#for his ~false allegiations

[normalbrothers]

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[chiikawaland]

man I miss birdmen so much. I’ve been so DnD brained but I literally have it down so when I DM my first campaign in a couple of years (a sequel to my current campaign) I’m gonna reread birdmen to get a better understanding of the evolutionarily “magic” system and how it evolved alongside capitalism and restrictive government vs communism and anarchy.

[msfantasy-anime]

No way! Luffy has a Wife?!

Monkey D. Luffy x Wife!Reader

Summary: an amalgamation of many requests on others finding out Luffy is married.

A/n: Thanks @matronofthevoid for the prompt of Boa Hancock and to the other anonymous DM’s requesting others

Part VII

After a few weeks of Monkey Y/n’s Wanted posters circulating, the world government has issued a retraction after being unable to locate the marriage certificate of Luffy and Y/n.

The marines have since issued new Wanted posters, removing the family name ‘Monkey’ followed by the following description.

‘Y/n, Wanted Dead or Alive for 200 million berries after assaulting a marine officer for insulting childhood friend Monkey D. Luffy. The bounty has been increased as Y/n is confirmed to be an official member of the strawhat pirates after eye-witness testify Y/n claiming allegiance to the strawhat captain in wholecake Island. The World Government would also like to retract any claims or statements of the marriage between the pair due to lack of evidence to support claim.’

Whilst it true the new posters and description have been issued- not everyone has received the new news.

Shanks - Receiving the original poster

“Hey captain! Check this out!” Yassop howls in laughter with Lucky Roux, throwing a newly issued bounty down into their captains lap.

Wanted Dead or Alive. Monkey. Y/n. 100m berries.

Shanks eyes widen slightly at the name.

“Luffy’s a grown man now, wife and all…” Shanks mutters, his eyes shining with pride before quickly faltering to horror. “That little twerp got married and didn’t even invite me?! Can you believe that?!”

Silvers Rayleigh - Receiving the original poster

Shakuyaku smirks down at the news paper below her, taking a good long drag from the cigarette sitting loosely between her fingers.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” Rayleigh steals a glance at the papers. “Well would you look at that… the boys not completely hopeless after all.”

Boa Hancock - Receives the new posters

As all of the Kuja warriors suspected. Their beautiful loving Empress has been bedridden for weeks.

The wanted poster…

The description of Luffy’s marital status…

It was all far too much for the tender hearted empress.

But as soon as Gloriosa received the newest issue, she figuratively bolted to the empresses bed chamber. “I’ve come bearing great news!” Gloriosa announces, pulling the blanket off of the rotting figure that is Boa Hancock.

He matted hair remains tangled, her swollen eyes pinching together tighter at the exposure of light. “Leave at once you old hag! Leave me to my suffering!” Hancock wails, pulling weakly at the bedcovers.

“He isn’t married!” Gloriosa announces as Hancock sits up rapidly. “Luffy! He isn’t married- it was just a false report! They’re only childhood friends!” The angelic expression that follow was so blindingly beautiful, Gloriosa’s memory lapsed at the beauty that is her Empress.

“Luffy my love! I knew it! You shall be mine! No woman is qualified for his affections!” Hancock swoons.

Monkey D. Garp - Receives the new poster

“See Koby?! I knew it wasn’t true!” Helmeppo scrutinises the posters hung up on the wall.

‘Y/n Wanted Dead or Alive’

Koby shrugs indifferently. Whilst it might be true Luffy and Y/n aren’t married, is it really so crazy to believe Luffy has romantic interests? Well according to Helmeppo, such a statement is ridiculous.

“What are you two bickering about now?” Garp grumbles, shoving his hand into the bucket of popcorn and into his mouth by the fist fulls.

“Sir- you would know more than that Luffy couldn’t possibly be married.” Helmeppo guestures to Y/n’s new poster.

There was a moment of silence before Garp dropped his bucket of popcorn to the floor, snatching the poster as his eyes widen in horror. “Huh?! So that little brat went and became a pirate after all?! Does anyone listen to me?! First Ace, then my idiot grandson and now my angel?!” Storming to his desk, Garp continues to mutter to himself under his breath, riffling through the papers until he is able to extract a report pertaining to your bounty from the pile.

You were Garp’s one saving grace.

The one and only rambunctious child that didn’t go over to the dark side, but based off the report- it’s still his idiot grandsons fault.

If he didn’t become a pirate then you wouldn’t have gained a wanted poster defending his honour like the noble angel you are.

“Sir - you would know more than anyone. Is Luffy and Y/n married or not?” Koby asks, only for Garps eyes to remain dark and downcast in angst.

“Unofficially.” He mutters only for Helmeppo to cringe at the confirmation.

“So it’s true then?! Strawhat really does have a wife?!” Helmeppo shouts in horror, needing desperately for Garp to tell him the honest truth.

“Huh?” Garp picks his nose mindlessly as he thinks back. “That idiot has been claiming they’ve been married for years… guess he just finally wore her down.”

Bartolomeo - Receives the new poster

“And Y/n defended Sir Luffy by knocking that filthy marine out in one hard punch!” Bartolomeo praises, dabbing a moist tissue to his eyes. “It’s just so beautiful! Sir Luffy deserves nothing less than a devoted wife to defend his honour.” Bartolomeo throws himself onto the floor as he continues to sob hysterically. “And - to think- they’re childhood friends! Truely a romantic story for the ages!”

The crew begin to cry in unison. “How can people deny their marriage?!” Some sobbing crewman questions, blowing his nose into his own shirt.

“They don’t need no stink’in piece of paper! We will help sir Luffy by spreading their grand love story far and wide for all to hear!”

Y/n - Receives the new poster

“Hey have you guys seen Y/n?” Luffy questions, scratching his head absentmindedly.

Zoro points lazily towards the head of the Thousand Sunny where you appear to be sitting glumly. You begin to make the face you always do when you are sad.

“I’m sorry Luffy- I didn’t mean to upset her.” Chopper mutters sadly. But Zoro only drops his heavy hand on Choppers head. “Y/n’s bounty went up, I went to show her, but then she got really upset.“ Chopper holds up the newly issued Wanted poster of Y/n.

“Hey it’s not your fault, all you did was show her the new poster.” Zoro reassures but Choppers shoulders sink further.

Luffy snatches Nami’s pen from her hand and begins to scribble on the Wanted poster.

“Luffy! What the hell-“ Luffy tosses the pen back on the table and stalks back off towards his gloomy wife.

“Oi! Have you seen your new wanted poster? Looks like your bounty went up since you’re officially in my crew now.” Luffy announces ecstatically, shoving the wrinkly paper into your hands.

You begin to slouch into yourself. You knew it was silly but it was heart wrenching to finally have a family name only of it to be taken at a moments notice. ‘Monkey’ was not a last name you even earnt. But even so, it was nice to feeling like you belonged somewhere.

“Yeah, what about it?“ Your voice shrivels up on the spot.

Looking down at the wanted poster you see your name haphazardly scribbled ‘Monkey Y/n’

Tears threatened to well-up. Without you even admitting out loud - Luffy somehow knew exactly what upset you and how to fix it. “You’re so dumb sometimes ya’know?” Luffy states rhetorically, which only makes you begin to boom with laughter. “How many more times do I have to remind you? You’re my wife. You don’t need some piece of paper to give you a last name. Because I already gave you my last name.” You begin to grin at your sweet loveable doofus. “But if you need a piece of paper, then take that. I wrote it myself and everything- Kay?” He asks only for you to spring on top of Luffy, pulling him into a lethal tight hug.

[lambilegs]

AN AMOROUS KISS WITH THE ONCE ENEMY.

day two of sevika week: first time.

set in the universe of this fic.

contains: royalty!au, sevika and reader are part of enemy kingdoms and have been pushed into an arranged marriage with each other for the sake of peace, reader lives with a toxic family, smut (minors + ageless blogs dni), sevika has a dick, mentions of breeding and pregnancy, soft sex, praise, reader is called "wife" and "girl," reader's body is referred to with the terms: "pussy," "cunt," "clit," and "tits"

a/n: this is inspired by an m4f audio I came across on reddit, made by u/AugustInTheWinter -- I haven't listened to it in full, so I can't guarantee all the content in it, so please check his warnings and keep it all in mind.

dividers by: @/strangergraphics and @/anitalenia

The last thing you expected upon Sevika’s arrival was for her to cup your face and plant on you the most amorous kiss you’ve ever received.

She’s been gone for two incredibly long months on account of counseling she’s had to do in several different provinces for the sake of peacekeeping. Your family jumped at the opportunity to have you back home, and while the prospect at first seemed tempting, it took only five days of staying with them to remember why you had agreed to the marriage of allegiance with Sevika in the first place. 

Everything feels… tighter around the throat. The rules that had governed you all throughout your childhood were now wound back around your neck, forcing every interaction to have controlled coldness and false niceties laced in. Prior to your marriage, this sort of life came naturally to you, like a sort of second skin you donned with ease every morning and tore off during the late hours.

But, after ten months of marriage to Sevika, living in her country and experiencing a whole new way of socializing, one that prizes bluntness and passion above all else, this world you once called home feels foreign now. You can already picture your wife’s – God, your wife – reaction had she been staying here with you. She would’ve barked out a crude laugh at your mother’s insistence on what subjects can and cannot be broached in a formal dinner. She would’ve kept you in her stare during balls no matter how impolite it was deemed for a woman to give her spouse the “sinful gaze,” as your aunt once hilariously put it.

But, oh, how that sinful gaze feels like Heaven after being tied to her for so long. At first, you viciously hated it. You thought the way she looked at your body was pure filth, and you tried hard to ignore the way it made arousal bloom between your thighs. You were also under the impression that twisted into that stare was contempt and pure arrogance at knowing you were putty under her hands. And in hindsight, you’re sure that was the case.

But, then, the two of you spent time together after the wedding night. You still cannot decipher if it was the most blessed or stupid decision you’ve ever made. The wedding night turned into an immediate argument in the morning. And that argument unfolded into weeks of bickering. Then, a vulnerable night where someone at a dinner party made a rude comment about your people made you struck with tears – and, shockingly enough, made your wife fist the table cloth and defend you.

A rare moment of kinship turned into shared smirks in the middle of shooting snarky remarks back and forth. It turned into her squeezing your hip during public outings and biting back a chuckle whenever you shot her a glare. It turned into her reading her book aloud to help you sleep during the anxious nights. It turned into you advocating for her when her father dismissed her. It turned into fights over you defending each other and the pride broken in doing so, ending with mumbled apologies and feeble attempts to grab one another’s hand.

Somewhere, tucked away deep in your soul, it turned into an actual marriage. It turned into that four letter word you still can’t manage to unleash from your throat when faced with her cocksureness. 

You gasp as her lips move against you in the fluid dance that nights upon nights of intimacy, all done under the justification of needing to produce an heir, have trained you both in. Your fingers twist eagerly into the fabric of her vest, pulling her in so that your fronts are squished together. She’s so tall, so lovely, so fucking strong. So warm when she’s on top of you, so dependable during the nights you meekly turn into her side when a nightmare leaves you feeling like you’re plunged into cold water. So steady – firm in her stance, cold and rough around the edges, but an inside, so tender and soft. An inability to ever deny you the care you need. You both know that. But, not only you. You’ve seen her show that care for so many people, including the ones she holds dearest to her chest and the strangers who have nothing to give her in return. It makes your admiration of her swell tenfold.

When she grabs your ass, nails digging into the plush of it, your mouth opens in a choked gasp. You can feel the longing for her, the desperate need for skin-on-skin contact. And you’d be uttering a terrible lie if you say that you don’t feel the same way. These last two months have been downright torturous, your brain itching for her thoughts on what you read, your face aching for the grins she causes in her rare moments of awkwardness, your body yearning for her rough touch. 

She pulls away from your mouth with a wet squelch, and through the heaving breaths, you finally take her in. Her hair has grown longer, black strands hanging in her eyes, and her eyes are shadowed with dark under eye circles. And yet, the light in those grey irises doesn’t falter even once, searing through your skin as her gaze shifts over your face. The sharp focus of the movement causes your stomach to flip. Did she miss you? Did she envision your face at night as much as you did hers?

Your mind barely has time to run through more questions before her hands lift to your face and she’s pulling you into another impassioned kiss, muttering, “You been sleeping well?”

The soft question nearly brings you to tears. Still passively hanging your mouth open, letting her tongue lick into the crevices of it, you shake your head from side to side. You had grown quite accustomed to having her nearby during the late hours.

Her kisses sloppily move to your cheek, her next words firm with determination. “You will tonight.”

When she loosens your robe, her eyes take you in, focused and half-lidded, hand rubbing at your tummy. “Fuck. Get on the bed now.”

You bite your lip in eagerness, arousal coursing through you. You’re already damp between the legs, your wetness smeared on your inner thighs. You know it’s probably a horrible idea to be doing it here, at your parents’ estate (you try to ignore just how touched it makes you to know she made a detour on her journey home just to visit your parents’ and ensure you make the rest of the trip together). But, there’s something tantalizing about it. This kingdom, so rigid, so seeped in structure and sense, totally demolished in this small way. In the tangle of limbs, the hot mix of breaths, the depraved claiming she always stakes on you.

When you get on all fours, anticipating that she’ll want it fast and hard after the time spent away, she chuckles softly. 

When you feel the slippery softness of her lips upon your spine, you gasp. A surge of heat shoots through you as she murmurs, “Get up. I want to see your face.”

The request makes your stomach tighten up, a wave of tenderness rolling through you. God, you want to see her too. So badly. You’re almost seized with fear at the enormity of your want, at the vulnerability that’ll be tethering you two together through this round of lovemaking. Lovemaking. Before, it was just sex – something you convinced yourself was only done for the necessity of bearing her child. Now, it’s something completely different. It’s another way you two have learned to mold yourselves together and allow your souls to dance in companionship.

Her skin, set ablaze under the warm light of the fire, is toasty under your roaming hands. She sits up with her back leaning against the headboard, your body curled up in her lap. You’re gasping pitifully as her dick slides between your pussy’s soaked lips, the hot weight of it getting slick as she grips your hips and helps you rock back and forth. Nails digging into her broad shoulders, breasts crushed together, your moist breaths fan against her cheek as you press messy, mindless kisses to the corner of her mouth.

Mind softened and turned malleable from the feeling of her cock brushing against your stiffened clit, you breathe out, “I missed you.”

She makes a small noise in her throat, then mutters, “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft during my time away.”

The lack of reciprocation stings, and you immediately pause to pull back with a glare. “Will you not say it back?”

She levels you with a deadpan stare. “My dick is about an inch close to being inside you.”

You scoff, “Yes, and that’s how close you’ll get unless you tell me you missed me too. Or did you not?”

At the soft crack in your voice, one that has your face heating in embarrassment, Sevika’s eyes sharply flick to you. A moment later, she leans into you, grabbing the base of her dick and encouraging you to lift your hips. Mouth pressed to your jaw, almost as though she can’t bear to meet your gaze, she murmurs, “You think I would’ve added two days to my journey home unless I did?”

Your chest aches.

When she slowly splits you open on your dick, you immediately begin rutting desperately on her, the time apart feeling like an extended eternity. 

She bites her lip, hard, the corner of it quirking up in clear amusement. “Needed it that bad, huh?”

Despite the taunt in her voice, you can hear the way it trembles, and you know it’s taking her every ounce of willpower not to thrust into you the way she desires.

You take advantage of the weak point, pressing your palms on her chest and swivelling your hips in circles, slow and measured. Her dick twists in you just right, and a low whine flows from your mouth.

Sevika grits her teeth from where she sits, the muscles of her chest flexing under your touch. “You’re so, fuck–”

She barely gets the sentence out before her thick arms wrap around your waist and she’s bending her knees to give herself the leverage she needs to begin pumping her hips up. You cry out in shock, a hand feebly pressing to the bed frame as her cock darts in and out of you without falter, your hole gushing with juices mixed in with her precum. One hand grips your ass, kneading and smacking, while the other is braced against your back, keeping you still as she pounds into you like her personal toy. 

It’s pure ecstasy, rough and passion encapsulated in the quick, uncoordinated movements. But, what has your entire body eventually spiralling to orgasm is when she slows down. Continuing to hold you still, she rocks in and out patiently, leaning away from your shoulder to press her sweaty forehead into yours, the hairs plastered onto her skin making yours tickle and itch. Her eyes remain narrowed on how your mouth falls open in pleasure, utterly intent. You roll your hips to meet her thrusts, which are wet and loud with the cream you’re certain is coating her cock and your walls.

The forced eye contact has you crumbling from the inside out, feeling as though your insides are laid on display for her. And after so much time apart, basking in her desire and touch like this has you feeling like it’s the first time again. 

The feeling is only exemplified by the praise she begins to grunt out, so different from her usual humiliation and teasing. 

“Fuck, how did I stay away from you for so long?” she rasps, her voice rough like sandpaper. “This sweet little cunt, this pretty little face.”

A stuttering moan is racked from your throat, flutters twirling through your stomach. She thinks you pretty. God, she thinks you pretty. It feels silly to get so excited by such a revelation, considering she’s your wife, but you can’t help it. She makes you feel like everything is the first time, like she’s your first love. She isn’t, but when she looks at you like your body is a hidden gem found in a cave, when she mocks you and teases you and tentatively asks for your opinion as though you’re important, you can’t help it. She makes you feel wanted. And you want her just as badly, if not more.

Overwhelmed by the weight of your thoughts, you weakly utter, “I– don’t leave me again.”

The plea is more open than you had anticipated, brokenly uttered, honest to the core, and anxiety shoots in you as she slows down even more, her cock gently scraping against your walls.

“I won’t,” she says through her teeth, her voice hard. “I won’t leave you to the wolves.”

An instant need to defend your family rears its head, and you whisper, “I managed.”

“Just managing isn’t good enough for me.” She starts thrusting faster, holding the back of your head and keeping it still as she whispers, “You’re my wife. I’m gonna make sure you have better than that.”

Her words and movements make you sag into her, arms winding about her neck as you clutch on tightly. Her cock plunges in and out of you faster and you moan senselessly against her shoulder, lifting her hand from your waist to suck on her fingers.

“Messy girl,” she grumbles.

When she comes in you, your entire body is thrown into a fit of shivers, the thick strings of it bursting into your hole and filling you up delightfully. Keening, you press yourself down on her harder, trying to suck in every drop of her seed, downright greedy for it.

Deliriously, you pant, “More, more, more, give me it all, shove it in me. Please, please, breed me, get me pregnant.”

“Such a fucking needy girl,” she groans, continuing to thrust hard and deep into you, forcing her come into your hole as much as she can. “Take it, fucking take it.”

Moments later, the knot in your tummy releases, rolls of overbearing, heavy pleasure coursing through you as you bite into her shoulder, trying to muffle your noises. She hisses at the dig of your teeth, but you don’t care, wanting so badly to mark her up as your own. She’s no one else’s. She’s yours. Yours, yours, yours.

The words are right on the tip of your tongue, hanging precariously. 

But, your adoration of her is triumphed by your fear of your rejection. So, you hold it in, content to keep her like this, her softening cock still inside you. 

Her fingers smooth along the pimples of your back, ghosting over your skin and making you squirm. 

When you clench onto her tighter, she sucks in a small breath, muttering, “Already needing round two?”

You weakly smack her bicep. “Shut up. I can’t help it.”

The rest of her arm wraps around you and you nuzzle further into her. It feels familiarly like a hug, and your chest throbs at the affection. Because, truly? As much as you relish in the sex, the aftermath, the excuse to hold each other without undergoing the intimacy of asking for it and making your needs evident, is just as fulfilling.

Wanting to linger in the moment, you ask quietly, “How was the trip?”

“Tiring.”

“Thank you for the details.”

She huffs. “I’ll give them to you tomorrow.” 

After a pause, she asks, “How has the homeland been?”

You know her well enough by now to recognize the veiled message. Do you miss it here? Do you wish you hadn’t married me?

You press your nose into her collarbone. “Tiring.”

Her hold tightens. “I’m here now.”

And just like that, you hold on tighter, melting into the deep timbre of her voice, the words no longer a threat of dread and anger, but one of hope and comfort.

[localfandomenjoyer]

What powers would the demigod children of Perse Kronide have? Since Perse's primary domains are Loyalty and Vitality, not the ocean, would they still have aquatic powers? I can definitely see them having greater ability to endure physical illnesses and injuries, surviving what would normally kill other mortals and even demigods, kinda like how the Uzumaki Clan from Naruto are known for their vitality. Not sure how the Loyalty aspect would appear in her kids - the ability to hold people to their words? Sensing duplicity and deceit in false promises? They're all probably excellent warriors though given their mother is such a badass 💅 Oh wait, since the Big 3 kids are naturally given more authority and leadership at the camps do you think the same applies to Perse's kids? They're children of the Queen of the Gods, surely that affords them some level of prestige and respect. The thought of Perse having demigod kids never occurred to me, but now that you confirmed their existence I'm super invested in thinking about their cabins, inherited godly traits, relationship with the other cabins, etc. Does Perse only grant kids to worthy couples who want a baby? Does she grant them to single parents if they're financially and emotionally responsible and ready for parenthood? Sooo many questions!

I'm thinking vitality would come with aquatic powers, just more precise in scope than a Poseidon kid and with no direct affinity for the sea. That said, the sea would be gentler to them, but that has more to do with oceanic spirits liking their mum. You are right about the endurance too. Perseleia kids have better stamina and heal faster than most, plus they can help others recover faster as well by boosting the vitality of others. The more powerful and aggressive among them could even inflict enemies with weakness.

Loyalty definitely comes with an ability to sense duplicity and allegiances. You are right to say they'd be natural leaders too, though they lack the raw strength of a Big Three kid.

I've answered a bit on what criteria Perse uses for choosing families, but yeah, it's worthy couples who want children. Inherited godly traits are probably very minor. Perse wants her children to fit in with the new family, so they'd very much look like their mortal parents. I imagine they will all be somewhat reminiscent of Sally Jackson, with kinder appearances, darker hair tones and bright eyes since Perse won't be able to help it. Anyone who meets Sally will definitely assume she is a demigod daughter

The Perseleia cabin get along well with most others, but they do inspire envy and bitterness at times. Perse selecting for good couples means her children have better home lives than even the average mortal, let alone a demigod, so imagine how a child like Annabeth must feel overhearing a Perseleia kid talk about writing letters to his parents when she hasn't seen her dad in years?

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

(tw: death, gore, horror)

I love how downright creepy Sauron is.

He's your neighbourhood psychopathic genius, a skilled sorcerer whose allegiance was realigned once (to his true alignment imo) and then never since waivered.

Unlike Morgoth, who was more straightforward in his execution, Sauron's style is insidious, and in a sense more horrific for how slow and personal his tactics can be. His temper is such that he can play the long game, even play at being weak in order to earn trust or make his enemies complacent, and then next thing you know he has an old friend's corpse up as a war banner, or he has sunk a once great island down the Sea.

He bred the Orcs. Tolkien played with different version of the origin of Orcs, but what I like best is the version where they were corrupted Men, maybe even Elves, and although they were Melkor's idea, it was Sauron who had the ability, patience and tenacity to make the idea come to fruition.

He built cults. Do you know what cults are like? How they draw people in, what they make people believe, what they get people to do? From an outsider looking in it must have looked truly bizarre, but Sauron was able to turn a powerful nation against the Valar and painted Morgoth as the true god. Eru Ilúvatar was denied as a false god, and the Valar made to be liars. There were blood sacrifices, human sacrifices—all for a religion Sauron invented, but was so successful that, once Númenor was gone, Sauron brought the cult with him to Middle-earth.

He was called The Necromancer. What made him garner the title? Who gave it to him, and what had they seen? Surely the Nazgûl were not the first of their kind, not when the Nine were already so well-made. What manner of experimentation had Sauron done in order to make them, and what did the "failures" look like? What knowledge did he use to corrupt and circumvent the Gift of Ilúvatar, which gave Men free will and death, allowing their spirits to transcend Arda? And yet the Nazgûl were unable to die, and as wraiths they also lost their free will, bound to Sauron and the call of the Ring.

He corrupted kings. He corrupted his own kind. Curumo could not have been the only one, and we know Curumo was a powerful Maia in his own right, the leader of the Istari. Sauron played mind games with the best of people, and won. His ability to seduce even the most powerful beings and get them in his service was unparalleled.

Now imagine being a native of Mordor and witnessing the poisoning of the lands. And then an age later, imagine being from one of the villages around Rhovanion and experiencing the slow haunting of Amon Lanc. At least the Eldar could see Sauron and his agents; none of the Men can do so. What defense did the common Man have against such insidious evil? There must only have been odd sensations, a dread settling in, dreams that lure them in before turning into nightmares.

[nik0nk1]

CAN I REAUEST MARK WOTH A S/O WHO IS LIKE SHADOW MILK COOKIE..?

SO SHINY SO STRONGGGGG

Author's Note: After a lot of begging from my friends and some request of it, I finally made this fjdbbdj hope y'all like it, it's gonna be a bit short and it's not only Mark on it hehe

SMC!Reader

Crossover shenanigans, Mark is frustrated, Debbie needs a break, Eve is lowkey spiraling, Omniman has had enough, Mauler Twins are fighting themselves(or are they?), [Name] wants chaos

♪•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•♪

Shadow Milk Cookie!Reader Headcanons + Invincible Characters' Reactions

What if [Name] is Shadow Milk Cookie inspo!

You embody deception, illusions, and trickery, with an unsettlingly playful demeanor.

Your words are laced with half-truths, riddles or just straight up lies, making it hard for people to tell when you're being serious.

You have a theatrical way of speaking, always performing as if the world is your stage.(maybe the world really is just a big stage and were- Ahem)

Your jester-like attire and mask add to your eerie aesthetic, making you look like you belong in a twisted fairytale.

Your abilities revolve around shapeshifting, creating false realities, and manipulating minds with your elaborate tricks.

You revel in chaos but are not entirely evil(or..?)—your motives are complex, and your allegiance is as unpredictable as your magic.

Sometimes, you switch from playful banter to chilling, calculated menace within seconds, making it hard to trust you.

Invincible Characters First Reaction to ShadowMilkCookie!Reader

Mark Grayson / Invincible

At first, Mark is kind of confused. You look like a jester but talk like a villain in a Shakespearean play. When you suddenly disappear and reappear behind him, whispering, "Oh, dear hero, what would your mother say if she knew how fragile you truly are?"—he immediately gets on edge.

"O-okay... what the hell was that?" He’s wary of your illusions and hates how you keep making copies of yourself, laughing in his ear. Mark tries to fight you, but it’s like trying to punch a dream—nothing ever lands. He’s frustrated as hell but also a little terrified.

Omni-Man / Nolan Grayson

Omni-Man is not amused. At all. He doesn’t like mind games, and he especially doesn’t like being made a fool of. The first time he encounters you, he swings at you full force—only for you to vanish into thin air, your laughter echoing around him.

"What kind of trickery is this?" he growls.

"Oh, my dearest Viltrumite, I do wonder... what would it take to make you truly doubt yourself?" You smirk, summoning an illusion of Debbie crying and cursing his name.

For the first time in a long while, Omni-Man hesitates. His fists clench, his eyes flickering between rage and something else. But then—he snaps out of it, flying toward you at full speed. You barely dodge, grinning.

"Tsk tsk! So easily fooled! You really are all muscle and no mind!"

If you actually manage to make him doubt himself even a little, congratulations—you just made one of the most dangerous beings in the universe furious.

Debbie Grayson

Debbie doesn’t trust you one bit. The way you talk, how you always almost tell the truth but twist it just enough to keep people guessing—it sets off all her alarms.

"I've dealt with liars before," she says, arms crossed. "What do you actually want?"

And you? You just grin. "Want? Ah, dear lady, isn't that the eternal question? I want what you want. A moment of peace. A truth that doesn’t hurt. A world where love isn’t a lie… But alas! That is not this world, is it?"

She HATES how much your words make sense.

Cecil Stedman

Cecil has seen a lot of weird things in his time, but you? You’re something else. He’s immediately suspicious and keeps you under constant surveillance.

"I don't trust you, clown."

"Oh, Cecil, you wound me! I am but a humble performer! A mere weaver of stories! Why, the real villains here wear capes, not jester hats."

He doesn’t laugh. He just glares at you, muttering under his breath about how much of a pain you’re going to be. But deep down, he knows you could be useful—if he can figure out how to keep you under control.

Atom Eve

Eve is cautious around you. She wants to believe there’s good in you, but she can also feel how dangerous you are. Your unpredictability puts her on edge, especially when you start saying things like—

"Ah, Eve, you have the power to reshape the world, and yet... you hesitate. Tell me, how does it feel to hold the divine in your hands but fear to use it?"

She clenches her fists, glaring. "I don’t have to prove myself to you."

And you? You just smirk. "Oh, but darling, you want to, don’t you?"

She HATES how you get under her skin.

The Mauler Twins

At first, the Maulers just think you’re some kind of joke. But then, when they try to punch you and end up hitting each other instead—oh, they start taking you seriously real fast.

"What the hell?! Where’d they go?!"

"I dunno, but I swear I saw ‘em over there—WAIT, HOW AM I PUNCHING MYSELF?!"

They get so frustrated that they try to just blow you up instead. Too bad explosions don’t work well on illusions. You leave them screaming at each other while you skip away, laughing.

Overall:

Omni-Man is pissed.

Mark is frustrated.

Debbie doesn’t trust you.

Cecil is stressed.

Robot is confused.

Eve is questioning herself.

The Maulers are punching air.

And you? You’re just having the time of your life watching it all unfold.

After all… isn’t the world just one big, delicious lie?

♪•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•♪

Author's Note: Making a part two, cause I'm adding Robot, Thragg and Conquest cause why not?

Toodles~

[brokenmenswhore]

betrothals & brothels | aegon, aemond, & jace

pairings: aegon targaryen x stark fem!reader, aemond targaryen x stark fem!reader, jacaerys velaryon x stark fem!reader

series summary: aemond targaryen tells the realm that you, the lady of house stark, are to wed him and secure a partnership in the north. in protest, you agree to marry jacaerys velaryon, affirming the north’s allegiance to rhaenyra. when the news hits king’s landing, aegon decides it’s better to have you under his watchful eye until the political partnership is solidified, but doesn’t realize you have a life away from your duty as a stark

chapter warnings: none

a/n: this wasn’t going to be a series but it just kept getting longer and longer so i had to split it into parts! so let me know if you like it i have more! this is for all the girlies who can’t decide between all these insatiable men.

this is mainly aegon but what’s the harm in indulging in all three?

the mentions of brothel work will make a lot more sense later! i don’t know anything about cregan’s parents but for this they sucked and now they’re dead :)

series masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

“How could you do such a thing?” your brother yelled, intruding into your chambers, anger evident on his face.

“What are you on about now, Cregan?” you sighed.

“We swore an oath of loyalty to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and you,” he spat, poking your chest, “suddenly decide to betrothe yourself to Prince Aemond? To the enemy?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, looking up at him with genuine misunderstanding. “What?”

“Don’t act stupid with me, sister,” Cregan warned.

“I am not betrothed to Aemond Targaryen,” you spoke plainly, “and I do not believe I have the liberty to choose who I am to marry, as our father so made clear.”

Cregan backed away, noticing your genuine concern and confusion. His sister had never met Aemond Targaryen, and as Lord of his house, Cregan would have been asked of a betrothal for his sister.

“‘Tis being spread across the realm,” Cregan said, “that you are to wed Aemond Targaryen and secure the North’s allegiance to Aegon the Usurper- the very allegiance that we have already pledged to the rightful queen.”

“I dare say you should know me better than to think me willing to sully our name in such a heinous way, brother,” you replied, “if this is the news they bring, it is false. We must clear this up at once.”

“I’m trusting you, sister,” Cregan warned, “with the rumors about you, I doubt this will be taken as just a jest from the dragons.”

He didn’t need to clarify what he was speaking of. For months, there were whispers of you frequenting brothels, learning about, and trying to achieve, your own pleasure. They were true, of course, but your brother had no need to know it.

You were kept on a tight leash most of your life, ridiculously sheltered, never having the opportunity to learn about the pleasures of life or your own body. Your brother was never one for frequenting brothels, but his friends were, and growing up, you would often follow them in the dark, stunned by the atmosphere of the whorehouses.

The women in these places were free, full of pleasure, and unashamed of their bodies. They allowed themselves to indulge without boundaries or judgement. You became enamored with such things.

You soon learned that these women made their wages from whoring, which only sparked your interest even more. Though being a Stark came with privileges, when your brother became Lord of Winterfell, he promoted himself as a working man, always assisting in matters pertaining to The Wall. You always felt like using Stark coin meant taking from Cregan, and you wanted to make your own way in the world. You loved being a Stark, but you loved being someone with no expectations or labels as well. You only worked a few nights per moon at one particular brothel that only allowed you clients who would not recognize you. You had your own coin, no name, and the ability to explore pleasure like never before. You were still a Stark in reality, however, so you knew to be careful, but the alternative lifestyle allowed you to have confidence in carrying yourself, rather than needing the help of your House or a husband.

Cregan had hounded you about the rumors for weeks, reminding you that as a lady of an esteemed house, you had certain duties, and certain privileges were off limits. He also reminded you that you would have much trouble finding a husband if you did not remain untouched.

You contested that it was unfair for him to have the freedom to seek out brothels, but it was looked down upon for you to do just the same. You didn’t fight too hard, though, so as not to cause suspicion that the rumors were true.

“Those rumors are cruel, and you and I both know it,” you retorted, “if they think me a whore, it should only fend them off of believing in this Targaryen lie so easily.”

“You are too strong-willed for your own good, sister,” Cregan sighed, turning on his heels and exiting your chambers.

✶

“It is not true,” Cregan pleaded, “my sister has never even met your uncles. She claims it to be false information spread by the king, and I believe her. My house is still with you.”

Jacaerys nodded his head, choosing to believe his friend. The moment the news of the alleged betrothal hit Dragonstone, Jace returned to Winterfell, eager to hear that his friend had not betrayed him. “I was not even aware you had a sister.”

“She is not around much,” Cregan explained, “she is much too independent to allow me any sense of control over her that does not directly impact the happenings of our House.”

“You think her too independent for marriage?” Jace questioned.

“I think her too independent for me to do that to any poor man,” Cregan laughed, “but I think she would agree to it. If it benefitted the Stark name, of course.”

Jace nodded, looking out over Winterfell as he thought. “My uncle Aemond may very well make good on this announcement,” he alleged, “this news may be a warning toward your house.”

“Meaning?” Cregan asked for clarification.

“Meaning that he may very well intend to marry your sister and force your hand in their favor, no matter what it may require.”

Cregan scoffed. “I am not scared of Aemond Targaryen, or his dragons.”

“Is a marriage to your sister the only way my uncles will be able to force your support?” Jace inquired, turning toward Cregan.

“Likely so,” Cregan answered, “but if Aemond Targaryen tries to force my sister’s hand in marriage, then I shall pity him more than I wish him dead.”

“Allow me to take her hand, then,” Jace offered, “lock away all options for my uncles. Aemond is nothing if not a properly dutiful man. A psychopath, yes, but a properly dutiful psychopath.”

“No,” is all Cregan said before turning back toward the view.

“And why not?”

“You do not want to wed my sister, Jacaerys, it would only be more strife for you.”

“It would solidify the North’s allegiance to my mother and dismiss any way for The Greens to try and steal it.”

Cregan pondered for a moment. Jacaerys was an ally, yes, but was also one of his closest friends, and he did not relish in the thought of Jacaerys being wed to his sister. He also knew how stubborn you could be, and he knew it would be more of a burden on Jace than anything. One thing was certain: he would rather have you wed Jacaerys than Aemond Targaryen.

Cregan and Jacaerys caught you out in the courtyard, snow sticking to your hair as it fell, watching with admiration as the Night’s Watch practiced their swordsmanship.

“She has always wanted to learn,” Cregan told Jacaerys, “but not a one of them will allow it.”

They stepped closer before Cregan called your name. You turned to him, catching his gaze before turning back to the Night’s Watch, intentionally ignoring his calling.

He called you repeatedly until you sighed and stood up, marching over to him.

“What could not have waited, brother?” you asked, bothered, “you can see I am otherwise occupied.”

“They will never let you wield a blade, sister, you were not occupied.”

“I quite enjoy watching the men in uniform, thank you very much,” you responded, “I would call myself occupied when watching such things.”

You knew the comment would piss him off, and you were not in the mood to be scolded by whatever he would say.

“This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s first born son,” Cregan said, motioning toward Jacaerys.

You gave Jace a quick smile before turning back to Cregan. “Okay?”

“You are to wed him in a fortnight.”

“Pardon?” you scoffed, “and to who do you think you speak?”

“If you are not already betrothed, I do not see the issue,” Cregan stated.

“You still do not believe me, do you? You would truly force my hand to prove it was not already previously forced?”

“This will secure our oath to the True Queen.”

“And what of my decisions? Are you to make them all for me now?” you fought, “you promised me it would not be like it was with father, Cregan.”

Your words hit him hard. Your father was controlling and manipulative, constantly taking away your free will in favor of the choices he thought best for Winterfell.

“I do not wish for it to be,” Cregan spoke, his voice now more intimate, “but I fear The Greens may make it so. Please trust me, Y/N.”

You exchanged a long glance before you shifted your gaze to Jacaerys, who smiled at you warmly, and then you returned back to Cregan. He was right, if The Greens wanted this allegiance bad enough, they had the power (and the dragons) to come get it themselves. “Okay.”

Cregan sighed in relief, straightening his posture and smiling. “Lovely,” he spoke, “I suppose we shall begin preparations tomorrow. The sooner it is official, the better.”

Cregan left, off to attend to his duties, leaving you alone with Jacaerys.

“He did not tell me he had a sister,” Jacaerys said.

“He does not often speak of me unless necessary,” you responded, “I often think he wishes I was much different. Less vocal, perhaps.”

Jacaerys smiled. “Why would it be such a terrible trait?”

“I do not exist in a world in which my voice holds weight, My Prince. I admit, it would be easier on Cregan if I was not so intent on using it anyway.”

“I think a voice unused is a voice wasted,” Jacaerys started, “and I think it would be a shame for yours to go unheard. I think it too pretty.”

You blushed at his comment. “You flatter me, My Prince, but it is unnecessary. I have already agreed to wed you. You do not owe me flattery.”

“I do not flatter you because it is what you are owed,” Jace explained, “I flatter you because you are pretty enough to be flattered.”

It was a genuine compliment, and one you had never heard before. The men at the brothels often complimented you, but it was out of pure lust, never out of the adoration you felt now.

You and Jacaerys became somewhat close over the next few days, spending most of your days attempting to get to know one another. You showed him some parts of Winterfell that Cregan hadn’t, nothing of the brothels, but your favorite spots in the woods, and the cave you so often ran to for solace.

“This is my favorite place in the world,” you told Jace, watching him look up at the ice formations atop the cave, “because of this.” You gestured to a giant hot spring in the ground.

“How does such a thing develop in such a cold environment?” Jacaerys asked.

“I do not know,” you admitted, “but I’m rather glad it did.”

Jacaerys watched you smile as you spoke about your favorite place, your eyes lighting up as you bent down to run your fingertips through the water. He stepped closer to you, causing you to stand up and meet his eye level.

“I think I quite like Winterfell,” he nearly whispered, tentatively placing his hands on your waist, nervous that he was overstepping.

“The cold looks good on you, My Prince,” you said, eye contact never breaking.

Jacaerys moved his face closer to yours slowly, giving you ample opportunity to stop him or back away, but you didn’t bite.

You appreciated him taking his time, but he was taking all too long. “Fucks sake, Jace,” you said, grabbing either side of his face in your hands and pulling him into a kiss. Your lips moulded perfectly together, the grip on your hips tightening slightly as your bodies were now pressed together.

Jacaerys broke the kiss first, taking a moment to breathe. “I need to return home to Dragonstone first thing to update my mother. I promise to return to you as soon as I may.”

You pressed your forehead against his. “You better.”

✶

Jacaerys was only gone two nights when you heard the intense whooshing that could only be caused by the wings of a dragon hitting the wind. He’s back already? you thought, looking into the sky to pinpoint Vermax. You spotted the wingspan in the distance, but something was off. The wingspan was too large. In fact, the wingspan was astoundingly large. The sheer size of the dragon was quickly noticed by onlookers within the castle walls, everyone turning their heads to sky. This is not Vermax. Something was wrong.

You stood atop a castle wall, making you the closest in the castle to the dragon, as her bronze and green feet gripped a platform atop the castle walls that was often used for catapults. She was obscenely close to you, nearly knocking you down from the wind force of her wings falling next to her body. You stepped back to give her some space, one of her eyes being the size of almost your entire body. She was beautiful, but her size would have intimidated even Cregan.

Her rider jumped down next to her, ducking under a wing to approach you. It was a face you had never seen before, but you were smart enough to know that there was only one person alive with staple silver hair and only one eye.

You wanted to make a witty comment about your ‘marriage betrothal,’ but the closer he got, the more you realized that although you had strong feelings about what he did, you had never actually met him, and you did not know what to say. You, however, refused to ever be rendered speechless.

“Couldn’t have landed a little further away, My Prince?” you asked as his footsteps became closer and closer, stopping a good ten feet away from you.

“She has a mind of her own, My Lady,” he responded, standing tall with both hands behind his back in proper stance.

“I would think so, she is a living creature.”

Aemond smirked. “I presume you know why I’ve come?”

“I know not of what you want, My Prince.”

“I believe you do. I did not announce a betrothal to jest, My Lady.”

You were slightly taken aback by the fact that he knew who you were so quickly. Even men at the brothels could not tell it was you- you feared there was something about you that gave it away. You quickly remembered you were adorned with the profile of a wolf head in steel, and you relaxed a bit.

“You did not announce a betrothal on anyone’s account but your own,” you fought, “I did not agree to such things and I will not agree to such things. What was your intent, My Prince? To tell me via raven that we are to be wed and anticipate I welcome you with open arms? I do not even know you.” Your tongue was becoming looser and looser, but you were growing angry. What right did he have to suggest you would agree to a betrothal he told the realm about before even asking you? You had never met this man before, and this was your only connection. He almost ruined your relationship with your brother, as well as your brother’s relationship with Rhaenyra and her family.

“I have received word that you are to marry my nephew Jacaerys,” he stated. You thought he would continue his sentence, but it ended there as he awaited a response.

“And?”

“And? My Lady, you are too disagreeable. You are to ride to King’s Landing with me as we prepare the terms of our marriage.”

“I will do no such thing,” you spat.

Aemond sighed, taking a few steps closer to you, but still leaving a few feet between your bodies.

“You will accompany me to King’s Landing, or you will watch Vhagar burn your home.”

You stared at him, searching his eye for any hint that the threat may be empty, but you found none. You barely found anything. You were not one to flinch or retreat, however.

“Threats are not the proper way to court a woman, especially one who is already betrothed to another,” you said, keeping your head up.

Without even turning his head, Aemond kept his eye locked on you, and shouted “Dracarys!” Vhagar knew it was directed to her, and she blew a steady stream of fire toward one of the castle walls, causing it to cave in on itself. The people below you ran away from the damage, frightened by Vhagar and any further threat to their home.

From below, you noticed Cregan running outside, surveying the damage before turning toward Vhagar, and noticing you and Aemond. You exchanged a look from a distance, sure that he was looking at you. If you left with Aemond, Cregan would never forgive you, and you would be betraying your family. If you didn’t leave with Aemond, he would burn down Winterfell, Cregan would still never forgive you, and you would still be betraying your family. You also did not want to hurt or lose Jacaerys, but watching the men of Winterfell try to extinguish the flames of your home, you knew you had the power to keep it safe, even if it meant giving yourself up.

“Fine,” you snapped, walking straight past Aemond until you were level with Vhagar’s head. “You have free will, you know,” you whispered to her, Aemond approaching and lifting you onto her saddle.

✶

The moment you arrived in King’s Landing, members of the King’s Guard were surrounding Vhagar, ready to grab you if you tried to retreat. As soon as your feet hit the ground, one of the men tied your wrists behind your back, adding further restrictions to keep you from trying anything.

“What a way to welcome a lady,” you spat.

The men did not speak, they just followed you and Aemond closely as the prince walked through the Red Keep, ignoring any unsure stares as he approached the throne room. He pushed both doors open, treading straight up to the Iron Throne. You were angry, but you kept your head up, refusing to appear weak. There was no one already in the room apart from the King, who sat on the throne in anticipation as you approached.

Aemond pivoted to stand next to the throne and therefore next to his brother, but the guards grabbed your wrists and halted you in place in front of the steps to the throne before you could continue following Aemond.

“I hear we have a wolf in our midst,” the King spoke.

You remained silent. You supported Rhaenyra in her claim to the throne, despite your brother’s concerns. Aegon had usurped her throne, had been obsessed with bloodshed since the crown touched his skull, and allowed his brother to falsify a betrothal to the realm for his own political gain. You hated him. He was not worth the breath.

“Does the wolf not howl?” he asked. You stared at him blankly, shoulders back, head up, mouth closed.

“I hear you’ve disrespected by dear brother and decided to marry my nephew,” he tried, but still, no answer. “Now tell me,” he said, standing up and slowly walking down the stairs, cup in hand, “why would you want to do that?”

You kept your eyes locked on him, focusing on keeping your breath steady as he approached you, standing directly in front of you.

“Jacaerys-“ he started, but he stopped for a moment, almost as if speaking the name disgusted him, “Jacaerys is not a man!” he yelled, smashing the cup on the floor next to your feet. There was something more to it, something in the past that you weren’t aware of.

You didn’t flinch. You remained still, eyes locked on him as he calmed down until he finally looked at you, matching your intense gaze.

“If you wanted a man, I have one for you. Funnily enough, I actually provided you with one for a husband,” Aegon continued, raising an arm toward his brother, “and I suggest you act grateful.”

Aegon stayed in your face for a moment, intentionally running his eyes over every portion of your upper body, not even trying to hide it when he traced the line of your dress hem and cleavage. He followed your body back up to your eyes. “Nothing to say?” he taunted.

“The only reason a man would force a woman’s hand for political gain,” you started, “is if he is too weak to garner allies himself.”

Aegon’s nostrils flared as he looked at you. He was partially hurt, the word cutting deeper than any other could have, and he was partially angry that you would speak to your king in such a way. There was a small part of him that enjoyed it, though he would never admit it.

“I am not weak,” he spat.

“Then untie my hands,” you contested, “unless you do not think yourself strong enough to handle me.”

Aegon nodded his head, smiling and waving a finger at you as he backed up slightly. “Ah ah ah, I see, you want me to free you so you can run back to your bastard. My darling, you’re standing in front of a king.”

You scoffed, “you are no king of mine.”

Aegon’s smile dropped, his eyes becoming dark and his gaze intense. He seemed like he wanted to continue fighting with you, but his next comeback was lost in his throat. “Get her out of my sight.”

The guards started to direct you away, but you were insistent on getting in the last word. “You should lock me in the dungeon if you’re so scared of me, Your Grace,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice, “I can’t promise I’ll behave anywhere else.”

Aemond tensed at your words, realizing he was in for a rather tumultuous time with you, but Aegon sat back on the Iron Throne, a slight smile on his lips as you were dragged out of the room.

[glaciergore]

to piggyback on existing posts about edward and uniform: dundy being the first lieutenant we see ditch the jacket? perhaps then the earliest to recognise that hierarchy means nothing when faced with starvation? the first to start allying himself more with the 'everyman' over command, knowing power exists only in the collective now?

he helps fitzjames upright when he collapses, yet it's HIS suggestion to leave the sick (even though that includes his own commander and friend). to me, that was the second mutiny. using ned as vehicle for it, his reaction to crozier's dismissal? he's lost faith in command for three things: to keep them alive, to hold the men's loyalty, but also to listen to him (hence using ned). and, of course. he's a lieutenant alone. the captain of his ship died, his fellow lieutenants died, his commander, imminently, is going to die. crozier doesn't like him, softly-spoken when addressing ned or jop, but harsh when addressing dundy.

aka, at this point in the narrative, dundy's closer to the working men than the prestige of command. he knows this. forsakes what remains of those privileges — the illusions of humanity granted to the rich and the clothing that signifies his superiority over the men. he's amongst them now. he's more adaptive than ned, who stays rigidly uniformed and clutches onto a mirage of authority; he's assimilated to survive, foreshadowed from when we first see him stripped of his jacket.

it's part of why I love that penultimate scene with terror camp. almost everyone is sat on the same level, in the same space, stripped of their top layers. and that's the main way we've been able to tell rank/class here: designations via who's sitting/standing, where, the detailing of uniforms. it's all gone, except for ned, still grasping onto authority, therefore onto the false, unnatural 'order' instated by the british empire/navy. and that's why dundy has a more real, democratic authority amongst the men, while ned's is undermined.

that makes ned's clinging to uniform especially ironic: the only fully-uniformed man in the scene is being shown he has no authority.

maybe there's an acceptance of vulnerability that's tied to stripping oneself of rank that dundy can stomach but ned cannot; maybe it's a degree of acknowledging that empire's meaningless at the end of the world, or a plain matter of adaptation. whatever the case, ditching his jacket foreshadows dundy's vaguely mutinous actions and distancing from command — but also, in a way, acts as a sign of allegiance with the working men (albeit for his own survival).

it's also just a spectacular outfit where can I find me that shirt/jumper/waistcoat/suspenders/slops combo?

[leifyposting]

i keep seeing people say that kaeya should choose mondstadt over khaenri’ah and obviously everyone has the right to their opinion but i honestly think that would be a disappointing end to his arc

because like. kaeya’s whole arc is marked by two things: 1) his split allegiances, and 2) the question of fate

on the first point: he’s torn between two homelands, two fathers, two loyalties. he walks that line very carefully. the worst moment of his life was when the scales tipped in one direction, supposedly freeing him but instead ensnaring him in a different trap:

on the second point: genshin makes a big deal out of the question of fate. in kaeya’s hangout he pretty explicitly says he intends to change his. if he’s forced to make a decision in the future, as mona’s voice line indicates, is he fated to choose one over the other? or are we operating within a false dichotomy?

from a thematic standpoint, why would hoyoverse set up these carefully balanced loyalties only to force kaeya to pick a side? why would they introduce the idea of defying fate only to force him to cave to his?

i was reading this post earlier and it got me thinking about how kaeya’s eyepatch represents his unwillingness to be forthcoming about his khaenri’ahn loyalties - and because he refuses to acknowledge that aspect of his identity, half of his field of view is obscured. to take that one step further, i’d suggest that to make him choose mondstadt over khaenri’ah (or vice versa) would be to make him keep the eyepatch on for the rest of his life. how can he see himself and his surroundings clearly when one eye is forever covered?

[kandisheek]

Day 02: Stony Definition Works that defined Steve and Tony characterization for you

Thank you @cap-ironman for this great theme, because I've definitely read a bunch of fics that have shaped the way I see Steve and Tony. If you haven't read these, please do, because they're all wonderful:

COMICS STONY:

like history erasing itself by WhenasInSilks (E〡20.5k)

“Don’t worry,” Steve says. “I’m not buying anything you’re not selling.” Tony folds his arms, tugs the too-thin body of his jacket tighter around him. “You don’t know what I’m selling.” “I know what you’ve sold already. Next to that, this should be nothing.” “Get fucked,” Tony says, but Steve only laughs, an ugly, empty sound. Bloodless. False. “That’s the plan."

Under God by isozyme (E〡40.1k)

“Captain America represents the values of our country. The recent allegations about his sexuality are specious and designed to smear an American icon. Captain Rogers regularly attends the Church of Saint Agnes and invites the citizens of New York to attend worship with him this Sunday, April 14th. God bless America.” Nobody was ever going to know. Steve would be a good husband, a good father, and he’d never give in to sin and touch another man. But Steve makes two mistakes, one after the other: he leaves two words out of the Pledge of Allegiance, and he doesn’t notice a camera flash among the strobe lights of a dark club, because he’s dancing with his clumsy hands on Tony’s hips.

A Fistful of Steves: This Town Ain't Big Enough by Raikishi, teaberryblue (T〡30.1k)

When Tony Stark takes a bullet intended for Steve Rogers, he wakes up in a world entirely peopled by alternate incarnations of everyone's favorite Star-Spangled Man. Welcome to Stevechester, Population: Steve

Ground Untread by blossomclouds (T〡5.4k)

Eve Rogers likes to put the Captain first in this time, a hero who has a duty, who this body was made for. It's easier that way, and besides, after Rebirth there's never been a place for them both to co-exist. But the world has changed and for Eve it holds possibilities she never could have dreamed of before. Up to and including Toni Stark, who seems to need no extra effort to send her spinning into a whole new kind of trouble.

Never Too Late for Love by Sineala (E〡98k)

Steve has always believed that a soulbond is a blessing -- a rare and beautiful miracle, joining the thoughts and feelings of two people forever, from the first time they touch. Steve knows he's not going to be one of the lucky ones. He knows Gail isn't his soulmate. But he loves her, even if they're not soulmates, and he's going to do right by her. After the war's over, he's going to marry her, and they're going to settle down. They'll buy a house. They'll have children. He'll see his family again. Maybe Bucky will live next door. It's going to be a good life. He doesn't need a soulbond. He'll be fine without one. Then Steve wakes up sixty years in the future to find that his wonderful life has moved on without him. His family is long dead. His fiancée married his best friend. And the only purpose he has left is leading the Ultimates, a misbegotten team of superheroes with flaws too numerous to count. Steve hates everything about the future -- but most of all he detests Tony, flashy and flirtatious, who embodies everything Steve hates about a world he never wanted to live in. And, oh, yeah, Steve has a soulmate after all: Tony fucking Stark.

MCU STONY:

Deep End by FestiveFerret (E〡61.6k)

SHIELD has found a way to make Project Rebirth work - something Tony's father was never able to accomplish. An unexpected side effect has Fury begging Tony for some rather unusual help: the painful procedure has put their volunteer, a sub called Steve Rogers, so deep into subspace he can't come up on his own.

Bond Has It Covered by sara_holmes (E〡66.3k)

Tony thought they had trouble getting along when they were dealing with a major global crisis. Apparently that had nothing on how they fell apart when they weren't distracted by smashing aliens.

Like Pavlov's Dog by Carsonian (G〡3.7k)

Steve's already turned him down so Tony's got nothing to lose. He decides now's a good time as any to introduce Steve to trust falls.

Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree by Annie D (scaramouche) (E〡21.1k)

Steve doesn’t mind that Tony doesn’t return his feelings. He just would've preferred if it didn’t come with the side effect of his coughing up flowers and possibly dying.

Must Love Dogs by softanticipation (E〡42.9k)

Steve doesn't need to know much about Tony Stark to want to keep sleeping with him. In fact, he'd prefer to keep it that way.  But when Tony meets Steve's dog and gets unexpectedly attached, Steve has some decisions to make regarding his four-legged best friend and the guy he might know better than he thinks.

[butchvaderkin]

iron age ireland au: 1 / 2 / 3

for @anidalaweeks day 6: gothic horror in honor of gothic horror maven @wlwanakin

The Hound of the false King approaches.  The message comes at dawn, and by afternoon, Lord Vader and eight of his warriors have arrived at the isolated lake-fort of Varykino, begging hospitality. Sabé, captain of scouts, thinks the visitors should be killed on sight for their allegiance to the tyrant King Palpatine. But Padmé Amidala, highest ranking member of the community, insists they be welcomed in peace. Padmé’s instinct is always to keep the peace, but she also has an old history with the roving band’s disconcerting leader. A history known only to Padmé and Vader, who are little more than strangers now. After a tense greeting, the warriors are welcomed inside the walls and everyone – friends, enemies, and old flames – must settle in for a night of feasting and games. That is, if they don’t start murdering each other first.  Outside the walls, greater tides are turning. The land sickens. The spirits quake under the earth and the druids are gone – all of it the fault of the tyrant King. Beneath the waters of Varykino’s own lake, something ancient and unnamed is calling out to Padmé. Calling up old memories. As the night progresses, Padmé and Anakin unravel their long and painful history, revealing the shape of an old curse – a geas carried since they were children, on the night of a fateful and terrifying pact.  Some things, after all, can never be undone.  And when tensions boil over, Padmé and Anakin – and everyone within the fort’s walls – will face a wrath greater than that of any warrior or tyrant King.

excerpt below the cut

“Lord Vader.” Padmé endeavors to smooth the moment. “Let us offer you milk and honey-wine to drink together.” She gestures to an eager youngling near the kitchen entry who ducks inside for the pitchers. 

But Vader is bracing himself, a strange tilt to his head. “There is no need," he says. "I will eat later.” 

The air in the yard shifts and sharpens, as if everyone has taken a breath together. Padmé bristles, pushed to her own edge by the tension. “It is appropriate, Lord Vader. To share our drinks.” 

“It is for my benefit –” 

“It’s for all our benefit.” 

“Then I waive my participation. Or command your allowance on this matter. Whichever is more acceptable to you. I will watch you drink, if you prefer.” 

There is no other way around it; he is humiliating her. Whether he intends it or not, the insult is felt. Padmé gestures again for the child, who brings a tray with a pitcher and goblet for each libation. Padmé then looks to her ninth maiden, one of Sabé’s younger sisters, whose duty it is to fill the Lady’s cup. She drifts over, staring up at Padmé with unmasked anxiety, as if fearing Vader might swing an axe across her neck as soon as she gets too close. 

“Fill the chalices,” Padmé commands, pouring more harshness into it than the girl deserves. She is angry at Vader, at the situation, at the sickening intensity of being watched in this moment by everyone she leads. She wonders what they will say of her, after. 

The maiden serves Padmé one drink, then the other. For the first, Padmé stares down into the chalice. Her cheeks blossom with heat. She wishes she might disappear, no – might order this man to leave and never, ever return. 

But as the second chalice touches her lips, Padmé raises her eyes. Vader is watching her, as he threatened. His gaze feels like a knifepoint at her throat. 

Padmé sips the milk and swallows, without breaking the gaze. The eyes behind the mask widen, then crease at the corners. 

Finally, finally, the warlord looks away.

[amaltheas-garden]

"Lord Eddard's sons are dead, but his daughters live, and the younger girl is coming north to wed brave Ramsey Bolton." "Ramsey Snow," Wylla Manderly threw back. "Have it as you will. By any name, he shall soon be wed to Arya Stark. If you would keep faith with your promise, give him your allegiance, for he shall be your Lord of Winterfell." ADWD - Davos III

Oh, a Snow bastard is wedding a false Stark daughter to become Lord of Winterfell you say?

Man, I sure wonder what will happen when the real Stark daughter travels North and just so happens to reconnect with a certain other bastard named Snow who's dreamed of becoming Lord of Winterfell but rejected it so as not to usurp her claim.

[fairuzfan]

Leifer’s core justification for refusing to renounce Zionism parades itself as a kind of sober pragmatism, as if an “adult in the room” has faced the facts of Israel’s existence and can finally discipline misguided Jewish anti-Zionists. As he writes, “by 2050, most Jews will live in a sovereign Jewish state.” This means, he suggests, American Jews must contend with a future where “Jewish existence” will be “increasingly dominated by Israel as the author of the collective Jewish fate.” And, he argues, this apparently neutral fact necessitates American Jewish allegiance—albeit, qualified—with the Israeli nation-state. “The locus of the Jewish people’s historical drama is now there, in Israel, whether we like it or not,” he asserts. An apparently incontrovertible future where the “Israeli Jew, raised to live by the sword, his Jewishness taken for granted, will become the norm” is something American Jews must simply resign themselves to. He even goes as far as to state that Israel’s forthcoming eclipse of the diaspora as home to a majority of the world’s Jews means that “there can no longer be a meaningfully autonomous Jewish politics outside of [Israel].” Despite Leifer’s breezy, matter-of-fact tone, there are a number of disturbing implications about this assertion of Israel’s “demographic reality.” That Israel has “become the homeland of the majority of the world’s Jews,” (soon-to-outpace even the US Jewish population) has not simply just “emerg[ed].” Rather, it has been catastrophically produced through the relentless slaughter, displacement, and dehumanization of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians and made possible by shoehorning a once definitionally diasporic Judaism into a ghastly experiment in settler colonialism. In other words, Leifer’s demography-as-destiny analysis willfully obscures the ongoing colonial violence, racial segregation, and aggressive land theft that makes the growth of Israel’s Jewish population possible. Indeed, Leifer’s analysis is perhaps better understood as a form of demography-as-race-science: by spuriously presenting Israel’s emergence as “the global Jewish center of gravity” as a spontaneous process divorced from Israel’s history of Palestinian dispossession and occupation, Leifer helps legitimize and depoliticize an ethnonationalist project premised, as Fayez Sayegh identified in 1965, on “statehood in all of Palestine…completely emptied of its Arabs.”10 One might expect a self-proclaimed “anti-occupation Jew” to consider such matters in an argument directly related to questions of Israel’s “demographic reality.”11 Yet Leifer’s discussion of Israel’s population dominance omits any consideration of Palestinians whatsoever. As a result, he shrouds his discussion of Israeli Jewish population growth in a false sense of politically neutral inexorability, while willfully enabling the ongoing suppression of Palestinian history and experience under Zionist colonialism. Indeed, Leifer’s vision of Palestinians’ role in Israel’s “demographic reality” as homeland to a majority of the world’s Jews is unclear—a glaring oversight for an author who purportedly detests Israel’s racist and eliminatory stance towards Palestinians. For example, nowhere in his discussion of Israel’s growing Jewish population does Leifer mention or endorse the Palestinian right to return—a right that Israel still denies Palestinians displaced by the 1948 Nakba in open violation of international law. Nor does he discuss the repeal of Israel’s heinous Jewish Nation-State Law of 2018, which, as Lana Tatour argues, “simply affirms reality” in its codification of the Jewish supremacy, apartheid governance, and ongoing occupation that had long constituted Palestinians’ lived reality in a “Jewish State.”12 No matter Leifer’s stated convictions, his consciously decontextualized and statistical appeal to Israel’s impending Jewish majority can only be read as a callous whitewashing of Zionism’s colonial origins and a tacit endorsement of Israel’s ongoing fascistic debasement of Palestinian life.

—"Acting Jewishly During a Genocide: On Joshua Leifer’s Tablets Shattered" by Charlotte Rosen

[godsholyhat]

Hans/Henry Cinderella AU where Hans must marry to take over Rattay so a tourney is put on, with noble sons and daughters coming from far and wide in order to try their luck to win his hand. Henry is just a lowly city guard, having lost everything in the sacking of Skalitz save his father's sword gifted to him by Sir Radzig, and enters the tournament simply to try and win money, because no noble lord would ever marry a peasant boy like him.

(Continued below...)

While returning to Skalitz in an attempt to salvage something to buy armour for the tourney, Henry comes to the aid of a wise woman in the woods who gives him three magic hazelnuts, which will grant him a wish when he needs it the most, but she warns him that the magic will only last until midnight after he uses it. Returning to Rattay, he stumbles across a hunting party of young nobles. Wishing to join them, and ashamed of looking like a peasant, Henry makes his first wish on a hazelnut, wishing to become a proper huntsman. He cracks open the hazelnut and finds the finest equipment inside, allowing him to introduce himself to the hunting party as a fellow noble, Sir Gregor.

One young nobleman dressed in gold takes offence to him, however, especially after Henry accuses them of hunting without permission from the Lord of Rattay, and the young nobleman, in turn, accuses Henry of being a nosy commoner trying to ingratiate himself with the nobility, leading to them brawling. After they are pulled apart, Henry admits to being an impoverished commoner wishing to enter the tourney (though he claims to be the son of a burgher), and intrigued by this bold young man, the young nobleman offers him a challenge: if Henry can catch more hares in three hours than him, he will pay for Henry's entrance to the tournament. Henry wins the bet, and not long after, saves the young nobleman after he is captured by enemy soldiers while chasing a boar. The young nobleman, who claims to be the page and distant cousin of young Capon of Pirkstein, promises in return to pay the entrance fee for the tournament, so long as Henry wears a gold ribbon around his swordarm as a sign of his allegiance to Rattay. They part ways amicably, each secretly hoping to see the other again.

Returning to Rattay, Henry wishes for the proper armour of a knight. To his surprise, when he tries to enter the tournament he is greeted as Sir Gregor, and finds that his fee was paid by a mysterious young nobleman who did not show his face. He searches for his patron, but without success, and when he asks about young Capon's cousin, no one knows who he is, and Henry gives up. Though he is no great warrior, Henry fights his way through the tournament, defeating every other champion, though he is wounded in the process. Towards the end of the tournament, he becomes aware of the young nobleman in gold watching him from a balcony, but the nobleman always vanishes once the match is decided, and Henry cannot venture into the castle to find out who he is.

After the last fight, Henry is declared the winner, and promised a grand reward for his victory, including an invitation to the ball that night where Sir Hans Capon will announce his chosen spouse. Angered by this newcomer's success, however, the defeated knights decided earlier that day to find out his true identity, and though Henry has been careful not to show much of his face, he removes his helmet after the final round when the defeated knights offer him a toast in celebration. Now able to describe him, some of the defeated knights find out from the Skalitz refugees that Sir Gregor is in fact a peasant boy and the son of a blacksmith. At the final ceremony of the tourney, just as Henry is about to be granted his reward, the group of defeated knights reveal the truth, and in punishment for entering under a false name, Henry is stripped of his championship and his position as a guard, his name now tarnished. He leaves in dejection and returns to Theresa and the mill, no better off than he was when he first arrived at Rattay.

Seeing Henry miserable and lonely, Theresa encourages him to make final wish so that he might attend the ball and bid farewell to the young nobleman in gold who has so occupied his thoughts since their first meeting. The last hazelnut opens to reveal beautiful clothing, allowing Henry to disguise himself one last time and attend the ball. His late arrival draws the attention of all there, though as he is dressed in finery no one recognises him as the disgraced knight from the tournament. Only one person seems to recognise him: the young nobleman in gold in the centre of the room, who steps forward out of the circle of onlookers that have formed around Henry and offers him a dance.

One dance follows the other, until exhausted, they sneak out of the great hall and hide in the garden, where they share a kiss. Henry introduces himself properly, and reveals that the sword he carries is one he forged with his father, who was a blacksmith. The young nobleman, in turn, introduces himself as Hans, and rather embarrasedly explains that he was only pretending to be a page — he is Lord Capon of Pirkstein, and it is his wedding that will be announced that night as he has found someone to marry. Realising too late that he has fallen for the one person he cannot have, Henry makes an excuse and leaves the garden, returning to the castle, where he gives Captain Bernard his father's sword to give to Hans as a wedding present, tied with the gold ribbon he wore as Hans' champion. Before he can flee the ball, however, Hans appears and makes the announcement that he has found his future spouse. Turning to Henry, Hans offers his hand in marriage, but it is too late. The church bells strike midnight, and Henry's fine clothes disappear, revealing him as the peasant boy who had caused such a disruption at the tournament earlier that day. Humiliated, Henry flees back to the mill, and a day later leaves for Kuttenberg, where he takes up as a blacksmith's apprentice, his dreams of being a knight dashed forever.

It is not long, however, until word gets out that the Lord of Pirkstein is searching for the mysterious young man who fled from the ball, leaving behind only his sword. Desperate to find him, Sir Hans sends out his men to blacksmiths beyond even the Sasau region with orders that the smiths forge a sword for his wedding as fine as the one Henry left behind, which Hans has since given back to Sir Radzig. Henry's master, eager to win the great reward offered to whoever brings the finest sword, and recognising the talent of his apprentice, has Henry forge the sword and sends him off to Rattay to deliver it as a wedding gift. Henry arrives in time to find the town in a bustle of preparation for the wedding, and when he asks who Lord Capon's spouse is to be, is informed that they are the recently acknowledged bastard child of Sir Radzig. Heartsore, Henry decides to present the sword to Sir Hans and leave before he's forced to watch the man he loves marry someone else.

It is Sir Radzig, however, who meets Henry in the great hall of the upper castle. Henry congratulates his lord on the upcoming wedding between his child and Sir Hans, and Radzig in turn asks if Henry has found anyone, to which Henry replies that he has, but they cannot be together because he is a mere blacksmith's apprentice and the one he loves is a noble. He asks after Hans' betrothed, and Radzig reveals that he is Henry's father by blood. He explains to a startled Henry that while it will cause a scandal should Henry wed Hans, it will not be the end of the world, and that he regrets not being brave enough to wed Henry's mother when he had the chance. He returns Henry's father's sword to Henry and sends him off to give the new sword to Hans, who is waiting for him.

Henry finds Hans in the garden where they shared their first kiss all those months ago and offers him the sword he forged with his own hands. In return, Hans once again offers Henry his hand in marriage, or, if Henry does not want to rule Rattay at Hans' side, he will hand over his lands to a cousin and spend his days as a huntsman while Henry works at his forge (he rejects absolutely any manual labour, however). And so Henry, at last, accepts, and they wed and rule Rattay together, with Hans at last becoming the capable ruler everyone hoped he would become thanks, in no small part, to the sage counsel of his loyal knight and husband, Henry. And they lived happily ever after.

[thesilmarillionblog]

IMPOSTOR

Summary: Black Noir discovers he has been replaced after he wakes up from his two-month stay at Vought Hospital. He doesn't take it well.

Characters: Black Noir, Fake Black Noir from The Boys (TV) Season 4

Warnings: Violence, language, soft Black Noir, brutal Black Noir

Word Count: 1551

A/N: English is not my first language.

͟͟͞͞➳ This fiction is a gentle fuck you to E. Kripke. New Noir is not my Noir. I love Nathan Mitchell a lot, though. Babygirl. ✨

A deep sense of sorrow and suffering overcame Noir as he used his gloved hands to rub the long scars on his abdomen. Homelander, whom he considered a friend, had nearly killed him just because Noir hadn't informed him about his biological father, Soldier Boy. Since they had been keeping this a secret for decades, Vought wouldn't be grateful if Noir told a thing. Though he didn't intend to break Homelander's heart, he had struck him so hard in the stomach that he could see his organs everywhere. He felt, nonetheless, that he handled confronting his past quite nicely.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard that the CIA had captured Soldier Boy once more. Decades later, when the time came, he was not sure if he would see him face-to-face, but he knew he would be prepared. 

He feared he would die there, too, when Homelander buried his full fist in his abdomen, but unexpectedly, Homelander gave him a lecture about friendship and honesty before giving him a significant dose of Comp-V in order to save him. Noir knew that, beyond his strange idea of his friendship, Homelander was really furious and disappointed with him. That is why he forgave Homelander as just like he forgave Noir. 

Noir spent months in the Vought Hospital before preparing to rejoin the team. 

Ashley whispered, “Sir,” as Noir continued to stare at her expressionlessly. Ashley had a nervous smile on her face. “I think I must inform you that you are replaced by someone else.”

Noir straightened abruptly, moving in closer to Ashley to get her to clarify exactly what she was telling him. He let out an irate sigh and waited for her to go on. 

“The public was asking about you, and to not make things anymore complicated, Vought decided to take a new Noir into the team, looking just like you.”

Noir thought, Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was unfair. Fuck Vought and everyone. 

That was not only impossible but also a massive betrayal of his complete allegiance to Vought. He had served the company for years, and that was how they repaid him.

Noir began to inhale in rage as Ashley left the room swiftly without saying anything further. He wouldn't allow a fake to lead those who supported him to believe he was the real Noir. The true Noir was Black Noir. End of discussion. 

Picking up his phone, he sat down in the middle of the hallway to see the latest news and check the most recent updates about himself. 

He snarled with hatred as he saw his own supporters applauding the imposter while he was acting foolishly in front of the camera. They had no idea that he had suffered greatly in the previous few months and had experienced a near-death experience. How could they not see that it was obviously not him? 

Noir lost all patience with the nonsense and smashed the phone between his hands violently. He then placed his hands on his head and considered the next step of action. He would not give in so easily. Noir would absolutely teach the false one how to act appropriately in public, as it was evident that he didn't know how. 

He looked up and saw that one of his duck friends was clutching his hand. 

“You were incredibly brave and strong to withstand such an attack from Homelander. We are all proud of you,” he replied, giving him a shoulder pat. 

Noir crossed his arms and looked away. No matter what, he wasn't satisfied with the circumstances surrounding him. 

“Come on,” his friend said, giving him another leg squeeze. “The new one is not as good as you, and you can prove everyone that.”

How? Noir pondered, unsure of what to do. Things would get much messier if he disobeyed Vought, and he really didn't need that at this point. 

“You embody the true spirit of Black Noir, while he lacks your strength and bravery. Given your current state of recovery, Vought wouldn't have any problem if you told him to move aside.”

No, Noir thought. Today, he was going to expose that fraud and prove to everyone who was superior. He would never permit somebody to behave in such a way. He was adored by everyone for his true self. He refused to give up all the adoration he had and rightfully earned. 

His friend sat by his side and said, “If you kill him, don't you think Vought will get angry at you?”

They won't give a damn. They never do anything if the company is involved. Noir did not know a life outside of Vought and Homelander, so even though he was terrified of them, he reasoned that one act of disobedience wouldn't harm anyone and that no one would give a shit.

Noir made up his mind then and there, dropping his damaged phone to the ground as his friend passed by.

He said, “I'm so proud of you,” and then he vanished once more. Noir felt joy and satisfaction fill his heart. He was confident that he could handle this circumstance as needed. Just like he always did.

Noir waited for fraud to appear in his home for hours while tracking and waiting in a shadowy place after sharpening his knives and weapons. Admittedly, he was a little dramatic, but he knew it would be effective.

When the new one eventually came inside the house after many hours, the fake one noticed something wasn't quite right. An odd fragrance permeated the entire place. Then Noir emerged from his hiding place, his blades sharpened in his palm, and wandered slowly in front of the window, the moonlight brushing over his helmet. He was satisfied that his entrance proceeded exactly as he had planned and knew he looked fine and cool enough.

“You are a strange one, dude; fuck off,” the man laughed. “If you just gave me a call, I'd have invited you, you know.”

‘What a bitch’ Noir thought to himself, growing more irate as the new guy spoke without pausing. 

“Heard Homelander beat the shit out of you.” He inquired, “How did you even survive?” Noir stopped pacing and glanced at him. His wounds hurt when Homelander was brought up; he remembered all those painful memories. 

Noir tucked his knives away in the back of his suit and showed him the papers he had prepared, telling him the one on which he had written ‘now I kiill you.’ 

“Man, fuck you. You're not as scary as you believe, and you're forgetting that, despite the fact that I am a supe, Vought purposefully picked me.”

Noir laughed beneath his mask, but his laughter was more of a fury than an expression of joy. Next, he handed the new one another piece of paper and said, “Nobody nevv me. I am unigue.”

He firmly challenged him, saying, “I'm not the new you,” which wasn't a wise move given Noir's desire for a real fight. After all, he spent his months doing nothing but lying in bed; he was hungry for a proper fight. “I'm superior to you in some way. People adore me.”

It's me they love, not you. 

“Guess we have to solve this fucking mess fist to fist, man to man, huh?”

Noir, unable to contain his resentment and hatred any longer, grabbed his knives and swiftly assaulted the impostor. Noir laughed this time because he could feel the fake one's anxiety and tense breathing. He was certain that he would be too strong for this feeble con artist.

He made an attempt to fight Noir with his pathetic fists, but Noir knew that man was much weaker than expected, so he dropped his knives and took the man's head, ripping it from his body in one motion. He was holding his bloody head in his palm, his entire suit smeared with blood. He placed one hand on his hips, and, for a time, he was unable to stop grinning beneath his mask. Vought found him specifically for the weakest man alive. Or not anymore. 

Noir put his head down on his desk and peered expectantly into Stan Edgar's eyes, displaying all of his brutality and pleading with him to return to Seven immediately. Enough time had passed. 

“What the hell, Noir?” With a disgusted mutter, Edgar averted his gaze from the bloodied head. “Get this thing out of my sight, oh god.”

Noir remained motionless, waiting for him to make a statement. 

“You're back to Seven, okay. Are you happy now?” He said it hastily. “I was already going to kick him out, you sick maniac fuck.”

Noir nodded to Edgar, took the head back off his table, breathed a peaceful sigh, and exited the room, placing the lifeless head in the closest container. 

That is where you end your head up if you fuck with him. 

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

A/N: Here's my other Black Noir fics: Stranger and In the Middle of the Night. Stay tuned for more and let me know what you think!˖ ࣪ .♡˚.