚₊˚⊹ POINT OF VIEW // JJK ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ by @muniimyg | ongoing

— fluff, crack, & angst

𓏵 Thoughts of You by @scarluna | finished

— plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

— mature language, a little sexual tension

ᝰ Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate co company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

𓏵 D&D (m) by @aajjks | finished

— roomate!jk x fem!reader.

— 18+, explícït längüägë, vëry gräphïc änd fïlthÿ dïälögüë, drünk Jüngkook, H Ô R N Y JK, ïntënsë sëxüäl tënsïön, rïdïcülöüsly bôld flïrtätïön, händ pläçëmënts gëttïng ä lïttlë tóó clösë, dïrty hümör, änd füll-ön läck öf fïltër, brò ís hórny.

ᝰ There is a lot to deal with whenever your horny roommate ends up drunk as fuck.

𓏵 The Shower Show (m) by @aajjks | finished

— roommate jungkook x female!reader

— shôwêr wârs, rôômâtês tûrñêd châôtîc fôês, jûñgkôôk bêîñg â flîrty lîttlê shît, tôwêl drâmâ, bîg d sélf-hypê, înâpproprîâtê shôwêr sêx rêfêrêñcês, dîrtÿ jôkês, thrôwîñg shâmpôô âs â wêâpôñ, sêxûâl têñsîôñ bât nó shôwêr shârîñg (fôr ñôw).

ᝰ A lot happens when you find out that your horny housemate is taking a shower in your bathroom and the worst way to find out is when you walk in on him naked in the shower.

𓏵 what are you willing to do? by @trivia-yandere | finished

— smut, light yandere tendancies nothing too crazy (yet), power imbalance, dirty talking, kissing, nipple sucking/rubbing, oral sex, dry humping, fingering

ᝰ After managing to dodge your property manager out of rent for two months, you're left in a vulnerable position when he finally comes looking for you.

𓏵 bridges we almost burned 𓇼 𓂂 ˚ ◌ by @kooffeecup | finished

— angst, romance

ᝰ when you see your boyfriend giving ride to the new intern frequently because he thinks it’s convenient, something snaps inside you.

𓏵 Stuck With You. (m) by @aajjks | finished

— stûck în â rôôm tôgêthêr trôpê, crîngê jûngkôôk, hôrnÿ jûngkôôk, tsûndêrê ÿn, sêxûâl jôkês, ônê bêd trôpê, hê jûst wânts tô hît ît wîth ÿôû ând lîvê hâppîlÿ êvêr âftêr.

ᝰ Imagine being stuck in a room with a walking nightmare who really wants to fuck you.

𓏵 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐁 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐔 by @pennyellee | ongoing

— heartthrob!jk, yandere!jk x fashion employee f!reader

— dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s, minors dni 18+ | sexual tension, emotional distress, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, jk is selfish af, jk is delulu, oral (fem receiving), forced oral (m receiving) spanking, squirting, cum swallowing, creampie, yandere behaviour, obsessive behaviour, choking, rough sex, pussy pounding, bruises, manipulation, gaslighting, strong language, oppressiveness

ᝰ You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?

𓏵 IN HIS MERCY | JUNGKOOK FF by @horchatakoo | finished

— yandere jk x queen bee y/n, manipulation, blackmailing, big dick jk, dom jk, mean jk, smut cause grahhh, cumming inside

ᝰ who would have thought that you, the queen bee of the school, would be a crying mess beneath the very boy you bullied?

𓏵 dear me — jeon jungkook by @writesvani | ongoing

— lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

— estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

— angst, fluff, smut (all characters are of age), YEARNING, explicit language, pinning, misunderstandings, forbidden love, JK being torn (but so is Y/n), this is NOT a cheating fic, arguing, cursing, substance use (alcohol & cigarettes), nostalgia, happy ending (probably)

ᝰ Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

𓏵 study break | jjk by @ggukivrse | finished

— college au, established relationship, smut (?)

— jk wears glasses (yes that is a warning), oc and jk are both menaces, kissing, making out, allusions to sex

ᝰ in which you’re all distraction and no remorse, and jungkook keeps coming back for more

𓏵 to turn a bad thing good | jjk by @chateautae | ongoing

— ceo!jungkook x law student!reader

— series, arranged marriage!au, fwb!au (?), haters to lovers!au, smut, fluff, angst

— swearing, alcohol/marijuana consumption, mentions of ptsd/trauma, mentions of confrontative violence (with other characters, not each other), explicit sexual content, oral (m. and f. receiving), unprotected sex, penetrative sex (chapters have their own warnings!)

ᝰ jungkook’s drunken one night stand goes awry when he comes to learn not only is he being forced into an arranged marriage, but it’s to the very girl he abandoned that night—and things get a lot more complicated when you’re the best hookup he’s ever had.

𓏵 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 by @jungkoode | ongoing

— enemies to lovers, emotional slow burn, smut with plot, fuck buddies

ᝰ When your search for affordable NYC housing leads you to apartment 6B, you think you've hit the jackpot. That is, until you realize your new roommate is the guy from that one wild night on January - the one who ruined you for anyone else. Now you're stuck sharing walls with the living embodiment of your worst mistake, and the sexual tension is thick enough to choke on. Between his emotional damage and your trust issues, this arrangement is a disaster waiting to happen.

But hey, at least the hate sex is phenomenal.

𓏵 ⋆｡°✩ TABLE 3 by @justarkive | ongoing

— pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

ᝰ Before Jungkook enlists in the military, his life takes an unexpected turn when he visits a local restaurant with friends and meets a waitress who doesn’t recognize him. Surprised by your lack of star-struck reaction, Jungkook finds himself drawn to your down-to-earth nature, especially his previous struggles with the pressure of constant drama on social media regarding his relationships. Little do you know, Jungkook is about to leave for the military, which inevitably bring’s complications to your connection… do you find a way to fix it?

𓏵 ( 전정국 ) . . . BURNING HOUR jeon jungkook by @jungqkook | finished

— SMUT ! including : unprotected sex, rough sex, public sex but not really public, missionary, doggy, kook’s dirty, dirty mouth, nipple play, oral sex (f receiving), fingering + fluff <3 ! this work is fiction and therefore it does not represent the real jungkook !

ᝰ there’s nothing better than spending an entire day at your boyfriend’s yatch, tanning and waiting for the sunset with a drink in your hand… too bad your boyfriend had other plans for you.

I think that's all for now 🙂‍↕️ I think this list will continue 🫶🏻 Enjoy 💜

💋 Diylynn T

[lady-luckk]

Can I get more magical girl content? I love magical girls so much :3

lights, glitter, action!!!

# pairings: yandere batfam x magical girl reader

# synopsis: you randomly fall out of the sky and into the arms of the batfamily. now you get to experience wacky adventures with them.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

thinking of a drabble about a magical girl (aka you) who crash-lands—quite literally—into gotham, face-first into a rooftop during a red hood stakeout. your transformation sequence sparks brighter than the bat-signal, and jason todd immediately points a gun at you before you finish your glittery intro pose. “i am celestia radiant, guardian of purity and—” click “you’ve got three seconds to explain the sparkles.”

“do not shoot that sparkly person,” dick grayson says through comms, voice full of older brother exhaustion. “that’s not a sentence i thought i’d say today, but here we are.”

you insist your wand only “dispels negativity,” which doesn’t go over well when you try to boop jason with it and his helmet actually falls off. “what the—kid, that thing costs more than your tiara.”

tim drake attempts to scan you with his tech. the scanner explodes in pink glitter. he blinks. “great. now my system’s infected with lisa frank malware.”

“i can sense your inner turmoil,” you tell him, solemnly. “do you even sleep?”

“define sleep.”

“when your soul regenerates through restful peace.”

“yeah, no. i run on coffee, spite, and childhood trauma.”

damian challenges you immediately and calls you “a delusional pastel distraction.” you politely deck him with a glitter beam. alfred bandages him while muttering, “perhaps don’t insult people with projectile sparkles next time.”

you enter the batcave and gasps, “so much repressed emotion... this place reeks of unhealed trauma!” bruce walks out of the shadows and deadpans, “welcome to gotham.”

dick pokes your wand, curious. it responds by turning into a cat. neither of them say anything. they just nod like this is normal.

bruce finally sits you down and says, “are you a threat?”

“only to sadness, injustice, and tight schedules.”

“...”

you’re officially listed in the batcomputer as “magical girl (?) – harmless (???) – very pink (confirmed).”

after months of you showing up to “aid gotham’s bravest hearts,” the batfam starts developing a crushing, all-consuming soft spot for you—like an airborne glitter virus of affection.

jason is furious about it.

“they’re weird, they’re loud, and they smells like vanilla cupcakes!”

“you mean the vanilla cupcakes you keep stealing from them?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

dick develops a habit of dramatically appearing next to you with his shirt slightly torn. “oops, must’ve gotten grazed again. guess i need magical healing?”

“you’ve got twelve band-aids on and none of them are real wounds,” tim whispers.

“don’t ruin this for me.”

tim claims he’s above it all. “we don’t even know what dimension they’re from.”

“your made them a custom batphone,” jason says.

“for tactical reasons.”

“it’s shaped like a heart.”

“tactical. heartline security.”

damian insists he feels nothing. "you’re a distraction." but when you calls him “gallant” after he saves a kitten, he literally freezes. the kitten escapes. he doesn’t notice. he’s still staring.

bruce has, very clearly, stated:

“i don’t care about you personally.” completely straight-faced. like he’s reading a grocery list. everyone heard it. everyone quotes it.

and yet… every time you so much as glance at something remotely out of budget, he’s already pulled out his black card.

“i’m just funding mission efficiency,” he says.

“that’s a limited-edition 40th anniversary magical cow figure from meow meow doki.”

“you seemed interested. we might need it.”

you mention wanting snacks once during patrol. the next day, the cave fridge is stocked with every brand you’ve ever casually mentioned.

“it’s for team morale,” bruce says, not making eye contact.

“you bought six flavors of celestial-themed ice cream.”

“they were on sale.”

you say it’s cold in your room once.

bruce upgrades the entire manor’s heating system by the end of the day.

“old wiring,” he says. “dangerous.”

over time it becomes apparent that they’ve grown an unhealthy attachment towards you.

whenever dick spots you, he clings to you like he can't bear to be apart. he’ll throw his arm around your shoulders with a grin, holding you a little too tightly. “did you miss me?” he’ll ask, leaning in just a little too close as he whispers in your ear. you can feel the weight of his gaze even when he’s not looking directly at you

jason has a habit of “accidentally” touching you. when you're walking together, his fingers will brush against yours, lingering just a second longer than necessary. he’ll give you a low, almost inaudible chuckle when you flinch. “i know you don’t mind,” he’ll say with a wicked grin, his hand remaining a little too close to yours.

tim loves to stand behind you when you’re busy, too close for comfort. you’ll feel his breath on your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your back as he "casually" adjusts your chair. “just making sure you're comfortable,” he’ll say with a tone that feels like more than just a comment. when you turn around, he’s already walking away, as if he never meant to invade your space at all.

damian doesn’t shy away from showing his possessiveness. if you're out in public, he’ll stand a little too close to you, his presence always hovering just behind you like a shadow. sometimes, when you’re sitting, he’ll casually rest his hand on your knee, as if to remind you that you’re his responsibility. “stay close,” he’ll say, his voice unyielding.

bruce doesn't need to say much; his actions speak louder. he’ll touch your arm with a hand that's just firm enough to be a reminder. if you're sitting near him, he’ll make sure his leg brushes against yours, the slightest physical connection making it clear he's always aware of your presence. “are you comfortable?” he’ll ask, his gaze unreadable as if keeping you within his reach is the only thing that matters.

something that i've wondered was what people did during those long ass magical girl transformation.

imagine this: the city was in chaos. explosions echoed in the distance. the batboys were in the middle of a high-stakes battle against a villain whose name they still hadn’t quite figured out, but who was throwing around enough toxins and lasers to give gotham a new reason to be paranoid.

dick was leaping from wall to wall, trying to outmaneuver the villain’s henchmen. jason was head-butting a wall, making sure no one tried to flank them. tim was hacking into a control panel, eyes flicking between screens like a caffeinated squirrel. damian was already fighting the villain head-on, his sword clashing against their armor.

then, a voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the chaos:

“hey guys, be ready—i’m just finishing my transformation!”

everyone freezes. like someone hit pause on the action.

dick paused mid-flip, hanging from a ceiling beam. “wait—did they just say ‘transformation?’”

jason’s fist was raised, but he didn’t punch, staring at the comms like he’d been told the laws of physics were invalid. “they’re really doing this now?”

tim blinked. “are they seriously transforming? right in the middle of all this?”

damian, standing with his sword poised and looking perfectly ready to end the villain’s reign, sighed audibly. “this is… highly inefficient.”

but he didn’t move a muscle. not even to attack. he was waiting.

bruce, who had been silently observing the chaos and directing the others via comms, sighed too—his voice just low enough to avoid detection. “if we’re waiting, then wait. no need to rush this. hold positions. let’s see how long this takes.”

there was no mistaking it. he was as much a part of this ridiculous ritual as everyone else.

the villain, who had been watching the absurdity unfold, narrowed their eyes. “what are they doing? are they—waiting? are they—really pausing for a transformation?” the villain scoffed, clearly annoyed by the delay.

they pointed a glowing gauntlet at the group. “you’re all pathetic!”

but the batboys? completely unmoved. they were all still. all waiting. they were locked in place, every one of them silently enduring this ridiculous delay.

jason, gritting his teeth, turned to face the villain for the first time in a few minutes. “we’d love to keep fighting, but... you know. waiting on them.”

tim, flipping through some data on his wrist computer, half-checked out. “i’ll just optimize our schedule for the next one, but... they better have a good reason for this.”

dick was already making a list of things he could do during the wait. "i mean, it’s a whole process. at least we get a breather."

the villain, becoming increasingly frustrated, clenched their fists and began pacing. “no. i will not wait any longer!”

they leveled their weapon toward the batboys, preparing for an attack—but they didn’t move. everyone stood frozen—the batboys too disciplined to break formation, and you?

still getting ready.

there was another long pause. the villain shot a glare at bruce, who was calmly scanning the room, not even bothering to acknowledge the interruption. “are you all seriously letting this happen?” the villain snapped, voice rising. “i can’t believe i’m waiting on—”

and then it happened.

the unmistakable sound of sparkles filled the air. a soft chime echoed through the comms.

“magical girl transformation, initiate!”

dick’s eyes practically sparkled. “here it comes…”

jason let out a low groan, leaning back against a pillar. “this better be good.”

tim was frantically refreshing his mental list of everything he’d need to do to process this information later.

damian folded his arms and glared at the villain. “this delay better be worth it.”

there was a soft flash, a trail of glitter, and—there you were. in your full magical girl outfit, sparkling like a dream—the colors bright, the fabric catching the light, and your transformation complete in all its glory.

there was an awkward silence.

jason blinked, covered in what was still residual glitter from the earlier mishap. “okay, that... took a little longer than i thought.”

tim let out a long sigh. “i swear, the next time we’re scheduling this—everyone gets a 30-second limit.”

“done!” you announced, twirling dramatically. “let’s do this!”

bruce stared at you with a level of composure that barely hid his tiny sigh of approval.

“...now, we can continue.”

dick, ever the dramatic one, clapped. “absolutely worth it.”

jason just groaned and rolled his eyes, but the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his lips.

“yeah, yeah, but next time, let’s maybe—i don’t know—not do this during a fight?”

the villain, now fuming, was clearly done. “this is your strategy?” they snapped. “you’ve got to be kidding me!”

they swung their weapon, clearly intending to take you down—but the batboys weren’t having it anymore.

in perfect sync, they moved, attacking from all angles.

you, of course, were already ready, using your powers to effortlessly counter their attacks.

the fight lasted all of five minutes after that.

once the villain was down, the batboys stepped back, eyes on you. jason let out a snort. “well, that was... something.”

tim raised an eyebrow. “maybe next time we make a better schedule for these things?”

damian just crossed his arms. “you’d think after all these months, we’d learn not to wait for their transformation.”

dick, flashed a smile. “what can i say? it’s worth it.”

bruce, just muttered, “next time, no delays.”

you, oblivious to their frustration and somehow enjoying the chaos, smiled brightly. “i’m glad you guys handled it without me!”

the villain, now completely defeated and embarrassed, could only mumble as they were carted off. “i cannot believe i lost to these people.”

and the batboys? they’d just endured yet another ridiculous chapter in their lives with you. but they all secretly agreed on one thing.

no matter how much it annoyed them… they’d always wait for your magical girl transformation.

[dreamersworldduh]

Hi, I love your stories. The way you write is truly incredible.

That said, if you don't mind, I'd like to make a story request. You see, I couldn't help but look at your profile picture and wonder.

How about a Damian Wayne x Male Reader story where the reader is an Anodite (or Gwen Tennyson's race, I can't remember her name well, I think she was an Anodite? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I don't know, maybe during an argument with Bruce and his brothers, Damian angrily escapes from the mansion where he is surprised by a boy with apparent amnesia who escaped from Lex Luthor? It turns out the evil bald man wanted to use him to experiment with his body, Damian a little doubtful, but at the same time curious takes him with him. Maybe you could add a Thamarean rank and have them learn the language with a kiss? I don't know 🤭 but that's the main idea.

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — After a disastrous mission strains his relationship with his family, Damian Wayne isolates himself in Gotham City—only to witness a meteor crash in a local park. Expecting debris, he instead finds a teenage boy—unconscious, glowing, and surrounded by a powerful pink aura.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with our first request of the list and yes, Gwen is an Anodite. This was very interesting to write because I wasn’t sure of the angle that I was going for. I wrote two separate versions of this and chose this one. I’m still working on my other requests/works while trying to do my character animation finals. Anyway, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

DAMIAN WAYNE carried a legacy that few could imagine and even fewer could survive. Every name tied to him was a weight—a title soaked in blood, power, and expectation. He was the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, a man whose name whispered through history like a ghost story told in secret, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins, who sought to shape the world through violence and control. From that lineage, Damian inherited a destiny forged in centuries of conquest, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

He was also the son of Bruce Wayne—Gotham's enigmatic protector, the Batman. A man who turned grief into mission, who wore trauma like armor and demanded excellence from all who stood beside him. Bruce raised him not as a boy, but as a soldier. Under Batman's watchful eye, Damian was expected to be more than just capable—he had to be precise, composed, and morally grounded in a world that had offered him little reason to believe in right and wrong.

Then there was his mother—Talia al Ghul. Brilliant, calculating, and lethal, she raised Damian with the League's doctrine etched into his bones. Before he could read, he was trained to disarm, to disable, to kill. Before he ever understood mercy, he understood efficiency. His childhood was a battlefield disguised as education. Every lesson came at a cost. Every success was expected. Every failure punished. He didn't grow up; he was forged.

When he finally took up the mantle of Robin, it wasn't to play sidekick—it was war. He fought beside Batman not as a boy eager for approval, but as a warrior trying to reconcile the man he was raised to be with the one his father hoped he could become. Every punch he threw, every enemy he brought down, was a step in a lifelong tug-of-war between legacy and identity.

But through all of it, there was one truth Damian held tighter than any blade: he was not a liar. He might be brutal. He might be cold. His confidence often came off as arrogance, and he rarely bothered softening his words. But he didn't deal in lies. To lie was weakness. It was dishonor. It was betrayal—not just of others, but of himself.

He had been trained to see deception as a tool, to use it, master it. But he refused to let it define him. Honesty, to Damian, wasn't kindness—it was a form of strength. It was control. Every truth he spoke was deliberate, sometimes cruel, always unflinching. It was the one code he had carved out for himself, separate from both the League's corruption and the Bat's rigid morality. Truth was the one thing no enemy could twist and no ally could question.

Damian Wayne could be many things—an assassin, a vigilante, a son, a warrior. But a liar? Never.

THE MISSION had gone sideways before it even started. The intel was bad—half-sourced chatter from unreliable contacts. The timing was off—an hour too late to catch the deal in progress, and just early enough to walk right into a kill box. It was supposed to be a clean op: in, intercept, out. Instead, it turned into a firefight in a warehouse rigged with explosives and death traps, where every exit led to another ambush. Damian fought alongside Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, each of them moving like parts of a machine built for war. But even the best-trained machine breaks when every variable turns against it.

By the time they limped back to the Batcave, suits scorched, blood dried on knuckles and faces, the air was already thick with tension. No one said it, but they all felt it—that heat beneath the surface, that pressure building in their lungs and throats. The silence didn't last long.

Damian had barely unclasped his gauntlets when Nightwing's voice snapped across the cave like a whip. "What the hell was that?" It wasn't just frustration—it was betrayal, confusion, disbelief all rolled into one.

Red Hood didn't wait for answers. He stepped forward like a fuse already burning, shoulders squared, helmet off, face dark with fury. "You want to explain why the whole damn place was rigged and you didn't say a word?" His voice was sharp, his stance aggressive—like he was ready to throw more than just words.

Tim stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression drawn tight. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment hit harder than the others' rage. "There were choices made that didn't line up with the plan," he said, gaze locked on Damian. "You made calls no one authorized."

They closed in—not physically, but verbally, surrounding him with doubt and accusation. It was like standing in the eye of a storm while lightning cracked in every direction. Each brother threw their own version of the same demand: What were you thinking?

Damian stood at the console, the pale blue light casting shadows across his face. His arms were crossed, shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn't back down, didn't shift under their stares. His expression was unreadable—anger buried beneath control, emotion masked by discipline. But his eyes didn't waver.

Nightwing moved like a caged animal, pacing in quick strides, his voice rising as he listed out every misstep. "You ignored protocol. You split from formation. You led us into the ambush."

Red Hood's voice cut in, louder, raw. "You could've gotten us all killed, and you act like it was just another sparring session."

Tim didn't yell, but his dissection was surgical. "You made decisions alone. You didn't trust us enough to share intel. That's not how a team works."

And still—Damian didn't flinch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was level. Cold. Final.

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

His tone wasn't defensive. There was no desperation to be understood. He wasn't trying to win them over—he was stating facts. Stone on steel. He held the line, unshaken even as Red Hood stepped into his space, fists clenched at his sides, daring a reaction. Damian didn't give him one. When Tim shook his head, eyes heavy with disappointment, Damian didn't look away.

They were furious. And maybe they had the right to be. But anger didn't rewrite the truth. He hadn't betrayed them. He hadn't sabotaged the mission. He'd made a call in the field when no one else had all the facts. And he'd saved lives, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

So he stood there, letting their anger wash over him, letting their words crash and echo through the cave. Not defending himself. Not apologizing. Just holding the truth in front of him like a blade—and daring anyone to call it a lie.

Even Bruce joined in.

He had stood apart during the chaos—silent, still, barely more than a shadow cast by the glow of the Batcomputer. Arms folded across his chest, cape draped like a curtain of judgment, the cowl masking everything but the weight behind his silence. The others had raged, thrown their accusations like blades, but Bruce had waited. Watching. Listening. Measuring.

When the storm finally began to die down, when his sons' voices dropped from shouts to heavy breaths and clipped remarks, Bruce stepped forward. One step. No theatrics. No anger in his voice—just cold certainty.

"Damian," he said, his voice low and steady, "your actions nearly cost lives tonight."

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice or add heat. He didn't need to. The sentence landed with surgical precision—clean, quiet, and devastating. It wasn't just a critique. It was a verdict. The kind that didn't invite a response. The kind that carried the weight of both the cowl and the father beneath it.

Damian didn't blink, but his jaw tightened like a trap springing shut. His fists curled so tight at his sides that his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. Every breath was a battle—shallow, controlled, forced through clenched teeth. He said nothing. Because if he spoke, the words would come out as venom.

It wasn't the team's outrage that hit him hardest. It wasn't Red Hood's fury or Nightwing's disbelief or Tim's cold precision. It was that. One sentence. One judgment. Delivered without anger, without hesitation, and without faith.

The Batcave felt colder than it had minutes before. Every monitor hummed like a reminder of everything that had just been said. The shadows felt deeper. The walls closer. The air tighter.

Damian looked at Bruce—just once. His father stood like a statue of finality, eyes hidden behind white lenses, unmoved. Unreachable.

That was enough.

Without a word, Damian turned. His cape snapped behind him like a second heartbeat, echoing each sharp footfall as he walked away from the console, from his brothers, from him. He didn't have a destination. He didn't need one. He just needed distance—space between him and the fury tightening in his chest like a vice.

He wouldn't beg for understanding. He wouldn't explain himself to people who had already decided who he was. Not to his brothers. Not even to Bruce.

Let them think he was reckless. Let them believe the worst. He knew the truth. And right now, that truth was the only thing keeping him from tearing the place apart.

As he reached the main hall of Wayne Manor, the warm glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor. Alfred stood at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed in his crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Damian with quiet concern.

"Master Damian," he said, gently, like someone easing open a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.

Damian didn't answer. He didn't slow. His shoulder brushed past Alfred's arm, sharp and unyielding, and he kept moving like the words hadn't been spoken at all.

Alfred didn't follow. He didn't call after him. He'd seen that walk before—shoulders rigid, head low, stride too precise to be anything but restrained fury. It wasn't the time to intervene.

Up the stairs. Down the west hall. Past oil paintings and silent clocks. Damian reached his room and shoved the door open, then slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

He stripped off the Robin suit like it burned him. Gauntlets peeled off and thrown across the room. Boots kicked aside. The cape—torn, soot-streaked, still reeking of smoke—hit the floor in a crumpled heap. The tunic came last, dragged over his head and tossed without care. He stood there, chest heaving, the silence pressing in around him like a weight.

Cold air from the manor's vents hit his sweat-damp skin. He yanked on a black hoodie—plain, loose, anonymous. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Civilian gear. No symbol. No armor. Nothing to connect him to them.

He didn't leave a note. Didn't shut off the light. Didn't even look back.

He walked to the tall window that faced the estate's southern grounds. His fingers moved automatically—unlocking the latch, sliding the glass open, letting in the rush of cool night air. Trees rustled in the distance. The moon cut through the clouds, casting silver across the hedges below.

Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill. Crouched. Focused. And dropped.

He landed in the hedges with barely a sound, rolled once, then straightened, already moving. No backup. No comms. No tracker. He'd made sure of that.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one. He just had to get away. From the cave. From the silence. From him.

Because staying meant swallowing what they'd said. Accepting what they thought of him.

And Damian Wayne refused to be caged by anyone's version of who he was—not even his father's.

DAMIAN’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in soft, steady beats against the cracked concrete, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of Gotham's late-night sprawl. The city, always restless, had slowed to a quieter pulse—no sirens, no crowds, just the hum of streetlights and the occasional hiss of wind slipping through alleyways. His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingers curled tight against the lining. He walked without urgency, but with purpose, like movement alone could keep the storm inside him from surging back to the surface.

The roar of the Batcave, the voices, the judgment—all of it felt distant now, like a memory already starting to erode at the edges. The chill of the night air nipped at his cheeks, grounding him. Each breath came easier than the last. Every step further from Wayne Manor loosened something tight in his chest.

He turned a corner onto a quieter block and spotted a tiny juice bar nestled between a closed laundromat and a graffiti-covered bodega. Its flickering neon sign buzzed lazily in the window: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, it was empty, save for a tired-looking clerk half-asleep behind the counter.

Damian stepped in, keeping his hood up. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant. He scanned the menu, pointed at the only thing that sounded remotely tolerable. "Spinach, apple, ginger," he said, voice low.

The clerk didn't ask questions. Just gave a nod, blended the drink with mechanical efficiency, and slid it across the counter. Damian dropped a few bills on the counter—cash, always—and walked out with the cup in hand, the door's bell jingling behind him.

He made his way toward Robinson Park, slipping past shuttered storefronts and dim intersections. The smoothie was cold and sharp on his tongue—the kind of flavor that woke you up, cut through fog. The mix of bitter greens and ginger burned just enough to feel real. That was what he needed. Something real.

The edge of the park was quiet, the lamps casting soft halos across the paths. Trees rustled with wind overhead, branches shifting like old bones. Damian moved along the perimeter, not drawing attention, not needing to. His silhouette was just another shape in the dark—small, hunched, hooded. No mask. No emblem. Just another teenager in Gotham.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. The fire in his chest—the heat from the confrontation, the shame, the fury—it had cooled to a low burn. Still there, but manageable. His mind, usually a battlefield of reflexes and calculations, was still. Not empty, but quieter. Focused.

He sipped the smoothie again and took a breath so deep it stretched the tightness in his ribs. No shouting. No orders. No father waiting in the dark, arms crossed in judgment.

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

He didn't know how long he walked. It didn't matter. He wasn't chasing anything. He wasn't running from it either. He just needed to exist outside the weight of legacy and expectation. Outside the cave. Outside the mission.

Tonight, Damian was just a teen in a hoodie, walking under streetlights in a city that didn't know him.

And for the first time in hours, he could finally think.

Damian eventually drifted toward the heart of Robinson Park, his footsteps slow, deliberate, worn smooth by the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The smoothie was long gone, tossed in a bin near the rusted entrance gate, forgotten like the rest of the night's bitterness. The park was nearly deserted—too late for joggers, too early for the early risers. The only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the trees, the flickering buzz of half-dead streetlamps, and the breeze whispering through overgrown hedges.

Moths flitted lazily around the lamps, wings catching the dim light like flakes of ash. Damian moved along the winding path, eyes low, hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. The chaos of Gotham—the noise, the fire, the shouting—felt miles away, even though it was barely out of sight. The park existed in a pocket of stillness, insulated by tall trees and iron fencing. The skyline loomed on all sides, but here, in the center of it all, it felt like time had slowed.

He reached a worn bench near the park's neglected fountain. The wood was weathered and slightly crooked, one leg sinking into the dirt, but it held his weight as he sank into it. He slouched back, arms folded, his breath fogging in the cool night air. His eyes drifted upward, scanning what little he could see of the sky.

Gotham didn't allow for stars—not really. Too much light, too much smog. But Damian looked anyway. A few dim points of light clung to the black, stubborn and far away. A plane passed overhead, then another, blinking methodically. His thoughts quieted. The silence wasn't loaded, wasn't judgmental or tense. It was clean. Uncluttered. He could almost feel the anger draining out of him, like heat leaving metal.

Then, a flicker.

A streak of white light cut through the sky—fast, silent, unmistakable. A shooting star.

He blinked, barely believing he'd seen it. It was gone in an instant, like a thread yanked from the edge of the universe. He didn't make a wish. That wasn't his style. He didn't believe in signs or fate or magic falling from the sky.

But still... something inside him eased. Not healed. Not fixed. Just—eased.

He kept staring upward, his eyes searching the darkness, half-expecting to see another. And then, he saw something else.

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

His breath caught. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity.

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

The moment shattered. The calm ripped away. A piercing, high-pitched whine screamed through the sky, followed by a trail of fire and smoke that tore through the atmosphere like the world was splitting open. Damian didn't think—he moved.

He launched off the bench, diving to the side just as the object blazed overhead. The heat was searing—so intense it singed the back of his hoodie and stung his skin. The air cracked with a sound like thunder and metal colliding.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The object slammed into the park with a roar that shook the earth. A shockwave erupted, ripping through the grass and soil, flinging debris in all directions. Benches splintered like matchsticks. Streetlamps bent and shattered. The fountain exploded—chunks of stone and jets of water hurled into the air like a dying gasp.

Damian hit the ground hard, skidding through the grass, dirt flying into his eyes and mouth. He rolled, coughing, until he landed behind a toppled trash bin. It wasn't much, but it was cover. He crouched low, hoodie scorched, adrenaline pumping like fire in his veins.

Everything rang. His ears. His head. The world was chaos again.

And at the center of it—the crater.

Smoke coiled from the ruptured earth, glowing embers littering the torn grass. The heat was still radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat. And in the middle of it, nestled in molten soil and fractured rock, was something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone.

It was glowing. Faint at first, but steady. A soft, pulsing light—like it was breathing.

Damian pushed himself upright, his muscles tense, boots crunching over scorched grass and broken stone. He brushed the dirt from his sleeves with short, sharp motions, never once taking his eyes off the smoking crater that had carved itself into the heart of Gotham Park. His breathing was shallow but steady, the aftermath of the blast still echoing in his bones.

Somewhere beyond the trees, car alarms blared in overlapping patterns—a chaotic symphony of sirens and panic that rolled through the dark streets like a wave. Shattered glass glittered in the grass. The park's lampposts flickered erratically, casting long, jerking shadows across the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid scent of scorched earth, burnt wiring, and something stranger—something faintly metallic and ozone-slick, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Damian moved forward, slow and methodical, his footfalls silent despite the debris underfoot. The crater yawned before him, a jagged hole ripped into the earth, at least ten feet across, maybe deeper. Its edges were charred black, ringed with hissing embers and twisted patches of melted stone. Heat pulsed from its center, a wave of dry intensity that prickled his skin through the fabric of his hoodie.

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

At the center of the crater—surrounded by fractured earth and glowing debris—was a boy.

Damian stopped cold, the tension in his frame going taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with trained precision, breaking it down like a tactical feed. The teen looked... normal. Human. No claws. No wings. No grotesque mutations or cybernetic implants. He appeared to be around Damian's age, maybe slightly older—fifteen, sixteen at most. His build was lean, wiry. His skin was dusted with soot and sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. His clothes, though scorched and singed at the edges, were mostly intact—black pants, a thin jacket, shirt torn near the collar.

But the thing that shattered any illusion of this being ordinary was the light.

A soft, radiant aura pulsed around the boy's body. It shimmered with a strange, translucent pink hue, almost liquid in the way it moved—like it was alive. It didn't burn like fire or spark like electricity. It throbbed, slow and steady, mimicking a heartbeat. The glow bled into the surrounding crater, casting flickering shadows and distorting the air like rising heat off asphalt. Damian could feel it—tingling across his skin, humming in his teeth, stirring something ancient and electric deep in his chest.

He took a half-step closer.

Every instinct he'd ever learned screamed danger. This was unknown tech or alien power—or something worse. No parachute. No protective gear. The kid had fallen out of the sky, torn through the atmosphere like a comet, and was lying there breathing like it was nothing.

Damian's hand inched toward the hidden blade tucked inside his sleeve, fingers brushing the familiar grip.

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

The silence thickened around them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning debris and the distant wail of emergency sirens approaching from far across the city. Damian didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the crater, eyes locked on the glowing figure below, his body ready to move in any direction—attack, defend, retreat. But his mind raced with sharper questions.

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

Damian moved in, step by slow step, his boots grinding softly against scorched grass, crushed leaves, and fractured bits of concrete still warm from impact. The air thickened with each footfall. It wasn't smoke or fire—it was the aura, radiating off the boy like heat off molten metal. The closer Damian got, the more it pressed against him. Not painful, but oppressive. Like standing too close to a reactor—silent, thrumming, and ready to blow.

That glow—bright pink, tinged with violet at the edges—pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a thin shell around the boy. It rippled every few seconds, warping the air around it like a mirage. There was no sound, no crackle or hum, but Damian could feel it, deep in his bones. Every instinct told him to be careful. To back off.

He didn't.

He studied the boy's body, every inch of it, eyes sweeping over the shape, looking for twitches, breath, flickers of motion. Nothing moved, except the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Not labored. Not ragged. Controlled. Like sleep—or sedation.

Damian stepped right up to the edge of the crater, the pink light casting faint shadows across his face. And now, for the first time, he got a clear view.

This wasn't some civilian who fell out of the sky. The teen was wearing a suit—a full-body tactical ensemble, sleek and streamlined, with overlapping armor plating that looked forged more than manufactured. It wasn't bulky. It was precision-built, contoured to move. The materials didn't match anything Damian had ever seen in the League or the Batcave. It shimmered faintly under the aura's glow—silver and deep matte black, threaded with microscopic circuitry that pulsed through the fabric like living veins. Tech that was way beyond anything most people had access to.

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

Beneath a layer of ash and dust, half-obscured by scorch marks, was a logo.

A stylized green and purple "L," ringed by a polished metallic circle.

LexCorp.

Damian went still. The muscles in his neck coiled tight. His breath slowed.

Luthor.

The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Cold. Familiar. Dangerous.

Lex Luthor didn't do charity. He didn't hand out suits to lost children or build armor for random experiments. If this teen was wearing LexCorp tech—this advanced—it wasn't by accident. He was designed for something. A test subject. A weapon. A ticking bomb. Maybe all three.

Damian's mind went into overdrive, piecing together every angle. A boy falls out of the sky in a Luthor-built suit, radiating some unknown energy, and lands in Gotham of all places? That wasn't bad luck. That was a message. Or a move in a game no one else knew had started.

He circled the crater slowly, eyes never leaving the boy. The aura pulsed again—brighter this time—but didn't expand. No sudden flares. No instability. Just that constant throb, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

Damian reached for the communicator in his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing the edge.

He should call Bruce. He knew that. This was bigger than him. It was alien tech—or worse. The kind of thing that demanded containment protocols, scans, lockdown procedures. A dozen contingency plans were drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

But his hand stopped.

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him—past him, really. The cold judgment. The distance. The lack of trust. He thought of his brothers, surrounding him with doubt, accusing him, cutting him off before he could even explain. They'd see this teen and jump to conclusions. Just like they had with him.

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

He'd figure out who this boy was. What he was. What Luthor had done.

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

Suddenly, Damian's head snapped up at the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Sirens. At first, just a single wail somewhere in the distance, but quickly joined by others, layering over each other like warning bells in a war zone. Red and blue strobes began flickering through the canopy of trees that bordered Gotham Park, distorted by branches and leaves, but getting closer with every second.

He clicked his tongue sharply, annoyed at himself. His hand moved on instinct to his side—reaching for the comfort of his utility belt, for a smoke pellet, a grapnel gun, something.

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't planned for this. He wasn't on patrol, wasn't chasing leads or tailing suspects. He'd left the mansion in a storm of anger, needing space, needing air. This was supposed to be a walk. A night to breathe. To be left alone. Not... this. Not a living weapon falling from the sky wearing a LexCorp insignia like a branded curse.

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

No gear meant no backup. No way to ping the Batcave, no call to Oracle, no silent signal to Nightwing or Tim. Bruce would know something had happened—he always did—but he wouldn't know Damian was here, standing at ground zero. And that mattered. Because if the GCPD showed up first, or worse, if ARGUS or DEO or one of the other government agencies monitoring Gotham's paranormal messes got their hands on this guy...

It would be over. Damian knew how they worked. The boy would be bagged, tagged, and dissected before anyone even figured out he had a name.

He looked down again, the pink light from the aura casting a soft glow on Damian's face. The kid still hadn't moved. Still breathing, still unconscious. Whatever force shield protected him hadn't weakened, but it hadn't lashed out either. It pulsed gently, steadily. Like a warning. Or a countdown.

This was no ordinary tech. LexCorp hadn't just built a suit—they'd built this. A person wrapped in power, disguised as a boy. Or maybe a boy buried under the weight of something far more dangerous.

The sirens were getting closer now, echoing across the park in sharp bursts. And then—thump-thump-thump—the deep, mechanical rhythm of helicopter blades cutting through the night sky. Searchlights flared to life in the clouds above, wide beams sweeping the park, carving through the darkness like knives.

Damian's breath hitched for a second. He backed away from the edge of the crater, eyes flicking across the treeline, scanning escape routes, blind spots, anything that would get him and the kid out before the spotlight locked in.

They had maybe two minutes. Less if someone on the ground already had visual.

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

He made a call, quick and quiet, to the only person who wouldn't question it.

Himself.

He turned back toward the crater, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to move. This boy didn't belong to the cops. He didn't belong to Lex. And he damn sure wasn't getting left behind.

Damian crouched low at the lip of the crater, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched, still radiating a dry, searing heat that clung to the soles of his boots. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from the fractured earth, and the stench of ozone and burned metal lingered in the air. The boy lay sprawled across the torn ground like a dropped marionette, limbs slack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost mechanical rhythm.

Damian moved with practiced caution, shifting his weight forward until he was just within reach. His fingers hovered over the pink glow that cocooned the boy's body, the heat prickling against his skin like static before a lightning strike. The aura buzzed faintly—not a sound, exactly, more like a pressure in the air, vibrating against his bones. It was wrong. Not magic. Not tech. Something else entirely.

Still, he pressed in.

The instant his fingertips brushed the edge of the armored suit, the boy's eyes snapped open—wide, bright, and electric with terror.

Before Damian could fully process it, the boy lunged upright, his movements impossibly fast, as if his body had been spring-loaded for panic. He jerked into a crouch, limbs tense, hands braced against the dirt like an animal about to bolt. His mouth flew open, and a stream of words came tumbling out—fast, frantic, and completely unintelligible.

It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Damian had ever heard before. And he'd heard a lot.

The language was guttural and sharp, but carried a strange rhythm, like there was a structure to it, maybe even a syntax—like it was half-spoken, half-transmitted. Not random babbling. Not madness. Language. But alien.

Damian's brain raced through his mental database: not Kryptonian, not Martian, not Tamaranian or Rannian. Nothing from Thanagar. Nothing from the League's interstellar records or the Batcave's archives. This was something new.

The boy scuttled backward in jerky, uncoordinated movements, as if he wasn't entirely sure how his own body worked. He stumbled over his own legs, breathing fast, shallow, frantic. The aura around him pulsed hard—hotter, brighter, erratic. It crackled with raw energy, casting streaks of pink light across the crater walls like lightning in a storm cloud. Damian could feel it on his skin now—tingling, alive, almost sentient.

The boy's eyes darted everywhere—trees, sky, shadows. His hands clenched into fists, then opened again like he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. His muscles were locked in survival mode. His face—too young for this, too human for this—was twisted in fear, not aggression.

Damian slowly raised his hands, palms up and empty. No weapons. No sudden moves. His voice was steady, even. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

The boy didn't flinch at the sound of his voice—but he didn't understand it either. His eyes locked onto Damian's face, scanning him with a mix of suspicion and desperate hope, like he wanted to believe the tone, even if the words meant nothing.

Damian held his ground, every instinct telling him to stay low, non-threatening, patient. He watched the boy closely—the way his gaze jumped to exits, the way his body flinched at every distant noise, every flicker of movement. There was trauma behind those eyes. Not fear of a stranger—fear of what would happen next.

Someone had done this to him. Had conditioned this kind of reaction.

Damian's gaze dropped to the chest plate again, and the LexCorp insignia stared back at him like a brand burned into steel. Green and purple. Cold. Corporate. Clinical.

And suddenly it all fit.

This wasn't just a LexCorp suit. It was containment. Control. A cage. The boy wasn't wearing it. It was wearing him.

Someone—Luthor—had built this boy into a weapon. Had torn out whatever life he had before and filled it with fear, programming, instinct. Damian didn't know if it had been surgery, brainwashing, genetics, or all of the above. But he knew what he was looking at now.

A victim.

And possibly the most dangerous one he'd ever encountered.

Damian's jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a near whisper—more for himself than for the boy.

"I don't know what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I'm not him."

The boy didn't answer. Didn't understand. But he didn't run either. Didn't strike. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now. Controlled.

For now, that was enough.

However, the sirens were no longer a distant echo—they were here, howling through the city like wolves circling prey. Their pitch bounced between the high-rises that framed Robinson Park, echoing off steel and glass with maddening intensity. Spotlights from incoming helicopters swept across the treetops, cutting long, blinding arcs through the smoke and casting flickering shadows across the cratered ground.

Damian's pulse surged—not with fear, but with focus. His mind snapped into overdrive, calculating routes, timing, probabilities. If the GCPD arrived first, they'd lock the scene down, raise questions no one had answers to, and cart the kid off to a black site before anyone could intervene.

They were running out of time.

He turned to the boy, still seated at the center of the crater like a fuse waiting to be lit. The pink aura around him sparked erratically, no longer a steady pulse but a wild, unstable shimmer, like the shielding was struggling to hold its form. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but his eyes were locked on Damian—watchful, cautious, uncertain.

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

The words were firm, urgent—but low. Controlled.

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

The sky split open above them with a sound so loud and sharp it tore through the air like a bolt of steel. Not thunder. Not natural. Something designed to announce its presence.

Damian's head snapped up.

A streak of silver and violet burned through the clouds, trailing smoke and static behind it like an open wound in the sky.

They came in fast—two of them—descending with terrifying precision.

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

No bulky joints or exposed mechanics—these things were clean-cut and refined, humanoid only in shape. Their alloy plating was matte silver with faint traces of violet light pulsing beneath the surface, and propulsion jets roared from their backs and legs in perfectly controlled bursts. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

Each one had a red, horizontal visor glowing across its faceplate like a scanner locked in permanent sweep mode. Their arms, thick and modular, were weaponized—no hands, just built-in tech: plasma cannons, grappling systems, something bristling beneath panel plates that hadn't fully deployed yet.

And right in the center of their chests, plain as day, was the LexCorp insignia.

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fast. The boy reacted the moment the drones pierced the cloud cover.

His entire body tensed, every line of him pulled taut like a bowstring. His fingers clenched into trembling fists, and his aura surged with raw, unfiltered energy. What had been flickering and weak suddenly roared to life—brighter, angrier, hotter. Pink light bled into white at the edges, casting wild shadows against the crater.

His breathing shifted—sharper, rougher. His eyes flared, fully glowing now, not just lit by panic but something else. Something darker.

Rage.

Recognition.

Damian didn't need translation. The boy knew exactly what those machines were.

These weren't just weapons. They were memories. They were trauma in metal form.

Damian's mind connected the dots instantly: LexCorp drones. Precision-engineered. Retrieval tech.

This boy didn't just fall out of the sky. He escaped.

The boy sucked in a breath, chest rising like he was about to scream or explode. Maybe both. The air around him began to shimmer with raw heat, distorting reality like a broken lens.

Above them, the drones locked on, their visors glowing brighter as targeting systems engaged. Limbs shifted. Panels opened. Servo motors adjusted with terrifying exactness as they initiated descent, flanking the crater like vultures circling a carcass.

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

The first GCPD squad cars screeched to a halt at the edge of Robinson Park, their tires carving deep grooves into the grass as they swerved off the road and slammed to a stop. Doors flew open. Officers spilled out in a rush—guns drawn, eyes wide, adrenaline firing before they even knew what they were looking at. Flashlights flicked on. Shouts pierced the night.

"Hands where we can see them!"

More cruisers arrived behind the first wave, their red and blue strobes bouncing wildly across the trees and grass, throwing frantic shadows across the crater's edge like a strobe-lit battlefield. Within seconds, the chaos multiplied. GCFD trucks rolled up next, firefighters already jumping from their rigs, lugging stretchers, oxygen tanks, and hose reels. Smoke still hung in the air like a shroud, forcing some to pull masks up over their faces as they moved through the wreckage, looking for casualties.

In the center of it all, Damian and the boy stood alone—surrounded.

The boy was still in the crater, huddled in the pulsing glow of his aura, which flared and dimmed like a short-circuiting sun. Damian crouched close, shielding them both from panicked eyes and twitchy trigger fingers.

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

The sound ripped through the night like a lightning strike from a god.

The human-sized machines, built like soldiers—sleek, armored, efficient. They didn't hover awkwardly or stumble on landing. They glided, using bursts of blue-white propulsion to position themselves with surgical control.

Damian didn't have time to react before the first drone opened fire.

Blue plasma streaked through the air in neat, controlled bursts—retrieval fire, Damian realized instantly. Designed not to kill, but to disable. Paralyze. Subdue.

One bolt struck just feet from a GCPD officer, sending him flying into a tree with a choked cry. Another tore a gaping hole through the side of a fire engine. Panic exploded across the scene. Officers dove for cover, some screaming into radios, others dragging the wounded out of the line of fire. Firefighters dropped their gear and scrambled behind their trucks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Damian reacted on instinct, spinning toward the boy. "Get down!"

But he didn't have to.

The boy's body was already responding. His eyes flared—pink light pouring from them in full, unfiltered brilliance. His hands snapped up, not in defense, but in reflex—pure, unconscious survival. The aura around him swelled outward with a sudden boom of invisible force, expanding into a dome of shimmering light.

The plasma bolts struck the barrier with high-pitched hisses, splashing across the surface like acid on glass. The dome held. It absorbed the hits, sending ripples across the mana field that shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Damian blinked. His knees hit the scorched ground beside the boy.

Not tech. Not Kryptonian shielding. Not a force field.

Mana.

Raw magic.

The energy wasn't being controlled—it was channeling through him, untrained, instinctual, but real. The boy didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his face as he tried to hold the shield. His gaze flicked wildly between the drones above and the cops behind them, panic fighting instinct in every movement.

He was protecting everyone. Even the people who had pointed guns at him moments before.

The drones kept firing—precision bursts, low-yield plasma meant to weaken shields, not destroy. The aura flickered under the pressure, pulsing erratically, and Damian knew it wouldn't hold forever.

His brain shifted gears. He scanned the battlefield like a general, every moving part a variable. The cops weren't the target. The fire crews weren't even in the equation.

The drones were locked onto the boy.

They're following a directive, Damian realized. Retrieve the asset. Ignore everything else.

He crouched beside the boy, voice low and sharp. "They're here for you. Just you. If we can draw them out of the park, they'll follow."

The boy didn't speak. He didn't need to. His glowing eyes locked onto Damian's with recognition—maybe not of the words, but of the intent.

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

Damian rose to a crouch, scanning the perimeter. Flashing lights. Guns. Civilians. Confusion everywhere. No time to explain. No time to get clearance. He shouted toward the nearest group of officers, ducked behind a cruiser.

"Get everyone out of the park! Now! They're not after you—they're here for him!"

An officer popped up. "Who the hell are—?"

"MOVE!"

The tone in Damian's voice cracked like a whip—pure command, clean and lethal. It was the kind of voice Batman used when the time for questions was over.

That got them moving. One of the lieutenants began shouting into a comm unit, barking orders.

"Evacuate the perimeter! Move the wounded to the south end! Get the civilians clear!"

Damian turned back to the boy, hand on his shoulder.

"Drop the shield when I say. Then run. Don't look back."

The pink dome flared again as another volley slammed into it, cracking the air with heat and static. The drones tightened their formation, weapons whirring, scanners pulsing red.

There was no more time.

Damian's plan was reckless, half-formed, and dangerous as hell.

But it was better than watching this kid get dragged back into whatever nightmare Luthor had built.

And if they pulled it off, they'd both live long enough to figure out who he was.

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

The instant the last of the civilians were cleared—herded south under frantic GCPD commands, stumbling through smoke and flashing lights—Damian acted.

"Now," he said, low and sharp, eyes locking with the boy's.

The boy hesitated—just for a breath—but then exhaled hard, a ragged, shuddering release of tension. The barrier flickered, pulsed once in defiance, then shattered like glass under pressure. Pink light dissolved into a mist of glowing particles that drifted upward, catching in the smoke before fading entirely.

Damian didn't wait.

His hand snapped out and latched onto the boy's wrist—tight, firm, not hurting but unbreakable. He pulled.

"Run."

They moved as one.

Damian led the charge, weaving through the edge of the crater with fluid speed, his boots hitting scorched grass and cracked soil in perfect rhythm. Behind him, the boy stumbled at first, legs unsure, body disoriented from trauma and overload. But Damian didn't slow. He yanked once, just enough to force motion—and then, the boy matched his pace.

Not perfect. But fast.

They tore through the wreckage-strewn remains of Robinson Park, weaving around shattered benches and smoking rubble, darting between trees half-crumbled from the crash impact. Sirens blared behind them. Radios crackled. Shouts echoed off the trees.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

In the sky above, the two LexCorp units pivoted mid-flight with eerie synchronicity, scanners pulsing a deeper red, their bodies rotating with a mechanical hiss. Their weapon systems shifted, recalibrated. Their target designations changed.

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

A shrill whine split the air as both drones surged forward, propulsion systems igniting in a howl of blue light. They dropped altitude fast, engines screaming as they locked in on their fleeing targets.

"Move!" Damian barked, yanking the boy hard as they ducked around a crumbling statue, the marble split from base to head by the shockwave. They dove through a twisted line of hedges, limbs whipping at them like claws, dirt and soot kicking up underfoot. "They're locked on. We pull them away from the park, they'll follow. They won't risk hitting bystanders."

The boy didn't answer. Couldn't. But Damian felt it—the resolve in the way his grip tightened, in the way he kept pace, his breath ragged but steady. No more hesitation. Just forward.

They sprinted through the park's darker edges now, where the lights from the police cruisers couldn't reach and the trees formed jagged silhouettes in the smoke. Around them, the world became a blur of motion—branches cracking underfoot, ruined lampposts leaning at dangerous angles, scorched grass giving way to raw earth.

A plasma bolt struck behind them—FOOM!—exploding a tree in a burst of splinters and flame. Another followed, slicing through the air with a flash that lit Damian's path in eerie blue. Heat licked at his back, close enough to feel, not close enough to kill. Yet.

"Keep low!" Damian shouted. "Cut left!"

They ducked beneath a bent steel archway once meant to mark a walking trail. The boy moved faster now—fear or instinct, Damian couldn't tell—but he was keeping up. Close.

More shots rained down, tearing craters into the ground just feet behind them. One bolt slammed into a light post ahead, sending it crashing across their path. Damian vaulted it in a single motion, tugging the boy with him. They rolled, hit the ground, and kept going.

His mind ran calculations with every breath. The drones were fast, but predictable. Tactical AI. They'd prioritize capture over chaos. That gave him an angle—if he could get enough distance, enough cover, he could set an ambush. Maybe hijack one. Maybe lure them into a blind spot. Something.

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

His lungs burned—not from the exertion, but from the pressure that tightened in his chest with every step. The tension was suffocating, coiled tight beneath his ribs, a mix of calculation and cold adrenaline. They were nearing the edge of Robinson Park now, the eastern border—where the trees thinned out, the manicured grass gave way to cracked pavement, and the ruins of an old greenhouse rose up ahead like the bones of a forgotten time.

It was open ground.

No dense foliage to duck into. No alleyways. No shadows deep enough to disappear in. Just broken walkways, overgrown vines, and shattered glass that crunched underfoot like brittle ice.

They had maybe twenty more yards of breathing room. No more.

And the drones knew it.

With a thunderous boom, the ground jumped under Damian's feet. A LexCorp drone dropped from the sky in a controlled descent, landing directly in their path. Its propulsion jets scorched the ground in a flare of blue light, blasting debris outward in a ring of smoke and ash. The pavement buckled beneath its weight, and it landed in a low, mechanical crouch—like a predator bracing to pounce.

A second later, another drone crashed down behind them, cutting off their retreat with the same brutal precision.

Boxed in.

Damian skidded to a halt, boots grinding against cracked stone. His arm instinctively shot backward, tightening around the boy's wrist to steady him. He shifted, placing himself slightly in front, his body falling into a low, ready stance—compact, balanced, dangerous. His eyes locked on the machines.

The drones stood tall, rising from their landing crouches with eerie synchronization. They towered over Damian, their frames built like humanoid tanks—sleek matte alloy plating with violet-blue trim, no wasted mass, just pure design. Their visors glowed blood-red in horizontal bars across expressionless faces, pulsing in slow sync like they were breathing together. Shoulder panels hissed open with sharp mechanical bursts, revealing retractable weapon ports and compact launcher units embedded just beneath the surface.

The air felt charged, vibrating faintly with the hum of active systems powering up.

Then, for the first time, one of them spoke.

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

The voice was low, processed, and inhuman—cold as steel, flat as glass. It echoed slightly, like it wasn't meant for ears but for data logs.

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

"ANODITE: STAND DOWN. RETURN FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAINMENT."

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

A classification. A tag. The way you labeled a weapon, a test subject—something made, not born.

The boy—Anodite—reacted like the words had struck him across the face. His chest hitched. Shoulders tensed. The soft pink glow that had been dimming since the start of their flight now flared to life, bursting in erratic pulses down his arms, lighting up the veins across his neck like molten lightning. The air around him seemed to warp, distorting slightly with every flicker of the aura.

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

Terror still lived behind his glowing eyes, but something else was bleeding through now—anger. Raw, wounded, buried deep and starting to surface. The kind of fury born from being caged for too long. From being named by people who never once asked who you were.

Damian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and flat.

"He's not going with you."

The drone's head tilted—just slightly. It processed the voice. The refusal.

"NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED IF RETRIEVAL FAILS."

With a high-pitched whine, the drones' weapon systems extended fully—barrels telescoping into place, emitters glowing with concentrated plasma, targeting optics clicking and adjusting with precise, cold efficiency. Their stances shifted, locking into combat posture. No more warnings. No more restraint.

They were preparing to end the resistance.

Damian felt the boy step closer behind him, his aura flaring brighter, the heat radiating in waves now—raw energy with nowhere to go.

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

He raised one hand, fingers flexing slightly—no weapons, no tech, just intent.

"Then you'll have to go through me first."

And in that instant, between the machines' hum and the boy's rising power, Robinson Park became a powder keg.

The words "lethal force authorized" were still hanging in the air, echoing in the static-charged silence, when Damian's eyes snapped left. His mind processed the terrain in a flash—debris, shattered stone, broken limbs of trees—and then he saw it.

Half-buried beneath a mound of scorched dirt lay a fractured metal pipe, about three feet long, likely torn from underground infrastructure during the impact. It was twisted, blackened at the edges, one end jagged like a broken blade. But it was solid. Dense. Enough weight to matter in the right hands.

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the pipe off the ground, twirled it once in his grip to feel the balance—slightly front-heavy, but manageable—and then launched forward.

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

A bolt of blue plasma screamed through the air, passing inches from his shoulder and slamming into a nearby tree. The explosion lit up the park like a flash grenade—splinters and bark raining down as the trunk shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke.

Damian didn't flinch.

He'd faced live fire before. He'd trained in worse. The only difference now was that he had no armor. No gadgets. No WayneTech to bail him out. Just a pipe, his speed, and a lifetime of learned violence burning in his blood.

He ducked under another shot, muscles tight with adrenaline, and sprinted toward a crumbling stone bench. His foot hit the edge and he vaulted up, using the fractured structure as a springboard. In midair, he twisted his body, bringing the pipe down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The metal slammed into the drone's shoulder joint with a sound like a car crash. The casing dented inward with a crunch of metal and a burst of orange sparks. The impact staggered the drone, forcing it to reel back half a step, its servos whining as it recalibrated.

Damian hit the ground in a roll, recovered instantly, and came in again—this time low, swinging the pipe in a brutal arc toward the joint behind the machine's knee.

CLANG.

Direct hit.

The drone jerked violently, systems compensating to stay upright, but the damage showed—its movement glitched for a split second, just enough for Damian to register a small victory.

Then came the counterstrike.

The machine pivoted with terrifying speed and swiped at him with its forearm, the limb moving like a piston. Damian barely avoided the brunt of it, but the blow grazed his ribs and sent him tumbling across the pavement. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, chest heaving, pipe still in hand.

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the second drone stepped forward, weapons still trained but not firing.

Because the boy—the Anodite—hadn't moved.

He stood frozen, his feet planted in the dirt, the glowing aura around him flaring with erratic surges of light. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his whole body trembled like a live wire. His breathing was shallow, panicked. His eyes, wide and haunted, were fixed on the drones—not with confusion, not anymore, but with raw, animal fear.

The name had done something to him. Anodite. It wasn't just a code—it was a leash. A trigger. A wound.

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

He was acting like a prisoner who knew the guards had come to drag him back.

"Hey!" Damian shouted, teeth clenched as he dodged another shot that seared past his ear. The heat of it burned a streak across his cheek. "Snap out of it! I can't do this alone!"

The drone pressed forward, stepping into range again. Damian ducked another swipe and swung upward with the pipe, slamming it into the joint beneath the machine's arm. More sparks flew, and the drone recoiled—but barely.

Damian's grip slipped. His stance faltered. One more hit, and he might not get back up.

He planted his foot, pushed through the pain, and struck again—aiming for the joint at the hip this time.

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

The drones were recovery units built for battlefield extractions. Subdue. Secure. Survive. They were machines designed to outlast resistance, not overpower it immediately. Which meant Damian wasn't fighting for victory—he was fighting for time.

And time was almost gone.

He turned, bruised and bleeding, toward the boy still frozen in place, trembling behind him.

"You have to fight," Damian growled, voice low, ragged. "Whatever they did to you—whoever they made you think you were—forget it. You're not theirs anymore."

The boy's glow intensified, veins lighting up like molten circuits beneath his skin.

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

Meanwhile, the drones recalibrated with cold, mechanical efficiency, their movements precise and terrifyingly fast. Both units shifted their weight in perfect sync, armor plates realigning with sharp hisses and clicks as internal systems adjusted. The one directly ahead of Damian stood to its full height—easily over seven feet—plasma cannon sliding into place along its right arm, glowing coils locking into alignment. Its chest thrummed with energy, the LexCorp insignia pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The second flanked him to the right, every motion clinical. It stepped wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route. Their formations were textbook—military-grade containment tactics. Squeeze the target, fire from opposing angles, eliminate resistance before it could gather.

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

A rising, teeth-clenching whine filled the air as energy built within the weapons—concentrated plasma, drawn into glowing, unstable spheres at the tips of the barrels. They pulsed like sickly stars, their light staining the smoke-polluted air. The frequency of the sound made his skull ache. His fingers tensed around the pipe—a weapon already warped and blackened from impact. It shook in his grip, half-useless now, but he didn't let it go.

His breath came ragged and shallow, muscles screaming from the last round of fighting, every inch of him bruised and burning. But he stood his ground.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

If this was it, he'd face it on his feet.

Then—everything changed.

A sudden pressure surged through the air, not a sound but a sensation—a deep, resonating hum that rippled through the ground like the distant thrum of a monolith awakening. It vibrated through Damian's boots, through his chest, through the bones in his arms.

He had just enough time to pivot halfway—eyes wide, instincts firing—

Then the world exploded in pink light.

A tidal wave of raw mana energy erupted behind him, slamming into the drones like a battering ram made of sound and fire. The force of it knocked Damian off his feet instantly. He didn't resist—it was like being hit by a shockwave from a grenade. He tucked into a roll, just like he'd been trained, letting the momentum carry him across the torn ground. He hit hard—shoulder, hip, ribs—but he kept the pipe. Always keep your weapon.

Air punched from his lungs.

He landed hard, dust and ash in his mouth, stars in his vision.

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

He stood in the blackened heart of the battlefield, feet planted in the scorched earth, back straight, chin raised. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had changed. It wasn't paralyzing now. It was forged. Channeled. Controlled.

His arms were raised, both hands glowing with radiant pink energy, pulsing with raw power that lit up the entire clearing. Not flickering. Not wild. Focused. The aura wasn't just clinging to him anymore—it expanded outward in arcs and tendrils, crackling through the air like enchanted lightning. Magic, but alive. Elemental.

A force becoming aware of itself.

The drones had been thrown like toys—one smashed into a thick tree trunk, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack, its body sparking and twitching. The other had been launched into a shallow ditch, skidding across gravel and soil, leaving behind a smoking trail of gouged earth and shattered plating.

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Power flowing around him like a storm barely held in check.

Damian, still on one knee, eyes stung from the light, felt something rare coil in his chest—a flicker of awe, tightly laced with relief.

He did it.

He fought back.

And now the battlefield wasn't two drones closing in on a boy too scared to move.

Now it was them who had something to fear.

Though the silence after the blast was short-lived—just a breath, just long enough to register the devastation the boy had unleashed. Then came the sound.

A shrill, mechanical screech tore through the smoky sky above them.

Damian's head snapped up.

From the haze and cloud cover, more shapes dropped like fangs falling from a steel jaw—dark silhouettes lit by blue flame. Jet thrusters ignited with a banshee howl, scorching arcs into the smoke as they descended. One by one, they hit the ground with bone-rattling force, their landings throwing up waves of dust and dirt, impact craters blooming beneath their armored feet.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

They formed a perfect half-circle—symmetrical, exact. No wasted movement. A wall of precision-engineered soldiers in humanoid frames, their matte alloy surfaces gleaming under the flashing light of the fires they'd left in their wake. The whir of internal mechanisms followed, a rising hum that grew into a chorus of death. Red visors flared to life across all eight units, scanning and locking on with laser accuracy.

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

A blistering barrage of plasma fire roared toward them in synchronized bursts, white-blue bolts screaming through the air in arcs of deadly light. The sky itself seemed to catch fire. The first impacts hit the ground around them like bombs, vaporizing grass, splitting earth, turning once-familiar trees into erupting columns of ash and splinters. The remnants of park benches twisted into molten slag. The very air shimmered from the heat, folding in on itself like it was being torn.

Damian barely had time to brace before the world turned white.

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

The mana shield sprang up around them like a rose blooming through fire—vibrant, alive, defiant. The magic expanded in a radiant dome, stretching wide enough to protect them both. Every blast of plasma struck it like a drumbeat of war, hammering it again and again, and with each strike the shield rippled violently—but held.

Flashes of pink clashed against the white-blue of LexCorp's assault, bathing the battlefield in surreal, flickering light. Every impact sent tremors through the ground. Every second it held felt like a miracle.

Damian stood close, shielded just behind the boy, his arm raised to protect his face from the worst of the radiant heat. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal. Smoke rolled around them like waves.

He risked a glance sideways—and what he saw hit harder than the explosion.

The boy was rooted in place, arms raised, fingers spread wide as if physically holding back the incoming storm. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but exertion. Veins along his arms glowed faintly pink, like the power was running directly through his bloodstream. Sweat poured from his brow in thick rivulets. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes wide, but focused.

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

"He's pushing himself too hard," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the roar of weapons fire. He dropped low, eyes scanning the chaos—looking for angles, escape routes, blind spots in the drones' formation. Anything. He'd fought trained soldiers, maniacs, meta-humans—but this was different. This was cold, relentless, designed.

They were being driven back inch by inch. The drones advanced like a living wall, precise and unrelenting. Every few seconds, they moved forward in formation, stepping through the smoke like executioners, never breaking rhythm.

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

He didn't cry out. He didn't collapse.

He refused.

He stood between them and death like a dam holding back a flood, his magic flaring brighter with every breath he took—every heartbeat a declaration of defiance.

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

The boy hadn't spoken—not a word, not even a sound—but his silence said everything.

His expression had changed. The fear that once dominated his face had drained away, leaving something colder, something ancient. His jaw was set. His stance, unshakable.

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

Twin beams of white-hot light erupted from them, brilliant and absolute. Damian instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, the intensity forcing his pupils to contract. It was like staring into the heart of a star.

Then he realized: the shield wasn't holding anymore.

It was growing.

No longer a barrier fending off attacks, it was a siphon—pulling in power. The boy wasn't just defending. He was feeding.

The earth trembled beneath their feet, but it wasn't the drones this time—it was him.

The grass around them blackened in seconds, shriveling into brittle curls before turning to ash. Leaves on nearby trees quivered violently, vibrating as though caught in a wind that didn't exist. Then, one by one, they collapsed inward, disintegrating as their color drained. The life was leaving them, funneled somewhere unseen.

Damian's eyes dropped to the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the boy's feet, veins of glowing pink mana pulsing through the earth like bioluminescent roots. They spread outward, claiming more of the park with every second. The boy was drawing energy from the world itself. Nature, space, air—all of it bled toward him.

Damian stepped back—carefully. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from caution. Something was happening. Something huge. And he wasn't sure if even the boy could control it.

Then it broke.

The shield burst outward—not violently, not destructively, but like a soap bubble finally collapsing under pressure. A wave of pressure exploded across the park, visible in the way leaves and dirt flew away in concentric ripples. Trees bent. Benches overturned. The closest drones staggered, forced to adjust, recalibrating their stances mid-step.

In the center of it all—at the epicenter of the storm—he changed.

Damian could only watch.

The boy's skin darkened in real time, shifting from its pale tone to a deep, flawless shade of purple. It gleamed like wet obsidian under starlight, smooth and mirror-like. But it wasn't just color—it was texture. His form became partially translucent, as if his body was made of magic wrapped around light. You could see the mana moving within him, arcing across his limbs, pulsing beneath the surface like liquid lightning.

Then his hair ignited.

It flowed upward, no longer strands but streamers of radiant energy—pink, impossibly bright, alive. It moved like silk caught in a current, trailing behind him in long, elegant tendrils. Each strand flickered and flowed as if responding to the rhythm of the power now bursting from his core.

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

Wings of pure mana erupted from his back—arched, swirling constructs of energy that flickered like candlelight but held shape like blades. They shimmered in constant motion, wingspan wide, fluid, alive.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—were gone.

No whites. No irises.

Just twin orbs of solid, blinding white light, glowing with a purpose that was no longer human. They burned with will, not emotion. Not anger. Not fear.

Power.

Damian stood frozen, pipe still clutched in one trembling hand, breathing hard as he stared up at the boy.

He had seen gods wear flesh. He had stood beside Kryptonians. He had fought Martians. He had stared down monsters built in labs and legends born of prophecy.

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

Raw magic, concentrated into form, barely human at all anymore. Alien. Elemental. Alive in a way most people could never be.

The drones hesitated. Their visors flickered rapidly, red light blinking in erratic patterns as their targeting systems faltered. They were trying to process what they were seeing—trying to match it with any profile in their databases. But this form... this transformation... wasn't in their programming.

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

Because the figure standing before him might have once been a terrified boy.

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

All eight drones locked on as one, their targeting systems flashing crimson in synchronized pulses like a war drum. The transformation hadn't caused hesitation—it had triggered escalation. The LexCorp protocols didn't register awe. They registered threat level. And this new form—the radiant figure cloaked in energy and pulsing with alien mana—had just maxed out that scale.

The drones reoriented with chilling precision, each adjusting its stance a fraction of a degree, forming a deadly arc around their target. Their cannons rose in perfect unity, mechanical joints whirring, targeting optics focusing to microscopic tolerances.

Then they fired.

Eight streams of superheated plasma exploded from their cannons in a blinding volley—pure destruction compressed into white-blue lances of energy. The park lit up in a cataclysmic blaze. Trees, grass, earth—everything around the line of fire was swallowed in screaming light. The blasts converged on the boy like a pack of guided missiles, air howling in protest as the barrage ripped toward him.

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

As the plasma reached him, his body reacted in an instant. The glowing tendrils of mana that trailed behind him like a living comet snapped forward. They coiled around him with impossible speed, weaving into a tight, spiraling shield—an armor of energy that wrapped around his form like a chrysalis.

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

The bolts hit the mana shield and were absorbed, sucked into its swirling layers like water disappearing into dry sand. Each blast disappeared on contact, devoured by the boy's shield with eerie, effortless silence.

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

The boy's entire body pulsed with it. From his chest to the tips of his fingers, from the soles of his feet to the fiery strands flowing from his head, veins of glowing energy flared in brilliant, branching patterns. The plasma wasn't damaging him—it was feeding him. He was a conduit now. A living conversion engine. Everything they threw at him only made him burn hotter.

The drones kept firing, locked into their loop of calculated aggression, their systems blind to the futility. To them, it was just math—more fire, more pressure, more control. But they didn't understand what they were facing.

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

From his position crouched several yards away, hidden in the shadow of a shattered tree, Damian watched in stunned silence. His chest heaved. The air smelled like scorched ozone, and the earth beneath his boots was still trembling with residual power.

He had seen shields. He had seen absorption tech—hell, Bruce had once built a suit that could store kinetic energy.

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

The boy wasn't just protecting himself. He was consuming their weapons. Drinking down the very force meant to destroy him. And growing more powerful with every passing second.

The energy around him shimmered in waves, heatless and surreal, warping the air like a mirage. Debris floated. Cracked bits of stone and twisted grass hovered for moments before falling again. Gravity itself seemed to bend near his form.

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

Damian's jaw tightened as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

They had awakened something ancient. Something magical. Something far beyond the limitations of code and steel and protocols.

And now, as the drones poured their fire into him—unaware that their efforts were only sharpening the blade that would soon be pointed back at them—l

Damian felt it in his bones before his mind caught up. Static crawled across his skin like a warning, prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. The ground beneath him vibrated—not violently, but with a deep, steady rhythm, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the boy—no, Anodite—bathed in radiant, otherworldly light.

His entire form glowed now, not in flickers or pulses, but in a sustained brilliance that outlined every muscle, every motion. The pink energy around him was no longer wild—it was shaped, refined. Controlled. His skin shone like polished crystal laced with veins of liquid light. His eyes, twin spheres of blinding white, stared into the distance without blinking, emotionless and infinite. The space around him warped with heatless pressure, air bending into waves, like reality itself was trying to accommodate his presence.

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

He raised both hands, palms open toward the sky, as if offering something—or preparing to take it.

The glowing tendrils of mana trailing from his back snapped to attention, then surged outward like awakened serpents, crackling with raw power. They spiraled into the air, twisting and coiling, each one a conduit of focused energy waiting to strike.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

The drones—still locked in combat protocol—began to reposition. Their targeting systems flickered. Red lights scanned and re-scanned, recalibrating to track this new level of power. They were preparing to adapt, to fall back, to change tactics.

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

With a flash of motion and no audible command, a massive pulse of mana erupted from him—pure energy forged into a blinding sphere of pink-white light. It didn't roar. It expanded. The initial blast was silent, almost peaceful, a radiant bloom of power stretching outward at impossible speed.

Then came the sound.

A deep, thunderous boom exploded outward, rolling across the park like the voice of a god. Trees bent and snapped. Park benches were flung like matchsticks. Nearby windows shattered in waves. Dust and debris were swept up in a spiraling vortex of displaced energy.

The drones were caught mid-movement.

They didn't burn. They didn't explode.

They came apart.

The mana hit them like a cleansing flame, unraveling them on a molecular level. Their sleek, armored shells cracked and split open, light spilling out through every joint. Their bodies disintegrated into showers of particles, glowing briefly before dissolving into the air like ash in a storm.

One by one, the eight advanced LexCorp combat units were erased.

Gone.

The explosion left behind a massive crater that radiated outward in jagged lines, earth torn up in concentric rings around the boy. Chunks of soil and stone still rained down as Damian threw himself behind a nearby tree stump, shielding his head as the heat of the blast rippled over him. The sound left his ears ringing, and for a moment, his vision blurred from the intensity of the light.

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

The scorched remains of the park smoldered quietly. Trees were stripped of leaves. Ground was blackened and cracked. At the epicenter of the blast, framed by a slowly fading corona of pink lightning, the boy stood motionless.

His body still glowed, though the light had dimmed slightly. Mana flared gently along his skin, flowing through him like a current. His hair—still a streaming flame of ethereal light—floated weightlessly in the air behind him, shifting in patterns that made no sense to physics.

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

The ruined earth beneath Damian's boots crackled faintly with residual mana, glowing pink veins slowly dimming, pulsing slower and slower as the energy bled away into the cooling night. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural—too complete, too heavy, like the entire park was holding its breath.

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

His body, once radiant and charged with impossible power, now shimmered weakly, the glow around him flickering like a dying star. His dark, obsidian-like skin rippled as if struggling to hold its shape, until slowly—inevitably—it began to fade. His ethereal form unraveled in layers, like a mask peeling away under heat. The mana tendrils that had whipped and defended, that had torn drones apart like paper, flickered out one by one, vanishing into the night like embers carried off by wind.

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

The celestial pink fire that had made up his hair collapsed into soaked, black strands clinging to his face and neck, heavy with sweat and heat. His wings, once broad arcs of liquid energy, crumpled inward and dissolved into thin air.

And then his eyes.

The blinding white orbs dulled. Dimmed. Faded until only his natural eyes remained—glassy, dazed, unfocused. He looked around like he didn't recognize any of it. Not the crater. Not the smoke. Not even himself.

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

No fear. No panic. Just exhaustion so deep it looked ancient. Like he'd been carrying it for years, not hours. Their eyes met—and then his body collapsed.

Everything gave out at once.

His knees buckled. Shoulders sagged. His entire frame folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-movement. He hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud, the impact stirring a cloud of dust and ash around his slack body.

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

He sprinted across the crater without thinking, his boots kicking up broken earth and scorched grass. In seconds, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. His hands moved with urgency born from training—checking the pulse in the neck, pressing a hand to the chest. Still breathing. Still alive. But barely.

His skin was damp with sweat, clammy and cold beneath Damian's palm. His breathing was shallow, every breath thin and uneven. His limbs trembled faintly with residual power, like the echo of a storm long passed. He wasn't injured. There were no burns, no bruises. But he was spent—drained down to the bone, every ounce of energy poured into that final surge of defense and release.

"You held it together through all that," Damian muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the boy. "You don't get to crash now."

He pulled the boy gently into a recovery position, cradling his head with one hand and keeping the other steady over his chest, counting the rhythm of each shallow rise and fall. Damian's eyes flicked up to the skyline beyond the shattered treeline. Still no movement. No cops. No drones. But they wouldn't stay alone for long. Someone was coming. Bruce, probably. Or worse—LexCorp, ready to reclaim what they'd lost.

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

His lips moved—dry, cracked, trembling. The sound that came from them was a whisper. Delicate. Soft and fragmented, like a language bleeding through a cracked window. Damian leaned closer, heart thudding in his chest.

The boy spoke.

The words were foreign. Not gibberish—structured. Beautiful, even. Fluid and melodic, filled with syllables that had never been shaped by a human tongue. The language wasn't from Earth. Damian knew dozens of alien dialects, and even he couldn't place it.

But the meaning... something about the tone hit differently. It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning.

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

Damian didn't know which. And he didn't ask.

Before he could try to respond, the boy moved again.

Slowly, trembling, one hand rose and found the front of Damian's hoodie. Fingers brushed the fabric, soft, searching, as if to confirm something was still real. Damian froze, uncertain.

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn't forceful. Wasn't romantic. It was gentle. Quick. A press of warmth against Damian's lips—trembling and featherlight. Not driven by adrenaline. Not desperation. It was something quieter—a gesture stripped of logic, shaped by instinct.

Then the boy slumped, the last of his strength gone. His head rested against Damian's chest, body limp, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

But just before he slipped away, he whispered one more word.

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

His body went still, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as unconsciousness took him.

Damian knelt there in silence, the smoke still curling through the ruined park, the ground warm beneath them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. The breeze stirred ash and leaves, but he didn't move.

He just held the boy close, watching over him as the chaos faded.

Whatever this was—whoever he was—this wasn't the end.

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

LATER THAT night, high above the Earth, the Justice League's Watchtower hovered in its eternal orbit—silent, pristine, a fortress of steel and starlight among the void. Inside, in one of the war rooms ringed with holographic panels and data streams, Damian stood with his arms tightly crossed, his posture rigid. Behind him, a large 3D projection of Robinson Park flickered in midair, the display rendering the damage in hyperreal detail.

The scene spoke for itself: a blackened crater at the heart of the park, ringed in scorched earth, melted walkways, and fragmented metal. Traces of pink energy shimmered faintly across the terrain like residual heat from an invisible fire. The flickering trails of magic danced in slow pulses, still too volatile to classify by Watchtower sensors.

The silence in the room was thick.

Superman stood nearby, tall and unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes betrayed unease—an unease that deepened as Damian finished recounting what had happened.

Jon Kent stood beside his father, posture tense and leaning forward slightly, eyes wide. He kept glancing between the projection and Damian, like trying to reconcile the two—what he was seeing and what he was hearing.

Batman loomed behind his son, cape draped over his shoulders, silent and unreadable. His face betrayed nothing, but Damian could feel the intensity of his father's scrutiny, the sharp, surgical calculation of a man who was already mapping out contingency plans behind that mask.

"And that's when he passed out," Damian said flatly, his tone stripped of emotion but not of weight. "After obliterating eight fully armed LexCorp drones in under ten seconds. They were in kill mode. He didn't hesitate. The amount of mana he drew in... it wasn't ambient. It was alive. Instinctual. Like it responded to his will the way muscles respond to pain."

Superman exchanged a glance with Batman, his brow furrowed. "And you're certain the armor was LexCorp?"

"I saw the insignia myself," Damian said. "It wasn't slapped on. It was part of the suit's internal architecture. He wasn't wearing it—he was fused to it."

Jon spoke next, his voice quieter. "But... he looked human?"

Damian paused, eyes narrowing as he remembered the boy's collapse, his hands shaking, the soft weight of his body against the charred grass. "Almost. But when he changed, it was like watching a mask dissolve. His entire physiology shifted. Skin, bone structure, light displacement. Magic didn't just cloak him—it rewrote him."

Until now, Starfire had remained silent, her arms loosely folded, her golden gaze fixed on the projection. The soft glow from the hologram lit her orange skin with shifting patterns of light, but her eyes were focused far beyond the room.

Then she stepped forward.

"You said he became dark," she said, her voice calm, thoughtful. "Semi-translucent... and his hair became pink flame?"

Damian nodded slowly, gaze narrowing. "Like it wasn't hair at all. More like... energy, shaped into strands. It moved without wind. It moved like it was alive."

Starfire nodded once. Her eyes flared slightly as a memory surfaced. "I know what he is."

All eyes turned to her.

"Or rather," she corrected gently, "what he is. He is not from Earth. That boy is an Anodite."

Damianmoan straightened slightly. "That's what the drones called him before they initiated fire."

"They knew," Starfire said. "Because they built their weapons with him in mind."

She turned to the others, her voice steady, but serious. "Anodites are ancient. A race of mana-based beings that exist almost entirely outside known galactic governance. Most of them dwell in uncharted sectors—places not even the Green Lanterns map regularly. Their bodies are not made of flesh in the way we understand it. They are born of magic—pure magic. They do not learn to wield it. They are it."

Jon looked visibly stunned. "You've seen one before?"

"Yes," she said. "Tamaran was briefly allied with their world during a peacekeeping mission in the Outer Nebula. They are not violent. But they are feared. Because if provoked... a single Anodite can alter the course of a war."

Superman's eyes narrowed. "And this one was enhanced by Luthor."

"Worse," Damian said. "He was altered by him. Engineered. That armor wasn't armor—it was a cage. A conduit designed to control how and when he accessed his own abilities."

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

Starfire's gaze darkened. "That makes him vulnerable. An Anodite raised away from his people, stripped of his identity, forced to serve someone like Luthor... He may be powerful, but emotionally? Psychologically? He is fractured. A being made of instinct and emotion, trained like a weapon and left to rot."

"He didn't trust anyone," Damian said. "Not at first. He didn't speak. He didn't fight until he had no choice. When he looked at me, it wasn't with fear—it was with expectation. Like he was used to being exploited."

Superman exhaled slowly. "If Luthor put his hands on something like that... we can't afford to let him get close again."

"He won't," Damian said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Batman stepped forward finally, the weight of his presence grounding the room. "We don't just protect him from Luthor. We protect him from everyone who will come next. Because now that he's revealed himself, every agency, every intergalactic faction, and every corporate predator who traffics in power will come looking."

Starfire nodded. "He is a star-born being of magic, left stranded among humans. If he is to survive, he will need more than shelter. He will need a place to belong."

Damian's eyes dropped for a moment, his expression tightening.

"Then I'll give him one."

The room fell into silence again, the image of the destroyed park hovering behind them like a ghost.

Outside the Watchtower's viewing windows, the stars drifted silently across the blackness—cold, endless, and watching.

THE HUM of the Watchtower's life support systems thrummed softly beneath their boots as Damian, Jon, and Starfire moved down the long corridor that curved gently with the arc of the space station. The polished silver walls reflected the low amber lighting of the simulated night cycle, casting long shadows that followed them in silence. Though Earth had long since rolled into the early morning hours, the artificial calm of the Watchtower did little to soothe the weight pressing on all three of them.

No one spoke as they walked. They didn't need to.

When they reached the reinforced doors to the infirmary, they parted with a gentle hiss, letting out a cool, sterile breeze tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The lights inside were soft and dim, set low for rest, but everything gleamed with precision. Med-pods lined the far wall in pristine rows, their curved exteriors like sleeping shells awaiting occupants. But only one was in use.

The Anodite boy lay within it.

He looked almost normal now—blanket drawn to his waist, arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Peaceful. If you didn't know better, he could've passed for any unconscious teenager recovering from exhaustion. But if you looked closely, there were signs: faint ripples of pink light still traced delicate patterns under his skin, glowing softly with every slow breath. Mana. Dormant, but present. Waiting.

Jon drifted closer, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the corners of his mouth turned down in something between concern and wonder. He stared at the boy's face for a long time before speaking.

"He doesn't look like someone who took out a fleet of LexCorp drones by himself."

Damian stood beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed. "That's what makes him dangerous," he said. "He doesn't look like a threat. Not until you're already on fire."

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

Starfire moved to the other side of the pod. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of her skin reflecting faintly off the medical interface. Her eyes were fixed on the boy—not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like someone looking at an ancient text they hadn't seen in years.

"You said he spoke?" she asked Damian quietly.

He nodded. "Right before he blacked out. Before he spoke English. Not any dialect I recognized. It wasn't even structured like language—more like... vibration. Something tonal. I've studied dozens of alien scripts and syntaxes. This wasn't one of them."

Starfire stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the boy. "That was Anoditian. Their speech is more than language. It's resonance. Their mana carries their meaning. They don't just speak—they express."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you understand them?"

Starfire turned to him with a serene smile. "Again, Tamaraneans and Anodites share a long, quiet history. We shared... customs."

Jon tilted his head. "What kind of customs?"

Starfire's expression didn't change. "Kissing."

Damian blinked. "What?"

Starfire nodded. "Tamaraneans absorb language through physical contact. A kiss creates a neurological link—temporary, but complete. Anodites... their version is deeper. It is tied to mana. It creates an imprint, a resonance link between two beings."

Damian stiffened slightly. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tensed. "So when he kissed me—"

"He was reaching for connection," she said gently. "To understand you. To anchor himself. That kind of gesture, especially for one of his kind... it means trust. Rare, deliberate trust."

Damian looked down at the boy in the pod. The calm rise and fall of his chest. The fragile mana pulse under his skin.

Jon spoke softly. "He's really not just some experiment, is he?"

Starfire hesitated for a breath. Then she moved toward the pod and laid her hand lightly on its rim. "He's more than rare," she said. "I recognized the pattern of his aura. The fractal formation that pulsed when he transformed—it's unique. It belongs to the House of Noctyrae."

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

"It should," Starfire said. "That is the ruling family of the Anodite system. He's not just one of them. He's their heir."

Jon's eyes widened. "He's a prince?"

"The crowned prince," she confirmed. "And he is here. Alone. Bound in LexCorp tech. That suggests only two possibilities—he was stolen... or he fled."

Damian felt his stomach tighten. "Luthor got his hands on the heir of a mana-based civilization. And he tried to turn him into a weapon."

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

The room went quiet again, the soft beeping of the pod's monitor the only sound. The boy stirred slightly, a ripple of light fluttering beneath his skin like lightning behind clouds. Damian stepped closer, watching him carefully.

"He didn't trust me at first," Damian said. "He didn't trust anyone. But when he looked at me after the fight... something changed."

Starfire gave a small smile. "You carry his imprint now. His bond. When he wakes, he will look for you first."

Damian's eyes didn't leave the boy's face.

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

And he meant it. Every word.

[multifandomgirl08]

White Wedding [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Wife!Reader (Established Relationship)

Summary: The Full version of the wedding.

Warning(s): N/A

Words: 4.9k

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

February 2, 2025

It had been a surprisingly warm day in Belgium for February. You had spent the morning at Victoria’s apartment getting ready for the wedding. You had coffee with Sophie before the hair and makeup lady came to get all three of you ready.

You and Max had chosen to have the wedding at a neoclassical castle in Kapellen. It was big enough given that the guest list had a little more than 100 people showing up. You have been a little concerned as it normally was still snowing in Belgium during this part of the year.

The woman who was doing your hair into loose waves pinned some of the ringlets back away from your face, spraying on the last bit of the hairspray when Victoria had walked into the room holding Luka.

“Ready?” She asked.

You gave her a nod back.

The drive over made some of your nerves come out. You were tapping your foot in the backseat. Sophie had eventually put her hand over your knee. You had stopped instantly leaning back, this was probably the longest you had gone without talking to Max since you had moved in with him.

Pulling up to the castle felt surreal. It had all been set up with white tent covers. You could see people outside, some straighten-ing chairs, and others moving around to fix flower arrangements.

Victoria had parked the car and got out.

“Come on, we should go up before anyone sees you.” Sophie said, opening the door.

You had walked through the back entrance of the house, taking in the fine crown molding just like you did the first time you and Max had walked through here together.

“It’s a little much, no?” He asked.

“Well you only get married once.” You said placing your hand on the banister that lead upstairs.

“Just once? What if I want to marry you again?”

“Then next time you can choose,” You said before feeling his hand grip yours.

You knew that this venue wasn’t exactly Max’s style. A beach Caribbean wedding was the original plan, but it fell through with the wedding date being a month before the start of the season and still wanting to go on a two week honeymoon.

“Fine, castle it is.” Max placed a kiss on your forehead. “I get first choice on food when we talk to the caterer though.”

You knew exactly what Max would want to serve everyone, kebabs with a few Italian inspired dishes added in.

“Okay, but we’re doing family style since it’ll be easier. We just need to make sure to have a vegan option for Lewis.”

“You always think of everything.” You leaned in a little more into Max’s side giving your shoulders a small shrug.

“Thank the wedding planner for being able to do this in less than 5 months.” Both you and Max shared a chuckle before walking outside to take a look at where the actual wedding would take place.

You had gone up to the master bedroom to see the dress that you had picked out was already hanging on the white silk hanger, in the Ivory color that you had chosen all those months ago forgoing the Dutch tradition of wearing white. Pnina Tornai really knew how to design a wedding dress. It was mermaid style with defined lace detailing that had a bone in strapless corset top.

“My brother isn’t going to know what hit him.” Victoria said, as she stood there in a blush pink dress of her own choosing.

You smiled at her before she helped you put on the dress, lacing up the corset strings, and tightened them just enough so you could still breathe. She had fastened the strings at the end of the corset and then left saying that she was going to check on Max.

“Can you tell him that I’ll see him down there?” You asked her. She nodded back to you.

“I will.” Before leaving the room.

Sophie had come in when you were putting in a pair of Van Cleef mother of pearl butterfly stud earrings in white gold.

You saw her from the mirror in the vanity. She was wearing a navy off the shoulder dress that cut off just after her knees and in her hands she was holding a black box.

“Halo, Y/N.”

“Hi, Sophie.” She walked further into the room, closing the door behind her. She moved to sit to the left of you pulling up a chair, before moving the black velvet box into your lap.

“I know, normally in the Dutch tradition the mother of the grooms don’t give the bride a gift, but I wanted to give you something that I wore on my wedding day to Jos... My marriage to Max’s father wasn’t the happiest, but it was a testament to how strong I became as a person as a result of being married to him. Marriage isn’t an easy thing, it’s constant work, you must take the bad with the good while you are together.” She took in a shaky breath. “My son is going to be your teammate in life, love, and in parenting.” She paused.

“So, I’m giving you this as a reminder to love Max with everything that you have, and with my hope that you'll make sure to listen to one another, and to be there when times are the hardest.” She finished, and then encouraged you to open the box.

You had pulled the lid open to reveal a diamond tennis bracelet, made of single carat stones in a white gold setting.

“My mother had it made for me, and I want to give it to you, and if you and Max ever have a daughter, I thought you could pass it down to her.”

You were a little blown away.

“Sophie, are you sure you don’t want to give this to Victoria? I’m sure when Tom is ready they’ll-“She didn’t let you finish your sentence and started to shake her head no.

“I have many pieces that will one day be hers. This is just for you.” Sophie took the bracelet out of the box and clasped it around your left wrist.

You didn’t know how to say thank you for this. So, instead you reached over and hugged her. She had slowly pulled away from you, taking your hand.

“Come, my son won’t wait all day.” You lightly laughed, quickly slipping on the 3-inch nude suede crystal encrusted Louboutin shoes onto your feet.

Sophie had walked down the stairs with you and ushered you into the living room but not fast enough that you didn’t see Max, who was standing there with Daniel, Martijn, and Max’s childhood friend Jack.

You could hear Nico’s voice, “Just walk and hold the pillow?”

“Yes, and when we need them, Daniel will ask for them. Just like in practice.”

“Okay Papa.” Nico said up to Max. “But why is Mama’s ring so sparkly?”

“Because Mama deserves a ring that’s pretty but not prettier than she is.” Hearing Max say that made a flash of tears fill up your eyes.

You only had a few moments before Sophie needed to walk out there before Max. You couldn't help but be a little nervous about walking down the aisle.

“Sophie,” Y/N said to her as they walked out of the room, hand in hand before the music started playing for her to walk down the aisle. “I just want to thank you. Thank you for raising Max the way that you did, and being there for him when Nico came into his life.”

You could see that Sophie was starting to tear up a bit. “My son loves you, and my grandson too. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife to my son even if I had a hand in choosing her myself.”

You gave her a nod and then she hugged you, pulling you in a little tight. She gave one of your hands a squeeze before walking out of the room, making sure to give you the bouquet of tulips, peonies, and hydrangeas all in shades of white or blue.

You could hear some of the music start from outside, with the hallway slowly clearing out after that.

Nico going first, hoping that he remembered to sit next to Tom just like at the rehearsal, and then with your friends moving to clasp arms with Martijn, and Jack. Victoria and Daniel went last as Maid of Honor and Best Man.

Sophie was supposed to walk out next with Max but you could hear her through the wall.

“I’m surprised that you’re not nervous.” She spoke.

“Nervous? No, everything feels right, like it should. I just want to see her.” You heard Max say.

“You will, and she looks beautiful.”

“Thank you for everything Mum, really.”

“She makes you happy, that is all a mother could want for her son.”

It fell quiet after that. The only sound was coming from outside, there was a key change and then the sound of an orchestral rendition of Lana Del Rey’s Young and Beautiful started to play.

That was your cue.

You had made your way out of the living room towards the doors that lead out into the lawn, through the open doors and saw everyone sitting there. You could see people from your side of the family, friends, co-workers, and Lewis (who insisted on sitting on your side of the aisle) sitting on the left side. Then on the right you could see a mix of Max’s family, the guys on the grid & Sebastian Vettel, some of the engineers from Red Bull, a few of the Team Redline guys, and then Christian and Geri who were sitting in the front row with Sophie, Tom, Nico, Luka, and Leo.

You looked down the aisle to see Max standing there, in a fitted black suit, giving you a watery smile, with a few tears falling from his eyes.

You gripped your bouquet tighter trying to move at the same pace of the song. You wanted to already be up there, standing next to Max.

A few more short steps before you were looking at Max, his eyes a watery blue, with a wide smile across his face.

You took a step up on the small platform, now standing next to Max. You gave him a reassuring smile.

Both you and Max looked at one another before the officiant started.

“Hello everyone,” The graying man said into the mic. “We are all gathered here today before friends, family, and loved ones to bring together Max and Y/N. By being here today in front of close friends and family, they are making a lasting commitment to one another, to love, to be present, to always listen to the other, to fight every battle as if they are one team, one family, to love the other with pure adoration, understanding, and a spark that doesn’t diminish over time.”

There was a silent moment before he continued, “I would like Max and Y/N to join hands for this next part so they may exchange vows and rings.”

You leaned down a little to hand over your bouquet to Victoria, who happily took it from your hands.

You stepped towards Max, mouthing a small, “Hi.”

He gave you a silent chuckle and a, “Hello.” back clasping your hands together.

“And the rings please,” The officiant asked, looking at Daniel.

Daniel gave a small shake of his head, silently saying that he didn’t have them and then pretended to check his pockets until Nico came up behind Daniel and pulled them out of one of the front pockets of Daniel’s suit.

Max laughed slightly, shaking his head at Daniel before the rings were in the officiant’s hands. You let out a small chuckle, same old Daniel. You had hoped that he would put his antics to rest on this one day.

“A circle is a symbol of Unity, Infinity, wholeness as well as eternal love. By wearing these rings, you are promising to uphold all of these meanings to one another from this day, until you’re last. Y/N if you will please?” He asked holding his hand open for her to take Max’s ring in her hand to slip it onto his finger.

“Max,” She started feeling the weaved carbon fiber that made up the design of his ring, slipping it onto his left hand. “I don’t know what my life would be like without you and Nico in it. I feel the most loved when I’m with you, and I feel lucky every day that you trust me, can joke around with me, and let me be your shoulder to lean on when you need it.”

She took in a small breath, “I’m in awe of the loyalty that you have for people, and then I remember that I’m one of those few lucky people who has it too. I love you; I just love everything about you, how you are never anything but yourself to people, that you're honest with everyone that you meet, and loving, to your sister, mom, nephews, our cats, and your son.”

You looked from Max to Nico, outstretching your hand towards Nico, asking him to walk closer to you so he could stand up on the altar with you and Max. You waited until Nico stood at your side and reached his little hand up to hold yours.

“Your son, our son means so much to me,” You could see that Max’s eyes were welling up with more tears. You kept a strong hold on Max’s hand while leaning down towards Nico, talking directly to him.

“Nico, I may not have been there when you were born, or when you experienced a few of your firsts. Regardless of those things, you’ll always be my son, and I won’t let anything, or anyone change that.”

Nico was quick to reach for you, wrapping his arms around the lace fabric at the bottom of the dress. “Mama.” You could hear him sob. He tightened his hold around your knees, and you looked up at Max seeing him give you the biggest watery smile that he could manage and pressed his lips together to stop his tears from falling.

You placed a kiss on Nico's forehead and then did your best to stand, but he didn’t let you go with his hands still on the skirt of your dress.

“You and our son are my family, and that will always come first to me. I promise to make this last, through every argument, every night spent away from one another, and every child that we may have in the future.” You finished off taking in a shaky breath.

The officiant just stood there and held out his hand for Max to start.

Max blinked trying to clear the tears from his eyes and then cleared his throat. “I remember when we first met,” He started and took a pause. “You told me that if something matters… I’d make time for it. I was surprised that you had given me a chance, and had been so patient with me, letting me set the pace through those eight months.” It had been hard, letting Max set the pace of the relationship early on. But you have been patient with him because you felt like he was worth waiting for. You felt him grip your hand tighter, his thumb tracing over your fingers like a track that he could drive in his sleep. “This was all before you had found out about Nico, when we were still trying to make us work, flying from London to Monaco just to spend a few hours together, it was also before you had become Nico’s mum.”

As Max spoke you could feel that he wasn’t as nervous to tell you these things. He wasn’t as nervous to let you know what going through those things was like for him. 

“Once you found out about Nico, I felt like I had finally found someone who I could let myself be goofy and joke with. You understand me without me having to tell you things. You don’t push me to talk about things unless I let you. You are my lioness, my mijn leeuwin, protecting our cub, and building us a home while I’m off racing. You are the barrier from the outside world where I don’t have to worry about anything else. I know that you’re there, waiting for me to come home, always.”

Max had reached for the diamond encrusted ring, slowly slipping it onto your finger and then lifted your hand up to his lips placing a kiss on top of the band. He pulled away and you ran a finger over his chin feeling the light stubble under your finger. He gave you a big smile to the point where his eyes crinkled at the sides and watched as his lips slightly trembled.

“I promise to protect that with everything that I have, never take you for granted, to always listen to you, and make you feel like you are the most important thing to me, more than any trophy, or the miles that may separate us when I’m gone.”

“I love you.” You whispered to him when you felt a single tear fall down your cheek.

There were a few silent beats, almost as if the words needed to sink in before the officiant started again.

“Do you Y/N take Max to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day on, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” The officiant asked.

“I do.” You said without any hesitation in your voice.

“And do you Max, take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day on, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickedness and in health, until death do you part?”

“Yes, I do.” Max smiled wide with his words.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The officiant said and then took a small step back. “You can kiss the bride.”

Max took a small step forward and then you did as well. Your lips met Max’s with his hand holding your waist and then dropping to the back of your dress running over the lace detailing and ribbon that made up the back of the corset. Your arms went around his neck pulling him in deeper. The hoots and hollers from the crowd muffled in your ears.

A few seconds later you could feel Nico’s hand drop from the skirt of your dress before you and Max pulled away from each other. You looked out to see that Nico was standing next to Sophie now before you felt Max take your hand so you could walk inside. Max took a few steps and then helped you down from the altar so you didn’t trip in your shoes.

Half an hour after the ceremony, the guests were already inside. Martin was behind the DJ booth with Lando standing by his side.

“I still don’t know why Y/N and Max didn’t take my offer to DJ the wedding?” Lando asked Martin.

“Maybe because I already offered, and it wasn’t as an exchange for a wedding gift.” He said turning down the EQ levels to the track that was playing.

Lando just shook his head before taking a sip of his drink.

“Has anyone seen the bride and groom yet?” Daniel asked Victoria and Tom who were standing a few meters away from Martin

“Not yet. Grand entrance and all.” Tom replied.

Daniel kept walking through the room, making his rounds as best man until he stopped at Sebastian and talked to him for a bit.

“Hey Seb,” Daniel greeted him.

“Daniel,” He greeted the Aussie with a hug.

“Max told me he wasn’t sure if you were gonna come.”

“Last minute RSVP. I wasn’t sure if I was at first. But happy that I could be here to see him settle down and get married.”

“He’s happy that you're here. Just waiting to see him and the Mrs. come down soon.”

“Well, before that, how do you feel about a little bet between former teammates?” Seb asked, placing his arm around Daniel’s shoulders.

“What have you got in mind?” Daniel said, leading Seb towards the bar. He saw Sophie come into the room from outside while holding Nico’s hand. The wedding photographer must have been done with them outside.

A few minutes later the music changed again and two sets of footsteps could be heard against the wood flooring. There was a loud cheer from all of the guests seeing Max and Y/N walk out from under the doorway.

From there the room broke out in upbeat music with people eating and drinking, with people breaking into little groups of conversation while occasionally walking over to the bride and groom to give them their congratulations.

The second course had been placed down on the tables and everyone was sitting in their seats with Daniel moving to stand to the right of Max. 

Daniel gave a loud whistle trying to get everyone’s attention as they were all finally sitting down. “Thanks, thank you.” He started to say before moving to pick up his champagne glass.

“Hey guys, to those of you who don’t know me, I’m Daniel. The best man,” He said, holding the mic up to his lips with his free hand.

“I just wanted to get on here and say a few words about the bride and groom. Maybe a little more the groom then the bride, sorry Y/N.” Daniel saw her give him a little shrug. She didn’t take it personally.

“So yeah, Max. We’ve known each other a long time, since before you first started driving in F1, I think you were like 12?” Daniel joked knowing that Max was 13 the first time they met. “I couldn’t imagine then when we first met that I would be able to be the best man at your wedding to the fox that you just married,” The crowd gave off a few hollers and Daniel could see that Y/N only slightly shook her head at his comment with a light pink flush painting her cheeks. “You were a scrawny awkward looking kid when I met you, and now look at you. Married with a kid. I would be lying if I said there weren’t bets placed today on when there is going to be another one.”

There was a small round of chuckles heard from a few of the drivers in attendance.

“But I digress, mate, you’ve got yourself a good one there.” Daniel further raised his glass. “Y/N, you make Max happy, I just want to let you know that you’ve married into a family that not only loves you but has truly welcomed you with open arms. I hope Max, that you know how lucky you are to have her in your life. Women like her don’t come around every day.”

“To many more years for the two of you, to Mr. and Mrs. Verstappen.” Daniel finished off before everyone took a drink from their glasses.

A few moments later Victoria stood up next to Y/N and started her speech.

“To those of you who don’t know me, I’m not only Y/N’s Maid of Honor but I’m also Max’s little sister. I just wanted to officially welcome Y/N to the family, and let you know how excited I am to have a sister-in-law. I heard a lot about you when you and Max had first started dating. He would always want to talk about you, and when you met Nico it only seemed like he started to talk about you even more. Having said that, Max I love you. But if you screw this up, I get to keep her in the divorce.”

Max let out a big laugh and then reached for Y/N’s hand. She looked at him and he gave her a fake questioning look that said, Something I don’t know about. She just shook her head at him and then Max smiled at Victoria knowing that she was only joking.

“I don’t plan on letting that happen,” He interjected and heard a few chuckles from the rest of the wedding party. Max reached for Y/N’s hand and lightly kissed the back of it.

Victoria let out a laugh, “Regardless, as we’ve gotten to know each other really well over the years. You have truly become like a sister to me, being a sympathetic ear when I need it when it comes to the kids, and always being someone that I can rely on.” Victoria lifted up her glass, “To my brother and sister-in-law.”

Everyone drank from their glasses and Nico and Victoria’s boys drank from the little glasses filled with sparkling apple cider that mimicked the champaign.

Martin had stepped away from the DJ setup with an announcement of the first dance for the bride and groom with Geri taking the mic. Y/N’s eyes widened seeing Geri holding the mic as Max took her hand and led her to the center of the dance floor. Max pulled her into his chest as Geri’s voice filled the room to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect playing as they swayed to the music with him occasionally spinning her.

The song was coming to a slow close when Nico had walked up trying to slip between his parents. Max lifted Nico, dancing with them for a moment. Then set Nico down so he could dance with Y/N for a few moments while he went to dance with Sophie for the next song.

Nico ran off when the song had ended and Christian had walked onto the dance floor. “Do you mind Y/N?”

“Of course not Christian.” She said before he pulled her into his arms.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty of times in the last few days but you’re good for him. Not when it comes to him racing but just for who he is as a person.”

She gave Christian a nod, “He’ll never tell you this, but you’re a second set of parents to him,” She said gesturing to Max who had pulled Sophie onto the dance floor, “and a great grandfather to Nico.”

Christian gave her a nod back and then turned his head to see Daniel standing there.

“Father daughter dance is over. Mind if I cut in?”

“There has been a lot of cutting in.” Y/N said to Daniel.

“You’re in a room full of F1 drivers, it’s going to happen quite a lot.” Y/N rolled her eyes at him and then let Daniel pull her in. Christian walked back to his table and offered his hand up to Geri.

Max had pulled Y/N away from the dancefloor after the fifth driver on the grid had pulled her in to dance with them so that the wedding cake could finally be cut. It was a three tier white cake with the groom in a race suit that was fashioned to look like a tuxedo and the bride standing at his side.

They both managed to interlock their arms taking a bite from the cake, Max’s lips covered in the white ganache frosting and then she lifted the plate to his face and let it smear all over his skin trying to avoid his eyes.

The plate fell away and he had a devious expression on his face and she knew that she was in trouble. He reached for her and pressed a cake covered kiss to her lips before wiping any of the excess cake from their faces.

They left to clean up further and came back to the party with Daniel having the photographer's camera in his hand. He started taking candid photos. Daniel had gotten a picture of most of the wedding party and went looking for Max and Y/N after they had disappeared for a little too long to see them making out by the service entrance to the house and snapped a quick picture before leaving them to their fun.

It was a while later that Max and Y/N rejoined the party long enough to throw the bouquet out into the crowd of young “single” women; Daniel’s longtime girlfriend of two years had caught it and then they made a final round of all the guests before leaving the party. Daniel was the only one whose eyes went to the couple noticing Y/N’s hair fall out of her pin backed look.

“Have a nice time.” Sophie said as Nico stood with his parents holding her hand.

“We will,” Y/N said before Nico reached for her as he pressed his face into the skirt of her dress.

“We’ll be home in two weeks, be good for Oma, okay?” Y/N asked Nico. As they left to get into the car to leave for the hotel for their early morning fight, Nico gave her a nod and hugged Max with a silent goodbye hanging in the air, giving his parents a final wave.

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @fanboyluvr, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @lpab, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

Artie grinned mischievously as his friends profile started to appear one by one. The app linked to the saved contacts in his phone and somehow they managed to extract a fairly accurate profile of Artie's friends, resulting in a couple avatars that Artie can choose and tweak to his likings. The app, called Chronivac, not only changed Artie's physique to look like a 30+ years old hairy muscle hunk, it also molded the reality in accordance to the final prompt Artie typed in, turning the 20 years old college dropout into a bonafide hunk living life lavishly from workout courses and OF, and he's about to spice things up in the life of his dear friends.

He started from Randall.

He started very methodically as he put Randy as the new name. Then, when the profile options opened, he started his work. Get rid of the glasses. Get rid of that acne scar and blackspot. Retain the face but make the jaw angular. Styling the hair so it's no longer greasy and moppy. Face done, now the body

Randall is quite a perv and his biggest turn-on is big titties, but well, most untouched virgin are perv anyway so maybe he should make Randy turned on with himself by giving him this large pair of muscle tits? Lol, that's hilarious, he thought to himself. Humh.....so maybe keep Randy as a 255 lbs fuckers? Well, turn all the fat into muscle and click "Optimize" because he can't be bothered to perfect Randy's muscle distribution.....hot damn that's one massive unit! Finalize the whole change with the short prompt

"Randy is a gym junkie and absolute freak of nature. He's probably the biggest 20 years old in the entire Americas. He's one of my mentee and he looked up to me as his inspiration, he even will not hesitate to take my cock if I instruct him to do so to get bigger, quite the dumb oaf he is,"

Click Save and then Process. Several seconds later, a transformed Randy appeared in the room that Artie booked for this holiday. Randy appeared to be sleeping while he got altered earlier, Artie just realized it's night time in the States so no wonder Randy is asleep. He will check him out later as he still have several more profile to go

Andy. Oh, yeah, the profile arrangement is based on surnames. Coleman, Randall. Garcia, Andy. Andy is Artie's bestfriend from childhood so Artie knows very well what Andy really wanted to look like.

Keep the name and lineage. A little tweak in his testosterone to boost that facial hair growth and make that balls pumped full faster with mini Garcias. Andy admired his hotter, older brother, Juan, so badass and clearly a true symbolism of what Latin American community deemed as macho, so Randall ensured that whatever feature Juan possessed, Andy is going to make that even better. Thicker hair, more defined abs, bigger biceps, bigger triceps, rounder delts, voice that trembles anyone that hear it, obviously bigger uncut piece of meat, more tattoos, all lodged in as part of the new Andy's persona. The avatar is looking quite a looker already so Artie just added a bit of simple prompt, click the Save button and then Process the changes. Andy suddenly appeared in the day bed next to Artie, still sleeping soundly and Artie just smirked as he continued his work

He tweaked Ollie's profile right after, making the pale and lanky 6'5" Norwegian-Lebanese former ballet dancer to be closer to his Lebanese roots as he shrunk him to a 6'1" muscle daddy. Ollie, or Olaf, quickly turned into Ali, and just like Andy, appeared in the same resort where Artie stayed

Michael is supposedly next on the list, but James is already quite distracting for Artie so he decided to work on James first. He's really not that close to James and to be honest, if it's not because James is Andy's college roommate, Artie probably would have 0 interest to befriend him. He might be clouded with jealousy because Andy seemingly enjoyed James company, and even worse, a little crush on him, but well, with a reality-changing app in the palm of his hands, why should he accept things as it is when he can change it? So, rather than focusing on the physical aspect, Artie simply turned his focus to James mental part. He smirked devilishly as he turned the pretty-much straight James into a horny, lustful bottom. Artie practically emasculated James and he felt zero remorse whatsoever as he then added to the prompt that James tagged along to this trip as he's a clingy cum dump that Michael fucked once in the seedy bar that he and Andy frequented. Yup, that's the plot of his change to the innocent Michael.

Artie quickly tweaked Michael profile, the smallest and shiest one in the friend group is now the horny beast who needs to fuck a hole in daily basis. Artie based all of them in the same city, the same apartment building even and then created this whole backstory of their ascendancy to the top of OF and independent adult industry in Michael's prompt space. When he clicked Process, the sound of James moaning in delight echoed all the way to the swimming pool, Michael is basically fucking the shit out of James

The noise also managed to wake Andy's up. Despite seemingly confused at first, Andy quickly find his senses and instead of freaking out or reacted in surprise, he seems to be very much comfortable and at home. Artie sighed with relief, thrilled that his little handiwork resulted nicely.

It seems like that Andy is totally not aware that his life has been dramatically altered by his own best friend that just whipped out his cock from the swimming shorts he's wearing. With a grin while his right hand started pumping his meaty cock and the phone flipped and locked in the table, Artie said

"Care to help a friend here? We can drench Ali to wake the fucker's up when we are close,"

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Hello everyone! A group of friends and I got into a discussion that spanned multiple weeks about the true definition of a "babygirl" in media. It started as a discussion of "babygirls" in Linked Universe fanfiction but soon expanded to mainstream media, and as such most examples are from this mainstream media for a wider audience (aside from War Crimes Warriors from Call Them Brothers by @wutheringmights, whose fabulous work sparked this debate). Please note that the definition is still under construction, and that all examples may not fit within it 100%, but I believe still generally match the vibes of babygirl. Now, without further ado:

Babygirl Definition

Committing/has committed war crimes (*)

Has Emotions TM about the war crimes, often doubles down

Usually male?

Is, at some point in his life, a sad wet cat (**)

Has experienced the Horrors (***)

Make the Horrors everybody else's problem

Attractive (????)

To fans: endearing but also frustrating, misunderstood

To non-fans: hateable

(Used to) have an ego/pride/"reputation" (which may lead to the aforementioned war crimes)

Has a vulnerability they're stupid about, are aware they're being stupid about it, and yet continue to be stupid about it (passion project, child, etc).

Babygirl examples: War Crime Warriors from Call Them Brothers, Jayce Arcane, Hohenheim FMAB, Zuko ATLA, Boromir LOTR, Elphaba Wicked, Anakin Star Wars, Odysseus, Bill Nye, Stanley and Stanford Pines Gravity Falls, Jamie Lannister, Obama, Howl Moving Castle, Katniss and Haymitch The Hunger Games, The 9th Doctor, Dean Winchester, Bucky Barnes.

(*) War crimes do not refer specifically to acts that violate the Geneva Conventions, but rather to any general act that would be considered inexcusable or otherwise extremely unsavory by the in-universe population. Ex: Jayce accidentally killing a Zaunite child.

(**) For definition of sad wet cat, just imagine a sopping wet cat caught in a sudden, unexpected rainstorm and you're there. A full definition list, like the one above, has not been made: but this term, generally defined, is a period of time in which one feels self-loathing, disgust, hatred, and powerlessness towards oneself, others, and/or the current situation at hand. Often at least partially self created. Ex: Zuko's banishment arc

(***) A traumatic experience (sometimes more than one) that changes them irrevocably. It propels the character forwards into the plot in a way that they do not anticipate, enjoy, and/or completely understand, but have no choice but to adapt to anyways. Ex: Katniss' reaping Thank you to @bittirsweeteer @not-freyja @life-in-winter @elle-rosewater @hytiaa @cinis0 @anime-obsessed @whatvioletdoes-blog @lunaopus @glowingmin @gia-d and @undertheopensky for contributing to the discussion, that was a fun few conversation (if I've forgotten anyone, please let me know). This is mostly being posted for my own amusement, but I hope that anyone else who stumbles across this post finds it mildly amusing! You're welcome to reblog with your own babygirls, lol

[fanfoolishness]

I like to imagine that in the future, people remember the clones. After Palpatine falls for good on Exegol, imagine an explosion of freedom and knowledge in those days after the final defeat: imagine archaeologists and scholars plumbing the depths of Imperial and First Order records, trying to figure out what had happened so it could never happen again. And through it all they find the clones’ story woven into everything, until a new field emerges of Clone Studies, a loose alliance of military history buffs and research biologists and anthropologists and ethicists.

They catalogue the Kaminoans’ research; they review the clone memorials on Coruscant, on Zeffo, monuments as large as a massive wall or as small as a quiet statue, from people throughout the galaxy who were grateful for what they did. They study the great tragedy and betrayal of the chip, finally understanding the scope of Palpatine’s plans and bringing them out into the open, sharing the truth that the clones never chose to betray the Jedi Order and Republic they had served faithfully. They study old war vids and oral histories from people of long-lived species or whose grandparents remembered the clones; they build, memory by memory, a sense of the culture, the camaraderie, the brotherhood, the loyalty. They collect vids of battle songs and in-jokes and an interior language shared among them, springing up over the years.

They find and list their names, self-chosen or given by their brothers: Rex, Fives, Howzer, Echo, Tup, Gregor, Wolffe, Cody, Boil, Waxer, Cut. They study the clones whose differences defined them and knit them into a family whose ties could not be broken, Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Crosshair, Omega. They study the discarded who nevertheless still had value - 99, Emerie, the clones who were culled in infancy for being wrong. There are specialists who devote their entire branch of study to the only male unaltered clone and his infamous exploits throughout the galaxy, so alike his father’s. They study the years of the clone rebellion, a fight that paved the way for the next wave of fighters and the next after them.

The clones are gone. That is undisputed. Their kind came for a little while, and then vanished, burning brightly; their tale was a tragedy, but one unique in all its seeming sameness. There are conferences and holovids and books. There are debates and research firing up young scholars about a time only their great-grandparents can remember.

In the future, after all the clones are gone, there are still stories.

[dorcas4meadowes]

Love on a high - Luke Castellan

Pairing: Luke Castellan x fem!Reader

Warning: weed and kisses

Summary: smoking alone when an un requited love (you’re also oblivious ml) joins you

W/c: 1.5k

Master list

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You were never fond of the high, but It was the quiet that you craved.

The serenity you yearned for at the end of a blunt rolled by a Demeter kid who owed you a favour. You were thankful to the small match box container – which held a few joints – it kept you at ease when you brother was at prominent distress or when you best friend was blissfully oblivious to your every advance to flaunt your affection towards him.

Your eyes fell shut as you took a long drag, holding the smoke in your chest until you could feel the soft buzz drift to your head, making everything appear blurred and sharp simultaneously.

You surveyed the water under your feet, each melt of the waves making your eyes follow new curvatures that were being generated.

The fish and the plants contently dancing to the rhythm of the tides pull.

You did not notice when the weed created a dim haze around you, but when the wind proceeded to whisper and the moon mumbled back, you became numb in its presence and within a few moments you were completely and utterly stoned.

"You shouldn't be out here".

You shouldn't be with me while I'm so amiable.

His voice was a mere breath against your skin. His tone lethargic in contrast to the melody which mused from your headphones. You were unaware of truth that his voice brought you, but when your gaze dimly caught his and you smiled.

"I doubt you should be lecturing me, you are out here too Luke". Your voice was soft, it routinely was with him.

"I have duties".

"And I have a recreational hobby".

He paused for a moment. "Which requires you to be outside this late?" he asked, his eyes lingering on your stained fingers.

"I enjoy the placidity", you quietly said, bringing the joint up to your lips to further dull your surroundings.

"I thought you stopped?"

"I tried". You were ashamed of your habit, mainly because Luke didn't indulge in it.

"Let me then". The enthusiasm in his tone confused you, your eyes following his every move as he perched close beside you, his prying fingers nearing yours. He had never once expressed his want for the flower, he were not interested in your soother, so his question caught you by surprise.

"Luke" you muttered, momentarily  forgetting his question.

"Yes".

"Oh Luke".

Your leer on him softened as you admired him, his features becoming a blur of endearment and simplicity. You had always known he was handsome, but in the dim shading of the moon and rippled reflections from the dark water you couldn't help, but study him, concentrate every lasting thought on him.

Your squinted a little, light playing through your lids as you appreciated the way your surroundings painted him, encapsulating him into nothing that could be defined other than pure charm.

He thawed against the blue around him gently, his eyes searching for something you could not quite answer, because all you were fascinated by was the pull of his brow, the line of his jaw and the way he adjusted against your indigo so tranquilly.

You were so intent on smoothing the ridge above his lip that when his hand brushed against your you startled, before sympathising to his original demand, passing the blunt to him. You observed him tug the joint towards his lips and almost instantly convulse as swiftly as his inhale were. 

A hum left you throat, "it takes time Luke, most good things do".

"How long did it take you?".

"Demeter's flowerings are always more - potent than usual and contributing a dejected childhood to the process and a prior tolerance, a few months".

He placed the joint in the small gap between you then spoke, "so how long till I start seeing leprechaun?"

"You have to hold your stuff, before anything happens", you said, distracted by chatter.

"And then after that?"

"It sort of just happens, like the moments before you fall aslee-", before you could continue your sentence you became preoccupied by a lull from the sky.

 "Hear the stars Luke?".

"Should i?" he asked, his voice filled with amusement, "what are they saying?”

You sat in a dropped silence, attempting to decipher their whispers, too conspicuous for you to repeat.

Your fates are spiralling Y/n, like a spider's web, too delicate to tear apart, one hushed.

Child of the sea, live up to your lineage, find the tide in his storm, another prodded.

We know how you feel, you feel too deeply to keep it to yourself, you're being selfish, tell him.

Further mutters echoed in your ears, sending thoughts through your stoned mind. You closed your eyes for privacy, but even then you could see him, you could trace his every fibre with your memory let alone, every contemplation consisting of him.

"They are being stupid" you finally replied, turning your head away from constellations.

"How so?" he questioned.

"They are saying - things".

"Can I know?"

You smiled and shook your head, "you can listen". You took the blunt between your fingers and relit the ends with a light.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, not dismissing your sudden notion.

"Can I show you?" you queried, the high in your body blinding you from reality.

When he tried to reply his voice caught in his throat, but three words escaped, three words which solidified you next move.

"I trust you".

You took a drag of the blunt and allowed the smoke to linger behind your closed mouth, attempting to retain it from traveling down your throat. He watched you every so intently, pondering your next move as you pressed your fingers into his jaw turning his face, so he had no other option than to meet your intrigued gaze.

Then you leant closer - nearer than you ever consciously allowed yourself to - his reflexes shattering as he too drifted closer to your warmth allowing your lips to brush against his ever so slightly as your diffused the bitter smoke into his mouth. You wouldn't have noticed the refined press if you weren't so vigilant, so when you when the smoke dispersed, you were unaware of what to do? Where to go? You couldn't ponder your decisions a mere few centimetres away from Luke's face, so you spoke.

"Better?"

He responded instantly, "do you trust me?", his words swift.

"What – I always what's the-".

You could not finish your sentence before a soft kiss was pressed to your lips, everything changing in a matter of moments. The sour tastes of weed stirred between both your parted mouths - which you invited pleasantly - allowing his hands to kneed the soft skin of you hip as yours found his curls.

Any form of life coming to a pause in declaration of this action.

His lips were as soft as they appeared, so when you separated you couldn't help but drag your thumb across his them, a small laugh falling from your mouth. You took a short breath and blinked, watching him reach out heedlessly to discover your hands - which he clasped in his own - bringing them upwards to brush his lips over your knuckles.

You allowed him to be close with no aversions - bathing in his presence - dazed a little at your distance since he had never made an effort to prove his fondness to you, it all felt surreal.

"I can hear the stars" he stated.

"Oh really?" you questioned, planting a mindless kiss to his lips.

"Mhm, they're saying you should meet me by the woods tomorrow at midnight".

"Hm, mine are saying we should take this back to your cabin".

"As much as I would love to do so, I would rather remember whatever would happen and besides the new kids sleep like a new borns". You rolled your eyes, "come on, let me walk you back to your cabin".

You accepted his help and stood, and knocked your blunt and lighter into the water -whispering a few words of flattery to which the tide would keep your belongings safe – and out of Percy's reach – placing a reassuring kiss onto Luke's cheek before lacing your fingers together once against to walk back to the warm sheets of your bed.

To an impercipient eye you were the epitome of adolescent affection, but amongst the brawny vegetation – across from where you sat - lay an observant spectator, one who often doted of Luke and yours growing devotion to one another and watched with poise, waiting for the inevitable misfortune.

"In the realm of profound sentiment, the pinnacle of love is its culmination to embrace tragedy".

Aphrodite uttered these words to her unbothered accomplice who sat at her side simply because the sun was far from its obligation to rise.

"Perhaps he may choose her" Apollo spoke, toying with his bow.                                           

"A boy cannot forsake a prophecy; the world will burn for her or it will blaze, because of her. Kronos has already whispered into the son of Hermes' ear, it is unescapable- his fate - but she, her's is undedicated".

"So you will watch their eventual decline?" Apollo asked.

"With decided scrutiny, where ever she proceeds allow her muse to inspire her steps".

"You're just glad amongst the uprising there's something cute to follow".

"Indeed and i will grant her every step with calamity".

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Thanks for reading cuties <33

(In a Coriolanus and Luke chokehold rn)

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Danger Zone - Hangman

Pairing: Hangman / Fem!Bradshaw!Reader | OC

Word Count: 3.0k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Unplanned Pregnancy; Secret Relationship; Implied Sexual Content; Suggestive Situations; Angst; Undefined Relationships; Overprotective Family; Background Relationships; Use of "You," No Use of Y/N, No Set Physical Description

Summary: Your relationship with Jake "Hangman" Seresin wasn't easily defined. But with some unexpected news, you might have to put a label on it soon.

Series Master List

Master List

Growing up with an overprotective older brother and an overprotective father figure, you learned how to be sneaky from a rather young age. It just was not worth the shovel talk every single time that you wanted to go out on a date. You decided a long time ago that what Bradley and Mav didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. 

And in your current predicament, what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill Jake either. 

“Goddamn, Cow Girl,” Jake breathed out with a throaty laugh as he trailed his hand up and down your back. “What a ride.”

“You say that like you did any of the work,” you huffed, picking your head up from his chest. Narrowing your eyes at him playfully, you sat up further and shook your head as Jake’s eye’s immediately dropped to your breasts. “Pillow Princess.”

“I’ll make it up to you next time,” Jake replied with that usual cocky shit-eating grin. Squeezing your hips, he locked eyes with you once again. “A repeat of that weekend up at that beach house with that private balcony.” Sitting up himself, Jake leaned in closer so that your noses brushed. “I had to carry you inside after that, if I remember correctly.”

“You remember everything that boosts your own ego,” you replied, trying to slide off of him. Jake, however, instantly reached out and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you back to his side. Letting out a semi-annoyed laugh, you looked back at him over your shoulder. “Jake, I have to go.”

“They can figure it out without you.”

“They can’t fit my dress to me without me.”

“They’ll figure it out.” Rolling over to try and keep you in his bed for another hour, Jake hovered over you and stared down at your face, like he was trying to memorize it. “Stay.”

“Oh, so now you want to be on top?” you joked, though Jake wasn’t laughing. Sending him a softer look, you sighed. “I have to go. I’m the maid of honor. And Nat will kill the both of us if I’m late for this. You know that.”

“She’s honestly turning into a bridezilla,” Jake stated, causing you to shoot him a dirty look. 

“Maybe because the best man keeps fucking up all of her plans.”

“I’m just trying to improve them,” Jake drawled, earning an eye roll from you. 

“Right. Well, I need to go before you ‘improve’ Nat’s wedding by taking out her maid of honor.”

Rolling out from underneath Jake, you stood up from his bed and headed into the bathroom. Cleaning yourself up quickly and managing to brush your hair down, you walked over to where your clothes were scattered on the ground of Jake’s bedroom. 

“I can’t wait until this wedding is over,” Jake sighed, watching reluctantly as you put your clothes on. “Everyone’s so stressed about it. Javy’s been working on his vows for weeks and he’s gotten one word written.”

“What word?”

“Nat,” Jake explained, causing you to laugh. 

“Poor Javy,” you laughed, buttoning up your shirt. Walking back to where Jake was sitting on the edge of his bed, you leaned down so that you were eye level with him with a soft smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tonight?” Jake tried to convince you.

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you offered, earning a kiss from Jake. “It could be a while though.”

“I’m a patient man,” Jake replied as you headed out of his bedroom. 

“We both know that’s a lie.”

~~~~~

Your sister-in-law offered to go first for her fitting, leaving you and Phoenix on the couch at the back of the dress shop. Phoenix waited until the door shut to the fitting room before turning to you with a knowing look.

“You were with Bagman, weren’t you?” 

“Emma is right there,” you shushed Phoenix, glancing over at your sister-in-law’s fitting room. “And the last thing that I need is my brother finding out.”

“Emma’s not a snitch,” Phoenix dismissed, still wearing that knowing look. “And besides, it’s not like the two of you are subtle.” Phoenix shook her head and glanced around the room. “I’m still scarred from seeing that shit.”

“And I’ve apologized at least fifteen times.”

“He hasn’t,” Phoenix muttered back. 

“He’s just an exhibitionist,” you mumbled, waving your hand to the side. 

“He’s going to get the two of you caught by someone who’s not going to react as well as Javy and I did,” Phoenix stated, causing you to wince and subconsciously run a hand through your hair to make sure that it didn’t look too much like sex hair. “Did you at least talk to him about defining whatever the hell it is you two have going on?”

“Well . . .” Phoenix groaned on your behalf, causing you to jitter nervously. “What? What’s wrong with just having fun?”

“Let me ask you one question,” Phoenix stated, turning to face you fully. “If Hangman hooked up with another woman, would you be upset?” Before you could even verbally respond, your face gave away your answer. “Exactly. So, you need to have that talk. For your own sanity.”

“Yeah, I know,” you sighed, rubbing your face. “I’ll talk to him. After your wedding. Because I am absolutely focused on your wedding from now until you leave for your honeymoon.”

“I appreciate that,” Phoenix replied calmly with a small smile. “But just be careful with Hangman, okay? He doesn’t exactly have the best reputation with committed relationships. Or any kind of relationship, really.” 

“Can’t people change?” you suggested, causing Phoenix to shrug her shoulders. 

“If they want to, I guess.”

Before you could respond, Emma walked out of the changing room, all done with her fitting. The seamstress walked off with Emma’s dress in hand to put it away and grab yours as Emma walked over to where you and Phoenix were sitting. 

“You alright?” Emma asked you. “You look stressed.”

“I’m fine,” you assured your sister-in-law with a small smile.“How’s the house coming? Did Bradley finally take the stick out of his ass about it?”

“It took some back and forth but they agreed to fix the plumbing problems and the air conditioner and we should all set to close and finally move in sometime next month. And I really hope that it works out. I feel so bad taking over Mav’s house,” Emma stated, sitting down on your other side. 

“Mav doesn’t mind. He’d let you move in permanently if it was what you wanted.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that Bradley wouldn’t go for that,” Emma laughed, probably picturing your brother’s annoyed face. “He said that he feels like a teenager again.”

“Well, he acts like one half the time anyways,” you joked, wearing that classic little sister smirk.

“And he has to make sure that Mav is at least a five mile radius away before he touches me. Something about a traumatic experience.” 

“Oh, yeah, he got caught by Mav with his high school girlfriend when they were sixteen because he’s an idiot and mixed up the days that Mav was supposed to be working late,” you explained, remembering how Bradley wouldn’t even look at Mav for a week after that. “And she dumped him too, I think, because she was too embarrassed.” 

“How the hell have you survived the three months then?” Phoenix asked, doing the math. 

“We’ve taken a lot of long car rides,” Emma replied with a smirk, causing you to gag. 

“Oh, my fucking—I’m leaving,” you stated, getting up from the couch. “Remind me to never step foot into the Bronco ever again. Disgusting.” 

“What about you?” Emma asked, turning back to you. “Going to show up to the wedding with a hot date that you haven’t told anyone about?” 

“Why would I do that?” you asked, turning back to your sister-in-law. 

“You don’t think that anyone’s noticed? You showed up to the Hard Deck one night with a hickey right under your collar.”

“Are you ready for your fitting?” the seamstress asked, causing you to look away from Emma.  

“Yes, please,” you agreed, walking over to her. Turning back to Emma and Phoenix, you shrugged your shoulders innocently. “Sorry, I have to go.” 

The seamstress led you back into the fitting room. Pulling on the blue bridesmaid dress that you ordered months ago, you held it to your chest as the seamstress did up the back of the dress. But you winced as she tugged on the string, tightening your dress uncomfortably around your midriff and breasts. 

“Hmm,” she murmured to herself, loosening the fabric. “A little tight.” 

“Just a little,” you murmured stiffly, trying to adjust the top of the dress. 

“Maybe they took your measurements wrong,” the seamstress replied, which is probably what she told everyone that gained weight right before a fitting. “It’s no problem. We will just loosen it here in the back.”

“Yeah, that should work,” you agreed softly, staring nervously at your reflection in the mirror. 

~~~~~

After you finished up with the dress fittings, Emma insisted that you come back to Maverick’s house for dinner. And even though you were very much interested in going to see Jake again, you agreed since you hadn’t seen your brother or Mav for about a week now. Pulling into the familiar driveway right behind Emma, you followed her inside. Your brother Rooster was in the kitchen, cooking something that you couldn’t yet see. 

“I’m home!” Emma called, causing Rooster to pick his head up and smile.

“Hey, baby,” he returned happily, pulling Emma in for a kiss.

“Please don’t make out in front of me,” you huffed dramatically, hanging up your purse and covering your eyes. 

“Don’t look,” Rooster replied back to you, releasing his wife. 

“Hey, did you finish up those lesson plans with Hangman?” Emma asked, glancing over the food that Rooster was preparing. 

“No. The dickhead keeps dragging his ass about it,” Rooster complained, causing you to glance out the window. “He’s been a bigger pain in the ass than usual.” 

“Just be glad that he promised to not have Javy’s bachelor party in Vegas,” Emma reminded Rooster, bumping his hip with her own. “And that he swore to all of you guys that there would be no strippers at the party.”

“Shocking considering the company that he usually keeps,” Rooster muttered, causing you to pause, taken aback by your brother’s words. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that Nat would have actually strangled him if he got a stripper.” Rooster glanced between you and his wife. “You guys were smart to do the bachelorette party earlier.” 

Rooster reached over and grabbed the cover on the pot of whatever he was cooking and in an instant, the smell hit you like a ton of bricks. Covering your mouth with your hand as your stomach rolled dangerously, you reached quickly for the door to the backyard. 

“Jesus, you look ill,” Rooster commented, earning a sharp look from his wife. 

“What—” Emma called, walking after you, but you were already bent over. 

Emptying what little was left in your stomach onto the ground out behind Mav’s deck, you coughed and gagged as more threatened to come up. 

“Jesus Christ, are you okay!?” Emma yelled, rushing to your side. “You looked a little flushed at the dress shop, but now I think you’re really sick.” 

“It was just fish,” Rooster insisted, stepping out onto the back porch. 

“Fuck off, Brad—oh shit.”

You gripped the edge of the deck harshly, trying to keep what was left in your stomach there. Sweat was starting to drip down your forehead as your stomach rolled again. Emma, unlike your brother, was helpful and brushed your hair out of your face. 

“What did you eat earlier?” Emma asked, waving at her husband to bring some water. 

“Nothing strange,” you replied, gasping a bit. “Just my normal stuff.” 

“Maybe something went bad.” 

“Jesus, what the hell do you have?” he asked, resting a hand on your back as he brought you a glass of water. 

“The urge to push you over the side,” you muttered, glaring over at your brother. 

“What the hell’s going on?” Maverick questioned, walking around the side of the house. 

“Nothing, Mav,” you insisted, taking the tissue from Rooster’s hand. “Just Rooster’s cooking all over again.” 

“You didn’t even eat anything. It was just the smell that set you off.” 

“Probably because you’re a horrible cook,” you muttered, wiping the spit off of your face. “Sorry about that, Mav.” 

“I’ll just wash it away with water,” Maverick insisted, hopping up onto the deck. “Are you sure that you’re feeling alright? Did you need a ride home?” 

“No, no, I'll just drink some water and I’ll be fine.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I think that seamstress just yanked my dress a little too tight and wobbled up my stomach,” you laughed off, trying not to worry your family. “I’ll be fine.” 

You ended up staying for a few more minutes, but the smell came to be too much and Maverick drove you home, picking up some broth and ginger ale for you on the way. While he was inside the grocery store, you shot Jake a quick text. 

Sorry, I think I’m coming down with something. I won’t be making it over.

After about five seconds, your phone buzzed with Jake’s reply.

Did you want me to come over and take care of you?

You stared down at your phone for a moment before you noticed that Maverick was already walking out of the store and back to your car. 

Mav’s here. I’ll be fine. Thanks tho. 

~~~~~

It was a few days before Phoenix and Coyote’s wedding, and despite your sudden illness, you quickly recovered. You went over to Jake’s place like you planned the next day and acted like nothing was wrong in the first place. Though when you mentioned that to Penny during your weekly chat, she seemed concerned. 

“Just the smell of the fish caused you to throw up?” Penny asked as you walked down the boardwalk together. 

“Yeah, but you haven’t seen his usual mess,” you brushed off, not concerned. “He was an absolute trash chef until he met Emma. And now he’s just a slightly less terrible chef.”

“Have you been throwing up recently? Or nauseous?”

“A little here and there with nausea but I haven’t thrown up since that night. But it’s probably just the wedding. Everyone’s on edge about it and I'm the maid of honor. It’s a lot of stress.”

“Definitely,” Penny asked, part of her brain telling her to just leave her hunch alone. You were an adult. You could handle yourself. But then those maternal instincts kicked in. “Any other symptoms that’ve been bothering you?”

“No,” you insisted, laughing off Penny’s concern. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just that with you throwing up just because of the smell of something and you said that you’ve been feeling randomly nauseous lately . . .” Penny trailed off, not wanting to finish her sentence but when you didn’t finish it on your own, she continued. “You’re sure that there aren’t any other symptoms?”

“Penny, are you asking me if I’m pregnant?” you asked, turning to face her. 

“I mean, is there a chance?”

“I’m on birth control,” you insisted quietly. 

“And you’ve never missed a pill?”

“Well . . .” Grabbing your purse nervously, you glanced up and down the boardwalk and turned back to Penny. “Maybe one or two.”

“That happens,” Penny assured you, putting up a brave face. “But if there’s no other symptoms, then I’m sure you’re fine.”

“My dress was a little tight at my fitting,” you added, causing Penny to pause. “But that could just be my weight fluctuating with stress and everything.”

“Of course with the wedding and everything,” Penny agreed, nodding along. “And besides, you use other protection, right?”

“Oh, yeah . . .” you trailed off, voice barely above a whisper. Because there were more than a few times that you and Jake didn’t bother to use a condom. “Most of the time.”

There was a moment of silence that passed between the two of you before you pulled out your keys. Wordlessly, Penny grabbed your shoulder supportively and the two of you turned for the car. You drove down the road to the pharmacy, grabbed a handful of tests, and returned to the Hard Deck. Penny let you into her private bathroom next to her office and handed you the bag. 

“It’s just a precaution,” Penny told you, trying to keep you calm. 

“It’s just a precaution,” you repeated softly. 

Penny sat behind her desk, pretending to do work while her brain moved a thousand miles a minute. The first question was, of course, who the father would be if you were pregnant. And Penny had a guess. A pretty good guess. She saw all and she saw the way that you hung off of Hangman’s arm on the back deck one night when you thought no one was watching. And she saw the way that Hangman’s eyes just seemed to naturally trail after you. 

But she shouldn’t get ahead of herself. She didn’t even know that you were pregnant yet. 

The door to the bathroom opened a few minutes later and you slowly stepped out, holding three different white plastic tests in your shaking hands. Staring down at the tests for a moment, you finally turned to look up at Penny. 

“Well?” she asked, getting up from behind her desk and walking over to you. 

Silently, you handed the tests to Penny. She glanced down at the tests as you felt your stomach roll again. Dropping your purse, you turned and hurried into the bathroom. Penny dropped the tests and hurried after you, pulling back your hair as you heaved. 

[novaursa]

hiiii how are you?

I can’t stop thinking about Aemond twin sister who was also sent to Oldtown and fell in love with Gwayne.

She came back with him to King’s Landing and her mother is like pist at her. When Gwayne and Criston go to battle she follow them on Cannibal to make sure that nothing happens to him. She got injure in the fight again Meleys and Gwayne can leave her side 🥹

The Crimson Sky

- Summary: When Gwayne was ordered to go to Rook’s Rest, you followed him.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: To read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

- A/N: Request that I've received for Aemond should be out soon too, as it pretty much similar to this one. So, I've just made them simuntaniusly.

The echoes of footsteps reverberated through the stone corridors of the Red Keep, a haunting sound that mirrored the unease in Alicent Hightower's heart. She stood at the edge of the window in her private chambers, overlooking the sprawling city of King's Landing. The city was restless, much like her own soul, as if it sensed the storm that was brewing both within and beyond the castle walls. 

The letter from Oldtown lay open on the table beside her, the ink still fresh with words that brought both relief and dread. Her brother, Gwayne Hightower, was riding toward King's Landing with a force of Hightower knights, bolstering the Green cause in their struggle against the Blacks. And with him, her daughter, her sweet girl—though hardly a girl anymore—who had been sent to Oldtown all those years ago.

"She returns with Gwayne," Alicent murmured to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. The notion should have filled her with joy. But the rumors... those insidious whispers that had even managed to penetrate the walls of the Red Keep, refused to be silenced.

The door creaked open behind her, and Alicent did not need to turn to know who it was. The scent of parchment and ink preceded him, along with the stern, unyielding presence that had always defined him. Otto Hightower, her father, the Hand of the King, stepped into the room, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"I take it you have heard the news," Otto said, his voice measured, betraying nothing of the emotion that Alicent knew he was capable of.

"Yes," she replied, finally turning to face him. "Gwayne is coming with her."

Otto inclined his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as they met hers. "It is as we had hoped. Reinforcements from Oldtown will be invaluable in the coming days."

Alicent's gaze drifted back to the letter, her hand trembling slightly as she touched the edge of the parchment. "But at what cost?" she asked, her voice low, almost trembling. "The rumors, Father... they say things—unspeakable things about Gwayne and her. About my daughter."

Otto's expression darkened, and he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "Idle gossip," he said dismissively. "People will say anything to sow discord, especially in times of war. We must not let baseless rumors cloud our judgment."

Alicent looked up at him, her green eyes wide with worry. "But the nature of these rumors... it's not just idle talk. They say she and Gwayne... that they are more than uncle and niece, that they are lovers." The word fell from her lips like a curse, and she shuddered at the thought.

"Do you believe it?" Otto's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"I don't want to," Alicent replied, her voice breaking. "But she has been away from me for so long. And Gwayne... he has always been protective of her, ever since she arrived in Oldtown. I... I fear what may have happened in my absence."

Otto's hand tightened on her shoulder, almost to the point of pain. "Alicent," he said firmly, "You cannot allow yourself to be swayed by rumors. We must focus on the war, on securing the throne for Aegon. Your daughter's honor is not to be questioned based on the gossip of those who would see us fail."

Alicent nodded slowly, but her heart was heavy with doubt. She could not dismiss the images that filled her mind, of her daughter and her brother, together in ways that were forbidden, sinful. The thought of it made her stomach churn, and she had to close her eyes to keep from weeping. But there was something else, something that frightened her even more. Her daughter was bonded with Cannibal, the most fearsome and wild of the dragons, a creature that had never been tamed. What if the dragon’s nature had seeped into her very soul, making her reckless, uncontrollable?

"What if there is truth to it?" she whispered, the question hanging in the air like a specter.

Otto's expression softened, just a fraction, as he looked at his daughter. "If there is truth to it, then we will deal with it. But we must not act rashly. There are greater matters at stake here, Alicent. The realm needs stability, not scandal. We cannot afford to let this undermine everything we have worked for."

Alicent swallowed hard, trying to push down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. "I cannot bear the thought of her being shamed," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "She is my child, my daughter. I sent her away to protect her, and now... now it feels as if I have lost her."

"You have not lost her," Otto said firmly. "She is returning to you, to her family. We will welcome her back with the honor she deserves. And as for Gwayne... I will speak to him. If there is any truth to these rumors, he will answer to me."

Alicent nodded, though she found little comfort in his words. Her thoughts were a tangled web of fear, love, and suspicion. She had always known that the bonds of family were complex, but never had she imagined they could become so twisted, so dangerous.

"Father," she said softly, "What if Aemond finds out? He is... possessive of her, protective. If he were to believe these rumors..."

Otto's eyes flashed with concern, and he released her shoulder, stepping back as he considered her words. "We must ensure that Aemond does not hear of this. His temper is too volatile, and his love for her... it borders on obsession. We cannot allow him to be provoked."

Alicent nodded again, but the fear lingered. The thought of her son, her fierce, vengeful Aemond, reacting to such news filled her with dread. She could only pray that Gwayne and her daughter would arrive without incident, that the rumors would prove false, and that the family could focus on the war at hand. 

But as she stared out over the city once more, the uneasy feeling in her chest remained. The winds of war were blowing, carrying with them whispers of scandal and betrayal. And Alicent could only hope that her family would not be torn apart before the storm had passed.

The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with activity, the clang of armor and the clatter of hooves echoing off the ancient stone walls as the gates swung open to welcome the Hightower forces. Banners bearing the sigil of House Hightower— the tower crowned with flames— fluttered in the wind, a proud sight that filled Alicent with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. These were her people, the kin she had left behind in Oldtown so many years ago. Yet the emotions churning within her were anything but simple.

Aemond stood beside her, his presence as imposing as ever. The hard line of his jaw and the cold fire in his eye spoke volumes of the impatience he could barely contain. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, as if daring anyone to provoke him. Alicent knew his thoughts well enough—he was eager to see his sister, his twin, and if the rumors that plagued Alicent’s mind held any truth, Aemond’s reaction might be the spark that ignited the wildfire. 

Otto Hightower stood on her other side, his expression carefully neutral, but Alicent knew him too well. He was watching, calculating, preparing for whatever might unfold in the moments to come. His eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of the approaching entourage.

Gwayne Hightower rode at the front of his men, his armor gleaming in the midday sun. There was an aura of confidence about him, the kind that only came with years of experience in both battle and court. His gaze met Alicent’s as he dismounted, and for a moment, there was nothing but the shared understanding between siblings—a connection forged long before they were drawn into the deadly game of thrones.

“Welcome, brother,” Alicent called, stepping forward with a smile that she hoped conveyed warmth rather than the anxiety gnawing at her insides. 

“Sister,” Gwayne replied, his voice deep and rich with a familiarity that eased some of the tension in her shoulders. He approached her, inclining his head in a respectful greeting. “It is good to see you after so long.”

“And you as well, Gwayne,” Alicent said, her voice softer now, more genuine. “We have missed you here at court.”

Gwayne’s eyes flickered to Aemond, who had not yet spoken. “Aemond,” he greeted with a nod, but there was no warmth in his tone, only the formality of recognition between two men who were not entirely certain where they stood with one another.

“Gwayne,” Aemond responded, his voice clipped, the tension in him palpable. His eye scanned the ranks of Hightower knights, as if searching for someone. “Where is she?”

Gwayne’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “She will be here soon, Aemond. The journey from Oldtown was long and wearying.”

Alicent noted the careful wording and stepped in before her son could press further. “You must be exhausted after such a journey, all of you. The King has ordered that you be well cared for—rooms have been prepared, and a feast will be held in your honor.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting her words with a grace that belied the tension she could sense in him. “We are grateful, my lady.”

There was a brief pause, the silence heavy between them. Alicent felt the weight of unspoken questions, the rumors lingering like a shadow over their reunion. She searched Gwayne’s face for any sign that might betray him, but he was as unreadable as ever.

“How has Oldtown fared in these troubled times?” Alicent asked, choosing her words with care, hoping to probe gently without drawing blood.

Gwayne’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he recognized the maneuver for what it was. “Oldtown remains strong, sister. The people are resilient, as they have always been. Daeron is well, a credit to our House. As for… other matters, all has been as it should be.”

The last words hung in the air, heavy with insinuation. Alicent caught the slight emphasis, the deliberate choice of words, and it set her on edge. Did he mean to reassure her, or to hide something more sinister? She could not tell.

Before she could press further, the sky above them darkened, and the unmistakable sound of massive wings beating the air filled the courtyard. A shadow passed over them, causing men to look up in awe and fear as a dragon circled above. But this was no ordinary dragon—this was Cannibal, the wild and ancient beast that had never been tamed, bonded only to her daughter.

The sight of the massive black dragon circling overhead sent a chill through Alicent. Cannibal was a fearsome creature, unpredictable and terrifying in its sheer size and ferocity. The fact that her daughter had bonded with such a beast had always unnerved Alicent, and now, seeing it here, so close to the Red Keep, that unease returned tenfold.

Aemond’s lips curved into a smirk as he watched the dragon’s descent. “It seems she has arrived,” he said, satisfaction coloring his tone.

Gwayne’s face was a study in conflicting emotions as he watched Cannibal. There was admiration, yes, but also a tension that Alicent did not miss. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought she saw something akin to fear in his eyes—fear not of the dragon, but of what its presence might signify.

The dragon circled once more before veering off toward the Dragonpit, its massive wings slicing through the air with a sound like thunder. Alicent released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her heart racing in her chest. She turned to Gwayne, watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Impressive, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice light, though her eyes were sharp as they fixed on his face.

Gwayne forced a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “She is a sight to behold, indeed.”

Alicent could see the effort it took for him to maintain his composure, and it only deepened her concerns. “I trust that her presence has not caused too much trouble in Oldtown?” she ventured, testing the waters.

“None at all,” Gwayne replied, but the answer came too quickly, too smoothly. “Her dragon is as much a part of her as her blood, is it not?”

“Of course,” Alicent agreed, but her mind was racing. Gwayne’s tension was palpable now, and she could not shake the feeling that there was something more beneath the surface. The way he had watched Cannibal, the slight tremor in his voice—these were not signs of a man completely at ease.

Before she could delve deeper, the sound of approaching footsteps caught their attention. Ser Criston Cole, ever the vigilant protector, strode into the courtyard, flanked by a contingent of Kingsguard. Behind him, veiled but unmistakable in her presence, walked her daughter, the niece of Gwayne Hightower, and the twin sister of Aemond.

Alicent’s heart leapt at the sight of her daughter, so regal and composed, yet she could not help but notice the tension in her as well. There was something different about her, something that had changed in the years since they had last seen one another.

Aemond stepped forward, his eye locked on his twin, but it was Gwayne who drew Alicent’s attention. His gaze was fixed on her daughter as well, and in that moment, Alicent saw the truth in his eyes—a truth she had feared but could no longer deny.

There was more between them than simple kinship. It was there in the way Gwayne’s breath hitched as he looked at her, in the way her daughter’s gaze flickered toward him before quickly looking away. It was in the tension that hung thick in the air, in the unspoken words that passed between them.

Alicent’s heart sank, her worst fears confirmed in the space of a heartbeat. She could see it now, plain as day—the connection between them, the bond that went beyond family, beyond duty. It was something deeper, something forbidden.

“Come, we must not keep the King waiting,” Otto’s voice cut through the tension, bringing them all back to the present.

Alicent forced herself to smile, to play the role she had been born into. “Indeed,” she agreed, her voice steady even as her mind churned with a thousand thoughts. “Let us return to the Red Keep.”

As they made their way back, Alicent found herself walking beside Gwayne. She glanced at him, trying to read his thoughts, but his expression was carefully controlled once more. Yet she could not forget the look in his eyes as he had watched her daughter, nor the way his hands had clenched at his sides when Cannibal had flown overhead.

“You must be proud,” she said softly, “of how far we have come, how strong our family has become.”

Gwayne glanced at her, his smile faint but polite. “I am, sister. We have much to be proud of.”

Alicent nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. She could not shake the feeling that everything was on the brink of unraveling, that the threads of their carefully woven lives were being pulled apart by forces they could not control.

And as they walked back toward the Red Keep, with Cannibal’s distant roar echoing in the sky above, Alicent could only hope that whatever came next, her family would survive it.

The flickering candlelight bathed the walls of her chambers in a soft, golden glow, casting silhouettes that danced across the tapestries and silken drapes. The air was thick with the scent of lavender, meant to soothe nerves and calm the mind, but tonight, it did little to ease the tension coiling within you.

You stood by the window, gazing out at the darkened sky, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Worry gnawed at you, like a persistent whisper at the back of your mind, and it only grew stronger as the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was—the familiar presence, the unmistakable warmth that seemed to fill the room whenever he was near.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, turning to face him, the concern evident in your eyes.

He stepped into the room, his expression softened with affection as he looked at you. “You shouldn’t worry, my love,” he said, crossing the room with a few quick strides until he was standing before you, his hands reaching for yours.

“I can’t help it,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you took his hands in yours, gripping them tightly as if you feared he might slip away. “Aemond told me what they plan—how they expect one of Rhaenyra’s dragonriders at Rook’s Rest. It’s a trap, Gwayne. They mean to spring a trap, and you’ll be there with them.”

Gwayne’s expression hardened slightly at the mention of Aemond, but his voice remained gentle as he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I have faced worse, and I have always returned to you,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a tender caress. “I will return again, I promise you.”

“But this time…” Your voice broke, the fear creeping into your words. “This time feels different. Aemond is reckless, and Aegon… I don’t trust him to care for anyone but himself. What if something goes wrong?”

Gwayne leaned down, his forehead resting against yours as he closed his eyes, as if trying to draw strength from your presence. “Nothing will go wrong,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “I will make sure of it.”

His words were meant to reassure, but you could hear the uncertainty beneath them, the fear that mirrored your own. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer as if the closeness alone could protect him.

“I can’t lose you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your lips brushed against his. “Not now, not ever.”

His response was a soft, desperate kiss, one that quickly deepened as his hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him. There was a desperation in the way he kissed you, as if he too was trying to cling to the moment, to the safety of the here and now.

The kiss grew more urgent, more heated, and you could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself in the sensation of your body against his. Your hands roamed over his chest, fingers tugging at the fabric, needing to feel his skin beneath your touch.

“Gwayne,” you gasped as he kissed down the column of your throat, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “I don’t want to talk about war, or Aemond, or anyone else. Not right now.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark with desire and something deeper, something that went beyond words. “Then let’s not,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Let’s forget everything else, just for tonight.”

You nodded, and that was all the permission he needed. His hands moved to the laces of your gown, deftly working them free as you did the same with his tunic. The fabric fell away, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the chamber, but the chill was quickly replaced by the heat of his body as he pressed against you.

You let out a soft moan as his hands roamed over your bare skin, the touch both familiar and electrifying. There was no hesitation in the way he touched you, no uncertainty—only the confidence of a lover who knew every inch of your body, who had memorized the places that made you tremble, that made you sigh with pleasure.

He lifted you easily, setting you down on the table behind you with a force that sent a few scattered objects clattering to the floor. But neither of you paid them any mind. Your focus was entirely on each other, on the way his mouth found yours again, the way your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them as he positioned himself between them, his eyes locked on yours, watching the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched toward him in anticipation. The first slow, deliberate thrust drew a gasp from your lips, the familiar stretch filling you with a deep, aching need.

“Gwayne,” you moaned, your head falling back as you clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. The sensation of him inside you was both comfort and torment, the slow drag of his body against yours driving you mad with desire.

He didn’t hold back, his movements quickening, each thrust more forceful than the last as he buried himself deeper inside you, his breath ragged against your neck. “They know,” he rasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of keeping control even as his body threatened to overwhelm him. “Alicent… Otto… they know about us.”

You bit back a cry of pleasure as you tightened around him, your hands gripping his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips brushing against his ear. “I don’t care,” you whispered fiercely, capturing his lips in a searing kiss that silenced any further words. “I don’t want to think about them either.”

The kiss was consuming, a desperate melding of lips and tongues, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was both frantic and familiar. The table beneath you creaked with the force of your movements, but you paid it no mind, lost in the sensation of him, in the heat that built between you, spiraling higher and higher until it threatened to consume you both.

His hands roamed over your body, as if memorizing every curve, every dip, the feel of you beneath his fingertips. And you responded in kind, your own hands exploring his body, the hard planes of muscle, the slickness of sweat that coated his skin as you moved together, faster, harder.

Your breath came in short, desperate gasps, your body arching off the table as the pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. “Gwayne,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you teetered on the edge of release, needing that final push.

“I’m here,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with need, his pace quickening even further, driving you both toward the inevitable end. “I’m here, my love.”

The words sent you over the edge, your body shattering around him as you cried out, the pleasure washing over you in waves, pulling him along with you. He followed with a groan, his movements becoming erratic as he found his own release, his body tensing above you as he emptied himself inside you.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the feel of his body still joined with yours, the lingering warmth of pleasure that coursed through your veins. You clung to him, your hands gentle now, soothing as you held him close, not wanting to let go, not wanting to lose this moment.

But eventually, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes soft with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “I love you,” he whispered, the words a balm to the fears that still lingered in the back of your mind.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady, but filled with the same deep emotion that he had shown you.

He kissed you again, this time slow and sweet, a promise in the way his lips lingered against yours. But as you held each other in the quiet aftermath, the world beyond your chambers slowly crept back in—the war, the dangers that awaited him at Rook’s Rest, the knowledge that nothing was certain.

But for now, you pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the feel of his arms around you, the warmth of his body against yours. For now, you were together, and that was all that mattered.

You sit astride your dragon, the wind whipping through your hair as Cannibal’s powerful wings cut through the air. The sound of battle echoes below, the clash of steel and the screams of men rising like a dark symphony. You can see the banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower waving in the distance, signaling the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. But your heart is not with the men below; it beats faster with each passing moment, drawn inexorably to the man on the hill, mounted on his horse, watching the sky with a tension that mirrors your own.

Gwayne.

He’s there, beside Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. You know his eyes are on the horizon, where Meleys, the Red Queen, approaches with Rhaenys Targaryen astride her. His heart must be racing, as is yours, for different reasons. He knows the danger. You know the risk.

He’s always known, hasn’t he?

Even back in Oldtown, when you were sent away with Daeron, your brother, to be raised as a ward of House Hightower, it was clear that your life was bound to the iron will of your family. But it wasn’t duty that bound you to Gwayne; it was something else, something deeper, something forbidden.

It began with stolen glances, quiet moments in the gardens, and the brush of his hand against yours. Oldtown became your sanctuary, but it was Gwayne who became your world. The Hightower, with all its towering walls and ancient halls, held secrets—yours among them. The love that blossomed between you both was secret, tender, and as dangerous as the war that now rages around you.

Cannibal lets out a low, rumbling growl beneath you, sensing your anxiety. You press a hand to the black scales of his neck, grounding yourself. You were always a Targaryen, always bound to the dragons, but Cannibal… Cannibal was different. He was a creature of pure darkness, a beast of the old ways, feared and shunned by all but you. It was fitting, you suppose, that your fate would ride with such a dragon.

“Hold steady, Cannibal,” you murmur, though your eyes are fixed on Gwayne’s distant figure.

There’s no time to linger on thoughts of him. Meleys is close now, her crimson scales catching the light of the setting sun. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, a seasoned dragonrider and a warrior born, is a formidable opponent. You know this as well as anyone. Your jaw tightens as you prepare for what’s to come.

Gwayne’s voice echoes in your mind, a memory from nights past. “You shouldn’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”

“This is what I was born to do,” you’d whispered back to him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “For the throne, for our family… for you.”

He hadn’t said anything more, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d known then that this day might come, and he’d feared it as much as you had.

A roar splits the air, snapping you back to the present. Rhaenys has begun her assault, Meleys unleashing a torrent of flame upon Cole’s men below. They scatter like leaves in the wind, consumed by the fire. The scorpion ballistas fire their harpoons, but Meleys is swift, her aerial maneuvers deft and practiced. The shots go wide, missing her entirely.

And then, another roar—this one deeper, more guttural—resonates through the skies. It’s a sound that stops your heart, and you know it’s the same for Gwayne, though he is miles away.

Cannibal.

The battlefield below stills for a moment, as if the very world is holding its breath. Then, the black shadow of your dragon falls across the earth, blocking out the sun as you and Cannibal descend upon the fray. Rhaenys turns her head, her eyes narrowing as she sees you. There’s no time for words, no time for the politics or the pain of family betrayal. There’s only the battle.

Cannibal’s jaws open, and a blast of dark fire shoots forth, aimed directly at Meleys. Rhaenys pulls her dragon to the side, just in time, the fire missing by a hair’s breadth. The air is thick with the stench of smoke and burning flesh, the screams of men below barely audible over the thunder of dragon wings.

Rhaenys maneuvers Meleys with precision, and you feel the thrill of the challenge rise within you. Cannibal surges forward, claws outstretched, and the two dragons clash in a tempest of scales and fury. The sky is a blur of red and black, fire and blood. Meleys snaps at Cannibal’s neck, but he twists, his tail whipping around to strike her side.

Gwayne watches from his position on the hill, his knuckles white as he grips the reins of his horse. He knows your style, knows the ferocity with which you fight. But this… this is something different. This is war.

Above, another dragon’s roar cuts through the din, and you know it’s Aegon on Sunfyre. He swoops in from the west, brilliant golden scales shining in the fading light. Aemond follows on Vhagar, the ancient dragon circling above, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It’s a dance of death, a deadly game of strategy and strength. Cannibal and Sunfyre move in tandem, each attempting to flank Meleys, forcing her into a vulnerable position. You catch a glimpse of Rhaenys, her face set in grim determination, her lips moving as she urges her dragon on.

Cannibal snarls, his teeth snapping inches from Meleys’ throat, but she’s quick, too quick. She lashes out with her claws, raking them across Cannibal’s side. He roars in fury, and you feel the impact through the bond you share with him, the pain a sharp lance in your side.

But you don’t falter. You can’t. Not now.

Sunfyre dives, his maw open wide, but Meleys is ready. She turns, a stream of fire bursting from her jaws, and it engulfs Sunfyre. The golden dragon shrieks in agony, his wings catching fire, the delicate membrane burning away. Aegon is thrown from the saddle, his body a blazing comet as he plummets to the earth below.

“No!” The scream tears from your throat before you can stop it, the sight of your brother’s fall searing itself into your mind. But there’s no time to mourn, no time to grieve.

Cannibal takes advantage of the chaos, his claws digging into Meleys’ back as he forces her downward. The red dragon roars in defiance, but Cannibal is relentless, his jaws closing around her neck, ready to end it.And then it happens.

A scorpion ballista, aimed by desperate men, fires a harpoon meant for Rhaenys. But the aim is off, the bolt instead striking Cannibal’s side, driving deep into his flesh. The black dragon lets out a roar of agony, his grip on Meleys faltering. The pain is overwhelming, the bond between you and your dragon screaming with the shared agony.

“Cannibal!” The cry is torn from your lips as you feel him falter, feel his strength ebbing away. You’re falling now, the ground rushing up to meet you as Cannibal spirals out of control. The world blurs, the sky and earth blending into one as you plummet, your heart in your throat.

Gwayne watches in horror, his voice lost to the wind as he sees you falling, sees Cannibal spiraling down in a trail of blood and fire. He digs his heels into his horse’s sides, urging the beast forward, racing toward where you’ll land, desperate to reach you.

Above, Aemond’s fury is unleashed. Vhagar, enraged by the sight of his fallen kin, descends with a vengeance. The ancient dragon’s roar shakes the very earth as he closes in on Meleys, who is weakened, bloodied. Rhaenys barely has time to react before Vhagar’s jaws close around Meleys’ neck, and with a sickening crunch, it’s over.

Meleys falls, lifeless, to the ground, her crimson scales dulling as death claims her. Rhaenys, too, falls silent, her body still and broken beside her dragon.

But Gwayne’s thoughts are not with the dead queen or the defeated dragon. His only concern is you. He rides hard, faster than he’s ever ridden, his mind racing with fear and hope. He can’t lose you, not now, not like this.

Cannibal crashes into the earth with a sound like thunder, his massive body crumpling from the impact. The force of the fall throws you from the saddle, sending you tumbling across the scorched ground. Pain explodes through your body as you hit the earth, the breath knocked from your lungs.

Darkness edges your vision, but you fight it, fight to stay conscious. You can’t succumb, not yet. Gwayne is coming. You have to hold on.

As the world begins to fade, you hear it—the sound of hooves pounding against the earth, growing closer, and closer. Gwayne. He’s coming for you. You try to move, to reach for him, but the pain is too much, your body too broken.

The last thing you see before the darkness claims you is his face, twisted in anguish, as he leaps from his horse. 

You barely feel the impact as you fall into his arms, the world around you blurring into a haze of pain and shadows. Gwayne's voice is a distant echo, calling your name, but the sound is faint, drowned by the thunderous roar of the battle still raging in the skies above.

"Stay with me," Gwayne pleads, his voice thick with desperation. His hands tremble as they touch your face, your hair, as if he's afraid you're already slipping away. Blood is everywhere—yours, Cannibal's, staining the ground beneath you. He can't seem to stop the flow, no matter how hard he tries.

"Cannibal..." you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. Your hand reaches out instinctively, searching for the bond you've always felt so strongly. But there's only silence. Cannibal, the dragon who was feared by all, lies broken, motionless, his once powerful body now just a dark mass on the blood-soaked earth. The bond between you and your dragon fades, leaving a gaping void in your heart.

Gwayne’s heart shatters at the sight of your pale face, your bloodied form cradled in his arms. He knows he should call for the maester, for anyone who can help, but the thought of leaving your side, even for a moment, is unbearable. He pulls you closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin.

"You’re going to be fine," he says, but the words sound hollow, even to his own ears. There’s too much blood, too much pain, and he can see the life slipping from your eyes. "You have to be fine. I won’t let you go. I can’t..."

You try to speak, to comfort him as you always have, but the effort is too great. The darkness is pulling you down, dragging you away from him, and there’s nothing you can do to fight it. The world is growing colder, quieter, and all you can think about is Gwayne. How much you wanted to tell him that you loved him, how much you wanted to stay with him, away from the chaos of the war that has torn your family apart.

Gwayne’s tears fall freely now, his chest tightening with grief. He’s never felt so helpless, so utterly powerless. He presses his lips to your forehead, a silent vow passing between you both.

"I will keep you safe," he whispers, his voice breaking. "No matter what, I will keep you safe. I swear it on my life, my love. I will not lose you. Not to this war, not to anyone."

The sound of approaching footsteps jolts him back to reality, and he looks up to see Ser Criston Cole riding towards them, his expression grim. Behind him, the battlefield is a smoldering ruin, the bodies of men and dragons alike littering the ground. Aegon’s fall has sent a shockwave through their ranks, and the once glorious day has turned into a nightmare.

"Get her to the maester, now!" Cole commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Aegon’s alive but barely, and we need to regroup. We can’t afford to lose her too."

Gwayne doesn’t respond, his focus solely on you. With a strength born of sheer will, he lifts you into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. In his mind, you are.

As he carries you toward the tents, each step feels like a mile, the weight of his promise bearing down on him. The battle rages on, but in that moment, Gwayne doesn’t care about the throne, the war, or even his duty. All that matters is you, and the vow he’s made to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

He won’t let you die. He can’t. Not when there’s so much left unsaid, so much left to live for. He’ll fight for you, as fiercely as you’ve fought on the back of your dragon. And if it means going against the very family he’s sworn to serve, then so be it.

As Gwayne reaches the maester’s tent, he refuses to let go of you, even as the maester tries to take you from his arms. He holds on, even as the world around him spins out of control. He won’t let go. He can’t. 

And as the darkness finally overtakes you, the last thing you hear is his voice, a whispered promise that anchors you to the world.

“I will keep you safe,” he vows again, and this time, the words are as unbreakable as the bond you once shared with your dragon.

Even if it takes his last breath, Gwayne Hightower will not fail you.

[enlightenedrobot]

Other Characters you can legally use for your Mickey Mouse project

Mickey Mouse is in the public domain, as is Minnie Mouse and Peg-leg Pete. There's some caveats to that, and I talk about that more in this other post, but for now, let's talk about other characters who you can also use to fill out the cast.

These characters should all be in the public domain, though some characters still have treademarks. I'll get into how to use them safely as we go. Anyways, let's start.

Other Disney Characters

Disney obvciously doesn't advertise this, but there's actually quite a few Disney originals who've actually been in the public domain for a while.

The Mad Doctor never had it's copyright renewed, and so it's very technically the first Mickey Mouse cartoon to enter the public domain. Keep in mind, the version of Pluto featured in the short isn't in the domain just yet, but the Doctor himself is free to use.

What's funny is that Disney would later use a version of Doctor for Epic Mickey. Obviously don't use that version of the character.

Aside from the Mad Doctor, we also have Oswald and Ortensia

Yeah, as it turns out, Oswald's been in the public domain for quite a while, but he's still trademarked by Disney. Easy recommendation... use the original "fat" design of the character and have him go by Lucky.

But before Oswald, we have the Alice Comedies

Everything about the Alice Comedies is Public Domain for a long time, and the Disney corporation very rarely acknowlege these characters existence. Which is a shame because These shorts were some of the first shorts Walt ever produced, and they have the unique gimmick of featuring a live action girl in an animated world.

Everybody already knows about Oswald, but nobody talks about Oswald and Mickey's older brother from these shorts, Julius the Cat

Like... yeah no, it didn't all start with a mouse. Or a rabbit. It started with a cat.

Foxy and Milton Mouse

Both Foxy (top) and Milton (bottom, pictured with his girlfriend Rita Mouse) were characters created by Warner Brothers and Van Beuren respectively to cash in on Mickey's success, and both characters are also in the public domain.

In fact, all Van Beuren cartoons are apparently in the public domain, and I encourage you to find their cartoons and use them as you please.

Fleischer Characters

Betty Boop is probably in the Public Domain, but there's a few caveats with this. From what I can tell, the name Betty Boop is trademarked, but the character herself isn't. Most of the old Betty Cartoons are free to use, but newer incarnations, including the versions used in 1985's The Romance of Betty Boop and 1989's The Betty Boop Movie Mystery are still very much under copyright.

To avoid any legal trouble, I have two big recommendations. Although everybody remembers Betty as having Black hair, in one of the few early instances of Betty being shown in color, she's actually depicted as Redhead.

This is Betty Boop in 1934's Poor Cinderella, and her hair color is pretty clearly red.

The other option is to just make her black.

Though there's been some debate as to whether Betty Boop was intentionally modeled after Esther Lee Jones or not, there's still no denying the influence of Jazz on the character. Betty Boop is a Jazz singer and is often depicted dancing to Cab Calloway. Hell, the Betty Boop musical features Jasmine Amy Rogers as the titular character.

Betty Boop aside, there's an entire world of defunct Betty Boop characters who are definately public domain, including Bimbo and Koko the Clown.

Next year, Popeye's also gonna enter the Domain. So keep an eye out for him too.

Anyways, these are my picks, but obviously this list isn't meant to be comprehensive. There's a ton of old cartoon characters out there who can be freely reinterpreted into newer works. Feel free to add your own favorite public domain cartoon to the list.

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged rant >:(

Demon Slayer fandom discourse

I want to start this by saying, I know that Demon Slayer isn't an explicitly queer manga/anime because Shōnen Jump, but I believe that Demon Slayer is for the queers and has lots of themes that we can identify with like love, acceptance, loss, guilt and strength.

Despite what these stupid, smelly, ignorant, power-scaling, non-ass-washing, Cheetos-dust-snorting, once-a-month-showering, dude-bros would have you believe, Demon Slayer isn't just another battle Shōnen anime/manga, it's a love story and about the perseverance of the human spirit and if that doesn't speak to the queer experience then I don't know what does.

Plus, I don't know how Gotogue-sensei is as a person, but I think the fact that she managed to make one of the kindest mcs in shōnen speaks volumes about her disposition. I don't think she would be one to reject queer fans identifying with her story so well.

In these recent times, it seems like everything is going to shit, the world is slowly regressing into the dark ages destroying decades of progress and trying to distract ourselves from all this by engaging with the fandoms we love is hard because everything seems to cater to cis, straight, white men.

To be honest, I created this blog mostly out of spite, but I also wanted to carve out a tiny space for myself where I can talk out of my ass and not have some decrepit reddit dude bro go all 'well, ackshually ☝🤓' on me, and I'm happy to have met so many like-minded people.

So, I've compiled a list of answers to the common types of nonsense drivel these fuckers post in response to shipping and queer discussions and theories about Demon Slayer. You can copy and paste whenever and wherever you encounter these black holes of ignorance and stupidity if you want.

In the Taisho era, there were no gay/queer people: This is one of the dumbest statements I've ever heard, and the fact that it's a really common response really shows how we've failed as a society. Queer people have existed for ages all over the world, Japan has an extensive queer history. Demon Slayer is based on samurai culture and samurai culture was really, really, really, really, really, really, really gay. Sure, it had rigid roles, but that doesn't make it any less queer. A quick Google search would go a long way to nourish that dried-out, shrivelled husk you call a brain. Go read a book you walking condom ad, your parents and education system have obviously failed you.

It's forcing sexuality into the story: We literally had a whole season dedicated to the mcs going to the 'entertainment district', we have a sexy man with three wives who talks about 'loving' them all equally, we have the abundant male fanservice, one of the mcs talks about women on the daily, we have a boy who eats demons and is horny shy around girls all the time, we have his brother who exposes his tits because he's proud of them, we have a demon who was essentially a sexual predator that targeted 16-year-old girls and ate them, the main villain shape-shifts into a woman to 'get' information as a Geisha, we have a girl who literally lusts after almost everyone she meets but yea no lets not force sexuality into it 🙄.

I don't care: Okay cool, but I value your opinion as much as I value the shit I took this morning.

It's who they are as a character that matters: Sexuality is a part of a person's character. Your sexuality defines your experiences, decisions, options and outlook on life. That's why you as a straight man can be so ignorant.

It's forced*(I really hate this one): Honestly, fuck you. Why is it that you only think something is forced when it doesn't revolve around you and your experiences? You guys are fine with tons of anime/manga that sexualize women and girls to an insane degree even when it doesn't make sense, but that doesn't stop you from consuming and glazing the hell out of the authors, but when we talk about including queer characters suddenly it's forced? Your existence is forced, and you can just eat shit.

I don't like it: Who the fuck do you think you are dictating how other people consume and interpret the media they consume? How about you go hump your smelly, cum-encrusted anime body pillow.

Men can be touchy/emotional with each other without it being gay, it's just our western standards: No it isn't the majority of shipping activities and works come from Japan, which wouldn't happen if it was just part of their culture. We're not stupid, we know men and boys can be friends without it being sexual, and we know when a friendship is just that, and then we know when two guys are straight up pining for one another.

It's not canon/the mangaka didn't explicitly state it: They can't because of Shōnen Jump, so a lot of them pass off information about a character through subtext, metaphors and allegories. They also don't have to, things don't have to outright stated or 'canon' for them to make sense and if you need them to be so for you to understand or enjoy the story then a moment of silence for your head since it's without a brain.

It's not common: Despite Shōnen Jump, there are lots of mainstream anime/manga that have queer characters: One Punch Man, Hunter x Hunter, Dr. Stone, Windbreaker, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Naruto, Gintama, Dragon Ball Z, My Hero Academia, Fairy Tail, One Piece, Attack on Titan, Tokyo Ghoul, Jujutsu Kaisen, Chainsaw Man, Blue Period and that's not to talk of the ones with queer subtext like I dunno ALL Sports anime/manga to ever exist!

Why do you look for LGBTQ in everything?: It might be hard for straights to understand but growing up queer and looking for a connection causes us to develop what we call a gaydar that helps us identify characteristics, mannerisms, features and vibes from a person that screams 'ONE OF US! ONE OF US!'. It's only natural, and our gaydar doesn't suddenly turn off when we're consuming media, especially when it's media that we love and hold dear to our hearts. It doesn't matter if the mangaka inserted these characteristics intentionally or not, that doesn't stop us from picking up on them, and why should it?

Shipping is stupid: So is power-scaling, but that doesn't stop you assholes from making thousands of posts, creating YouTube channels and sharing content about it and cramming it down our throats. It's even worse because it's from grown-ass men.

The characters have no chemistry/they hate each other: A lot of queer ships have more chemistry, history, interactions, personality and development than a lot of 'canon' straight couples. It's literally a trope in media that all a man and a woman need to be in a relationship is to be in close proximity to each other, then their relationship goes on to be drier than salted crackers in silicone packets scattered in the Sahara desert. Well, I guess you can't blame the creators, you write what you know after all.

I know this is a lot and I know how angry I sound right now, but I'm so sick and so tired of all these guys who are as useful to the human race as pieces of freshly shat out dog turds that have been thrown in the grass by the sidewalk in a hot summer afternoon, who can't see past their lice-infested neck beards trying to make something as colorful, interesting, joyful and queer as anime and the fandoms fit their own boring, stupid and misogynistic worldview.

In Conclusion, Demon Slayer is amazing, horny* and unbelievably queer.

*I'm talking about the male fanservice btw :)

[fandom-lover2]

Hope To Stay A While, Just Till The Rain Stops

Chapter Six - Dad, We Gotta Work on Your Parenting Skills

-image not mine-

Chapter Five - Is It Too Late to Go to Mom's for the Week

“So uhh… who cleans the bat shit?”

“Y/n!” Bruce snapped.

“What?” I defended, continuing to look up at the small, flying mammals as they moved far above on the ceiling of the cave. “They gotta shit.”

“We hose it down once a week.” Dick answered from where he was busy wrapping his knuckles.

“Thank you.” I lowered my gaze to the rest of the Cave.

It was literally a whole cave, right below my house.

A cave, filled with bat themed technology and bat puns.

There was a matted training section, and a wall of mannequins wearing their suits, which then rounded to the bathrooms with showers and lockers.

On the other side, the trophy section was mementos from Batman’s victories. Or maybe they were too dangerous to he anywhere but here. What the animatronic T-rex could do, I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to climb it.

A huge computer was to the focus point of the huge space, the ‘Bat-computer’ (I’m not kidding) and the garage with the ‘Bat-mobile’ (I needed to figure out who thought of these and throw a dictionary at them).

“Movie nights on this thing would be awesome.” I murmured, looking at the massive screen almost the size of a movie theatre screen. “Got surround sound speakers?”

“You know we have a home theatre, right?” Tim spoke up from where he was sitting cross-legged on a wheelie chair, typing away at one of the keypads on the panel beneath the screen.

I turned to him. “What now?”

Jason laughed, hands deep inside his bike’s engine. “How have you not found it yet?”

I glared at the back of his head. “I only just found the cave and honestly was still in shock about the library, ok? Gimme a break.”

I was in love with our library. Classic Beauty and The Beast set up. Two stories, with rolling ladders and comfy chairs and books of every kind of topic from classic literature to modern infrastructure. Bruce had told me to make a list of authors and genres that interested me and he’d move things around so I had a section just for me.

Damian was finally ready and began sparring with Dick on the mats, the two moving in blurs as they used wooden sticks to mock fight, their grunts and witty banter echoing in the cavern.

Bruce was at another wheelie chair before the computer, watching me as I wondered around the and inspected everything.

Honestly, it was fucking cool. Not just the ‘Batman’ thing, this whole set up he had, how he’d managed to keep it a secret from the entire world for so long. My dad was a damn superhero, the one people turned to to save the world multiple times, and all he had was money and an iron will.

I headed back to him, sitting at the chair he had placed next to him and watched my brothers fight. “So when do I-”

“No.”

“Oh, come on.” I whined, swiveling to face him. “Please.”

“I will train you for self defense only, but to go out there at fight.”

“They all do!” I gestured to his other children.

My father turned to the computer and began to type on the keyboard. “They had different circumstances.”

“That makes zero sense. Background doesn’t define who becomes a hero and why.”

My father glanced to me, well he glared at me, not awarding me an answer as he turned back to the screen.

“Please.”

Nothing.

“Fine, I’ll just sneak out.”

“Your brother was raised and trained by the League of Assassins since birth, and he could never sneak out. You are welcome to try.”

I had no idea what the fuck the ‘League of Assassins’ were, but the name alone sounded badass and scary. I turned to my younger brother, watching as he charged Dick with a shout and attacked him again, hitting Dick’s back with the stick. “That actually explains so much about him.”

I planted my feet on the floor, swayed once, and spun myself, looking up as the ceiling of the cave spun far above me.

Bruce reached over, stopping my spinning so I was facing the screen. “Who’s he?”

It took a second for my eyes to orient themselves, my head still light from dizziness. When they settled, I was looking at a large picture of Matthew Collins. He was in my homeroom and biology class.

“Matt.” I answered.

The picture was of him and his parents, them all smiling at a posed photo shoot before a banner reading ‘Collins Corp. Charity Christmas Cookie Bake-Off’, snow falling to complete the cozy December vibe.

Bruce hummed, and the picture disappeared while he turned his attention to some document on a smaller screen to the right of him, out of my view.

“Why?” Was it for a case? “Ohh, do you need me to befriend him and get intel on his family?”

“No!” Bruce snapped, spinning to face me again. “I want you to stay far, far away from him. Never be alone with him, am I understood?”

The sudden change, the intensity in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, it startled me. How had he gone from nonchalant to worried so quickly? What the hell was Matt involved in?

He was such a nice guy. Two weeks ago he gave me a spare pen when mine had run out of ink, and yesterday he’d helped a girl who’s stack of books had fallen while in the halls.

He was on the basketball team, had good friends and had shared a couple jokes with me during particularly mind-numbing biology labs.

“Y-yes, sir.” The sir had been a genuine slip up. Being raised without a dad, the only time I ever got my ass reprimanded by a male was teachers, so the ‘sir’ for them was instinctual.

But Bruce didn’t show if the name had impacted him negatively or positively, because he turned back to his work wordlessly.

What the fuck?

I looked over to Tim, and he quickly ducked his head when he saw me turning to him, pretending to be busy with his own stuff.

Damian and Dick had stopped sparring, both watching us curiously.

Jason had left his bike and taken a couple steps towards us, glaring at the back of Bruce’s head but his eyes softened when they slipped to me and held a silent question. ‘You ok?’

His words from yesterday rang in my ears. He trusted Bruce, but he knew there was the possibility my father might take it too far, and he was evidently ready to step in when I needed him to.

It made my chest flutter a bit, grateful for the help but fearful of when it might come in need.

My whole life it was me looking out for me. And often times me looking out for Mom too. Now, I had 6-foot-3-wall-of-muscle-and-scars Jason Todd looking out for me. Sad it was against my own father, but much appreciated.

Bruce sighed, something tired and regretful. “I’m sorry.” he murmured, spinning to face me again. He reached out slowly, giving me plenty of time to move away if I didn’t want it, but I didn’t move and he rested his hand on my cheek.

His eyes were pinched in regret, his brows furrowed in shame. “I should not have done that.”

I wanted to say ‘It’s ok’, because that what you say when a parent snaps, or looses their cool, or does something mean and nasty. You say it’s ok so that they feel better, but inside you hold onto that feeling and it eats away at you that you just accept that treatment as the norm.

But something in his gaze, in his worried eyes scanning my face, it told me not to. If I brushed off what’d he’d done, he’d get suspicious. And if he got suspicious, he’d look into Mom. I needed to keep that part of my life from him.

“Why?” I said instead.

My father pulled his hand away from me, looking back to his screen. “Matthew Collins has been linked to many cases of sexual assault against girls and woman, but his father has enough money to manipulate all the detectives working the cases. I’m going to get him, but I need concrete evidence to hand over to the GCPD when I drag him in.”

I nodded along, seeing Jason turn back his bike from the corner of my eye and the boys resuming their sparring.

“Why did you ask me who he was if you knew him?”

Bruce rolled his shoulders. “I wanted to see what you’d answer. You said Matt, a nick name. You know him as more than just a name and face.”

“We’re not close. Just a few passing greetings and some jokes.”

Really? Matt? I know people like that could fool, used a ‘nice guy’ persona as a front, but he really seemed genuine in his character.

Bruce turned to me again. “Promise me you will stay away from him.”

His voice, it wasn’t an order, it was a plea.

“I promise.”

“There you all are.”

We all turned to see Alfred descending the stairs to the cave.

Being a Saturday, no one had school or work to hurry off to, so after a late breakfast, because we had been up until way past midnight talking and building pillow forts in the living room (Dick’s idea), Alfred had gone out to do some grocery shopping and personal errands.

He was back now, evidently.

“Y/n, I found some interesting tea blends for you to try.” he addressed me with a smile.

I returned it, but my mind was still on what my father had said. “Thank you.”

“Lunch?” Bruce asked, not looking to Alfred as he continued to read whatever it was on his screens.

When Alfred confirmed it was indeed lunch time, the four boys began to head towards him, knowing better than to try fight him. But my father remained sitting.

I looked from him to the leaving group then back to him.

“Kid!” Jason called, and I turned to look at him.

He jerked his chin, the universal sigh for ‘come on’, and so I slipped from the chair and met him at the bottom of the stairs, my brothers and grandfather already on their way up.

“He won’t leave for a while.”

“But-”

Jason leveled me a look. The ‘I know more than you’ look, so I shut my mouth. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

I sighed, but conceded and let Jason lead me up the stairs. My father wasn’t dead yet, despite years on this job. He knew what he was doing.

Now I just needed to try push his words to the back of my mind and enjoy the rest of my weekend.

---

I sped walked through the school halls, slipping between groups of teens and narrowly avoiding others in just as much a hurry as me.

I needed to get the hell out of here, quick. And call Bruce.

Finally, I made it to the school entrance and slipped down the main stairs, pulling my phone from my pocket.

“Y/n!”

My chest clenched, my blood freezing in my veins. The hairs at the back of my neck stood straight, a cold sweat settling on my back.

I turned slowly, hoping the crowds of escaping teens would hide me, but it didn’t. He’d spotted me, and his eyes were locked on me.

Matt came to a stop before me, a step too close into an acceptable distance that I so desperately wanted to create again, but I knew if I stepped back, he’d just follow.

“I’m glad I caught you. Did you see the cast listing?”

Yes, which is why I’m running out of here.

“I did yeah. Congratulations.”

Matt smiled. “And to you, co-star.”

I’d honestly forgotten we’d all been forced to do that stupid audition for Heathers, but now here we were, Veronica and J.D.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it…

“So, since we’re both the main stars, and will have a lot of scenes together, I was thinking we should get together and rehearse. My home has a recording studio, from my mom’s days as a musician. I’m free this weekend if you are.”

“Never be alone with him, am I understood?” Bruce’s words rang in my head.

I opened my mouth, but the flash of something red caught my eye behind him.

A familiar bike and standing it beside it with his hands fisted at his sides, Jason.

His teal eyes slipped from absolutely glowering at Matt to studying mine. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tight.

One move from me, and he’d be storming over to lay Hell on Matt.

“I’ll have to check with my dad.” I answered, looking back to Matt.

I wanted to punch him. How could he keep that sweet, kind smile after all he’d done?

“No problem. It’s only Monday. Let me know.”

And then he was walking off, called by his group of friends.

I’m not ashamed to say I turned and fucking bolted to Jason, running right into his open arms.

Last week, Matt looking at me had felt like nothing. Now, it felt like his eyes had been knives, piercing my skin as they had dragged over my form briefly, and I felt both gross and vulnerable.

I wish Bruce hadn’t told me.

“You ok?” Jason whispered.

I shook my head, pulling back just a bit to look up into his eyes. “We got a problem.”

Jason released me, reaching into the bag on his bike and pulling out a pair of my tracksuit pants. “Do you want to go to one of my safe houses, or do you think you can make it to the manor?”

He had safe houses?

“I’m supposed to go to Mom’s this week.” But even as I spoke, I was pulling my pants on.

“Bruce’ll call her and make an excuse. Dinner together or some shit.” He waited till I had my pants on, then secured a second helmet to my head before putting his own on and getting onto his bike, guiding me to sit beside him.

“Well?” he spoke again, voice going through the comms both helmets had.

“I can make it home.” I reassured, moving forward to wrap my arms around his chest.

“Ok. I’ll call Bruce and Alfred to let them know what’s happening. And Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

Jason started up the bike and began out the parking spot. “I’ve got you. He’s not gonna hurt you.”

I pushed myself closer, holding on tighter to him. “I know.”

It was only halfway to the manor did I realize I never asked why the hell he was there to pick me up to begin with.

[floatingcatacombs]

The Normal Author’s Girlfriend’s List Of Bad Yuri Anime

12 Days of Aniblogging 2024, Day 11

So you’ve seen some good yuri anime: Revolutionary Girl Utena (and the movie, if you want), Bloom Into You, Puella Magi Madoka Magica (plus, of course, Rebellion, which is essential), Bocchi: The Rock!, Girls Last Tour. You know HaruMichi and Farcille and poor sweet Tomoyo Daidouji and Quanxi’s whole deal. You’ve been queerbaited by Kyoani, or maybe you got lucky and watched Dragon Maid which was actually gay; you no longer get weirded out by incest; you wanted more Utena and got The Witch from Mercury S1 (good) or Revue Starlight (bad); maybe you’ve even gone back to Oniisama e and discovered Ryoko Ikeda’s incredible butch-for-butch technologies.

You’ve seen some good yuri and that’s been great. It’s just… there isn’t that much of it. Well, you could start reading manga, or books, or talking to actual women, but you want more yuri anime specifically.

To you, dear reader, I offer up this solution:

Bad Yuri.

Floating Catacombs 2025 Presents:

A Normal Author’s Girlfriend Production

The Normal Author’s Girlfriend’s List Of Bad Yuri Anime

Before we get started, let’s define our terms. First: Bad Yuri must not be in good taste. Second, let us consider some ‘ungood’ yuri, that we might understand what we aren’t looking for:

Case 1: Liz and the Blue Bird.

Boring and forgettable. Bad Yuri must be watchable.

Case 2: Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight.

Yeah the butchfemme was good but I spent this entire show waiting for KuroMaya and they only got half an episode. I don’t fucking care about ‘childhood friends’. Bad Yuri must be enjoyable.

Case 3: Hibike Euphonium

It has to be gay. Come on. This is like the most basic requirement.

Case 4: MagiRevo, Undead Murder Farce

Being gay is not enough. You have to have actual characters.

In sum: Bad Yuri must be in bad taste; it must be watchable on a minute-to-minute basis; it must not leave the watcher with a bad taste in her mouth; it must actually be gay; and it must have some semblance of characterization. In practice it is basically always violent and horny. We’re talking like Kill La Kill levels, although if you ever want to watch that you should just go see Promare instead. Also, I reserve the right to break any and all of these rules whenever I feel like it. Without further ado:

Cross Ange

Content Warnings: Blood, Violence, Death, Sexual Assault, Ryona, Incest, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, It’s Just Porn At This Point, Incredibly Stupid Plot Twists, Pretty Much Every Fetish

Princess Ange’s traitorous older brother exiles her to an island full of lesbians, where she must pilot a mech to fight dragons in incredibly revealing clothing.

This is Code Geass if it was about a girl and also worse (sorry Roze of the Recapture). This show starts with a baby being arrested. They put the baby in a special little baby jail cage in the back of a police car. The first episode ends with lesbian rape under the justification of a strip search. The weak girls on Pussy Fight Island pull knives on each other at the slightest provocation; the stronger girls pull guns; the strongest girls just use their hands.

It’s got all the subtlety of villainess manga. It’s got girls pissing themselves. It’s got a girl named Riza, short for Lizardia, because she is secretly a DRAGON. Forget ‘Lesbian soldier hopelessly in love with her commander’ – it’s got that too but it has I kid you not a lesbian harem where the top dies in combat so one of the four harem girlies has to turn into a top like a clownfish undergoing sequential hermaphroditism and take over. And then she dies too and the next one in line has to take over and then it happens again and then when it’s down to two one of them leaves because she can tell the current top’s heart isn’t in it and defects to Akio Ohtori’s side, because at least he’s willing to fuck her (lesbian cuckold count: 1) And everybody’s ass is out at all times.

It’s also got a surprising amount of Gundam intertextuality? The comparisons to Iron-Blooded Orphans are obvious; Kira Yamato is there, for some reason; her mecha is the Zeta Gundam but if it was the Strike Freedom with the TR-6 Woundwort’s Psyco Blade Goddess Antenna from Mobile Suit Gundam: Advance of Zeta: The Flag of Titans; the girls in Ange’s squadron each map perfectly to Shaddiq Zenelli’s Grassley girls.

But that’s not what you’re here for. You’re here for the scene where Hilda confesses that she’s in love with Ange but understands that Ange can never love her back, because Ange is already in love with Kira Yamato, and also with Salamandinay, a DRAGON princess from the True Earth who arrived through a dimensional rift to free Aura, the first DRAGON and the source of all magic, before Ange grabs her and gives her a full kiss while telling her that the world she’s fighting to create will have all kinds of relationships.

God Jill is so hot.

Shlock: Maximum

Lesbian: Yes, somehow, and bisexual as well. It is a male gaze thing but that’s going to be a constant with this microgenre. The vast majority of people who like women are men statistically and sometimes thank god they produce something like this

Watchability: High, if you have covid

Quality: Awful.

The Executioner And Her Way Of Life

Content Warnings: Death, Ryona, Incest, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Incredibly Stupid Plot Twist

Menou is a priestess in Isekai World whose job is to hunt down and kill Isekai Boys before they start causing problems with their Isekai Boy Powers. But this latest Isekai Boy Target… is a Girl With Enormous Tatas who she can’t kill because she auto-rewinds time to erase any wounds.

What really does it here for me is Menou’s relationship with her mentor, Flare, who groomed trained her from a young age to cut off all her emotions in order to make her a better executioner. I’m not immune to Empty Spaces/Combat Dolls/Signalis. What if Christianity wasn’t about raising girls as lambs to the slaughter but was instead about raising girls to use knives to kill people? A seductive premise for those with my particular flavor of religious trauma. Akari is fine, although I feel like Smith (Bravern) did Homura better.

I also like Momo, although I have a weakness for lesbian cuckolds (more on that later, possibly).

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Lesbian

Watchability: Moderate

Quality: Mid

Kakegurui

Content Warnings: Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Boy Protagonist before the story thankfully gets bored of him, It’s Just Porn At This Point

Yumeko Jabami transfers into Gambling Academy, where everybody gambles and failing to pay your debts means being forced into petplay slavery. Luckily for her and unluckily for everyone else she is the world’s most perfect gambler because it turns her on.

Maybe the highest exposure show on this list? It’s got gambling, and sexual gambling, and a girl who can only orgasm if she’s actively taking place in a gamble where she could die. At one point she whacks off in a bathroom playing solo Russian Roulette. It’s got a Netflix original season 2 villain who was a girl forced to dress as a boy for years in ways that drove her sexually insane. It’s got The Tower of Doors, which is the most woman game that any woman has ever played.

My favorite bit character is probably the early villain who collects fingernails from everybody she beats because that’s her fetish, or the hopelessly-devoted Student Council Secretary who wants only to lay her face on the chair where her beloved Student Council President sits (lesbian cuckold count 3; 4 if you count Midori). She asks to gamble with her life and Yumeko says that that’s boring, and that there are things she values more – and that they’ll gamble with one life vs her relationship to the Student Council President instead.

Watch the opening for this one – it’s very clear about what it is, and if it doesn’t hook you it isn’t the show for you.

Shlock: Very High

Lesbian: Surprisingly

Watchability: Very high

Quality: Fine

Akuma No Riddle

Content Warnings: Violence, Sexual Assault, Death, Ryona, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Fanservice, Various Fetishes

Bishonen girl assassin Tokaku Azuma has received her first assignment: attend the Black Class at Killing People Murder High School and kill sweet and innocent-seeming Haru Ichinose, who she immediately falls in love with. Unfortunately the other eleven members of the Black Class are also there to kill Haru.

And they’re all lesbian or bisexual. And they’re all freaks.

They’re constantly pulling guns and knives on each other. Like every conversation a weapon will come out – possibly two. There’s a lesbian serial killer who really likes using scissors on girls. Sexually. The Student Council President is sexually devoted to the school principal. There’s a twenty-year-old spoiled rich girl with a boy’s name because she was named after her mom, who was a gay man. Her dad was also a gay man. If you dare say anything homophobic about this she will kill you. Two of these girls locked eyes right as they transferred in and immediately dropped everything to engage in a 24/7 ageplay dynamic. The other spoiled rich girl is secretly a cyborg and in love with the multiple personality girl, who wants to kill her as well.

This is by the author of infamous shotacon BL manga Loveless, so I guess all that is to be expected.

Also… Akiko Morishima got really into making doujinshi for this one? Sure.

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Yeah

Watchability: Pretty decent

Quality: Sure

Yuri Kuma Arashi

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Bad Taste, It’s Basically Just Porn At This Point, Bears

Lesbian Bear Storm.

For my money, the best Ikuhara post-Utena work is Sarazanmai, but Yurikuma Arashi absolutely earns its spot on this list. The pieces of a story about how lesbian desire is used to titillate a male audience but never fulfilled, how desire is regulated and rendered hideous, and how girls enforce heteropatriarchy by manufacturing consensus completely independent of men are in there somewhere under the moaning naked girls licking honey off precisely-positioned lilies. I think? It’s well-directed, at least.

Shlock: Ikuni

Lesbian: Ikunirappa

Watchability: Ikunichauda

Quality: Ikunigomamonaka

(the first half of) Birdie Wing: Girls Golf Story

Content Warnings: Violence, Bad Taste, Incest but not really, Golf, The Threat of Having To Resort To Survival Sex Work Underlying This Stupid Golf Show

Birdie Wing is the story of a girl who hates golf and a girl who loves golf. Season two fails to make par because it loves golf too much; season one, with the baffling metaverse vr episode, the underground mafia roguelike golf-to-the-death course, the woman who golfs so hard her robotic arm explodes, and the inexplicable Bandai property references, is the way to go.

I hate golf in the way only an eldest daughter forced into golf lessons hates golf. When Birdie Wing hates golf – when Eve swaggers onto the course in her stupid outfits, refusing to adhere to any etiquette, uses only three clubs and slaps a ball directly into the flag to drop it straight down? I love that. When she lifts her driver and points it and says she’ll kill somebody with it? I love that.

Also like when Aoi says she’ll get her attention with this and pulls her extra long driver out and holds it like a strap. And then her beleaguered caddie talks about how Aoi pierces everyone through with an innocent smile. That was good.

The thing that stuck with me the most wasn’t actually any of the golf shenanigans – it was the way that Eve effectively shoots Aoi down when they discover that they shared a father and were therefore half-sisters. Well, it’s yuri – incest is just something you get used to. Except then it gets revealed that that was a fakeout, because Aoi’s dad was actually her dad’s best friend and her parents were in a throuple that the dad who raised her left behind to secretly raise Eve. Also her dad is Amuro Reiya and also Char Aznable is in this one? And the HG Turn A Gundam? Don’t forget to increment the Lesbian Cuckold clock up to five – Aoi herself and her poor caddy, who didn’t deserve a mysterious blonde swooping in like that.

Oh god I didn’t even mention Vipere, the slutty snake-themed bisexual underground mafia golfer (you know, for the underground golf mafia) who uses pheromones to control her opponents, gets outgolfed, and then shonen-rival style sticks around to help out whenever somebody needs a car (as the girls are too young to drive).

Shlock: Absolutely

Lesbian: Somehow

Watchability: High

Quality: Better than it had any right to be

Maria Holic

Content Warnings: Transphobia, Bad Taste, Fanservice

Kanako Miyamae is a hopeless hapless lesbian excited to attend Lily Yuri Girls Only Academy. She falls in love with a beautiful blonde girl, the queen of the school – and discovers her ideal gf is actually a boy crossdressing to attend the academy who wants nothing more than to torment her sexually.

Maria Holic works like this: Mariya wants something from Kanako, and wears a sexual little outfit/exposes his feet/blows her a kiss/strips his maid’s top off to control her through her sexuality or just because he feels like it and she falls over of anime nosebleed disorder before she remembers “oh right Mariya is a boy” and starts eating her own organs Pearl Steven Universe style. Occasionally a girl who calls herself god will say something uninteresting. Kanako has a little pervert fantasy about one of her classmates. The cast has a reference-heavy Studio Shaft Conversation. Kanako can’t get Mariya out of her head. God I had to retype every ‘him’ up there from a ‘her’ because there is no way that little bitch is anything but a girl – it just doesn’t stick in my head. They don’t make boys like that. Torturing a girl like that is a female trait.

If you don’t want to watch a lesbian get relentlessly edged by a brat this show may not be for you. In all honesty even with Studio Shaft direction I found this almost completely unwatchable but it does earn its slot here. If you want a good Studio Shaft yuri show? Go watch Madoka Magica or Hidasketch.

It does have an excellent opening though.

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Well it has at least one

Watchability: No

Quality: No

Re: Cutie Honey

Content Warnings: It’s Basically Just Porn At This Point. but god. Natsuko Aki

“Honey Flash!” yeah she sure does huh

Transforming android Honey Kisaragi fights against evil organization Panther Claw, with the reluctant help of her annoyed cop eventual bestie Na-chan. This is good, actually. Go watch it.

Seriously. The animation is so fun and vibrant! They do the super-cost-saving stills being moved thing in a very high-energy way that comes across as a reference to the original manga format and then every so often they’ll pull out absolutely incredible action sequences.

Look at this!!! Her triangular stompy steps! The super low line count on her as she slowly advances with the gun flying toward her hand! Her Go Nagai snarl!!!!! It’s a real treat for the eyes even without the naked women. There’s only so much “saving your best friend by the power of being naked and kissing” you can do before it stops being bait and starts just being They Are In Love.

Shlock: Absolutely

Lesbian: NATSUKO AKI

Watchability: High

Quality: Yeah

Akiba Maid War

Content Warnings: Genre-Typical, No Spoilers Don’t Worry About it

Go watch this right now.

Shlock: Less than you’d think

Lesbian: Yes

Watchability: Extreme

Quality: Genuine

A Very Specific Set Of Monogatari Arcs

Content Warnings: yeah that guy is sexually harassing that 11 year old and also that tiny little vampire and also both of his little sisters.

Show beloved by pretentious internet perverts.

Alright. You are going to watch Episodes 1-8 of Bakemonogatari Season 1, (skipping 3-5 depending on your tolerance for watching small girls getting sexually harassed) and then you are going to watch the five episodes of standalone arc Hanamonogatari, halfway through Season 2. If you really like Hanekawa, who is bisexual, watch 11-15, Neko Black and Neko White. If you really like animation, watch Kizu. Do not be tricked into thinking more of this show will be gay because Hanekawa and Senjougahara had sex in a shower once. If your goggles are really on tight, enjoy Nadeko Draw but you’ll have to sit through the previous Nadeko and Yotsugi arcs to get there and I can’t in good conscience recommend you do that.

Shlock: Less than you'd think

Lesbian: One

Watchability: SHAFT

Quality: Yes

[octuscle]

Welcome to Overland!

Overland Park in Kansas. I really had to google it first. Where the hell did my father get the idea that I would really study here? I mean, I have offers from Stanford and Cambridge. I'm not going to Overland Park. Kansas! Sure, it might have been a good fit for my dad. My dad is the prototypical corn-fed athlete. He looks dazzling for his 42 years, still a cross so wide that my two younger brothers and I can hide behind it. His mullet is a bit of a show-off, if you ask me. But he seems to go down well with his customers. His car dealership is the biggest in the state. My two younger brothers both have petrol in their blood. They both want to get their MBAs at Overland Park. But I'm much more interested in law. And Harvard would be my dream for that.

Anyway, my father gave me a car for my 18th birthday. A super impractical Dodge RAM. Doesn't suit me at all. And the car came with a gas voucher and a voucher for a mall around the corner. Well, I hope they'll have a Brooks Brothers store. But I'm quietly guessing that they'll only have cowboy boots and plaid shirts… Okay, not to be ungrateful, I'm making the trip to Overland Park in the monster car. I'll also attend his alma mater's orientation event if I absolutely have to. But I'll sign up over my dead body!

The drive to Kansas wasn't so bad. I admit that the car is really huge and comfortable. But the closer I got to the Midwest, the less comfortable I felt. Guys with arms thicker than my legs asked me about the car at gas stations and rest stops. I have no idea how much horsepower it has… I'm not interested either. But here you're obviously only defined by your car. And most of the muscular rednecks here made no secret of the fact that they didn't begrudge me this car. It got even worse when I parked the car in front of the hotel in Overland Park… The valet service looked almost sympathetic when I got out of the car. Tomorrow I'd better take the bus to the information day at the university.

It's incredible how many people are interested in this pathetic campus. It's pretty full in the auditorium. The dean gives a speech that is as boring as the landscape here. And the faculty members either all look like they're coaches of the football team or gardeners on campus. Hillbillies. All of them! The professors introducing each faculty call on the potential juniors who have signed up on the list for that faculty. I didn't put a cross anywhere. All uninteresting for me. And so the auditorium empties out with each professor dragging a train of high school seniors behind him. And at some point, the auditorium is empty. Only three people are still sitting here. A redhead who spends the whole time reading a book. A skinny guy playing with his cell phone and me. I speak to the skinny guy. "No desire to go to Overland Park either?" "Not on your life. I'm not studying thousands of miles from the nearest decent opera." The redhead interjects, "And pretty much everything else you'd call civilization." We laugh and introduce ourselves. Erik, the redhead (how appropriate, I'm not joking), the skinny one is Brayden and I'm Callan. We start talking. Somehow we all have a similar fate. Either our fathers or our brothers studied here. We all have more artistic than sporting interests. We all want to study either in California or New England. Erik suggests that we go out and sit on campus. The weather is nice. It's a good idea. We're sitting in the sun talking when we suddenly hear a voice.

"Hey squad! Finally found you, fam! I've been straight up grinding and hunting all over this place to link up with my homies!" Towards us comes the epitome of everything I loathe about university. An unkempt muscleman, his greasy mullet tamed with a baseball cap on backwards, in a sweaty tank top. Four bottles of beer in his hand. He hands each of us a bottle and says "Yo, yo, yo, what up fam! The name's Ryder, my professor homie spilled the tea that there are three total bros up in here who ain't about that study life, and guess what? Yours truly got the task of keepin' it real with y'all. Haha, I'm the king of slacking off, ain't nobody got time for studying and whatnot. Let's kick back and chill, my dudes!" Ryder stinks of sweat. Disgusting. But somehow also hypnotizing. He opens his bottle and says "Cheers". As if in a trance, we open our bottles and say "cheers".

"Yo, fam, check it out, I'm gonna give you a lit tour of the campus, but not that lame-o typical stuff. Like, forget about the snooze-fest library or whatever. Bro, regular dudes walk in there and walk out looking like they just stepped out of a nerd convention with their thick glasses and wack sweaters. Let's bounce and hit up the real vibes, ya feel me?" Ryder almost chokes with laughter at his own joke, which Erik counters with a fist bump. What the…? "Yo, peep that cafeteria comin' up! It's legit crucial for gettin' in that dank protein intake, ya feel me? And bro, protein is like, the holy grail of gainz. That's the fuel for them epic protein farts, man! Rock on, get that fuel, unleash the beast!" As if on cue, he lets out a fart. Shit, that stinks. Erik laughs. And farts too. Shit, didn't he actually want to study piano? At the conservatory in Boston? Strange behavior for a pianist….

Ryder tells us to wait a minute. He runs into the cafeteria and comes back with four fresh cold bottles of beer. Shit, yes, the beer tastes good. I take a deep swig. And…. BUUUUURP! Ryder and Erik are laughing uproariously. Brayden looks irritated. And I reply ""Yo, it's gonna be, like, forever until those protein farts are unleashed. So, a real dude just gotta let out a mega burp, bro!" Erik and Ryder give me a high five. And Ryder says that he's about to lead us to the source of all protein farts.

You can smell the gym changing rooms before you see them. Erik and I take a deep breath. Brayden holds the sleeve of his jacket in front of his nose. "Yo, bro, it looks like we're getting closer to your second home, huh, Ryder? Watch out for the vibes!" says Erik. Ryder does a double bicep pose and says that Erik can fucking take it. Poor Brayden is standing right next to Ryder. His nose is basically right in the sweaty bush in Ryder's armpit. "Dang, I forgot my gear for the gym! I'm totally itching to pump some iron, man." comes out of his mouth. "Dude, no worries, at our next stop we'll totally score something way cooler for you to rock." says Ryder. "Yo, dude, spit it again - what's your name, pumpin' pal?" Braydon copies Ryder's double bicep pose. I didn't think he had muscles like that. "Yo, my dudes, I'm Beau, like, duh, isn't it obvious? I mean, come on, who else could it be, right? Beau in the hizzouse, representin' like a boss!" The two of them do a chest bump. Erik and I actually look at each other a little enviously. I mean, everyone wants to be best mates with Ryder, the hottest guy on campus.

"Yo, dudes, head to the most lit spot on the whole campus. And watch out! If you think it already smells like sweat and musk, you haven't seen anything yet!" We walk across the student parking lot towards the football field. Past my baby. Ryder raises his eyebrows appreciatively and says that you rarely see cars this cool here. I pose proudly: "Geez, check out this 410 horsepower beast with eight cylinders and 581 Newton meters of torque! My 6.7-liter monster needs that kind of power too. Rocking full leather interior, a massive 12-inch touchscreen infotainment system, and a killer 750-watt sound system with 17 Harman Kardon speakers. Damn, could never roll in a hybrid after this!" Ryder gives me a chest bump too. Shit, I'm in the club!

Erik thaws out when we're finally in the changing rooms of the football stadium. He takes a deep breath. "Yo, peeps! You feelin' me on this? This smell is like pure home vibes, amirite?" he says. Ryder points to the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. "Yo, dudes, wanna toss some balls around? Let's get our sporty vibes on and slay the game with our rad skills! Let's flex our muscles and show off our mad throwing game. Let's get that adrenaline pumping and have a blast on the field. It's gonna be lit, so don't miss out, fam! Let's do this!" He really doesn't have to say that twice. In no time at all, we're undressed and rummaging naked through our clothes for something to pass. Erik deliberately lets his cock swing for a very long time before putting it into an XXL urine and cum yellow jockstrap. Dude, that boy would make horses jealous! And he can impress Ryder. Out onto the pitch and with a well-directed throw he chases the ball the length of the pitch through the goal. Four-chest bump! Shit, we all can't wait to play for the college team!

"Yo homies, any more burning questions for your boy? The sickest crew on campus is definitely mine - Alpha Phi Alpha, baby! Don't stress, you guys are total Alpha bros, so of course you'll get in. If you're down, we're throwing a lit party at the frat house tonight. Crash on the couch if you want, solo, duo, trio… whatever floats your boat. Just remember, never make eye contact, that's like, no homo!" Beau asks where he can get a cold beer now. Rick has a mega boner. And I can't wait to suck him off right away. Unless Ryder beats me to it. Shit, I'm so proud to be a business major at the University of Kansas on the Overland campus. My dad will be even prouder.

"Yo, so you wanna join the sickest crew of all the raddest universities in the damn USA?" I love the information days on campus. Lots of hot fresh meat. And the premium meat belongs to Alpha Phi Alpha, just like us! "Yo, peep this dude with the sickest Mullet ever, that's my bro Beau. And check out the fiery buff dude over there, that's Rick, the top quarterback of the football squad for real. I'm Cletus, and we 'bout to show y'all the raddest spots on campus. But first, in honor of the hottest dude to ever grace this campus, let's crack open a cold one." We take a big sip. And burp "Ryder" loudly!