#so much more powerful in all of its facets

[monochromeia]

REALLY wanna work on a fan continuity where the decepticons are in the right

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: arranged to be wed to prince aegon ii by oppressive parentage, you are bewildered to learn that he seems just as nervous as you, and that this union isn’t as hopeless as it seems.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: aegon ii targaryen x tyrell!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 11.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), aegon isn’t a good person but he’s also tormented, canon-typical misogyny, arranged marriage, loss of virginity (reader), pathetic aegon, switch!aegon (mild sub!aegon) begging, dry humping/grinding, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum, multiple positions (lotus, cowgirl), sweeter ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: writing for aegon is such a challenge for me because I’m scared of getting him right, so I hope this is good! I also apologize for the fic length, I wasn’t expecting it to be this long! thank you all so much for any support this gets! ❤️ much love!

IT WAS OFTEN THE REASON FOR EXISTING, A YOUNG LADY OF A NOBLE HOUSE — MADE TO WED A FOREIGN LORD, SHIPPED AWAY TO UNFAMILIAR LANDS AND PROVIDE HEIRS. IT WAS YOUR SUPPOSED PURPOSE, IMPRESSED UPON YOU FROM YOUR FLOWERING ADOLESCENCE TO ADULTHOOD.

Only, you were to become a queen, with time.

House Tyrell was the presiding power of The Reach, a font of wealth and lavishness for the Seven Kingdoms, with Highgarden as its primary seat — a castle that bested Casterly Rock in stature and beauty.

Forging alliances often came through lucrative marriage proposals, and you were bound to one, inevitably made to wed Aegon II Targaryen, the supposed heir to the Iron Throne.

Whispers of men who had seen too many winters spoke of Aegon’s ascension over that of Princess Rhaenyra, men who never saw a woman as anything more than a prize to be won. It filled you with such dread, wondering if Aegon would view you in the same light — a conquest.

King’s Landing was a pungent place, with a populace crammed into walls that cared little for them. It made you yearn for Highgarden, for the loamy trees bristling with ivory blossoms, for the air that carried the scent of a perfumed dowager.

Stench of city sewage filled your nostrils as your noble carriage buckled across uneven streets, the cobblestone shoddy compared to that of Oldtown. Your parents accompanied you, with little comfort to offer other than threadbare reassurances.

Rumors reached your ears of Prince Aegon’s lecherous nature — a spoiled man who preferred drowning in his cups and whoremongering through the Streets of Silk. You feared what new existence this wedding might yield for you, what fate awaited you after tomorrow.

Yet, they were rumors — you continued to offer yourself some words of encouragement, in hopes that your expectations of the Targaryen Prince would not be shattered upon first meeting.

The Red Keep glowered above you, its shadow oppressive and not at all welcoming as you hoped it would be. Instead, its pointed pillars and garish walls served as a reminder that this would be your home — no more ivory stones of Highgarden.

A wave of nausea overcame you, rocking through your stomach like the turbulence of crashing tides, settling uneasily within your bones. The corset you wore made it difficult to fully catch your breath, constricting you like a vice.

If House Tyrell were known for anything, it was their beauty, their lavishness — and you were no exception; the pretty rose, unwilted and comely. Your appearance was akin to a whimsical fable, known by all who had taken an interest in your family.

As your host circled into the courtyard of the Red Keep, you glimpsed a row of Targaryen bannermen intermingled with that of House Hightower. An older man stood at the top of the steps, accompanied by one of the Kingsguard.

“Do not slouch, or pout,” Your mother warned, leaning over to fix a facet of your gown, brows furrowed together. “It is unbecoming of a princess to-be.” Her utterance could cut as sharp as any blade.

“Of course, Mother.” With a courteous reply, you nearly cringed when the carriage came to a sluggish halt, as your parents made their exit first, with you soon to follow.

It was a relief to find a sliver of fresh air, no longer suffocating to an early grave within your carriage. You stood up straight, unnaturally so, rigid in your stance as you accompanied your host to meet the stalwart figure of Otto Hightower.

“King Viserys extends his welcome,” Otto uttered, countenance a calculating one. His gray eyes drifted to you, and you seemed to shrink, withering away beneath his glower. “As does House Hightower.”

“I assume the final preparations are underway?” Your father quipped, desperate to get this over with. The peacocking and ceremony of a royal wedding was often a headache, and the expenses were vast and never-ending.

“They are,” Lord Hightower gestured for you all to follow, the gates creaking open to herald your host into the Red Keep. “They will be wed on the morrow. Your chambers are prepared for your stay.”

“Excellent. I detest these lengthy walks,” Your mother groaned, and still, you said nothing. “I desire an audience with the Queen, should she make herself available.”

It all became rather dull — a background buzz that promptly simmered into nothingness for you. Talk of weddings, political affairs, the frivolity of it all — you wanted this to be done. Fear and anxiousness drove you now, fretting over whether or not the Prince would like you.

Once, you had dreamed of your wedding, of finding one you loved and basking in the warmth of it all. Here, you felt cold and stiff, yielding to the desires and machinations of others, prepared to be sold off like some prized broodmare.

Instead, you silently admired the architectural wonder of the Red Keep, the scaling walls and massive, winding staircases. It became easier to avert your attention elsewhere, to keep your mind preoccupied.

Ascending the staircase, you gathered your skirts in fistfuls, taking careful steps up behind your parents. The conversation at-hand held nothing of merit for you, and there was not a single murmur in regards to Prince Aegon.

Perhaps he feared this just as much as you did, forced into a union with a stranger to appease the powers that reigned. You wanted to meet him, assure that, with time, you could grow to love one another and achieve happiness.

Perhaps, he cared very little for it.

Aegon was crushed beneath the weight of being made to obey the whims of family for some time — his mother, his grandsire. His own father did not falter from naming Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne, a choice that embittered some.

In the eyes of his father, he would never measure to the beacon of light that was his half-sister. Aegon the failure, Aegon the foolish. Any desire for the Iron Throne died long ago in his youth, along with any aspirations for going above his station.

Upon being told that he would wed the young lady of House Tyrell, he did not rage and bark at those who had a hand in it. It was easier to quietly accept his fate, to play the part of a dutiful son — perhaps then, he would finally be viewed as favorable in the eyes of those that pulled him apart.

His whoremongering and rampant salaciousness were immediately put to the executioner’s block, with Otto berating him for his blatant recklessness. Aegon had learned to take whatever verbal punishment was hurled at him — stand and take it, wet tears glistening within his lilac hues.

That and his drinking were no longer permitted, and so Aegon took to reluctant isolation. He could only imagine what vile things you’d been told about him — the lecherous, drunkard Targaryen with nothing but a title to his name.

Yet, when he saw you in the courtyard of the Red Keep from the ramparts, riding the coattails of your oppressive parents, a sliver of him could empathize. He did not want to like you, of course, but he did have a beating heart, even still.

Your posture bore a semblance of desperation, clawing your way toward the approval of your forebears, desiring nothing more than to appease. Aegon knew what that was like — he’d been trying to do it all his life.

“Be satisfied that she is a beautiful creature, brother,” Aemond uttered, arms folded behind his back as he stood beside Aegon, one eye glowering down upon you from afar. “This could be much worse.”

Aegon scoffed, his smile mirthless and anguished as he stood upright, a wisp of a breeze stirring his pale tresses. “As everyone ceaselessly continues to remind me.” He retorted, one hand clenching into a fist.

Aemond hummed, clicking his tongue as he turned toward Aegon, pale brows furrowing together. “This was inevitable, as is your duty to our house,” He uttered, reminding his brother of his purpose. “I suggest making the most of it, instead of resorting to self-pity.”

There was always a lack of propriety with Aegon — a lack of determination, no drive to become anything more than a gluttonous Prince. Aemond studied the sword, the histories, language, politics — and yet he was never yielded an opportunity such as this.

Aegon’s countenance was one of clear disdain, finding little joy in his brother’s aloof scolding. “You sound like Mother,” With an embittered tone, he ran a palm across his face, looking down at you again. “House fucking Tyrell.”

Clearly, this was all his grandsire’s work — there could be no other mastermind behind such an advantageous alliance. His mother would always go along with such ideas, forever beneath his thumb — trapped in her cage, much like he was.

Yet, Aemond did have something of a point.

At the very least, Aegon could learn to tolerate your presence — and you were incredibly beautiful, even from afar. Whispers of your splendor had reached him at the initiation of your betrothal. Attractive company would not be the end of the world, but he wondered if you were airheaded and self-centered.

It was something he would have to discover for himself, much to his own misfortune.

You terrified him.

Aegon spent much of his evening gathering gossip and information about you — your supposed mannerisms, the topics you conversed about, your demeanor. All servants seemed to come to the same crossroads — you were truly pious, and kindhearted.

The sudden desire to appear likable and gallant was thrust to the forefront of his mind, the need for validation born from deeply-rooted insecurities. For so much of his life, he had toiled over wanting everyone to gravitate towards him, to find him captivating as they had Rhaenyra.

He detested having to put up some performance in the name of appealing to you, but he could not stop himself, now. Aegon knew that seeking you out before your wedding was untoward and improper, but he needed to speak to you himself.

It pained him to realize that he cared for the perspective of a stranger — for the opinions of a woman whom he hadn’t yet uttered a word to.

There was a rotten weight upon his shoulders, the weight of satisfying his family, to no longer be looked upon with disdain. The notion that he was the disappointment had always danced around him, and now, it was staring him down.

On the morrow, he would be wed — a husband, perhaps a father, if you even permitted him to touch you. Seven Hells, he was going to wretch.

A bottle of Dornish Red had been carefully stashed away beneath a loose cobblestone in his chambers, and he intended on drowning in it somewhere in the gardens. The hour was becoming late — now the hour of the bat, a listless dusk shrouded by gray wisps of cloud.

Aegon’s mind was plagued by thoughts of you, of disappointing you, knowing that you were just as shackled to this union of convenience as he was. Had he not drawn attention to himself through debauchery, this might’ve never happened.

Truthfully, he had no one to blame but himself.

Beneath the floral canopies of the royal gardens, Aegon snuck away from his chambers, preferring to drink in solace whilst the opportunity presented itself. Stars glistened above, thousands of twinkling lights that accompanied the silver glower of the moon.

Clad in a loose, sage tunic and linen breeches, he wandered through the gardens, bottle in-hand, countenance one of despondency. There was a small terrace where he often went to drown in the depths of a bottle, rage to the skies.

A loose shape remained seated along the bannister, head hung in a state of despair — the image of such grace, the maiden herself.

Aegon hadn’t expected to find you here, dwelling within his typical nook, brows drawn together as you picked at the skin of your cuticles. His clumsy footfalls alerted you, bewildered hues meeting those of lilac, just as confused as you were.

“My Prince,” A strangled gasp erupted from your throat as you hastily stood, curtsying as if your head would fall from your shoulders from sluggishness. “I — I was not expecting you. I will relocate.”

The envy of a thousand stars, Aegon thought; beauty incarnate stood before him with such humility that it very nearly subdued him. He was not often reduced to such boyish nerves in the presence of women, but you seemed to do just that.

Acclaimed was your charm, a comeliness so enchanting that many were ensnared, and he was no exception to this. Aegon felt a cold perspiration slither along his palms, grip becoming tighter around the bottle’s throat.

“You cannot find rest either,” Aegon’s jaw tensed as he pointed out the obvious, pale tresses tousled, turned white from the moon. “I was just …” A begrudging sigh escaped him as he held the bottle of wine aloft.

“May I join you?” Your inquiry was sudden and unexpected — Aegon nearly turned you away until he saw the anxious state you were in, much like himself.

Aegon gaped, lips parting as he gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He stepped forward, sinking down atop one of the stone benches lining the bannister walls. Wordlessly, you approached him, taking a seat at his side, ensuring a comfortable distance.

Upon closer inspection, you were pleased to find that Aegon was handsome — ethereal, in fact. Many Targaryens were renowned for their physical beauty, from pale tresses to violet hues, and he was no exception to this.

“Do you drink because of me?”

The question was born of fear, of a gnawing nervousness that ate away at your very bones. You worried that Aegon was already resentful without knowing you fully, but even he seemed perplexed by your inquiry.

“Not because of you,” Aegon uttered, removing the cork from the bottle before taking a swig, sweet red trickling down his throat. “I suppose this is not an ideal position to be in — for either of us.”

Your hands stilled within your lap as you considered his words, and you did agree. It was not ideal, nor was it something either of you desired. “It is not, but that does not mean that it must be miserable. I have no ill will towards you.”

Aegon scoffed, his mirthless smile striking you as the inner turmoil of a young man coming to terms with his new reality. You did not begrudge him so — it was easy to empathize, given that you were in the same situation.

“You may change your mind,” He uttered, taking another hearty gulp of Dornish Red, allowing it to ease some of his own nerves. “I would not fault you for it.” Aegon stated, twisting one of his rings around upon his finger.

Being a poor husband was something he’d witnessed between his own family — his Mother, far too young to be wed to an old man, and his father, now withered and decrepit. Maybe there was love, but he seldom saw it.

Brazenly, you reached for the bottle of wine, and he relinquished it, watching with surprise as you took a rather daring swig. It was sweet yet strong, causing you to sputter before you gave it back.

“And if I do not change my mind? Are you insinuating that you will change it for me?” Your questioning was growing sharp, tinged with frustration. You did not want to dislike him — you wanted him to give you no reason to feel that way.

Lilac hues shifted toward you, ivory brows knitting together as he drank again. He wondered what all you knew of him — the rumors, the whispers of his frequent whoring. “Is your mind not already set firm on such thoughts?”

With a look of concern, you shook your head, fingers idly plucking at your sleeves. “It is not,” You murmured, head canting to one side. “I cannot judge you without a foundation — I do not know you, my Prince.”

Aegon was rather bewildered at your confession, but part of him did not believe you. It was commonplace to be plagued by rumors of one’s betrothed — perhaps you neglected to tell the truth to spare his feelings.

“There is little to know.” Aegon sold himself short, greedily consuming yet another barrage of sips from the wine. He knew he needed to slow down — it was dulling his senses.

“Must you discredit yourself so quickly? I would disagree — there is plenty to know, and I wish to discover it all for myself.” With a firm retort, you sat up a little straighter, remembering the quipped words of your mother.

He despised how likable you truly were — if he loathed you, it would make it easier on himself, in this union. Aegon did not wish to spend each waking moment clawing for your affections, knowing it would only end in disappointment.

Silence drifted between the two of you, until the only sound was that of the wind, the rustling of vines and flora along the lattice canopies. Aegon drank another few swigs — it was not in his best interest.

His insecurities were palpable upon your tongue, you realized — there were more layers to Aegon than he was willing to let on. You noticed the wet sheen within his violet hues, a forlornly sense of anguish that washed over him.

You wanted him to try to be happy.

If he were so determined in making himself miserable, you knew that it would inevitably take you with him. A soft sigh escaped your parted lips as you pressed your palm against his bicep.

“I am not asking for you to be delighted and joyous, but I do … I want you to be somewhat happy. I wish for us to try and make one another happy,” Your suggestion was something Aegon was willing to consider. “Will you consider it?”

Aegon hesitated, feeling the first inklings of frustration paint his features, eyes wet with the onslaught of tears. He always thought himself unlovable — his family detested him, thought him to be insignificant.

There was nothing stopping you from following in their sentiments — and if you did, he would not blame you for it. Gods, he loathed himself — wallowing in misery, begging for a reprieve.

If anyone could grow to love him, it would be you — you, this beautiful, tenderhearted stranger who captivated him so. Aegon did not want to squander such an opportunity to find a potential solace in the one person who wished the same from him.

Instead, he nodded, placing the bottle of Dornish Red off to the side, knowing that if he indulged himself further, it would be disastrous. “I will try.” Aegon uttered, head hung as he rested his elbows against his thighs.

“Thank you, my Prince.” Without hesitation, you leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss against the side of his head. Aegon felt his breath hitch within his throat, preening at such a small gesture of affection — he could feel it in his marrow.

A surging buzz bristled throughout his body, the heady sting of intoxicants finding residence within his bones. His mind became somewhat clouded, plagued by both drink and a whirlwind of endless thoughts.

Gathering your gown in delicate fistfuls, you politely stood from the bench, exhaustion seeping into your being. “I should be returning to my chambers, before I am discovered,” You cleared your throat. “Unless there is anything else, your Grace.”

“Aegon,” His insistence bled through, a clammy perspiration breaking out along his palms. Turning his chin upward to face you, Aegon felt his heart seize within his chest, an unfamiliar fire blooming throughout. “We can abandon the formalities.”

Lilac hues set within pale flesh seemed to be glistening with tears; tears that you could not fully comprehend. Grayish circles encapsulated his eyes, making him appear a touch gaunt.

Aegon leaned back against the bannister, sage tunic taut against his musculature, which happened to lack sinewy definition. He was not nearly as whiplike as Aemond, revealing his streak of overindulgence with wine.

With all of his flaws bubbling to the surface, he observed you in rapt silence, noticing the semblance of appreciation that crossed your features. Your quiet admiration lacked subtlety, and Aegon nearly blushed beneath your warm gaze.

“Aegon,” His name rolled from your pretty tongue, such a saccharine utterance — you spoke his name with such a beguiling tone. “The name suits you.” The weight of your compliment was one that he clung to; desperately.

Histories often regaled the name Aegon — Aegon the Conqueror, whose reign began that of the Targaryen dynasty in Westeros. To have a name with such bearing, one would be destined for greatness.

Aegon did not think so — given the Conqueror’s name, his blade, his coat of arms — but nothing more. His father detested him so, and no matter what he did, there was no outpouring of love or appreciation.

He disliked how easy it was to let his barriers dissolve beneath your comforting gaze — vulnerability laid bare, allowing you to trace his heart with your fingers. “You jest.” Aegon uttered, earning a look of confusion from you.

Aemond was the stoic one, unyielding and stalwart with a piercing eye and indifferent scowl, and Aegon occasionally wore his soul upon his sleeve. It was involuntary, done in moments of weakness, and he wished that he could be as unchanging as his brother.

“What is there to jest about?” Perplexed, you idly gathered a fistful of your skirts, relinquishing some of your nervousness. “If we are to become husband and wife, I would like for us to know one another — to compliment, to appreciate.”

Saintly — Gods, you were vexing, to say the least.

With a sardonic huff, Aegon settled, abandoning the brief aura of indifference for something more sincere. You were genuine, he knew this — did he not owe you the same sentiment?

He stayed silent, swallowing the sudden lump within his throat before appraising you, Dornish Red beginning to muddy his senses. Aegon did not stop what lascivious thoughts escaped his mouth, then and there.

“You are every bit as beautiful as they say,” Aegon uttered, pale brows furrowing together. “I suppose if I am to wed a stranger, let it be an enchanting one.” His lips quirked into the ghost of a smile as he took yet another swig — the bottle was nearly empty.

Warmth danced along your spine, like a crackle of heat that blossomed across your body in fiery tendrils. Fidgeting, you happened to peer toward the bottle of wine. “You flatter me, Aegon,” You cleared your throat. “Is that wise?”

His derisive snort was a bemused one as he held the bottle aloft, dismissing your concern. “I promised myself that this would be my last night of overindulgence,” Aegon sighed. “No matter the consequences.”

If his Mother or grandsire knew of his drinking, particularly in front of his betrothed, he would likely be scolded for such foolish behavior. Perhaps he would regret it later, but you did not seem to admonish him for it.

“Are you certain that you will be well enough to return to your quarters?” Concern permeated your soft tone as you stood near the archway of the terrace, head canting to one side.

“Do not trouble yourself, betrothed. I have spent many nights in this garden, alone.” Aegon sounded sullen, as if it weren’t his design. Sometimes, drinking and isolating were the only things that numbed whatever else he felt.

Tears swam within his eyes — his anguish and turmoil often reared its ugly head when he had too much to drink. It was easier to commiserate over his life, his obstacles in solitude.

He loathed sobbing — it made him feel weak and insignificant, as if he could not keep himself pieced together. Aegon watched you closely, realizing that your countenance held nothing but a tender concern and twinge of affection.

No pity, no rage, no spite.

“Of course,” You exhaled, assuming that you should leave him to his own devices. “I should be returning. I … I do look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Aegon. I pray to the Seven that our union will be a fruitful one.”

Before you could step away, Aegon called out to you, beseeching you to wait as he stumbled to his feet, gripping the bottle like a vice. He didn’t know what to say — his mind swam, shrouded in a thick haze of bottled emotion and intoxication.

“Do you think that you could grow to love me, with time?”

Aegon’s fragmented inquiry brought a sharp and sudden sting to your heart, as if he believed himself incapable of being loved. His lilac hues reflected an untold battlefield of turbulent feelings that had been buried and smothered for such a long time.

If you were being truthful with yourself, you could see love forming with time — it would be long and arduous, but it was in your mind’s eye. Had you not experienced this chance encounter, you might’ve felt otherwise.

“I do,” A smile like rays of sunshine, parting the lingering dark that had shadowed his heart. Your answer came to him like the hum of springtime, softly-spoken. “Goodnight, Aegon.”

He let himself sob to the stars, to any Gods that would listen once you were out of sight.

When you saw Aegon again, it was beneath glistening pools of colored glass, perched atop a rather unimpressive terrace in the Grand Sept. He appeared every bit as gallant as you imagined him to be, cloaked in a cowl of velvety-emerald, embossed in threads of burnished gold.

He had such a disheveled, uncouth look about him in the Gardens — now, he seemed renewed. His pale tresses shimmering with a silvery sheen, cleansed and steeped in oils, countenance less haggard, lilac hues seeking yours.

The audience that had gathered to witness your union was much larger than you expected, many of them lesser nobility of King’s Landing flocking to see the new bride of Prince Aegon II.

You were the very image of perfection last evening, in the Gardens — shrouded in hues of cerulean and gold, bearing rose-patterned embellishments upon your gown. Now, you appeared as a goddess, wedding gown the color of liquid gold, touched by rays of a waning sun.

Aegon had taken your words into consideration — he did not want to make this miserable for you, or for himself.

A threadbare smile crossed his countenance, thin yet genuine as he gazed upon you, rapturously drinking in your appearance. Beauty might’ve been your true identity, a most gorgeous creature, sculpted by merciful gods.

As you assumed your place by his side, Aegon noticed the anxious smile that had graced your features. You seemed a touch nervous, but did not allow the sentiment to overshadow this moment.

His hand found yours, giving it a brief squeeze as the Septon prepared the vows of marriage. A union between House Tyrell and House Targaryen spelled great things, in the eyes of powerful men who operated from the shadows.

House Tyrell had sworn bountiful supplies of food and some of the finest armor in Westeros, whilst House Targaryen offered builders, riches — a chance for you to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Emerald velvet enveloped you, bearing the draconic sigil of House Targaryen. Aegon was disarmingly gentle, fastening the gilded clasps around you. As much as he wanted to stave off his own nerves, it was incredibly difficult for him to do so.

The ceremony, in the sight of Gods and Men, floated by swifter than you expected it to. Once you and Aegon had exchanged vows, hands bound together in crimson ribbon, it was his turn to end the formalities.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Aegon felt heat ripple throughout his chest at such words, heart hammering against his ribcage as he searched your eyes for any ounce of uncertainty. When he found none at all, his palm moved to cradle your cheek, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

The taste of your mouth was honeyed, ambrosial as it made his head turn. He was bewildered to find your gentle reciprocation, the kiss being returned, even if it were fleeting. Aegon did not register the applause that came afterwards, drowning within your presence.

As you withdrew, Aegon appeared akin to a doe caught within the hunter’s snare, wide-eyed and clawing for composure. You seemed genuinely pleased, offering him a fleeting smile that made his heart leap out of his chest.

The transition into the wedding feast was seamless, and fortunately, it was easier to become lost within the general splendor of it all. Much of it was spent gorging yourself on such a lavish meal, and some of it spent speaking to your new husband.

You sat beside Aegon, King Viserys and Queen Alicent to his side, and your own parents on yours. The ailing King did not seem at all well enough to be in attendance, yet he endured it anyway, hunched over within his chair.

Admittedly, Aegon was somewhat nervous — and that wasn’t commonplace.

He feared inadequacy when it came to intimacy and consummating your union, an inability to satisfy you. Most of his exploits were spent in brothels, and of those trysts, he consumed too much wine to be considered useful to anyone.

It was all so self-centered when he lay with whores in the brothel, and even then, he could not remember most encounters. Expected to perform in a marriage and to a woman as lovely as you filled him with an unexpected dread.

Without consuming a drop this evening, he wondered how he would fare with a sound mind and body — poorly, he imagined. He knew of pleasure, of what it all entailed, but then came pleasing you. What if you hated it? Hated him?

The more he contemplated, the more frustrated he became, and in-turn, made him itch for something to calm his nerves. It was then that he felt your hand against his forearm, gentle and comforting, a smile upon your face.

“Would you like to dance?” A talented dancer you were, but without a partner, your skills seemed all for naught. Aegon’s pause made you wonder if your question was misplaced, but he steeled himself and nodded.

“I fear you’ve chosen a poor partner,” Aegon murmured, hovering beside you as the both of you took to the floor. Waves of people parted like the sea to usher in the newlyweds, and the new princess. “I am not fleet of foot.”

“You do not have to be.” You assured, the melody transforming into a slow ballad, allowing for a more intimate dance. With bound hands and his arm around your waist, he began to move, albeit with uncertainty.

As he twirled you around across the floor, the idle hum of the festivities swirled around you. You paid little mind to it, searching Aegon’s countenance for any sign of disdain. Instead, you found a hint of anxiousness in his lilac hues.

There was something that gnawed away at his heart — you could tell through gaze alone. As you danced, Aegon kept his stare locked on you, something to focus on. “You look beautiful.” That much was true.

Fortunate to have a bride as resplendent as yourself, Aegon marveled at the sight of you, the very image of beauty. Your comely visage seemed so perfect when compared to your wedding gown, his cloak still tied around your shoulders.

Touched by his softspoken praise, you bowed your head, nimbly weaving closer to him as a dancing couple passed by. Aegon was noticeably stiff in his movements, swallowing his nervousness, attempting to appear unphased.

“You seem tense,” Your voice was little more than a whisper, ensnaring his attention. His gaze flickered between the hum of the audience in-attendance and you, mustering up a threadbare smile. “Are you well?”

The genuineness of your inquiry could not be mistaken, and Aegon seemed bewildered that anyone would truly ask about his wellbeing. “I am,” He reassured, chest-to-chest with you. “This all seems rather frivolous.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t the root of the matter, but he wanted to placate you. Aegon bit his tongue from confessing the truth, a truth that he did not want to utter here, with wandering ears.

“The festivities? I would agree,” You replied, knowing that the expenses of such an event were rather much. “I am only here for you.” Aegon happened to smile at that, one far more genuine than the last.

Before he could speak, he noticed his Mother escorting the King towards the floor, whose gait was strained and incredibly sluggish. He leaned upon his cane, wheezing with every step, coming to a halt in front of the both of you.

“King Viserys wishes to extend his blessing to the both of you, and hopes for a happy union.” Alicent seemed a world away, treating you to a smile that was devoid of joy, merely a courtesy. “We must take our leave.”

“Thank you, your Grace. I hope to be a good wife to Prince Aegon.” You would never forget your manners, curtsying before the both of them. Alicent made no comment, simply bowing her head before guiding Viserys away.

Aegon appeared somewhat downtrodden with the leaving of his parents, and not entirely surprised. He seemed to quietly accept their leave, thanking his parents before they made their way through the now-parted crowds. Criston Cole nipped at their heels, following closely behind the King and Queen.

It was as if the buzz of excitement began to dissipate with the absence of the King, but you did not seem to be bothered by it. You wanted to make the most of it with Aegon.

With the absence of the King and Queen, the celebration seemed to dim — not that Aegon cared. He was more inclined to retire and get the consummation over with, as to not make a complete fool of himself.

Nervousness gnawed at his gut, and that irritated him. He shouldn’t have been so high strung about something so trivial. The physical aspect of marriage was often to perform a duty, and not anything more enjoyable than that.

Yet, Aegon found himself wanting to ascend duty.

Seven Hells, he was in for a long evening. His constant agonizing over how to approach this with you was going to eat him alive. It continued to fester within his bones throughout the duration of the night, up until you made it to your marital chambers.

Your shared quarters were beautiful — gilded in gold, draped in tapestries of emerald. They were far more grandeur and spacious than your own room back in Highgarden.

“If there is something not to your liking, I shall have the servants alter it.” Aegon murmured, attempting to quell his nerves. He could not recall the last time he had been so frayed, so fraught with anxiousness.

There was no wine to dull his senses, and so he was left with the rawness of his own sentiments, opting to sit beside the hearth.

The scenery was not nearly as perplexing as your new husband, who seemed more focused on gazing into the fire instead of consummating your union. You were told that it was duty — for a man to put a babe in you and be finished.

“Aegon,” Concerned, you rounded the chaise lounge, moving to sit beside him. Admittedly, this whole scenario seemed to confuse you more than anything else. “Is something the matter?”

Gods help him — Aegon did not know where to begin. It was best to tell you of his past experiences, inform you that his virtue was tarnished, that he was deplorable, and admit that lying with you would wrack him with immense guilt.

Perhaps, it was best to confess that he was nervous, more than you, and elect not to consummate at all. If his Mother or Grandsire found out about his lack of performance, he would be forced into putting a babe in you.

A bitter laugh escaped him as he attempted to control his sudden bout of frustration. “I cannot do this,” He murmured, shaking his head back and forth. “You don’t deserve this.”

With furrowed brows, you sought elaboration, hands twisting themselves together to relinquish your anxiousness. “Don’t deserve what? I do not understand.” You uttered, fearing that it was you who had slighted him.

“I have committed countless sins — it isn’t fair to you, to consummate when I have already tarnished myself so deeply,” Aegon sighed, pressing a hand to his face. “Yet duty demands that I must.”

There was a palpable nervousness within his voice, and it seemed to mirror your own. You feared disappointing him, but his sentiments were shared, much to your bewilderment. “I do not care what you did before this,” You replied. “We are married now. What matters is the path we take from now on.”

Damn you — so virtuous, so saintly that it made him look like some uncouth fiend compared to you. Of course you would be understanding, as you had been all along. Aegon hoped that you would be angry; it would make this so much easier.

It was a valiant attempt to mask his own nerves, which became glaringly obvious as moments ticked by. “I am nervous, admittedly, but … I know that I simply lay down and let you finish.”

Aegon’s brows creased together, and he realized that you did not expect much from him at all. You didn’t know what it all could entail, the art of pleasure. He never bothered to fully explore it himself, with his whoremongering and blatant self-interest.

Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, he attempted to set his worries aside, hands fisting at his trousers to relieve his nerves. “That is not what it has to be,” He murmured, glancing at you with wide, lilac hues. “Unless you want it that way.”

Intrigued, you seemed desperate to know what all the physical side of a marriage entailed. Aegon seemed anxious, but he wanted to try and treat you well, explore a new realm of pleasure together.

Silently, you reached for his hand, prompting him to shiver at the contact of your soft flesh and warm digits. “I do not.” Your gentle utterance set his heart ablaze, stomach swirling with a foreign giddiness as he regained his composure.

Aegon exhaled, mauve hues wandering towards the delicate curve of your mouth, the slender plane of your throat. He let himself become lascivious with his thoughts — Gods, you were so beautiful that it nearly pained him to look at you.

“You are too good for me,” Aegon mumbled, his self-deprecation laid bare for you to witness. He seemed so solemn in his words — and you did not believe him. “I do not deserve you.” Before he could speak again, you silenced him.

With your fingers pressed firmly to his mouth, brows furrowed together, you ensured that he listened to you without interruption. “Stop,” You urged, shaking your head. “Whatever occurred before our union, during it, it is in the past. This is the present — you deserve me.”

He wished that he could believe you — it was difficult for those words to fully sink in, for him to take it all to-heart. Those lilac hues swam with melancholy, yet he attempted to wipe it all away for your sake.

Instead, you moved to bring him into your embrace, hugging him close to relieve whatever anguish he felt. To your surprise, he held onto you, burying his face against your collarbone, arms settling against your hips.

Admittedly, he felt pathetic — all of this agony and frustration pouring out on his wedding night, and you were comforting him. It mattered a great deal to him, your simple act of listening and ensuring his wellbeing.

A gust of your scent hit his nostrils, a floral concoction that balanced upon the edge of sweetness and something alluring. Aegon steeled himself and decided to cease his bout of guilt and try to be a proper husband and lover to you.

“Seven Hells.” Aegon hissed, brows screwing together in a look of inner disdain. He was often several flagons deep whenever this ordeal took place — there was nothing to ease his nerves.

“Aegon …” Before you could ask what troubled him so, he silenced you with a singular glance, lilac hues swimming with unshed tears. Frustration seeped into his gestures, a coiled repression of a rooted inner loathing that threatened to consume him.

“I have not — Fuck,” With a mumble of annoyance, he steeled himself, knowing that the truth of the matter might make you disgusted by him. “I have not had a clear mind, laying with a woman.” Admitting to his nervousness made his stomach turn with dread.

Overindulgence was his cardinal sin, and yet he hadn’t had a drop of wine at all this evening. His confession gave you pause, enough to contemplate, consider the weight of the truth. “Would this be the first time?” Your tender utterance lacked any initial shrewdness.

Aegon simply nodded, palms still clutching onto you, able to feel the pliant curvature of your body beneath your wedding gown. His closeness made your breath hitch, lilac hues boring into your own, drinking you in. “You are divine.” He murmured.

To see you without the haze of intoxication — there was nothing more perfect. Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, Aegon felt your hand drift across his shoulder, through velvet and silk, until you reached his jaw.

It was disarmingly gentle, the unexpected grace of your fingertips as they stroked across his cheek. His lips parted slightly, enough for a brief huff of surprise to escape him. Absentmindedly, he found himself careening into your embrace, seeking the warmth of your palm.

Lilac hues ogled your mouth, until he could bear it no longer. Aegon planted a gentle kiss against your lips, feeling your body tense beneath his hands, the gesture fleeting. A wisp of a whine bubbled within your throat, falling from your mouth.

Abandoning such rigidity, your body sluggishly relaxed into his hold, tension unfurling from your shoulders. A wave of repression seemed coiled within your kiss, as if you were holding the dam aloft, refusing to let it shatter.

Yet, such desperation oozing from you mirrored his own, one that he thought he’d buried. Roused from dormancy, Aegon’s flame of desire began to smolder as he coaxed you closer, tormented by the sweetness of your kiss.

Eager digits flexed against your hips, index finger circling over the divot there, aching to see you bare, unobstructed. He savored your taste, like that of piety, something saccharine, now transformed into a ceaseless craving.

He could not recall the last time he had wanted; this incessant ache had now warped into some amalgamation of desire and despair, yearning to touch you, worship you. Aegon had never felt the urge to covet something — not until his gaze had found you.

With another barrage of fervent kisses, the pale-headed prince retreated, the distance slim as he looked upon your doe-eyed countenance. “I wish to see you,” His utterance had adopted a lascivious edge, lilac hues burning with need. “Please.”

Joined hands fluttered to the many ties of your gown, seeking to free you from your cage of immeasurable fabric. It was you who had subtly allowed one palm to fly toward his own doublet, evening the score.

Aegon did not protest, even if he wanted to. As you shed your wedding gown, letting it peel away from you, draped over the lounge, he felt his heart hammer within his chest. He felt like some deplorable lecher, entirely undeserving of you, but he did not want to ruin this with his insecurities.

Through your tantalizingly-thin shift, the Targaryen Prince allowed his gaze to rake over you, covetous and aching. “Fuck.” Aegon mumbled, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, unable to tear his hands from you. They squeezed at your hips, lingering over your backside.

Adjusting his position, he moved to coax you into his lap, noticing your sheepish disposition. This was all unfamiliar territory for you, one that he desired to handle with care, as if rectifying his past blunders. It would never be enough, never repairing what damage he’d done, but it was a start.

Neediness had driven you closer, slotting yourself into his lap as he greedily cupped your backside, kneading into the pliant flesh. Aegon kissed you once more, a low groan tearing past his throat, echoing within your maw.

Kisses devolved from shy and exploratory to innately wanton, your own need bleeding through as you tilted your head slightly, deepening your entanglement. The pad of his thumb traced circles into your thigh, savoring the soft flesh beneath.

A prodding of his tongue to your kiss-swollen lips sent a shiver of delight through you, mouth parting to make way for his greedy maw. Lips clashed, collided, and meshed again — arousal surged within you, thick between your thighs.

The fabric that clung to your form even still left little to the imagination, hips writhing into his own, creating a delicious friction between you both. Proof of his desire was laid bare, straining against the front of his trousers as you pressed closer.

Beneath the rich, emerald velvet of his doublet, Aegon’s tunic sagged against his poorly-defined musculature, the hue of sage. It was your insistence and clamoring hands that had spurred him to shed it all, fabric pooling alongside your gown.

“Aegon,” A rapturous sigh tumbled from your parted lips, mouth stilling against his own as you sought to touch him, hands trailing through his pale tresses. Oozing warmth coalesced between your thighs as Aegon planted a kiss to your throat. “Please.”

As one palm continued to grope at the swell of your backside, the other coursed over your collarbone, downward still until he cupped your breast. Mouths continued to connect in heated kisses, a low groan erupting from his throat.

Fire’s crackling glow blanketed him in pooling orange, illuminating his ethereal features. Each touch evoked a deep-seated repression from you, desiring as much as he was willing to give you.

Another satisfied hum escaped him as you carded your fingers through his hair, hips lurching forward. Absentmindedly, your hips continued to urge against his, eliciting a breathy sigh from Aegon. He sounded so pleased, continuing to palm at your breast.

One of your hands clamored to relocate, smoothing across his chest, and then towards his abdomen. Gooseflesh followed in the wake of your incendiary touch, like that of a blazing fire, turning him to ash. Fingertips then found the ties of his trousers, earning you a look of surprise.

He feared that if you touched him, he would’ve combusted then and there — and that was no way to end one’s wedding night. Instead, he redirected you, savoring the sensation of your silky hand snug against his chest. His kiss made your head spin.

Bodies continue to glide together, friction crackling where space becomes increasingly nonexistent. Flesh meets flesh, a seamless mold that prompts you to shiver, mouth a roaring flame as you continue your barrage of kisses.

The cool metal of his ring felt like some pleasant brand against your flesh as he kneaded your breast, thumb circling around your peaked nipple. A delighted noise leaves you then, akin to the sweet lull of a siren’s song, drawing him in.

As your hips rocked against his own, Aegon fought against his own baser instincts, the swell of his cock brushing languidly against your core. A sharp inhale ripped through his lungs, hands groping you, kneading into your flesh, caressing wherever he could as he held you close.

His mouth had dropped to your neck, showering your velvety flesh in strings of passionate kisses. There was no intoxication finer than you, whose heady, saccharine scent beguiled him without a care, more tempting than ever.

Aegon continued to greedily toy with your breasts, savoring their weight, the way they melded into his palms. Eager digits lightly pinched at your nipple; each moan that left you was akin to a lullaby, dizzying his senses.

“Gods, stop squirming.” Aegon huffed, lilt lacking any bite to it. It emerged as a partial groan, attempting to spare himself from embarrassment on his wedding night. He deposited you onto the plush cushions of the settee, gentle as ever.

Warm and clouded with a desirous haze, you watched in wordless rapture as your husband clamored down, moving to kneel in between your legs. Amethyst hues glittered with adoration, peering up at you as he smoothed his palms along your thighs.

“I am sorry,” Fearing you’d done something wrong, he soothed you with a string of kisses to your leg, pressed upon the inside of your knee. Pale tresses swept across your velvety skin, and he marveled at the sight of you, beauteous beyond comprehension. “Aegon, I ...”

“Do not apologize.” A brief shiver rolled down his spine as your palms cupped his face, cradling his visage within your hands as you stooped down for a searing kiss. He felt like some starving animal, moving upwards to reciprocate your kiss, desperate for any scrap of affection.

Unblemished hands began to push at the fabric that clung to you still, allowing it to unceremoniously pool around your hips. A moan rippled through you, slick nethers exposed to your new husband, embarrassment beginning to settle into your bones.

Before you could make some valiant attempt to shield yourself from him, Aegon refuted you with a light push of his shoulders. His countenance sparkled with a growing ardor, mauve hues boring into you as he shook his head.

“Please, do not deny me this,” It was a strained plea, the Prince begging for you to oblige him, slotted between your legs as if he belonged there. “I wish to taste you.” His confession felt hot, uttered from greedy lips.

Completely and utterly besotted with you, and you with him, you sluggishly began to allow your legs to part, kissing him once more. As your slender digits twined against his crown, he nearly groaned, savoring the pliant pillars of your mouth as he reluctantly withdrew.

His countenance seemed so docile, subservient — amethyst hues glittered with a budding attachment, lips parted as he rested his head against your thigh. Inhaling a gust of your scent, he began to press kisses to your leg, hands kneading against your haunches, reveling in all of you.

Pleasure was not a foreign concept to you, but the act itself was. Exhilaration stung your flesh, prickling away within the pit of your belly as he kissed along your thigh, each ministration wrought with rapture.

Aegon had come to spill his sins, let them vanish between your legs. “Beautiful.” He exhaled, kissing his way toward the rousing heat nestled against the apex of your legs. It was as if he were drunk upon you, intoxicated by your very essence.

The constant preening of your fingertips throughout his tresses set him ablaze, a soothing sensation that nearly subdued him. As he kissed his way to your nethers, he was delighted to find you warm already, slick glistening upon your petals. It gave him some twinge of confidence — he did not disgust you, at least.

“Aegon,” A shrewd whimper bubbled from your throat, hand sinking to cradle the base of his skull. It was as if your body already knew, hips attempting to lurch forward. Hot breath fanned over your core, prompting you to writhe beneath him. “Gods, please.” A sigh of passion left you.

“What a pleasant surprise.” Aegon crooned, stoking the fervent flame that churned within your belly. Ringed palms gleefully cupped your thighs, chilled metal of his signets pressing into your flesh as he kept your legs parted.

Dragging one finger through your petals, he watched in awe as you shivered. Gods, you were wet — admittedly, he hadn’t wholly expected for you to be this way. As you urged him closer, diaphragm erupting with sputtered whines and wrought with desperation, he indulged you.

A greedy tongue raked hot embers over your slit, groaning at the ambrosial taste that clung to you, a finer stout than many. Straining against the front of his trousers, his cock throbbed with an incessant ache, longing to be inside of you.

Aegon lacked tact, lapping at your cunt with messy, eager strokes that had made your back arch. One could not mistake it for anything other than enthusiasm intermingled with covetousness, digits smoothing themselves over your inner thighs.

A shrewd whine erupted from your throat, a noise that had sounded so foreign from your tongue. The Prince’s pale crown had become your anchor, fingers idly perusing throughout oil-mussed strands, tugging and pulling as you pleased.

“A—Aegon!” A squeak of surprise tore past your lips, the foreign sensation of pleasure spreading through you like wildfire. Gods, he reveled in your noises — he wished to hear them again and again, if he could.

Ring-adorned digits clamped down into your thigh, the other snaking toward your hips, caressing circles into your supple flesh. His mouth was like that of fire, kissing his way along your nethers, tongue teasingly prodding against your entrance. It was more than enough to make you squirm.

The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Aegon greedily lapped at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his pale locks, urging him closer.

Aegon’s ministrations lack practice and grace, an amalgamation of want intermingled with greed, his desire to have you. Nevertheless, his sloppiness is welcomed, thighs involuntarily squeezing around his head, and he moves closer still.

It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

With a devious lash of his tongue, he openly laps at your pearl, drunk upon the taste of you, far more intoxicating than that of any wine. Aegon’s fingers tense against your thighs, quietly marveling at your softness, plush and pliant within his hold.

Hips surge forward, jolting into the greedy heat of his mouth, and he merely treats you to incessant barrages of his tongue. Admittedly, your enthusiasm in the matter only spurred on his confidence in pleasing you — he did not do this very often.

His name rolls from your mouth like some incantation, tapering off into a string of whines and stifled moans. Molten heat churned violently within the pit of your stomach, volatile and oozing, coalescing between your thighs.

“Aegon!” A breathy plea tumbles from your lips, body begging for more, for whatever he is willing to give you. His ministrations change from gently suckling upon your pearl to broad, tactless laps of his tongue, with little variation.

Aegon’s lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. You were quickly ascending towards your release, body pulled taut, preparing to snap in the wake of such devastating pleasure.

His cock throbbed with an incessant, desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of further depravity.

It doesn’t take much more for you to unravel, bursting at the seams as your new husband brings about your first release. It is blinding, the white-hot throes of ecstasy that sends you crashing into a blissful afterglow.

You do not recall how many times you cry for him, sob his name, but Aegon commits it all to memory. The Prince’s stomach surges with a volatile heat, nearly groaning in response to your pinnacle.

A heaving sigh jostles him, inhaling gusts of your saccharine scent, catching his own breath as he presses continuous kisses over your thigh. His cheek happens to rest against your leg, and as you begin to come down, the sight of him is enough to reignite the flame once more.

Amethyst hues seem to sparkle with triumph and elation, flickering towards you, glittering lips twitching into a lopsided smile. Aegon felt happy — he could not recall the last time he’d felt true joy, uninhibited by wine.

“That was …” Truthfully, you do not know how to describe it, but your reaction is more than enough to please the Targaryen prince. Your fingers continue to rake through his pale tresses, dancing over his crown before cupping his face. “Wonderful.”

“I am not finished yet,” Aegon uttered, slithering from between your legs to capture your mouth with his, able to taste yourself. A whine of delight escapes your lips and he revels in it, mouths entangling in a heated kiss. “I need you.”

It isn’t an easy thing to admit to, needing someone — and yet he does, and it feels unusually effortless. The weight of his words takes root within you, head bobbing up and down in a consensual nod as he seizes you from the settee.

As you clamor for your shared marital bed, he stops at the mattress’s edge, hands tangling against the hem of your shift. Your arms adjust, allowing him to free you from the fabric, which happens to feel too restrictive, too claustrophobic.

Aegon’s visage is buried beside your collarbone, marveling at the sight of you — Gods, he was exceedingly fortunate. Even then, a despondent voice screamed at him, how he did not deserve you in the slightest, and he refused to listen to it.

His mouth became dry, desire swelling within him like the urgent crash of a tidal wave. Aegon’s violet gaze remained transfixed, unable to tear themselves away from you and the perfection of you; all of you.

“A—Are you going to be gentle?” The nervousness of your inquiry is unmistakable, and he is swift to quell such fears, pressing a kiss against your brow. You’ve always been told that consummating was physically painful, such horror instilled within you once you reached womanhood.

“Of course,” Aegon was not a good man — rotten, really. However, he had no desire to treat you with callousness, no desire to manhandle you into subservience. “I would not harm you.” His reassurance seemed a mutual thing, a promise to both himself and you.

With a nod, a tender smile spreads across your face, beguiled by him as you reach for the laces of his trousers. A flicker of surprise settles into his lilac hues, but he doesn’t protest, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

Hungry and rapturous, Aegon allowed his gaze to roam over you freely, committing every detail of your form to memory — beauty incarnate. He permits you to untie his breeches, the strings loosening altogether.

As leather gives way and he stands bare before you, your features warm at the sight of him, ethereal; incandescent, really. He is more godly than you imagined him to be, vexed by him, by body and by heart.

That is when you feel it, the proof of his arousal pressing into your lower belly, oozing with precum as he slowly ruts his hips into you. A sharp moan blossoms throughout your diaphragm, palms gathering at the nape of his neck as you coax him down for a searing kiss.

A groan rippled through his throat, escaping into twined mouths as you moved against his erection, enough to nearly make him sputter. Aegon’s desperation bleeds into you with a blinding intensity, so poignant and so palpable that it makes your knees buckle.

Before you can protest his recoil, Aegon moves with you onto the sheets, a clamor of eager limbs, and your belly surges with butterflies. You know not to be fearful, but you cannot help it, expecting him to crawl atop you and make it easy.

Bewilderment settles into your features when he does the opposite, coaxing you into his lap with such enthusiasm, such neediness. Mauve hues were blown-out with lust and exaltation, enthralled by you as he felt you settle down against him, thighs firmly caging him in on either side.

The game of waiting was an agonizing one, as he longed to be inside of you, let you feel him with renewed vigor, drown himself within your growing affections. Aegon groaned when your lips met his, connecting with a thinly-veiled ardor, passionate yet tender.

Wandering hands smooth themselves over the swell of your hips, clutching at the pliant flesh, his erection pressing against your thigh. A sharp inhale passes through him as you gently adjust yourself, comfortable atop him — you rather enjoy this, you think.

Desire made him dizzy, head beginning to spin in a delirium, induced by the growing haze of ardor. He couldn’t recall the last time he laid with a woman and truly enjoyed it — yet, he enjoyed this, reveled in it all, craved you as one would gusts of fresh air.

“I need you,” The felicity dancing within your wanton plea makes him want to sob, and he knows that he needs you just as terribly. His cock twitched, the flushed head proclaiming his own want without the use of words. “I beg of you, Aegon.”

“Fuck,” Aegon groans; your nethers clench pathetically around nothing at all. Eagerness seeps into each caress of his hands, every touch, every sigh of passion. “Sit, I — I need you terribly.” His pleas made your bones ache, stomach churning with a flame that demanded to be extinguished.

At your mercy, he slumped back against the golden pillows, countenance echoing such unrestrained yearning, guiding his aching cock to your glistening cunt. He steeled himself, watching in a tremulous rapture as you adjusted yourself, slowly sinking yourself onto his length.

A cacophony of whines escaped you, the sudden intrusion somewhat painful, but nothing agonizing — not how it was made to appear. His grasp steadied upon your hips, digits kneading into your flesh as you continued to rock downwards.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to adjust to one another, grow accustomed. The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

“Ae—Aegon,” With a blubbering moan, your palms fell atop his chest, splayed over pale flesh as you awkwardly began to ease yourself up into an erratic rhythm. You did not know how to move, but he seemed to revel in it, mouth erupting with groans aplenty. “Gods.”

Such sensations seemed to overwhelm you, a blissful ecstasy seeping into your bones, belly sloshing with excitement. You did not go quickly at all, each movement slow and punctuated, thighs stinging from the first inklings of exertion.

Beneath you, Aegon gazed at you as if you were some goddess, amethyst hues shimmering with a thinly-veiled ardor. His heart hammered within his chest, breath catching as one hand slithered downward, groping at your derrière.

Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need. Precum continued to ooze forth, spilling inside of you.

Aegon watched you carefully, completely and utterly mesmerized, beguiled as he began to guide your movements. It all instilled a fire within you, raging as it seared your nerves, set all of you ablaze as his cock kissed your walls with a gentle fervor.

The full, lovely swell of your breasts bounced gently atop your chest as you continued your ministrations, repeating the monotonous motion of rocking along his cock. Your stomach sloshed with molten heat, and it quickly spread to your loins like wildfire.

A breathy groan of ‘fuck’ emerged from Aegon’s mouth, countenance contorted into a look of complete and utter ecstasy. “Gods, do not stop, I beg you,” Aegon commanded through wanton groans, hips desperately rutting up inside of you. “Please.” He pleaded.

Ceaseless, you carried on, thighs burning as you rode him as you would a broken gelding, palm sliding toward his face. Wordlessly, you coaxed him in for a blistering kiss, prompting him to sit up from his partial slouch, mouths connecting in a frenzied flurry of bliss.

Aegon’s hips continued to jolt forward, cock burying itself deep within you, a sword sheathed within its scabbard. Moans emerged from you in myriads, hands suddenly clamoring for the nape of his neck, fingers twisting themselves into his silvery tresses.

Between kisses of tactless passion, his mouth withdrew, only to sloppily pepper themselves along your jaw before settling against your throat. The very image of grace, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping.

The coil of heat that had remained furled within Aegon began to rapidly pull apart, his pleasure one of such dizzying ecstasy. Hips clashed together, the friction a delicious sensation as a shiver iced your spine, and then his.

“Aegon!” A fever that you couldn’t sweat out, you rode him ceaselessly, ministrations a touch erratic, yet you maintained a steady pace. A whimper of ardor bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by his grasp upon your hips.

Drowning within ecstasy, Aegon knew that he could not cling to restraint any longer, cock throbbing with a persistent ache. His digits gripped you tightly, a choked groan emerging into the hollow between your throat and shoulder.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, his hips continuing to buck up into you intermittently. You clung to him as if you were drowning, his lips ravishing your flesh whenever he had a moment to breathe, cock nearly kissing your cervix.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart completely, in shambles beneath you, hot ropes of virile seed filling your womb with a wild desperation. The rush of warmth soon flooded your insides, his spend sticky against your nethers.

Aegon saw stars from the intensity of his release, nearly collapsing in the aftermath of it all. Perspiration glistened along his spine, bones nearly turning to molten liquid as you continued to ride him for a few moments more.

Foreheads pressed together, lips soon finding one another, disarmingly gentle as he allowed one palm to cup your cheek. His thumb danced over your jaw, the gesture unusually sweet as your hips began to slow to a mere crawl.

Sheepish, you began to withdraw, a soft moan leaving you as you maneuvered yourself from his lap, a rush of sticky warmth coating your inner thighs. You crawled from bed, dancing over discarded clothing as you sought out something to wear.

Aegon lazily rolled to lay down, amethyst hues trained upon the gilded canopy above, running a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected to come undone as he had, but it was perfect — he hadn’t felt like that in some time.

His gaze soon found you, softening at the sight of you bundled up within his sage tunic, the silk brushing against the top of your thighs. Lust gnawed at his bones, seeing you like that — it only made him covet you in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“Seven Hells,” Aegon mumbled, tongue darting to wet his lower lip as you slunk forward, his stare half-lidded as he shamelessly admired you. “Must I take you again, looking like that?” He murmured, noticing the way you became smitten so very quickly.

“Should I remove it?” Afraid that you had misstepped, you nearly reached for your shift until he shook his head, waving you over. Your features burned, pleasantly warm as you crawled back into bed with him, curling into his side.

“I would often say yes,” His voice was remarkably smooth, lacking the initial torment and despair from before, instilled with a subdued joy. “Not this time. Come here.” Inviting you to lay with him, you turned, chin perched against his shoulder.

His hand circled around you, fingers trailing along your spine as he drew the sheets around you both, reveling in the feeling of your form pressed to his. In the blissful afterglow, you remained quiet for a moment, palm placed atop his chest.

A lump formed within his throat as he contemplated this, being with you — he had not felt so at-ease in what seemed like forever. You had made him feel so comfortable, vulnerable in a way that he both craved and detested, but perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps, you would draw out the best in him, allow him to atone for past mistakes, even if he felt like it was all too late. Firelight danced throughout your chambers, beginning to wane as embers replaced roaring flames, the room ambient with even breaths and steady hearts.

“Aegon?”

As your sweet cadence cut through his lament, he looked to you, head cocking to one side. “Hm?” Admittedly, he could fall asleep now if it weren’t for your presence, mauve hues absorbing the beauty of your smiling countenance.

People rarely afforded him a smile, let alone the doting look you gave him — and he melted, collapsed within the tenderness of it all. Again, he swallowed, attempting to force the swell of emotion down his throat.

“I think we will be happy together, you and I.” He knew you meant it — knew your sincerity, genuineness spilling from each syllable. You weren’t expecting him to answer, allowing your head to rest neatly against his chest, and he held you closer.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, true happiness had tugged at his heart.

[comicaurora]

So uhh. If you feel like talking about it. As someone who lives in the US, how are you being kind to yourself on this upsetting morning <3

Checked in with my loved ones first and foremost.

It's interesting. The vibe I've been getting from my circle is very different from 2016. Much less… dread and horror at a realignment of the understanding of what can and can't happen here, now, in this place and day and age. More "fuck, guys. again? whatever. enjoy your consequences, maybe you'll manage to learn something this time."

Frustration and anger is not the most positive feeling, or even the most fair one to express, but it is a protective one. It hurts a lot less than most alternatives.

And it's quite a shift. It was earthshattering back then. How could this have been allowed to happen? Why couldn't it be stopped? Why couldn't we stop it? Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't everyone see what this meant? Why couldn't I make them understand? Did they really not care? What did that mean about humanity as a whole? Were we so thoughtless? How could anyone be trusted?

It seems… much less earthshattering to see it happen twice. Disappointing, sure. Frustrating. But nowhere near as devastating as the first time I saw it unfold. We already knew it could happen. I've already had time to digest the implications. Now I'm just freshly disappointed.

It also feels less indicative of Crushing Truths Of Reality this time. We've seen shit get bad. We've also seen shit get better from here! We know both outcomes are possible, even inevitable. We know hoping for a better future is always worthwhile. This isn't the apocalypse. It's an unremarkably bad turn of events brought on by unremarkably self-centered well-documented human impulses. It's utterly mundane in its unpleasantness. It doesn't need to be dignified with despair.

A democratic election, no matter the outcome or the side we're on, makes us all acutely aware of how outnumbered we are by people whose worldviews and priorities are demonstrably incomprehensible to us. And the first time you get outnumbered, it's a shock. Defeat is haunting. It didn't matter how badly you wanted it; by the very function of democracy, you do not have the power to override greater numbers. (insert electoral college caveat here)

The second time through, I find myself focusing on a different facet that has dramatically reduced the amount of spiralling I'm doing. I don't expect this to work for everyone, but for me specifically, it helped to crystallize a few thoughts:

You don't have the power to control anyone else. You don't. You can't share your worldview and your revelations with them. You can't make them think or understand anything. You can lay it all out for them, but you can't make them listen, and you can't make it click. A mentor can't make their student learn a lesson; that's why teaching is so complicated and hard. An active choice must be made by the person to enable themselves to understand, and they must put the pieces together in their own mind before it makes sense to them, and the pieces must have been presented in a way that makes sense to them in the first place. Lead a horse to water, can't make them drink.

These elections highlight a disconnect in what different groups of people care about; and no matter how clearly you explain yourself or how passionately you perform, caring cannot be forced on someone. Understanding and connection cannot be forced. You cannot make anything or anyone matter to someone. They have to choose to see how it matters in order to internalize it. If they choose not to, that is not your failing. You couldn't have made them do it by just Explaining Better. They are not your responsibility. They make their own choices. You can't reach inside their head and connect the dots for them.

I'm a storyteller. I make stories and put them out into the world. I hope people get something good out of them, but I have no control over what that something is. I want people to be thoughtful and kind and compassionate and hopeful and see themselves reflected in stranges, no matter their differences. I can craft stories that I hope encourage this. But that is the extent of my ability and the extent of my responsibility. I control no-one's actions but my own, and so while I am not having the best day, I am at least content that I am doing what I can, and I am not shattering myself against impossibilities trying to control the things I can't.

Sometimes, people make decisions that I think are really bad. I can't make that not happen. All I can do is try to make decisions that will result in things I think are good. Today, that means checking in on people, and not assigning too much dramatic narrative weight to an ultimately mundane set of unremarkable bad decisions outside of my control. We'll take life as it comes and help each other out when and how we can. Everything else is out of our hands.

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (5) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi sweethearts! we are at chapter of this series and oh my gosh, i am so excited to get the last 2 chapters out because i am debating between the type of ending i would like this series to have! your feedback is always welcomed 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💕

series masterlist

The penthouse was excessive.

It was the kind of wealth that laughed at subtlety—the kind that didn’t whisper its power, but screamed it. It assaulted the senses in every direction, a crystalline fortress carved into the sky, perched at the top of Monaco’s most elite tower. 

Glittering chandeliers hung like jagged ice sculptures from mirrored ceilings, casting fractured rainbows across floors of polished ivory marble. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and money.

A wall-to-wall aquarium stretched across one entire side of the room, aglow with bioluminescent fish imported from some private reef halfway across the world.

Even the water shimmered like it had been distilled from diamonds. Every inch of the space screamed exclusivity, opulence, danger. 

You could feel it in your skin—like silk suffocating you.

Beyond the towering glass windows, the Monaco skyline glittered against the velvet night. Yachts drifted below like ghosts, their lights blinking lazily on the dark sea.

And at the center of it all was Raskovic.

He was built like a war—not a man, but a monument. Thick-necked, wide-shouldered, a towering frame that made the tailored lines of his suit look stretched and choked. 

He radiated the kind of threat that didn’t need to be spoken. Every guard in the room flinched just slightly when he turned his head—a glance carrying the weight of a command.

You’d seen powerful men before. But this… this was different. Raskovic didn’t just own power. He embodied it.

His face was carved in hard lines, his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It didn’t soften him. It made him look sharper. Hungrier. Like a lion watching dinner stumble straight into the den.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice smooth like old leather and too much vodka. He didn’t stand, just gestured lazily for you to join him at the long glass table set in the center of the room.

Bucky was close behind you. His hand slid to the small of your back—part of the act, of course. But his fingers pressed in slightly harder than they needed to. Like a warning, like reassurance. You didn’t know which one you needed more.

“We’re honoured,” you said smoothly, your voice polished and poised, as if the glittering tension didn’t make your skin itch. Bucky gave a nod beside you, his eyes tracking every guard, every movement.

The table had been laid out like an art piece, foie gras resting atop toasted brioche with violet fig compote, lobster bisque in impossibly thin porcelain bowls, and Duck à l’orange carved so precisely it looked painted. 

Surrounding the spread were polished silver utensils and deep-red wine glinting in faceted crystal flutes, poured with care by servers in floor-length black gowns.

You sat, and the moment your body touched the chair, something in your gut twisted hard.

It wasn’t anything obvious. 

No flashing lights, no sudden danger. Just instinct—a whisper at the base of your skull that grew louder with every breath you took. The way the servers didn’t meet your eyes. The way Andrei leaned in the shadows of the far wall, watching, waiting.

You knew. Something was wrong.

Raskovic took his wine in hand and swirled it lazily. “So. I heard from Andrei…” He turned those cold eyes to you. “You know me?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Who wouldn’t?”

A smile crept across Raskovic’s face. “A good answer.”

He chuckled and sipped his wine, exuding the confidence of a man surrounded by his kingdom. You let the conversation glide around you like smoke, lips curved just enough, playing your part. 

Andrei hadn’t moved from the wall, but you could feel him, gaze heavy, predatory. You didn’t trust the shadows here—they belonged to him.

“And what do you specialise in?” Raskovic asked, breaking off a piece of bread with delicate fingers. “Explosives? Biochemical toys? Or are you more... traditional?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, casual on the surface but coiled beneath. “Mostly smart-range pulse rifles. Electromagnetic scatter rounds. Some Stark-modified EMPs, the kind that make your eyes bleed if you’re standing too close.”

Raskovic laughed, low and genuine. “Ah, Stark. Yes. He did have flair.” He lifted his glass. “To creative destruction.”

You raised yours to match. Glasses clinked. The wine shimmered.

You hesitated. Then drank.

And regretted it instantly.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your hand tightened around your glass as you turned slightly in your chair.

“I—I don’t… feel so—”

Your words fell apart, slurred and sticky. Your throat closed. The room twisted violently beneath your feet. Bucky was on his feet before your head even dipped forward.

“What the hell did you do?” he snarled, voice tight.

Raskovic didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Andrei moved like a shadow—fast, precise, and cruel. You barely saw him before his arm wrapped around your body, dragging you upright as your legs gave out beneath you.

One thick arm locked around your chest, yanking you back against him, while the cold edge of a knife pressed into the delicate line of your throat.

You whimpered—not from the pain, but from how far Bucky suddenly seemed.

He surged forward. “LET. HER. GO!”

But the guards were faster than he was.

Two lunged first, catching him at the arms. Then another. Then two more. They tried to hold him down, to pin the fury inside the soldier’s body—but he was already gone. 

Not Bucky. Not James.

The Winter Soldier raged, and the man underneath him broke.

His scream tore through the air—raw, unfiltered. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

He fought like a beast, like he was tearing out his own soul to get to you. Every muscle locked and screamed with effort as he dragged the men across the polished floor. His eyes were wide, burning blue, locked on yours like they were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

You could see it—the pain in him. The terror.

“Get off me!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into someone’s face with a sickening crack. “You touch her again, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you all!”

“Try something, Barnes,” Andrei hissed into your ear, his knife pressing harder into your skin. A thin line of blood slipped down your neck. “Give me a reason.”

“STOP,” Bucky roared, his voice shredded and frantic, “PLEASE—please, take me instead—just let her go—”

But Raskovic only leaned back in his chair, amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice like rot. “The infamous Winter Soldier. Look what they turned you into.”

Bucky thrashed harder, dragging three men with him as he reached toward you, fingertips almost brushing yours before another slammed into his gut. He coughed, staggered, and still tried to crawl.

“Let her go!” he screamed again. His voice cracked this time—a break in the steel.

You could barely keep your eyes open, your limbs like water. But you turned your head—just slightly—enough to meet his gaze.

And even through the fog choking your mind, you knew what you saw in him.

Rage. Fear.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

“No—no, don’t—” His eyes widened, frantic. “Please—don’t—don’t leave me.”

“Go. Please.” you managed to choke out.

And then you fell. Andrei’s arm caught you, yanking your limp body back as you slipped into unconsciousness.

The last thing you saw—or maybe only imagined—was Bucky’s face as he screamed your name like a prayer no god ever answered.

You came to with the sharp sting of blood in your mouth and the icy ache of metal biting into your wrists.

At first, it was hard to tell what was real—the room swam at the edges, spinning in slow, nauseating waves. 

Your head throbbed. Your lips were cracked and dry. And your shoulders screamed from the strain of your arms wrenched behind your back, cuffed so tight that you could already feel the skin splitting beneath the metal. 

Cold concrete bit into your ankles where they were tied to the chair legs. Your knees burned and your spine howled with every twitch of movement.

The drug was still in your system—not fully, but enough to slow your thoughts, to fog the corners of your brain like frost on glass. You blinked, trying to force focus into your vision.

The room was dim, windowless. Cement walls scarred with water stains and age. 

It smelled like damp stone and blood and the metallic tang of old air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling on a rusted chain, swaying with each low hum that vibrated through the floors—generators, maybe. Or worse.

You were underground. You were alone.

And then you realised—you weren’t.

A figure sat in front of you, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees. Like this was casual. Like he was waiting to chat over coffee.

Andrei.

But he wasn’t smiling this time. Not exactly. The amusement from the dinner—the smug, showman’s flair—was gone now. What was left behind was leaner. Sharper. Hungrier. 

He looked at you like prey.

“Tough girl,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and smooth. Too calm. “Didn’t even scream when I hit you.”

He stood slowly, circling the chair. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. You followed him with your eyes but didn’t move your head—your neck was too stiff, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Trained well,” he murmured, coming to stand behind you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and intimate and rotten. “Let me guess. Romanov?”

Still, you said nothing.

Silence was all you had left. Silence and the rhythm of your heart, pounding slow and hard in your chest. 

One beat for every second Bucky wasn’t here. One beat closer to whatever came next.

Andrei exhaled, circling around again. He crouched low in front of you, arms braced on his thighs, and looked up at you like you were something he’d found crawling under a rock.

“Almost believed your little act,” he said. “Almost. You were very good. And he—he was damn near convincing. Protective. Devoted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Barnes might actually care about you.”

The corners of your mouth curled in a humorless smile. “He doesn’t fake things well.”

Andrei raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not wrong.”

He stood again, restless energy leaking into his movements now. Pacing. Turning. Talking more to himself than you. “But Layna—sweet girl, fucking dumb, but she has good memory. Told me she saw you before. You were blonde, standing behind a Swedish diplomat during a black-tie in Prague.”

You stiffened.

That op had been burned. Buried. There should’ve been no trace left.

Andrei’s grin returned, sharp and self-satisfied. “Told you. Almost.”

He drifted to the side of the room, plucking something off the metal tray on the workbench behind him. You couldn’t see what it was at first—until the low light caught the blade. Polished. Thin. Surgical.

Your blood ran colder.

“You know,” he said casually, running his thumb down the flat of the blade, “I’ve dealt with a lot of spies. A lot of agents. They’re all the same when you strip them down—arrogant, mouthy, trained to suffer but everyone breaks eventually.”

He turned toward you again. His boots scraped slightly across the floor as he came closer, blade gleaming.

“But you,” he said, voice lower now, almost admiring, “you’re different, so impressive. So decorated. Partner to Steve Rogers, mentored by the Black Widow."

He crouched again, placing the knife under your chin—just enough pressure to tilt your head up, to meet his eyes.

“But look at you now,” he murmured. “All alone.”

You glared at him, breathing hard. Your ribs ached with each inhale.

“You’re still not gonna get out of this,” you rasped.

Andrei gave a soft, mocking sound—almost a laugh. “Still fighting,” he said. “I love that.”

He pulled the knife back. Then his hand—the same one holding the blade—cracked across your face.

Your head snapped to the side. Fire bloomed in your cheek. Your vision spun again, and for a moment, you tasted nothing but copper and heat.

You forced your head back up. Stared at him. And then spat blood on his shoes.

His expression twitched—not anger, not quite. But it changed. Shifted. Amused and annoyed all at once.

“So dramatic,” he muttered, straightening up. “Barnes really married a firecracker.”

You smiled, lips cracked and bloodied. “Yeah. He has excellent taste.”

He turned his back to you. You didn’t trust what that meant.

“You know,” he said, picking up something else—a cloth, maybe. “When I first saw the two of you, I thought it was a clever front. Pretty couple, good chemistry and such an easy cover.”

He turned.

“But then I saw his face when we took you.”

Your heart lurched.

“I saw the way he screamed for you. Like he’d rather die right there than let you go. And that,” Andrei said, walking back toward you, “told me everything I needed to know.”

You went still.

“And now,” he said, crouching once more, “we find out just how long it takes to make you scream.”

You didn’t flinch.

But somewhere, deep in your chest, you whispered a prayer.

Not to be saved. But that Andrei would get out alive.

Because you knew Bucky was coming.

And if he didn’t find you soon— He’d tear this whole place apart.

Yelena slammed a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click that echoed through the hangar.

“I’m done,” she snapped. “I’m done waiting around like a fucking headless chicken."

Her vest hit the open duffel with a thud, followed by two extra mags, a smoke grenade, and a roll of wire.

Her hands moved fast, efficiently, but her face—her face was all fire, controlled only in the loosest sense of the word.

“Val said to hold,” Ava said from across the room, but even her voice sounded unsure. Her fingers were curled too tightly around the hilt of her blade. “It’s too risky for an extraction.”

Yelena’s jaw clenched as she zipped the duffel shut with a savage pull.

“Bullshit,” she cursed. 

“She said their cover was still good!” John yelled suddenly, pacing across the cracked concrete like a caged animal. His voice cracked from frustration, boots striking hard with each step.

“Cover’s blown, Ava. Raskovic’s got them. We saw that footage from the drone feed. You think Bucky screams like that when things are fine?”

No one answered. The silence that followed was deafening.

They had all heard it— the live feed that cut out halfway through, but not before they heard your slurred voice, the scrape of a chair, and—

Bucky’s scream.

It wasn’t just your name.

It was a sound torn from the center of him, ripped out like something primal—like grief, rage, and helplessness all wrapped into one brutal, broken cry. A roar that echoed through the comms with so much pain it made Ava flinch and John go deadly silent.

It didn’t even sound like a name by the end. It sounded like a man being ripped in half.

“Val’s still trying to assess options,” Ava said finally, quieter. “Wants to keep it clean. Low profile. Wait for the opportune moment.”

Yelena turned sharply. “She wants to wait until there’s nothing left to save.”

“(Y/n)'s not dead,” she added, voice lower now, shaking. “Not yet.”

Across the room, Alexei tightened the last strap of his tac vest and let out a heavy grunt from the loading ramp of the jet.

“Then we go,” he said simply. “Fast. Before is too late.”

It was Ava who moved next. She didn’t say anything.

Just unsheathed her blade, slid it into the thigh holster, and grabbed her gear. 

Bob passed her the radio jammer without a word.

John pulled a second glock off the weapons table, racked it with a sharp motion, and tossed a rifle to Alexei.

“You’re flying.”

Alexei caught it mid-air. “Da. And if Val calls mid-flight?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

“Ignore it,” Yelena muttered, strapping her vest down tight. “Unless you want to hear more bureaucratic bullshit while someone guts her open.”

“Val have our asses for this,” Ava said flatly, though she didn’t slow her pace as she climbed into the jet. “You know that, right?”

John snorted. “What’s new?”

The engines roared to life behind them—a deafening hum of rebellion.

Back in the jungle of halls and locked doors, Bucky was losing his mind.

He had already taken down four men—maybe more. He couldn’t keep count anymore, it was all a blur of fists and fury, of red-soaked sleeves and splintered bone. His knuckles were split wide open, blood running down his fingers like oil, blood that he didn’t even know was his own. 

The once-pristine black suit he’d worn to dinner, tailored, pressed, immaculate was in ruins. The white shirt beneath was streaked with blood. Buttons missing, collar torn, cufflinks long gone.

He looked like a ghost dressed for a funeral.

Yours.

Somewhere behind him, alarms blared in a shrill, endless loop. He had triggered them when he shattered the keypad on the security gate with his bare hand. 

Somewhere ahead—locked doors, concrete walls, goddamn silence.

He didn’t know where they’d taken you.

And that not knowing—that not knowing—was what was killing him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rasping, barely human. “Fuck, fuck—”

He stumbled sideways, shoulder crashing into the wall. The cold bite of cement anchored him for a second, but not enough. 

He was unraveling. Frantic. Adrenaline wearing thin.

He reached for the comms, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the dial, all he heard was static, it was dead, no signal.

His breath hitched in his throat.

“No—no—come on—” He hit it harder this time, palm slamming into the casing with a sickening smack. Blood smeared the plastic. His hands were shaking.

“Come on, come on—please—”

A crackle. Static. Then—

“—arnes?”

Yelena’s voice.

His knees almost gave out.

He pressed himself back against the wall, clutching the comms like it might vanish if he let go.

“I got out,” he breathed. “I got out, I’m—I can’t find her.”

His voice broke. Shattered.

“I can’t—I don’t know where they took her. They drugged her. He had a knife at her throat—I couldn’t fucking stop it—”

He swallowed a sob. Tried to breathe, and failed.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. She knew. She felt it in her gut. And I just let her get taken.” He pushed off the wall, stumbling forward down the corridor, every door a dead end, every hallway too quiet. 

The sound of his shoes—black dress leather, scuffed now, stained red—echoed down the sterile concrete like a countdown.

And he was running out of time.

John’s voice came through next. 

“We’re in the air. Twenty minutes out. Hold tight, Bucky. We’ve got you.”

But the brunette wasn’t listening anymore.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, blood dripping to the floor beneath him.

“She was scared,” he whispered. “She told me to go. Begged me.”

The words tasted like glass in his mouth.

“She looked me in the eye like it was the last thing she would ever say to me. And I fucking left her. I left her there.”

His voice cracked again. Barely a sound.

“I can’t lose her.”

His hands curled into fists — raw, trembling. “I can’t.”

He slammed his fist into the wall—vibranium meeting concrete in a sickening crunch—and staggered forward. He was pacing now, wild and cornered and coming undone.

“I know I screw things up. I know I push people too hard. Say the wrong thing or nothing at all. I don’t... I don’t let myself feel shit unless it’s already too late.”

He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, dragged it down his face.

“But (y/n), I—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

“Every time she disobeys me on a mission, I yell. I chew her out like she’s reckless. Like she’s careless.”

He swallowed hard. Blinked. Focused on the darkness ahead.

“It’s not control. It’s not protocol. I just—fuck, I’m scared she won’t come back.”

He stopped, spine against the wall again. Voice low, almost fagile.

“That I’ll lose her. And it’ll be my fault. Because I never told her what she really means to me.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the line again. “Then don’t stop.”

A pause.

“You find her.”

His jaw tightened.

“I will,” Bucky said.

The tone in his voice changed—gone was the shaking, the hesitation.

“I swear to god, I’ll find her.”

His steps quickened. He pushed through the next door like it owed him something, storming into a stairwell, eyes wild, movements sharp. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Even if I have to burn this whole fucking place down.”

And he meant it.

He’d burn the compound, the mission, the goddamn world to the ground.

He was coming for you.

a/n: and that's chapter 5!! i hope you enjoyed, and please drop a comment or a reblog, it genuinely gives me so much motivation to give you guys my best! love y'all!

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[hexhomos]

Kiss on the check accepted! :3c

And your response reminded me of a detail I always pick up on rewatches but hadn't fully untangled yet—in the flashback of her childhood, Mel steps into that broken throne room with blood still drying on it. At Ambessa's prompting, Mel goes right into talking about how to renovate the place. "Paint the walls gold"...like gilding over the horrors of conquest that got that power in the first place.

And when she describes the regent they should have, she finishes with, "she should be pliant, so we can mold her." That IS what she was doing with Jayce, slowly, over a decade, and then quickly through Acts 2 and 3.

And then in the scene, after Mel finishes describing a "pliant" regent who can be molded, her mother suggests MEL could be that regent. Young Mel is excited at the idea, entirely missing the implication that she too would be an asset of her mother's reign.

That's why she takes off her Medarda ring right before casting her vote for Zaun's independence. She's finally realized she's just as subject to her mother's games as anyone else and Chooses to stop working in the interests of her family's power.

And augh, I wish her s2 plotline hadn't taken her out of Piltover so we could have seen more of the spycraft against Ambessa she was up to in Arc 1. I can't help but think of how much stronger her confrontation with Ambessa would have been if we had a full season of "daughter works against mother" instead of just a few scenes and a lot of getting kidnapped. More ambiguity with Leblanc would've been great too instead of her killing Elora to say hello.

[continued from here]

EXACTLY the way they shafted the politics in s2 (specifically so they wouldn't need to have hard conversations) genuinely had a negative impact in the ENTIRE story. The systematic horrors were downplayed and plotlines were dropped with very short acknowledgements - this is why we get people complaining about the jayce/mel breakup scene "coming out of nowhere" despite the fact that it made perfect sense for these characters!!!!!! It was just too short and they changed the subject too quickly, so we don't have TIME to think about the economic issues again.

It's so clear to me that jayce, viktor, ekko, mel (each representing a diff political facet. curious!) etc were carefully removed from the actual real world so we never have to analyze or push back against the notion that cait/ambessa are doing a hostile military coup and HAVE gotten people killed, imprisoned, and tortured en masse. So they can neatly resolve all of the plot with an avengers-style montage and never talk about the stuff with real world implications. There is no war in piltover and zaun. Just a cartoony last second villain. We just need to unite to protect... piltover...? And now viktor is randomly forgetting his proud zaunite commie stance and teaming up with the imperial invaders that were plaguing the earth moments ago........? We never talk about the class inequality ever again? Forget everything. Nothing ever matters.

The end result was that we spent far less time with these characters and they ended up being pretty underdeveloped. I know this happened for marketing reasons, its so incredibly clear aspects of the story were dumbed down so they could sell more ingame skins or pitch new champions, and that was seen as more valuable and desirable for the company than politicking - because at heart riot don't care about the political stuff anyway. But it still makes me throw my hands up in the air. such an asspull

In a reality where we had enough time and investment to touch on this, Mel could have actually gotten to push back against ambessa/cait and directly deal with the consequences of her actions. SEVIKA could have gotten a proper payoff for her underground character arc, instead of vanishing halfway through and then randomly accepting a diversity hire seat on the council (insanity. that was insanity) Ekko and the firelights would have obviously played a key role in rallying people against ambessa and helping Jinx recover from her displacement crisis (sorry isha, but even you could have been better used as part of the firelights dilemma) Jayce's mounting disillusionment with piltover and his loyalty to Viktor would be much better explored if they were still in conversation about the cities, the world they wanted to help, and the chaotic blurry lines of personhood/citizenship that decide who is an 'acceptable' target under the fist of the state. Vi could have built a self-reliant identity for herself, something better to fight for that isnt 'being a cop'. This show could've been awesome. I wish it existed

[tfpage]

‘CLICK’

Kaden snapped another photo of his shirtless body in the mirror. He didn’t dare look - he already knew how he’d feel about his lackluster appearance. He whipped his phone around a clicked ‘post’ before he could see it… but that hesitance didn’t last long - he stole a glance at the image on the post and gasped. “Come on! There’s no way I’ve gotten skinnier..” he said, shocked by what he saw. Kaden turned his phone off resignedly and sighed.

Sure, he’d come a long way since two years ago, when he started weightlifting. And granted, he wasn’t quite bad-looking. Lately, however, he was certain that he was stuck on a plateau. Kaden had tried everything, switching up his workout schedule, his split, doing more cardio, even changing his diet, but nothing had shown results for months. He’d begun attributing it to genetics, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it. He looked down and poked his flaccid musculature, face full of disappointment, grumbling to himself. “If only…” he whispered, and began to grab his things off the bench to leave.

Suddenly, as he was grabbing his keys, the lights cut out, causing Kaden to stumble. His feet flew out from under him, losing traction on a small puddle hidden in the darkness. He hit the back of his head on the bench on his way down, and fell in a heap on the cold tile. “Fuuuuuck…” he groaned, clutching his head. As he began to slowly sit up, moving like a 100 year old machine, he felt a wet spot and pulled his fingers back, squinting to see a spot of fresh blood on his hands. He let out another moan of pain and laid back down. After a moment, Kaden regained his senses, no longer dizzy, and felt around for his phone. “Yes!” He whispered, finding it under the bench. Then, “DamnnnnIT!” as the screen flickered on, revealing thoroughly shattered glass, and then quickly died. “Ugh!” He exclaimed. “Why now?” As he turned around to push himself up off the floor, he spotted something shining underneath the locker.

“what the-“ he said, and lowered his eye to the ground, peering below. What he saw astonished him; a sleek white can, with strange, glowing symbols emblazoned across the side. His eyes grew wide and his hand waded through the dust and debris in order to retrieve its treasure. He ripped the can out from beneath the locker and stood up with renewed, curiosity-fueled enthusiasm. He turned the can delicately in his hands, inspecting every facet of its surface. The strange, archaic runes resembled no language Kaden had ever seen. Although to be fair, he was no linguist. The can glimmered with a radiance only polished metal can offer, dazzling in the light but in the dark locker room, it was mysterious and enticing. “No nutrition label” he noted, realizing the can must not be an official product, despite the familiar disposition of the can. All his pain and disappointment earlier vanished as he contemplated discovering what lies within the otherworldly beverage. Or was it even a beverage? Kaden had to find out. He tilted the top toward him and reached to open the tab, but noticed some small lettering, originally unnoticed in the obscurity of the power outage. “Physical.. enhancement.. Shit man this is sick” he whispered in awe. He quickly popped the lid open, and the can released a thick blue fog into the air. He admires the swirling cloud for a moment, but unable to resist any longer, he chugs the whole can, excited for the possibilities it offers.

He waited for the results - but nothing happened. He looked anxiously in the mirror, his eyes adjusting to the darkness to make out… nothing. He was exactly the same. *sigh* “Well, so much for miracles” he said, giddy grin dropping off his face.

then suddenly, he feels something bubbling up within him, pushing through his veins and out into his muscles. The throbbing sensation continues up and down his body, making him shudder. He moans as he feels his arms expand like balloons, giving him the physique he always wanted. He stares at the mirror as two thick pecs push their way out of his chest, his shoulders plump up, widening his frame. He watches his forearms tense, his abs harden and solidify, and his biceps grow to bulging, hunky limbs. Kaden’s jaw drops at the sudden, drastic transformation. His eyes glide over his image in the mirror, slowly inspection every new detail of his body. His rippling abs, his huge biceps, his boulder shoulders - every inch of Kaden’s body had developed into a well-defined sea of powerful muscle.

All of a sudden, Kaden snaps out of the shock induced by his rapid muscular growth, and realizes what has happened. “Shit, man! I look amazing!” He says, dropping the can to the floor with a clatter.

He turned to face the full-length mirror mounted on the wall, and for a long moment, he just stared.

His physique was something he barely recognized now—thicker, more defined, like a sketch brought to life in raw, living muscle. His chest, once merely broad, now jutted forward with solid mass, each pec sharply divided down the middle. His abs ran down his torso like a granite staircase, glistening under the locker room lights, the deep grooves between each muscle casting shadows that made them look even more carved.

Kaden tilted his head slightly, examining his shoulders—boulders of muscle that flowed seamlessly into thick, corded arms. His forearms were ropey and vascular, veins pulsing just beneath the surface. A layer of fine sweat clung to him, highlighting every line and curve of his form.

With slow, deliberate motion, he raised his right arm, curling it up beside his head. As his hand formed a loose fist, the bicep began to swell, tightening like a rising wave of stone. It peaked high and round, pulling the skin taut across its surface. The motion felt powerful, almost instinctive. He watched the muscle grow and shift, felt the deep stretch in his tendon, the satisfying burn as the pump settled in.

He flexed harder.

The peak surged higher. Veins throbbed along his bicep and forearm like living wires. His tricep flared out behind it in opposition, completing the perfect symmetry of raw power. A grin spread across his face—not cocky, but appreciative. He leaned a little closer to the mirror, rotating his wrist to catch a new angle.

“Look at that…” he whispered, his voice rough with awe.

He wasn’t just in shape anymore. He was something else—sculpted, sharpened, evolved. And in that quiet, echoing space, Kaden stood in front of his reflection, not just admiring himself but becoming the image he’d always envisioned. A living monument of strength.

And he hadn’t even flexed the other arm yet.

Kaden held the pose for another few seconds, relishing the feeling of power coiled beneath his skin. The mirror reflected everything—the bulge of his bicep, the curve of his delt, the tight stretch of veins threading down his forearm. But as he slowly lowered his arm, something caught his eye. Something subtle. Something off.

He leaned in closer to the mirror, narrowing his eyes. At first, he thought it was just a trick of the dark locker room—a shadow, maybe. But no. It was real.

A faint dusting of dark hair was beginning to creep across his chest, much thicker than it had been even minutes ago. The fine line of fuzz between his pecs had deepened, grown coarser, branching out across the sculpted terrain of his torso. He brushed a hand over it instinctively. It felt… new. Not like the sweat-damp hair he sometimes noticed after a long workout. This was different. Thicker. Wilder.

Then he caught sight of his face.

His jawline, which he’d shaved clean that morning, now bore a fine coating of stubble—dark, sharp, and spreading fast. He leaned closer, fingers brushing over the roughness spreading along his cheeks and down toward his neck. His skin tingled beneath the touch, warm and alive, as if something beneath the surface was pushing outward, insisting on more.

“What the hell…” he muttered under his breath.

In the span of seconds, the fine shadow on his jaw had thickened into a full-blown beard. Dark, coarse hair now framed his face, spreading along his jawline, connecting up to his sideburns, even crawling subtly down his neck. He ran his fingers over it in disbelief—the sensation was real. The beard was dense, warm, masculine in a way that made his chiseled features look sharper, wilder.

His hand lingered there, fingertips grazing the unfamiliar growth. He hadn’t had facial hair like this since… well, never. It was as though his face had aged five years in five minutes—rugged, untamed, but still undeniably his.

The hair on his arms was thicker now too, standing out against the swell of his muscles. Not just growing—but accelerating. With each passing second, his body seemed to be claiming a new form, inch by inch. Not just stronger. Not just bigger.

Something else was happening. Something primal.

Kaden stared into his own eyes— still familiar—but with a flicker of something wild glinting in their depths.

The air felt hotter now. The silence around him, heavier.

Kaden’s hand shook just slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat pulsing through his veins. With a trembling thumb he hit record, angling the camera so both his reflection and the torn remnants of his workout shirt were in view. “This is insane,” he whispered, voice tight but excited, as he captured the faint ripples of new beard growth and the coarse dark hairs sprouting across his chest. Every few seconds he paused, zooming in on his bicep or tracing the emerging fur on his forearm, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and fascination. Even as the hair continued its rapid spread, Kaden’s grip on the phone held steady—he needed proof, a timestamped record of a change that felt like it was ripping reality in two.

Then, almost as if triggered by the camera’s lens, his muscles surged again. His biceps ballooned beyond anything human, swelling into colossal peaks that strained the mirror’s reflection; veins snaked across them like braided cables, thundering with life. His chest heaved outward, each pec splitting into sharply defined slabs, and the deep grooves of his abs grew even deeper, casting dramatic shadows under the locker room lights. The transformation wasn’t just growth—it was an eruption of power, turning Kaden into a living testament to raw strength. His skin tightened so much it gleamed, as though polished, while veins bulged and throbbed under its surface, mapping every contour of his new, unprecedented form.

A low hum of energy seemed to pulse through Kaden’s veins as he watched, transfixed, in the mirror. What had started as a modest dusting of stubble now erupted into a dense, downy undercoat that spread from his jaw and neck down across the broad planes of his chest. The hairs thickened into coarse, wolf-like fur, each strand growing longer by the second. Kaden could almost feel the weight of it, a soft but unmistakable mat of hair brushing against his shredded abs and wrapping around the ridges of his serratus. His arms, once smooth and bare, became sheathed in a dark, plush covering that climbed over his shoulders, engulfing his traps and creeping up into his hairline, where his scalp hair lengthened and darkened in tandem.

He exhaled sharply as the transformation engulfed his lower body: a creeping tide of hair that raced down his sides, engulfed his hips, and flowed over his quadriceps like a thick pelt. The fine hairs on his forearms thickened into bristly fur, and even the backs of his hands sprouted tufts between his newly elongated fingers and claws. His legs, too, transformed—fine vellus hair erupted into a living covering that rippled with each flex of muscle, hiding the sharp definition beneath. In moments, where once had been smooth human skin was now an unbroken expanse of lustrous, dark fur—every inch of him a wild tapestry of hair, masculine strength, and feral instinct.

Kaden’s breath hitched as he felt a peculiar tug in the center of his face—his nose stretching forward, cartilage reshaping into a broad, wet muzzle. His nostrils flared open, growing wider and more sensitive to every scent in the locker room. Simultaneously, a sharp ache behind his temples marked the migration of his ears: the flesh and cartilage sliding up and back until they perched atop his skull, now pointed and triangular like a wolf’s. As the bone structure shifted, a thick down of fur sprouted across his cheeks and jaw, brushing against the coarse growth of his beard and merging into a seamless coat. 

His nose had lengthened into a broad, wet muzzle; the cartilage reshaped itself into powerful nostrils that flared with newfound sensitivity. The flesh behind his temples creaked and slid upward, carrying his ears to the crown of his head, where they now landed as tall, triangular wolf’s ears fringed with tufts of dark fur. Fine whiskers sprouted at the corners of his mouth, quivering against the coarse growth of his beard, while a thick down of fur blossomed across his cheeks and forehead. With a final ripple of muscle beneath that fur, the last vestiges of his human face smoothed into a perfect fusion of man and wolf.

From there, the transformation painted itself across his entire body. His broad shoulders and bulging chest, already sculpted like marble, were now sheathed in a dense pelt of lustrous, charcoal-gray fur. A powerful tail unfurled from the base of his spine, swishing with deliberate force. His arms and legs—already pillars of muscle—took on a more lupine form: digitigrade legs ending in padded paws, arms tipped with retractable claws that slid free with a satisfying click. Every fiber of his being hummed with strength; veins pulsed beneath fur so taut over corded muscles that it gleamed like burnished metal under the locker room lights.

He lifted a clawed hand and ran it over his chest, marveling at the sensation of fur brushing against his fingertips, the electric thrill of raw power radiating through his core. Tilting his head, he flexed his neck, feeling each sinew and ridge in his throat as he tested the weight of his new jaw. Deep down, a low growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest—no longer a whisper of surprise, but a roar of ownership. In the mirror, he saw not a man in a beast’s body, but a perfect hybrid: razor-sharp fangs glinting, golden eyes blazing with feral intelligence, and a physique that married human form to lupine ferocity.

With a sudden, ecstatic movement, Kaden slipped his phone into his pocket, eager to show off just for himself, no recording required, and dropped into a classic bodybuilding pose. He lowered both arms to his sides, flexing his triceps and biceps until the veins stood out like braided cables beneath the fur. He moved into a side chest pose, one paw planted firmly on his fur-covered forearm, the other pressing against his bulge, attempting to hide his glee at the situation, despite the initial strangeness of the second transformation. Muscles pressing against his fur-covered skin, Kaden watched the ripples of muscle dance under the dense coat. Finally, he lowered himself into a powerful lunge, tail swishing, claws digging into the floor, and let out a triumphant, echoing howl that shook the lockers around him. In that moment, Kaden didn’t just see his new form—he embodied it.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Disabilities and Monsters in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy

Through a discussion with @vixensdungeon (great blog to follow for TTRPG stuff by the way) it came to our attention that some of our more jokey and memey posts and reblogs may have given some people a slightly skewed idea of what Eureka, and particularly the “urban fantasy” parts of Eureka are really about, and its tone. We like to joke around about it, and the “cute monster girl” angle really sells on tumblr.com, but actually playing these types of characters in Eureka is not exactly a power fantasy. They eat people, and often eat them alive. If you find that cute, funny, and/or sexy, well, Eureka is still probably just the game you’re looking for, but that isn’t the main thing. Eureka uses the fact that many of these characters necessarily subsist off the flesh and/or blood of other people as a loose metaphor for mental and physical disability.

Imagine you need something that everyone else has but you don’t. If you don’t have it regularly, you will literally start to waste away. The only way to obtain this thing is to take it from another human being, who also needs it, and others will deny that you need it, and abhor that you need it. It’s not uncommon for people, even “progressive” people, to say something along the lines of “they need to all be killed for the good of society,” even if they don’t realize that’s what they’re saying. You didn’t choose to be this way. This is the reality of monsters in Eureka, and many people in real life.

And then even when you have that thing you need, for now, there are many facets of society that you just can’t participate in because your condition makes them impossible for you, like if a vampire wanted to take a run on a sunny beach. Monsters in Eureka will be challenged by their supernatural weaknesses at every turn, while hiding their abhorrent needs from society and even the rest of the party, and asking why they have to be this way. Finding clever ways to get around and circumvent their weaknesses is a core part of the gameplay of monster PCs in Eureka. Imagine you and your friends want or need to go somewhere, but that somewhere is on the other side of a river. The river has a well maintained bridge. For everyone else but you, a vampire who can’t cross running water, getting across the river is the simplest task in the world, so much so that no one would even consider it a task, but for you, it’s a challenge, and for gameplay, it’s a puzzle.

It isn’t totally hopeless, as many of the jokes and fan comics show (those aren’t just memes, they’re only showing one side of the coin and not the other). Monsters who accept, or even embrace and celebrate their monsterhood, can and do exist canonically, alongside monsters who can’t bear to do what they do. In some cases, these may be the same monster on different days.

I’m going to conclude this post by posting two excerpts from the rules text itself.

Disabilities are Disabling

So why don’t disabilities grant any advantage? It isn’t too uncommon for RPGs to have some sort of “flaw” system, where during character creation you can give your character “flaws” or some kind of penalty, and usually get that balanced out by being able to add extra bonuses elsewhere. Sometimes, these “flaws” may take the form of disabilities.

One particular high-profile indie TTRPG takes this beyond just character creation, and makes it so that if a PC receives a “scar” in combat that reduces their physical stats, their mental stats automatically go up by an equivalent amount, and proudly imply that to make any mechanic which results in permanent consequences or makes disabilities disabling is ableist. We think you can probably tell what we think of that from this sentence alone, and we don’t need to elaborate too much. 

We do think, in the abstract, “flaw” systems in character creation are not a bad idea. They allow for more varied options during character creation, while preserving game balance between the PCs.

But in real life, people aren’t balanced. The events that left me injured and disabled didn’t make me smarter or better in any way - if anything, they probably made me dumber, considering the severity of the concussion! Some things happened to me, and now I’m worse. There’s no upside, I just have to keep going, trying harder with a less efficient body, and relying more on others in situations where I am no longer capable of perfect self-sufficiency.

A disabled person is, by definition, less able to perform important daily tasks than the average person. To deny this is to deny that they need help, and to deny that they need help is to enable a refusal to help. This is the perspective from which Eureka’s Grievous Wounds mechanic was written.

When a character is reduced to 1 HP (which by design can result from a single hit from many weapons) they may become incapacitated or they may take a Grievous Wound, which is a permanent injury with no stat benefits. Grievous Wounds don’t have to result from combat, they can also be given to a character during character creation, but not as a trade-off for an extra bonus.

“But then doesn’t my character just have worse stats than the rest of the party?” Yes, haven’t you been reading this? There is no benefit, except for the opportunity to play a disabled character in an TTRPG. This character will probably have to be more reliant on the rest of the party to get by in various situations. Is that a bad thing?

Monsters Essay

All investigators in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy are regular people. They can also be a monster, like a blood-sucking vampire or a broom-riding witch. Importantly, this works because despite their unique nature, monsters are still regular people. You can read more about this in Chapter 8, but the setting of Eureka does not have a conspiracy or “masquerade” hiding supernatural people from normal society. Though they are still largely unknown to modern science, they exist within normal society - and a lot of them eat people.

The default assumption in RPGs has been that monsters are just evil by nature, doing evil for evil’s sake. RPGs that seek to subvert this expectation often instead make monsters misunderstood and wrongfully persecuted, but harmless. Eureka takes a wholly different approach.

There are five playable types of monsters in the rulebook right now, and it’ll be seven if we hit all the stretch goals, but for simplicity’s sake this discussion of themes will just focus on the vampire. Despite them applying in different ways, the same overall themes apply to nearly every monster, so if you get the themes for the vampire, you’ll get the gist of what Eureka is doing with its playable monsters in general.

Mundane investigators have to keep themselves going by eating food and sleeping (see p.XX “Composure” for more information). Well, vampires can’t operate the same way. They don’t sleep, and normal food might be tasty for them as long as it isn’t too heavily seasoned, but it doesn’t do anything for them nutritionally. Their main way to keep themselves functioning is fresh living human blood, straight from the source. To do what mundane PCs do normally by just eating and sleeping, vampires have to take from another, whether either of them are happy with this arrangement or not. They do not, of course, literally have to, and a player is not forced to make their vampire PC drink blood, just like you reading this in real life don’t literally have to eat food. You do eat food if you want to live in any degree of comfort or happiness, and vampires do drink blood or they eventually become unable to effectively do anything.

This is numerically, mechanically incentivized and not simply a rule that says something like “this character is a vampire and therefore they must drink blood once every session,” to demonstrate that the circumstances a person faces drive their behavior. In America, there is a tendency to think of criminality and harm done to others as resulting from intrinsic evil, but people do not just wake up one day and decide “I think I’ll go down the criminal life path.” Their circumstances have barred them from the opportunities that would have given them other options. 

People need food; food costs money; money requires work; work requires getting hired; but getting hired requires a nearby job opening, an education, an impressive resume, nice clothes, charisma, consistent transportation, and so on. For people without other options, crime becomes the only method left to meet their basic needs. Would you rather take what you need from other people, or go without what you need? There are people who don’t have the luxury of a third option. Failure to meet the needs of even a small number of people in a society has high potential to harm the entire society, not just those individuals whose needs are unmet.

As their basic need for blood becomes more and more difficult to ignore, a vampire is going to encounter much the same dilemma. There is really no “legal” or “harmless” way for them to get their needs met, even if they do have resources. Society just isn’t set up for that. And no, your kink is not the solution to this, trying to suggest every vampire just find willing participants who are turned on by vampires or being bitten is suggesting sex work. It’s one step removed from telling a girl she should just get an OnlyFans the minute she turns 18, or that women should just marry a rich man and be a housewife that gets their needs taken care of in exchange for sex and housekeeping. Being forced into such a dynamic isn’t ethical or harmless for the vampire or for their “clients.”

“Oh well, then the vampire should just eat bad people!” You mean those same bad people we just described above? Who gets to decide which people are “bad people?” Who gets to decide that the punishment is assault or death?

Playable monsters in Eureka are dangerous, harmful people. They were set up to be.

Society not being set up in a way that allows monsters to make ethical choices brings us to the next theme: monstrousness as disability, and monsters as “takers.”

Vampires have to take from others a valuable resource that everyone needs to live, and the extraction of which is excruciatingly painful and debilitating. No one knows what happens to blood after a vampire drinks it, it’s just gone. Vampires are open wounds through which blood pours out of the universe.

This is a special need, something they have to take but cannot give back. Their special needs make them literally a drain on society and the people around them. In the modern world, there is a tendency to feel that people must justify their right to life, that they must pay for the privilege of existing in society. This leads people to consider “takers” (people who take much more than they give back, such as disabled people) as something that needs to be pruned away for the betterment of everyone else. Even many so-called “progressives,” while they claim not to agree with pruning “useless eaters,” still hold the unexamined belief that people must justify their existence. To reconcile these two incompatible ideas, they instead simply deny that disabled people take more resources than most people, and are capable of giving back less. This sentiment is perfectly illustrated by the aforementioned game’s insistence that disabilities are never a net reduction of a character’s stats.

Vampires and other playable monsters are inarguably “takers,” but in positioning them as protagonists right alongside mundane protagonists, Eureka puts you in their shoes, and forces you to acknowledge their inner lives and reckon with their circumstances. You have to acknowledge two things: first, that they are dangerous, that they are harmful, that they take more than they give - and second, that they are people. Because they are people, Eureka asserts that they have inherent value, a right to exist, and a right to do what they need to do to exist. (We also acknowledge that their potential victims have a right to do what they need to do to exist and defend themselves, but that is a separate discussion.)

One final point to touch on is mental illness. Mental illness is a disability, one pretty comparable to physical disability in a lot of ways, so all of the above points can apply to this metaphor as well, but there are a few unique comparisons to make here.

It’s not the most efficient, but there are a couple of loopholes deliberately left in the rules that allow vampires to sometimes sporadically restore Composure (and thus their ability to function) without drinking blood. Eureka! moments and Comfort checks from fellow investigators can restore Composure.

When writing the rules, we came to a dilemma where we weren’t sure if it was thematically appropriate for monsters to be able to regain Composure in these ways (since it could lessen their reliance on causing harm), but ultimately we decided that yes, they can.

People with mental illnesses may have the potential to be harmful and dangerous, but all the information we have access to has shown that mentally ill people with robust support structures and control over their own lives are much less likely to enact harm, whether through physical violence, relational violence, or violence against the self. This is why we kept that rule in for playable monsters. Being able to accomplish their goals, and having friends who are there for them, makes that person less likely to cause unnecessary harm.

Vampires are especially great for demonstrating this because they’re immortal and they always come back when “killed.” They can’t be exterminated, they aren’t going away, there will always be problem people in society, no matter how utopian or “progressive.” Vampires are a never-ending curse, who will always be a problem whether they like it or not. The question is how you will grapple with their inevitable presence in society and how you will treat them, not how you will get rid of them.

Eureka is as much a study of the characters themselves as it is the mystery being solved by the characters. It is a game about harsh realities, but it is ultimately compassionate. It argues through its own gameplay that yes, people do have circumstances which drive their behavior, people do have special needs that are beyond their ability to reciprocate, many of those people do cause harm or inconvenience to others, and all of them are still valuable. 

Elegantly designed and thoroughly playtested, Eureka represents the culmination of three years of near-daily work from our team, as well as a lot of our own money. If you’re just now reading this and learning about Eureka for the first time, you missed the crowdfunding window unfortunately, but you can still check out the public beta on itch.io to learn more about what Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy actually is, as that is where we have all the fancy art assets, the animated trailer, links to video reviews by podcasts and youtubers, etc.!

You can also follow updates on our Kickstarter page where we post regular updates on the status of our progress finishing the game and getting it ready for final release.

Beta Copies through the Patreon

If you want more, you can download regularly updated playable beta versions of Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy earlier, plus extra content such as adventure modules by subscribing to our Patreon at the $5 tier or higher. Subscribing to our patreon also grants you access to our patreon discord server where you can talk to us directly and offer valuable feedback on our progress and projects.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club

If you would like to meet the A.N.I.M. team and even have a chance to play Eureka with us, you can join the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club discord server. It’s also just a great place to talk and discuss TTRPGs, so there is no schedule obligation, but the main purpose of it is to nominate, vote on, then read, discuss, and play different indie TTRPGs. We put playgroups together based on scheduling compatibility, so it’s all extremely flexible. This is a free discord server, separate from our patreon exclusive one. https://discord.gg/7jdP8FBPes

Other Stuff

We also have a ko-fi and merchandise if you just wanna give us more money for any reason.

We hope to see you there, and that you will help our dreams come true and launch our careers as indie TTRPG developers with a bang by getting us to our base goal and blowing those stretch goals out of the water, and fight back against WotC's monopoly on the entire hobby. Wish us luck.

[read-marx-and-lenin]

Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve been attempting to unlearn what I’ve been taught about the DPRK from western outlets, but I’ve gotten stuck on a facet that you can, perhaps, speak to. As is often harped on here in the west, there seems to be a dynastic quality to the leadership, namely the Kim family. Now the fixation that the people have on their leaders I can understand, we can observe the same kind of obsessive fervor in many countries in the west (especially the US). I guess I don’t fully understand the political structure of the DPRK, nor the people’s relations to it. I apologize for the vagueness of this question, and thank you very much for your time.

It is understandable that most people will have no idea about the political structure of the DPRK, and the title of "Supreme Leader" can be confusing if you don't understand how the DPRK's government works.

The political structure of the DPRK is based around democratic centralism, similar to the USSR. Kim Jong-un was elected to the positions of general secretary of the Worker's Party of Korea and president of the State Affairs Commission, which grants him the honorific title of "Supreme Leader" and makes him the representative of the state. However, he is not the head of government. That would be the premier, Kim Tok-hun (unrelated to Kim Jong-un, Kim is simply a very common surname in Korea.) Kim Tok-hun also serves as the vice president of the State Affairs Commission.

The highest organ of the DPRK, meanwhile, is the Supreme People's Assembly, which is a multi-party legislature that votes on laws and constitutional amendments and is responsible for electing both the Premier and the President of State Affairs, among other positions. While there are multiple political parties in the DPRK, the Worker's Party holds a privileged position under the constitution. So while the position of General Secretary does not confer any formal governmental powers, it is still a powerful political position in the country.

The Premier is the head of the Cabinet, which is the administrative and executive body of the DPRK. While the SPA creates laws, amends the constitution, and decides the budget, the Cabinet administers the implementation of them.

The SAC directs the orientation of state policy in the DPRK. While they do not write laws directly, they can issue directives to guide the SPA in determining which laws to write. However, the SAC is ultimately accountable to the SPA and not above it. The SPA is responsible for electing the SAC in the first place and has the authority to recall its members. So while the SAC is not directly elected by the people, it does not hold greater power than the SPA whose members are directly elected.

Members of the SPA are elected by all citizens 17 and older alongside members of local assemblies (compare governors vs senators in the US.) Elections are conducted via secret ballot. Anyone has the right to run for election regardless of party affiliation, which is why there are multiple parties represented in the SPA as well as independent members.

You can read more about the DPRK governmental structure in the DPRK constitution here:

[lesfir]

Astarion and Vampire Supremacy.

In general and in romance.

In DnD, vampires are huge supremacists. They consider themselves superior to any undead and certainly superior to mortals. All mortals are cattle to vampires.

In Baldur's Gate 3, this trait is also present in vampire culture.

In Astarion there seems to be almost no such things… Or they are not emphasised - as I think they are.

In my opinion we should have explored his different traits.

Vampire Supremacy is one of them.

Astarion was an Upper City noble and the chances that he wasn't arrogant towards the "lower classes" are very low. Zero for me.

So he was already familiar with supremacism very well.

Add to that the loss of his status and the hierarchy of the coven in which he became a slave.

That's something.

We barely have conversations with Astarion about vampire culture: what does it mean to be in "vampire coven"? How vampires relate to the mortal world? And what does he like about the vampire world?

It's more shadowy moments.

Here I found a few.

Part 1. Details in the story.

EA 9 patch, Act 1 - the grove, after killing Nettie.

It's one of those cut out scenes with little companion comments and reduced to a one line or remade. Shadowheart had it too :<

Now:

Act 2 - after killing the strange ox.

Act 3 - Astarion as Lord says his stuff :D

This word: "spook" cattle/sheep...

It's same edge of his character.

In Act 1, you'd think he thinks all "weak" people are sheep. That's true, too. Nettie has lost, she's dead and she's a sheep, but somewhere around here in the grove there will be a hunter for him and Tav - they have to go.

In Act 3, the path of evil, Astarion demonstrates this line deeper and more vividly.

In Act 2, it still sounds like something funny, comical. Yes, yes chickens, oxen and people.

But these are food animals - and that's not such a joke to Astarion.

To put it in perspective in Act 1 all his companions is a snack.

He discusses with Tav what they would taste like. Here's the synopsis for that scene:

Synopsis: Astarion is staring at the other companions around the campfire. He's friendly and affable, but his mind is on his hunger. He starts to wonder what the others taste like, although he's MOSTLY joking. In the end he decides to remove himself, before the conversation gets too real.

Mostly a joke that could become something serious.

Vampiric arrogance, predatory nature.

Vampires are clever hunters - their arrogance towards mortals comes in many forms, from food to merry carnage to lust. Basically, they use whatever gives them profit and pleasure.

He might not eat Laezel, but watching Lae and Shadowheart fight is entertainment for him.

Looks fun, but the nature of it is dark.

It can be taken ironically, but he really enjoys watching brutal fighting and generally killing.

It's a trait. Deserves its own post.

WYR_SmugglersCave_PAD_Suggestions

He do hope.

It's also relevant to mortals. Corrupt people with power are as parasitic creatures as vampires. Instead of blood, it's gold, work, and entertainment in an wicked way that damages people.

In this I notice the metaphorical nature of vampirism in Astarion's character.

As an example of corruption I recall Astarion's little remark when we kill the two ogre-lovers of the barn.

The insignificance (who cares about two ogres) and again the comicality of the situation, the way Astarion smiles as he opens the barn is legendary. Kind of hides it a little bit and takes it away from the thought…

Somewhere in Baldur's Gate someone is paying gold to watch fights, and it's unlikely these fights have civilized rules. And it's doubtful that such a entertainment would only apply to ogres.

The fighting pits at Baldur's Gate.

Who knows if Astarion was interested in that when he was mortal. I headcanon that he was. He was extremely corrupted and it's deep in his personality.

Here is this telling facet, Astarion's interest in such brutal things, which are as much in the shadows as gremlin remarks, yet there is exactly "evil" in this one.

This part of that aspect:

The arrogance of the Noble and the Vampire.

More points about treating people like cattle.

There is a moment in Act 2 - and I have absolutely no idea where it is.

SHA_Mausoleum_PAD_MakeshiftVessel

Players find a vessel with a half-formed humanoid shape gestating inside and reacts accordingly. The being is just inert flesh and cannot speak.

How to trigger:

Interact with S_SHA_Mausoleum_MakeshiftVessel.

Where is that thing? I can't find.

In good companions, this is a cause for concern. In general the place where they found it contributes to very unpleasant thoughts.

A mausoleum in the shadow lands of Sharr, where a necromancer and the chosen of Myrkul struts around.

Well, Astarion too, as you can see... finds a downside.

Hunting people is fun and keeps you in the spirit.

It's a good idea to check all the phrases in Astarion's Original throughout the acts. Maybe there's more.

I watched the epilogue of Lord Astarion Original and in a conversation with Minthara (hah, who else?)

And it's wild. It's literally all about the people.

:D

We have a few to choose from for rpg's.

And given the line about sports… I really don't think Astarion will be buying "food" very often.

Or that pale arse is lazy after all and his hunt is a park in the city. And when he should be setting up his power web in the city, he's too busy for hunting.

Can you imagine him wanting to hunt and get some air, but he's got some lordish business in the halls until late in the evening.

Part 2. In Romamce.

This part departs from such direct things as blood and the predator's attitude towards people.

It becomes more sensual.

I would say this trait of supremacism is slightly visible, but not over people, over mortality in a greater sense, when Astarion turns Tav:

he emphasises the strength, sharpness. Better.

The morning after the turn.

He has a point. The last time he was mortal, he was killed.

Astarion as Lord does the same with God Gale Original mentioning immortality as - strength, lack of illness and youthfulness.

love this one

His vampiric arrogance over Tav perhaps visible only in the first act. He didn't really care. Tav became his fun, his lust, and his way to survive.

Then Tav is the first person to care about him in dozens and dozens of years of slavery.

"Blood bags" and such are a bit of dark humour, so it might have been true in another life, but he and Tav are far from it, they're the first person he's cared for in decades of loneliness.

His perception of mortality as something that makes a person more vulnerable is his trigger (among others) for turning Tav into a his kind.

But since he's not in such a hurry in the end of mortal Tav, I'm guessing: it's his euphoric state after the ritual, where his spire for the castle of vampire happiness is to be with Tav forever. He chillin' about it, afterward.

Tav's immortality is a nice thing he'd like, but okay it can wait.

So.

Tav... they're special. The two of them are special. Astarion elevates Tav and himself above the others. We are Better.

Camp. Vampire ambush.

When the camp is ambushed by spawns.

If Tav proposes the idea that the world is actually a wonderful place that can accept him - he argues with them.

But approves of all three different reactions.

Also then Astarion says the word "forever" in regards to their relationship, to Tav.

This "forever" part is deep in Astarion.

According to the artbook (The artbook is EA era, which is still sold with the game though, and the story doesn't contradict anything) So according to the artbook Astarion was obsessed with eternal life, forever youth, forever being.

It extends to his feelings - it's needed forever. It's very sensual, but also very greedy and… painfully understandable - it's such a simple feeling to make something nice continue for as long as possible.

If Tav is on the same page as Astarion and tends towards the "only loved ones matter, we're special" mindset.

You'd think it was his trick-manipulation to perform a ritual, praise Tav for supporting his idea of supremacism and get what he so reasonably needs.

He's certainly glad that Tav has similar ideas to him, and he'll definitely support that.

It doesn't depend on his goals still - his "we are better" is very direct and deep in his personality.

Italicized.

Here we are. That's one of the key thoughts in his character. That's the focus.

This trait is further seen in Astarion as Lord - he says "We", "Ours".

The man even says it in Latin. Aeterna amantes.

New in patch 7, takeover of the Absolute:

This part is already moving away from vampirism.

This one is very layered.

We are because he finally found someone he can trust.

We are because we are parts fated to complete each other.

We are because he's not alone in the world anymore.

Along with vampirism, his Noble Lord status plays a role here again.

We are the mighty, above and we rule.

It's an easy and very simple fit to vampirism - we are better and we are forever.

He's also incredibly proud of himself, that he can give something to Tav, can protect them. He's been under Tav's protection the whole journey. Undead outcaster in Faerun, they regard mortals as cattle, and mortals regard them as monsters. That's why there are monster hunters. Vampire spawn he was allowed to stay in the group and he was dependent, he couldn't be a leader. In the romance he felt he had nothing to give, he was getting Tav into trouble with a powerful true vampire. He was counting the seconds until they finally decided to leave him…

In the romance, vampirism plays into the fact that Astarion is very much immersed in thoughts of eternity together.

This emotionally intense and fragile moment: "I don't want to lose anything", comes from the very moment he lost: his status, the sun, his life. Not gonna happen again.

Vampirism in the romance have fun one too:

-- wealth - these two literally wear the most expensive clothes on the Sword Coast.

-- shared powers - he is going to be in charge

-- fights and challenge is for Tav- warrior, Astarion likes to spill some blood

-- pleasure - of various kinds, from bed to blood.

The end result is an amalgamation of his:

-- his personality with, well, a pretty intense dark triad.

I would say character image instead of personality. Because the personality is itself. But the character will always submit to the idea - recall that his core is a balance of evil and fun. And evil in DnD is egoism, immorality, narcissism, harming others for fun and personal goals and all that.

These dark parts in irl personality can spoil the balance. That's why psychology is for people.

Not for characters who will eventually never go against their core. (even if all psychology reference books say otherwise).

-- vampirism - the desire for blood and a predatory attitude

-- desire for status and power as noble

-- force as magic

-- forever

-- and share it all with love

A little bonus at the end.

Animation 3 patch. Subtle process.

This scene is much improved in colours in patch 7. But I still like the original faces. He looks so much like a fox >:3

[himejoshiangels]

Duke Thomas fic rec list

I've scowered every tag relating to him, combed thru the 'duke centric tag' at least 8 times, this is what ive come back with, at least my personal faves

necessary reminders - duke pov, outsider pov, and some social media following duke as he gets used to his day job as a vigilante. flows really well, has a good balance of sad and happy, and gets dukes character rlly well

that which you cannot bear - THIS FIC WILL BREAK YYOU duke is kidnapped and its only down from there!! this is like, one of the first duke fics I read and it's still labeled as such in my mind. its well based, sooo cohesive plot wise, and stays completely in character w all its characters, especially duke, while exploring such an interesting facet of him > his tendency to self-isolate, insistence on being independent, and his stubbornness. sooo much good angst just incredible stuff while also staying hopeful and grounded. ALSO duke is an intelligent badass throughout the fic which is an important detail 2 me

signal, n. a divine act - same author as the last one, absolutely insane concepts are explored and its just so well written srsly it's like poetry. digs into some of dukes ideologies so well. if u like holy imagery??? kind of but not rlly?? ig you'll love this

this whole series is just so fucking incredible but something about my bodies made of crushed little stars I don't fucking know it messed w my brain chemistry, I've recced it b 4 bcs it made me cry but read the whole series, it's all duke centric and just so good. Saki writes bruce and duke in a way that fizzes u up w emotion and focuses on such unique facets of dukes character/dynamics and sleep well my little sunshine is soo cute and fun and soft >when earth finds the stars - bonus presignal duke and jason fic, balances being incredibly fun with a realistic zoom in on duke before we are robin. he's quippy and witty and always at the edge of his rope

not mutually exclusive - tired of bruce being kinda shoved into the role of dukes capital F father when that's not quite what their dynamic is? Then this is the fic for you!! Just good duke and Bruce interactions overall, it's sad and hilarious with just incredible dialogue and peak Bruce and Duke interactions

signals and symptoms - a classic sickfic and like one of my fave bruce bonding fic ever ever EVERRR!! really introspective abt dukes character and just so well done

even exchanges - some of u are gonna hate me for reccing an incomplete fic and esp one that doesn't look like it's gonna be finished anytime soon but even exchanges is so formative to my duke characterizationalong with portraying such a fascinating dynamic w him and his new family. it delves into his messy and angsty experiences pre-becoming the signal and is overall written like several subsequent punches to the stomach. promise ur gonna bitch and moan about this fic as much as I do

scientific method - extremely cute fic, watch Duke bond w the bats and slowly get more comfortable with them over time as they all tru to figure out what the fuck this guys powers are. Really fun dynamic wise, the dialogue is crafty and captures the familiarity between the characters. Really realistic about day to day vigilante life and how genius the bats truly are. really slice of life fluffy shit w some bonus sciencey stuff

turn my voice human torch remind people what I’m fantastic for - truly a classic, Duke invites cass to slam poetry night. short n sweet I LOVE BUMBLEBATS RAHHHHHH

tradition - pure duke n bruce ice cream fluff

meal prep - real sad angst one shot ft. alfred

occupational health and safety violations - duke pov reverse robins but it's way out of order

write about flowers (at a time like this) - duke and dick fic where they meet pre we are robin. yes I just found this one yesterday yes I'm absolutely obsessed. it characterizes him so well and understands his thought process and motives and UGHH just tune in yall

sidequest: the viper pit - WE ARE ROBIN DND JUMANJI

signals of fear and hope - duke centric reverse robins, caters TTOME specifically it's so fire

and now here are fics that arent duke centric but he's in it and in character/well written and now forced into the back of the room aka some of my general faves that feature duke

gotham aviary - the batman fic where he just adopts a bunch of em truly adorable like the cutest thing you'll read

I walk the streets at night (with monsters in my mind) - dragon fic, absolutely goated 10/10

fight, flight - cass centric but duke plays a big role, they mean everything to me

[heavycreamy]

Hey Matt Gazy

This post is for Australian Journalist Matt Gazy.

Apparently you've been contacting members of our feedism/erotic weight gain community in order to discuss our very multifaceted, heavily misrepresented lifestyle.

As someone who has been in this community for 3 decades, has seen most if not all of its forms, understands the ethical connections between Feedism and Fat Liberation, and deeply cares about how folks in our community are represented to the general vanilla public, I hope that you are entering into this project/article/episode with the necessary due respect, empathy, intelligence, and kindness that you would bring to ANY oft-misunderstood and ridiculed subculture.

No one needs another sensationalist piece of journalism wilfully and lazily misrepresentating our community, sexuality, and lifestyle, which only EVER serves to further stigmatise and shame us.

We have been taken advantage of on many occasions, cast as freaks and pathetic fools with mental problems, so neither we nor the general public need more of that.

EVERY time a piece about feedism appears in the public eye, our community experiences a massive wave of trolls and judgemental, deeply fatphobic tourists coming into our online spaces and abusing us.

Please don't debase us nor yourself by making a surface level hit-piece on our community, whether intentionally or unintentionally, due to a lack of thorough research and basic respect for perspectives and life experiences outside the norm.

Feedism is INFINITELY more than simply heteronormative power play. That corner of the community represents less than 10% of what actual contemporary Feedism culture is, and ironically harbours 90% of the toxicity present in the entire culture.

Feedism is so much more than heteronormative, coercive power play. It is extremely queer, extremely feminist, extremely sensual and emotional, and is a major facet of many people's lives and psychologies.

While it may seem like simply a niche genre of porn to the casual tourist, Feedism exists outside of porn. It exists outside of kink. It exists outside of fetish. It can and should be considered an orientation, rather than simply a freaky outlier bedroom interest worthy only of reactive disgust.

Please don't be yet another unscrupulous journalist exploiting our incredibly vulnerable community for shock bait bullshit.

If you're going to try to represent us, do it comprehensively, and do it PROPERLY.

Truly speak to us. Do the work. Don't just find an extremely popular female model and falsely imagine that her experience is a stand in for ALL Feedist experiences.

If you truly want to represent Feedism, you NEED to represent it as the complex, multifaceted diaspora that it is, full of people of all kinds, all cultures, and ALL SIZES.

Should you be committed to pursuing this topic, I can offer links and connections to extremely well informed writers, thinkers, professors, and others within this community who are doing INCREDIBLE work on understanding, exploring, and expressing the deeper truths of this desire and lifestyle. There are people doing the work. You need to do it too.

We're humans. Treat us with respect, dignity, and kind curiosity.

Be better than every journalist who has come before you.

Thank you.

ps. Dear feedist pals, if you feel that what I've said here resonates with you, and mirrors your feelings at all, please feel free to reblog the shit out of this in the hopes that more visibility may help it reach its intended audience. Thanks gang ♥️🍰🍕

[nikethestatue]

What annoys me the most (among many other things) about this characterization of Elain as being just a flower-grower, a 'brain dead gardener' (courtesy of lovely GAs) and the girl who knows how to throw a party (which she can do with Lucien and for Lucien), is that after Feyre, it's actually Elain who's probably had the most multi-faceted life among all the characters.

And I am not talking about trauma, of which she obviously has had PLENTY.

No, I am talking about the general course of her life. Only Feyre has gone through more upheavals than Elain. But what about Nesta?!?! Nope. Not Nesta.

Elain was born into extreme wealth, and lived in it long enough to enjoy it and remember it (unlike Feyre, for example, who was too young). She witnessed her mother's illness and subsequent death and then watched how the wealth dwindled and how their father was maimed. She watched the family's descent into abject poverty. She lived in it for years. And then suddenly, she was wealthy again! But unlike Nesta, for example, Elain had more foresight into the future. Instead of just sitting and running their estate, Elain threw herself into social interactions, balls and courting. Well, that's because she is a vain and stupid, some would say. Is it? Or was it because Elain, to whom no one paid much attention, actually understood the fragility of her and Nesta's situation, and the threat of war. Her father understood it, and so did she. And what did she do?--she chose the strongest, most powerful human family in her vicinity and she became engaged to their son. The family that grew a grove of Ash trees, had an army and dogs and high walls. Under the circumstances, it was the most optimal match she could make.

She then gets kidnapped, she is Made, she is mated and she is given a wild gift/power all in the span of an hour. Let's not forget that she is thrown into the Cauldron FIRST.

Other than Feyre battling Amarantha, dying and being resurrected, no one's gone through what Elain's gone through. But Nesta!?! Nesta' wasn't mated upon emerging from the Cauldron. Nesta' wasn't given a mind-bending power. And Nesta wasn't the first to be tossed into the Cauldron. No, that was all Elain.

And then...the damn Cauldron itself becomes obsessed with her!! And literally steals her for itself, because for whatever reason, it finds her so desirable. The most powerful thing in Prythian's universe finds Elain so lovely, it purrs in her presence!! (wtf, right?)

Meanwhile, the brain-dead gardener gets violently and publicly rejected by her fiance, then gets kidnapped and brought to the tent of the King himself, where she calmly sits next to the Cauldron for hours upon hours, while others couldn't bear to be in its vicinity for more than a few moments.

Let's not forget that there is yet ANOTHER person who becomes obsessed with her, and that's the Shadowsinger of the Night Court, who is giving up his siphons and diving head first into he Hybern camp just to rescue her, risking life, limb and wing, in exchange for a chase cheek smooch.

Same obsessed shadowsinger' then offers her his most prized weapon--because who needs to defend themselves in battle anyway?--and while everyone is running around doing something, Elain is killing the King, saving Nesta and the General of the Night Court armies.

And then at the end of it all, she is so chill, she just says 'I want more gardens!'

In what world is Elain only good for planning parties? In what world is Elain the same as she was even three years ago, let alone 5 years ago? Elain's lived 14 lives already, and she is 25.

Is Elain's life really just about throwing parties as Lucien's mate or growing flowers that don't need growing as (apparently) Tamlin's mate?

This girl's gone from everything, to nothing, to less than nothing, to something, to a Seer and Kingslayer, to an object of everyone's obsession, to a Dead Trove discoverer volunteer, to Azriel's love interest, casually killing off his Mor fixation without lifting a finger.

It truly is baffling how people cannot or refuse to see what she's been through and her potential. Truly a case of not seeing the forest among the trees.

Her story is one of the most interesting stories out there, and it's not because she is someone's daughter, long-lost heir, or wife, or lover. She is interesting and amazing all on her own.

[art-of-the-sea]

Cookie Run: Facets of Knowledge AU

[pt: Cookie Run: Facets of Knowledge AU]

" The Virtue of Knowledge holds two sides to it; Truth and Deceit. Only together can they truly understand its depths. "

Not so much a complete AU as a likely canon divergence, this 'verse is set after Dark Enchantress's defeat. Her attempt to free the Beasts from their eternal prison by creating new bodies for them ended catastrophically. The only way to keep them all at bay was to seal them within the Soul Jams carried by each of the Ancients, as well as within their own bodies. This came with its benefits and drawbacks- after all, the threat has been tamed for as long as the Ancients remain uncorrupted. Not only that, but the reuniting of the Soul Jams' other halves magnified the Ancients' power beyond imagining- as its main holders, it's all in their control now, out of reach of the Beasts.

The complications, of course, come with the continued presence of the Beasts within the Ancients. They may not have any powers, no, but they can certainly be heard by the Ancients they've been sealed within - even seen as a projection of the Soul Jam's magic. Pure Vanilla Cookie knows he's in no danger from Shadow Milk Cookie as long as he doesn't mentally give in to his lies. However, that doesn't stop the comments, the perspectives, or the presence he brings. Sealed together, they have to learn to understand each other deeper than either expected, and slowly, each begin to open their eyes to the other's views and experiences.

More details & doodles below the cut! ⤵️

- Shadow Milk Cookie can project himself outwardly into the world using the Light of Truth, but in almost all cases, the only one that can see, hear, or feel him is Pure Vanilla Cookie. This leads to quite a few reactions to seemingly "nothing" from the outside, which took a long while for the other cookies around him to get used to.

- Shadow Milk gets bored very often due to not having a physical body or the ability to interact with most cookies, so he often resorts to pestering Pure Vanilla in one way or another. PV found that ignoring him only makes it worse, so he'll often engage in giving hypothetical answers to SM's ridiculous lines of questioning. This tends to result in either an absurdly niche philosophy discussion or a yes-and fantasy lasting on-and-off for days.

- Distrust is rampant between the two, of course, which is beneficial for neither of them. Pure Vanilla is convinced Shadow Milk wants nothing but to control Earthbread once more, and SM thinks PV wants nothing more than to lock him away somewhere dark and eternal. Both are partially right, but they are forced to learn the depths of the others' perspective and understand how their defining traits are reflections of each other, stemming from the same place.

- Because of this, they slowly begin to understand each other. To trust each other. To let down the walls, because really... Who else would ever be able to comprehend them like the other?

- Pure Vanilla still refuses to trust him enough to let Shadow Milk take control of the body, though. After all, control of the body would hypothetically mean control of the Soul Jam, and he can't let himself risk the fate of Earthbread once more. Sure doesn't stop SM from pestering, begging, bargaining, and more to try!

- Arguments are surprisingly rare, because if both of them get too deep into their heated debate, they get uncomfortably close to the reality of how similar they are to each other; this tends to make them back off.

- Both of them also feel this discomfort when the other is genuinely feeling mentally unwell, as viewing the other's complexity reflects on their own they wish to conceal. This can result in an awkward attempt to cheer the other up or help the situation, if nothing else to simply remove the shared disconcertion.

(If anybody's honestly interested in learning details for this AU, send in an ask! I might even draw doodles for the replies. this au is also where this sorta popular doodle comes from)

Bonus:

me too gingerbrave

[queenshelby]

Daughter Dearest (Part One)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (47) x Step! Daughter (21)

Warning: Infidelity, Smut, Dysfunctional Family

Home. The word itself tasted like mothballs and childhood memories, both bitter and sweet on your tongue. 

What others would call home, did not feel like home to you at all, not after your mother had destroyed everything that you were familiar with just when you had turned fifteen.

It was then that she had begun an affair with an actor named Cillian Murphy, whom she had met on the set of a movie he was filming and, just as if she had planned it all, she became pregnant with your stepsister Sadie. 

Your mother was 37 at the time, with Cillian having been five years her senior. 

It was all over the papers at the time and, just as you thought that things could not get any worse, she left your father, who was heartbroken and bewildered, and moved in with this then stranger to you.

You and your twin sister, Cliona, were expected to just follow suit, like little lost puppies and whilst Cillian himself seemed like a nice man, it was not something that you were able to do that easily. You had always been strong willed and gave your mother quite the run for her money with your rebellious nature which, in part, was the reason why she had pushed you to go away to live your father in New York.

New York was where you had finished school and, as soon as you turned eighteen, you made your way on a journey around the world. 

You travelled to New Zealand, Africa and then South Amerika too.  There were times when your money ran out but you always managed to get by, taking on odd jobs here and there, just so that you could survive.

It was during your time in Tanzania, when you met a woman, in her forties, who worked in an orphanage with you, and it was her who introduced you to photography. She told you that the camera was woman's truth and that with it, you had the power to tell stories.

She handed you her canvas camera and you began to snap away, discovering facets of Tanzania, its people and its wildlife in ways that words alone could not articulate.

The experience had left an indelible impression on you and from that day onwards, you knew that photography would be the lens through which you viewed the world and translated your experiences.

Your wanderlust had taken you on a three year journey, one that had seen you capture the beauty of the world through photographs. You had even managed to sell some of them to a hip magazine, which showcased your work alongside a spread of your adventures.

The pay was decent, just enough to keep you going and still let you see the world.

College had been an option, but not one you wanted to seriously consider. You had never been one to follow the rules and conventions that came with higher education, and the thought of being stuck in a classroom for four more years seemed unbearably tedious.

But then, after an amazing three years, your travel journey came to an abrupt end when you got into trouble with the law while passing through the UK, on your way back to New York. 

At London Heathrow,  just after taking a flight from Rome, you were stopped by customs for questioning regarding a package that they found in your luggage. It was a small box that just fit snugly within the zippered pocket in your backpack.

Inside the box there were as an illicit substance and it was this substance that got you arrested. 

You were questioned for hours, leaving you dazed, frightened and confused about how the drugs had even gotten into your bag and, after a series of panicked phone calls to your family, your mother agreed to bail you out.

Days later, in court, you were given a short sentence, including a travel ban for three months and house arrest for one.

"I much rather go to jail than live with my mother for four weeks," you thought to yourself, but the sentence had been handed out and, before you knew it, you were taken to where you had once lived, in the outskirts of London. 

Time seemed to slow down the moment you crossed the threshold of that Victorian house, so familiar in every fine detail that it seemed to shrink around you.

The police officer who accompanied you rang the doorbell on your behalf and, after a few moments, your sister Cliona  , whom you hadn't even spoken to in a year, opened the heavy oak door.

Her dark eyes, much like yours, narrowed at the sight of you, before dissolving into a cold, expressionless mask.

"Hi, Cliona," you greeted her, but it was clear that she wasn't interested in talking.

Her thin lips barely moved as she spoke. "Mum isn't home, but come on in," she simply said to the officer rather than you. 

Cliona's dismissive attitude was nothing new to you, but it still hurt.

You had once been close, like two peas in a pod, but she had changed somewhere along the way. Growing up, you had always been the rebel, the one who pushed boundaries and questioned authority, while she was the obedient one, always trying to please your mother.

Over the years, that gap had only widened, until it seemed like you were living on opposite ends of a vast, unbridgeable chasm.

With a resigned sigh, you stepped into the hallway which is when you saw him, for the first time in 18 months.  It was Cillian, emerging from one of the rooms at the far end of the hallway, with your little half sister Sadie clinging to his side, her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his fingers.

As soon as Sadie saw you, she ran towards you , squealing with excitement, and you couldn't help but smile at the sincerity in her voice as she called out your name.

"Y/N! Y/N!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around your waist. Her laughter echoed through the expansive hallway as you stooped down to pick her up, your heart feeling warmer and softer than it had in months.

You had always kept in touch with her, and even visited her on numerous occasions, putting up with your mother for short periods of times for Sadie's sake, mostly while Cillian had been away filming.

He was a busy man and your interactions with him to date were limited.  Cillian took a step towards you, his warm smile radiating kindness.

"Welcome home, I suppose," he said with a slight chuckle, his rich voice resonating through the room. You couldn't help but blush as he looked directly into your eyes, the corners of his eyes crinkling in genuine delight at seeing you. It was a small but friendly gesture that made you feel a little better about this somewhat unfortunate situation. 

"Thanks," you mumbled, not quite sure what to say in response. You had imagined seeing him again, but there was something utterly different about him now, something that you had not noticed when you saw him last, about eighteen months ago, at your aunt's wedding. 

He had grown a little older, his hair was peppered with more silver strands, giving him an air of maturity, though his eyes seemed the same vibrant shade of blue that they had been before, sparkling with intelligence and a hint of mischief.

While you were spending some time with your little stepsister, the police officer pulled out some paperwork and what looked like an ankle monitor , informing you that this would now be a part of your daily life since it was ordered by the court for the next one month.

You couldn't help but wince at the sight of the device. It felt like an electronic handcuff latched on, but you didn't complain, knowing that it could have been much worse.

"So, I guess it's a house arrest for you now," Cliona said with a roll of her eyes, "good luck with that." 

"It's only for thirty days," the officer  interjected, clearly trying to soften the blow of the situation, "and if you follow the rules and stay out of trouble, you'll be free to go where you want after that, at least within the UK."

You couldn't help but feel a wry smile creeping up on your face, thinking about all the things you would be able to do once this house arrest was lifted.

But for now, you had to follow the rules and make the best of a less than ideal situation.

"Mr Murphy, are you happy to sign for this?"  the officer asked Cillian, handing him the paperwork related to your bail conditions. Cillian looked down at the documents, his brow furrowing slightly as he read over the terms. 

"Sure," he then said, signing his name with a flourish before looking at the monitor with disdain while the officer turned it on, causing it to light up around your ankle.

"What a strange contraption," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he handed it back to the officer who was quick to leave shortly after that.

"I should probably find my room and get unpacked before mum gets home. I know how much she hates mess," you said as soon as the officer drove off and Cillian nodded  in agreement.

"Of course, you can use your old room, it hasn't changed much," he said before picking up your large backpack and guiding you upstairs.

"You know I could have carried this, right?" you  remarked to Cillian as you watched him struggle with your backpack, his face turning slightly red with the strain.

He chuckled good-naturedly. "I know, but it's no trouble, really," he said as he adjusted the weight of the bag on his shoulder.

You nodded silently, following him as he took you to your old room, which was still located at the far end of the hallway, as it had been before.

He opened the door for you, stepping aside so you could enter first.

As you stepped over the threshold, your senses were immediately bombarded by a whirlwind of emotions – nostalgia, bitterness, and a strange undercurrent of longing.

You had spent countless nights in that room, sitting by the window, watching the stars through the cold glass, dreaming of the day when you could escape the confines of that house after finding out that your mother wanted a divorce. But then again. you were older now and none of this mattered anymore. Now, it was somewhere to sleep for the next thirty days, and, after that, you knew that you would be evaluating your options.  You left your camera bag by the door but the moment you turned around you caught Cillian's gaze, and you could have sworn that there was something tender hidden deep within the blue recesses of his eyes, like a secret too precious to be shared with the world.

"I'm glad to see that it's still the same," you muttered to yourself, as you placed your other smaller bag onto the bed. 

Cillian chuckled lightly, reminding you that he was still standing there, a few feet behind you.

"I'll let you get settled in now," he said with a warm smile. "Dinner is at seven, if you want to join us. Your mother should be home by six," Cillian added, before walking out of the room, leaving you to your own devices.

"Thank you Cillian," you called after him, letting the moment linger for a second, as a chance to catch your breathe and let your thoughts reel.

The air in the room felt heavy, the scent of old books and dust hung thick against it, like an unwelcome fog. The room was exactly how you remembered it, every piece of furniture, every painting on the walls. It was like going back in time.

"Fuck," you  muttered under your breath, as you pulled back the window curtains, revealing the oak tree that stood tall and strong outside. The view had not changed one bit and this realization was as oddly comforting as it was heartbreaking.

You ran your hand over the windowsill, recalling how you used to sit there for hours on end just watching the world go by in this quaint little town on the outskirts of London. It triggered memories of when you had first noticed your mother changing, and her new job on the set of Peaky Blinders getting the better of her. 

She was one of the production managers, young and enthusiastic, and of course, this is where she met Cillian.

It all went downhill from there, and as they got more and more involved, her behavior changed. 

But you never thought to blame him for the failure of your parents' marriage. Their marriage was doomed for years before and yet, the way she put an end to it, by starting an affair with another man, was what really irked you.

Pushing aside these thoughts of the past, you forced yourself to focus on the present and this presence included staying here, with your part of your broken family, for the next thirty days and you knew that this was going to be tough. 

And tough it was when, over dinner later that day, your mother criticized your life choices.

"You know that none of this would have happened if you had decided to live a normal life," she charged at you between bites of roast chicken and boiled potatoes. "Finishing college, finding a real job, staying out of trouble...," she continued on, and her voice was sharp and condescending.

How many times had you heard her repeat the same things, trying to mold you in her image, trying to give you the role that she had always wanted for herself? You swallowed hard, keeping your composure even as the anger boiled inside you.

"Photography is not a career. It's an art and art doesn't pay the bills," your mother added with disdain. 

"Well, art sure pays your bills, because you did not work for years and still have a roof over your head because your husband clearly earns enough money acting," you replied calmly, taking a sip of your water. You glanced at Cillian, who was sitting quietly, seemingly lost in thought. Sadie, however, was busy coloring with crayons, oblivious to the tension around her.

"That's different," your mother retorted, frowning at you. "Cillian is smart about his work while you, on the other hand, are reckless," she continued on, causing Cillian to sigh heavily. 

 "Marion, enough," he simply said, shaking his head probably taking pity in you and your current situation. "Can't we just enjoy our meal together as a family?" he then asked, and your mother huffed but said nothing more.

The rest of the meal passed in silence, with only Sadie occasionally breaking the awkward atmosphere with her chatter.

After dinner, you offered to help Cillian with the dishes, stacking the rinsed off plates 

by the sink while he loaded them into the dishwasher. As he worked, you couldn't help but notice the way his sleeves were rolled up his arms and his hands moved with ease, his fingers deftly maneuvering the utensils as he placed them in their designated spots in the dishwasher.  He had incredible hands, almost perfect, and whilst this was a small thing, it was also oddly intimate, and you felt the heat creeping up to your cheeks as you watched him.

You shook your head slightly, mentally chastising yourself for reacting in such a way.

Cillian was your stepfather, nothing more, and yet there was no denying the way your heart skipped a beat when his hand brushed against yours as you both reached for the same dish.

He smiled at you as he caught you looking, and your face flushed with heat.

"Thanks for helping me with these," Cillian then said as he closed the dishwasher with a soft click. He wiped his hands on a nearby towel and turned to face you, his eyes finding yours. "And, you know, I'm sorry about the whole house arrest thing. If there's anything I can do to make it easier for you, just let me know."

His words caught you off guard. It had been a long time since anyone had extended their help to you without expecting something in return. You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Thank you," you finally managed to say. "But it's fine," you nodded. "Thank you for letting me stay here,"  you added astutely, trying to put a positive spin on the situation.

Cillian gave a slight smile, "Of course," he then said before

turning to walk back towards the living room. "I better go keep your mother company," he said, pausing for a moment before adding, "And, I meant what I just said about the house arrest, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask me."

Left alone in the kitchen, you couldn't help but replay that moment over and over again in your mind. You tried to shake it off as just a kind gesture and not something more, but something about the way he looked at you left you questioning yourself, leaving a strange flutter in your chest.

Shaking of these thoughts, you went to your room in order to find something to read or maybe even draw. But of course, your mother had got rid of most of your art supplies when you moved out, claiming that it was all just a waste of money.

Thus, after you got changed into a singlet and some PJ shorts, you made your way back downstairs, recalling a few large shelves stacked with books in the study, which was locate right next to the living room.

Cillian was still sitting with your mother on a comfortable couch but, much to your surprise, there was a large gap between them. He was reading a book while she watched some reality TV show with her uncritical gaze.

When you entered the room, Cillian looked up from his book and his eyes were immediately drawn to you, taking in your form, even though there was nothing particularly sexy about what you were wearing.

He felt the heat grow in his chest, dimming his thoughts and distracting him from the lines of text that he had been attempting to read which, to him, was a strange sensation and not one he had expected. 

Thinking that you had gone unnoticed, you walked into the study and towards one of the large bookshelves before flicking through the spines of the countless novels stacked up haphazardly along the rows.

But then, suddenly, you heard a familiar voice from behind you.

"Can't find anything interesting?" Cillian asked, making you jump and drop the book you had been holding in your hands and, almost simultaneously, you dropped to your knees to pick it up, your heads bumping into each other. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" you exclaimed, your hands flying up to your forehead instinctively as you tried to steady the pounding that had started there.

"No, it's my fault," Cillian apologized, his voice close behind you and he put his hand on your shoulder, causing tingles to run down your spine. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you said as you turned and looked up at him, your eyes meeting briefly.

"I was trying to find a novel and, god, there are so many to choose from in here," you added, gesturing towards the towering bookshelf that seemed to stretch up towards the high ceiling.

Cillian chuckled, "Well, I do read a lot, but don't worry, I can give you a few recommendations if you want them," he said, a playful twinkle in his eye.

"I would love some recommendations, actually," you said, your face lighting up. "Something about, I don't know, human nature I suppose. I love reading stories about conflicted individuals or history," you said, with a light shrug of your shoulders.

Cillian smiled at your answer, "Did you read the Grass Arena?" he asked, his voice full of curiosity.

You nodded, "Yes, I did. The story was dark but tantalizing," you mentioned, leaving Cillian a little surprised.  "I think it's really good book," you smiled, causing Cillian to furrow his eyebrows.

 "A really good book huh?" he echoed, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. "It's one of the best, I think. John Healy's work should be regarded as an invaluable contribution to literature," he declared, and you couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm, momentarily getting lost in his bright blue eyes.

"Okay, I agree. It's probably in my top ten," you whispered, before shaking yourself out of your trance-like state, adding, "So, any other recommendations then?"

Cillian nodded, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he guided you towards a different bookshelf.

"I think you might like this one," he said as he pulled out a tattered copy of 'On the Road' by Jack Kerouac, the pages yellowed with age. "I know it's a classic, but it's always a good read and you love travelling, so if you haven't read it yet, you should," he added, his voice full of warmth.

You took the book from him gratefully while inadvertently brushing against his hand. Your palms grew warm and tingly, causing you to look up at him with wide eyes. Cillian's eyes locked with yours and there was a charge between you, a current thrumming beneath the surface that tickled your skin.

"Uhm, thank you ," you mumbled, sliding the book from his grip and stepping back. He nodded, seeming to understand the sudden need for space.

"Sure thing," he said, before turning to head back to the living room. "Goodnight, Y/N," he told you and you nodded, taking a deep breath to calm your racing heart before tucking the book under your arm and heading to your bedroom.

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[corvus-frugilegus]

Spite Meta! Riffing a bit on a solid post from @antivancathedral and some thoughts i've been stewing on about spirits and demons for a hot minute here.

I've been chewing on this line from Morrigan towards the end of regrets of the dread wolf for a while now:

"But like any spirit when ANGERED or twisted against her purpose, a more violent aspect arose." (emphasis on angered mine)

This is the line for me that really cinches the idea that Spite isn't a demon. And reinforces that spirit-demon seems like it's maybe a false dichotomy. Sure some spirits get stuck at an extreme, but vascilation along a scale of emotion feels normal right? Like Wisdom and Pride can't strictly exist in isolation they go hand in hand and aren't necessarily always in conflict either. So while spirits in the Dragon Age universe tend to focus on a single facet of human emotion it's also true that they're a reflection of the mortal world and we know that spirits struggle with the idea of the world as a static entity- So why would their very natures be fixed?

There are a few things that support this fluidity to the nature of spirits that we see throughout the series.

Mythal and Solas both in some ways vascilate between their two aspects. We see in conversation with the fragment of Mythal that she manages to hold the duality of both benevolence and retribution. Even as a fragment she carries both. We see this in Solas too, he's wisdom twisted by pride but even as he misses the big picture on things he's close to it's true he simultaneously shows wisdom in how he speaks and acts and the thoughts he shares. This is perhaps more good natured in inquisition, especially so in a Lavellan romance, but even in veilguard his cunning and trickery relies on wisdom too- he knows when to be subtle and when to push. He too is simultaneously embodying both ends of a spectrum.

So coming back to the Morrigan quote above: Angered is a really key word here. It's easy to focus on twisted beyond their purpose, and I think that's what we see most often in the series. The back against the wall possession of mages and this extreme depth of feeling / extremity of circumstance that forces a spirit to stay within a more violent aspect of its nature. It's also true that most of the examples of possession we see and the way demons are framed earlier in the series is that malicious spirits are always lying in wait to take hold of the mortals to exit the fade (in light of the elf knowledge this feels much sadder actually, especially given the camaraderie we see between spite and manfred). This is largely the Chantry line. The examples of "good" natured spirits and spirit possession we do have feel much closer to the version of Spite we see in veilguard (if less inclined towards stabbing- arguably this is the influence of Lucanis).

So angered is what I keep coming back to with Spite. Is Spite a permanent state of being- the totality of Spite's being? Or has both Spite and Lucanis's experiences pushed Spite into fight or flight. (let's be real it's fight Spite loves a knife). This really tracks with Spite's role in the narrative too- Spite is an allegory for Lucanis's trauma, and like all spirits a reflection of the world, in this particular case Lucanis's mental state.

Anger is a protective emotion. Anger is something we tend to feel in repsonse to a violation or an injustice. Both Lucanis and Spite have SO MUCH TO BE ANGRY ABOUT. It's through the violation and injustice Spite and Lucanis have experienced that Spite's nature has shifted in the way it has. Spite is the determination to survive. Spite is what carries both of them through the Ossuary. Spite is what keeps them "safe" (heavy on the quotation marks here) when Zara and her lackeys are doing everything in their power to break them. Spite is Lucanis trying to protect himself. Spite is this spirit of Determination trying to protect itself.

At Spite's core the facet of the human experience it reflects is Determination. Anger pushes it to something more intense, but Spite has never actually shifted away from its original purpose. And, in a route where Rook completes Inner Demons, as Lucanis heals and begins finding peace, It feels like Spite does too. Given time I suspect Spite will find its way back to determination.

This is probably a whole separate post and deep dive but Spite's role as an allegory for Lucanis's trauma is really important here too. Lucanis has lived through so much and kept going anways, even before the Ossuary. He carries all of these deep wounds and bottles up his emotions so tightly, and I suspect there is so much anger in him deep down from all the hurt and abuse he's endured. Knowing Lucanis it's probably anger he's afraid of. And Spite reflects these feelings too (here as a narrative device more than in a literal sense), Spite reflects the things inside Lucanis that he tries his best to avoid acknowledging. Spite forces him to confront this, forces him to confront the Dellamorte family dynamics. And again, as Lucanis starts to heal and move forward, we see a shift in his relationship with Spite too- because what's also happening is a shift in his relationship with himself. He's accepting the ugly parts of himself and starting to address his problems. As as result Spite itself seems calmer and more agreeable.

Spite was never a demon, Spite is Lucanis protecting himself and we only think of Spite as a demon because Lucanis does. Because that's how Lucanis sees himself.

Spite is a benevolent spirit simply responding to its environment.

There's so much more to this too! Spite's nature is so interesting and there's so much in the lore that I think really solidly supports that 1. Spirits and demons aren't that cut and dry and 2. Spite falls more into a benevolant nature than a malicious one.

[dareduffie]

HOW AND WHY BRUCE WAYNE CAN AND SHOULD BE ASIAN.

* Written by an East / Southeast Asian.

Batman (2016-) #153

You actually don't have to change much. Here's the story:

Thomas and Martha, philanthropists they were, decide to adopt a baby that's been abandoned on the steps of the Gotham Orphanage. In growing up with two White parents who are well-meaning but... simpleminded about race, let's say, Bruce doesn't develop much of a cultural identity.

He's East Asian and only "White-passing" in the sense that Markiplier and Olivia Rodrigo "pass" as White. Despite being a visible minority, Bruce grows up without a sense of race. First and foremost, he thinks of himself as a Wayne. Not only does his dedication to Gotham stem from his love for his parents because of a tragedy, but also because Gotham is the home he was handed by parents—who he would also view and miss as his "benefactors."

And this is another reason why Bruce has a chronic need to adopt as many children as possible—that was his first gift. In Batman & Robin: Year One, he struggles with the discovery that he and Dick, despite similarities in their life experiences, are extremely different people. Bruce is grateful that he was taken in and therefore removed from an impoverished childhood, so obviously it must follow that all other children desire the same outcome (and that the adoption would, in itself, be the solution to all life's problems).

Batman & Robin – Year One (2025) #3

Being as he's generally emotionally stunted, I don't see him as being very self-aware about his ethnic or cultural identity. Rather than changing or diminishing his character, I would instead argue that making Bruce Wayne an Asian man could actually enhance pre-existing facets of his nature by bringing more nuance and significance to them.

So why East Asian specifically? When arguing against Bruce being POC, I think people are mistakenly thinking of Whiteness and mobility as interchangeable (and, to be fair, they often are).

Through personal experience, I've found that White people are more willing to extend trust and respect to those that they can provide "exceptions" for. Generally speaking, Bruce will have greater social flexibility and ease of disguise (i.e. Matches Malone, Mordecai, Det. Hawke) the lighter-skinned he is. He's rich and powerful enough that Gotham's elite can't do much about him being an "outlier" regardless of his skintone, but he does have a habit of slipping in and out of characters regularly. Luckily for Asian Bruce Wayne, we're stereotyped to all look identical!

Batman: One Bad Day: Mr. Freeze (2022) #1

Personally, I think being emotionally stunted is of greater importance to Bruce's character than his being a billionaire. Like I said, I can't imagine him having a strong sense of his own ethnicity without anyone to lead him and especially after growing up in a White household devoid of other influences. Being adopted isn't quite the same experience as being a first-generation immigrant, but there is the same inclination to assimilate rather than celebrate your culture.

Which, of course, brings us right back to why he is so driven to serve Gotham. In addition to the plethora of other canonical or interpretive reasons, he's grateful. Might even feel he owes a debt.

TO BE CLEAR: I am not suggesting that Bruce Wayne as an Asian man would experience White privilege. I am suggesting that his exorbinate amounts of money and proximity to Whiteness would allow him access to a privilege similar to it—with the exception being that his privilege is conditional on him being rich. His life would not be empty of discrimination, but he would be keenly invested in assimilating himself not only because of his upbringing but also his own interests. His culture bears no importance to him because he has never experienced it and has therefore decided he's better off without its burden. Ignoring, of course, that his ethnicity is not something that he can simply put away.

To his eyes, Bruce would have no reason to investigate his background; nothing mission-wise calls for it and he's smart enough to know that it is politically wiser to appear closer to the hands that he is shaking than to note the differences. He wouldn't regularly clock microaggressions against himself and even if he did, he would probably accept it as a part of Brucie's reputation and Batman's protection.

Catwoman (2011) #2

Also. Listen. If there's anyone that's good at being a strict parent and stoic man who is obsessively committed to upholding his family's values, it's an Asian man.

TL;DR: Bruce Wayne should be Asian because it would suit his character to have been adopted himself and because conforming into whatever it is he believes is better for Gotham is like his whole deal (which is juicier if he's Asian) and because I want him to be and I said so.