#NO BC WHAT WAS THAT GLIMPSE INTO CANON???????

[swagglessmoth]

Tender moments

[incorrectsibunaquotes]

lmk why i’ve allowed myself to work myself into an emotional wreck over the denby sisters. they were sisters, man… idk

[bayofwolves]

i've been thinking ab abeke x worthy for the last 12 hours... do y'all feel me. could i convince y'all to get on board this ship

[bagheerita]

Me, watching "Profit and Loss": uh ma'am 😳 thank you ma'am

[banghwa-moved]

rotating that hyyh thing i wanna write around in my head again and honestly i’m torn on whether i should make jihope romantic or not …..

[soulsforsales]

Two things I’ll never understand:

Jason Todd being a “womaniser”

Idk wtf dc is on with this one but Jason Todd is not and never will be a womaniser. Like that man might be a 6 foot wall of muscles, trauma, and repressed emotions but he has zero to no experience when it comes to sex. He died as a virgin and was resurrected as one, he was groomed by Talia (acc to some canon representations, I think) so he already didn’t think of sex as this amazing or perfect thing and even if he does have sex where he feels comfortable and safe — he will cry, like who are you kidding??? Jason has mentioned that he can’t distinguish between romantic and platonic love, he’s always been too focused on his missions/job/goal to care about romance— where in the fucking hell is this guy getting time to fuck around with women??? Dc??? wtf????

Jason Todd being a cheater.

I get why people think this bcs other males in the Bat Family have not always been very… faithful, let’s say. But Jason Todd cheating on his woman??? NO FUCKING WAY. This man has had no glimpse of what a healthy and safe relationship is supposed to look like and if he finds someone who gives him that??? If he finds someone who loves him unconditionally, someone who sees behind the mask and loves the broken boy, someone who doesn’t flinch even when all of him is bare— I bet you my biscuits Jason would never even look at someone else let alone think about cheating. Jason Todd is not just any men — he’s the man. He’ll worship someone who gives him the love he’s always been deprived of. When he loves someone, he’s all in. He loves fiercely and loudly; that’s just who Jason Todd is. He’s never cheating. Period.

[beloveds-embrace]

(elys anon)

Ik this is probably unrealistic but I'm imagining that some of the fae in court and the staff got a crush on the WONDEROUS miss duchess bc if why prey shaped why does she have those distracting assets, it's not even a pervy way me thinks most of fae are used to sharp edges and cruel smiles but the duchess no matter how hard she hides it is soft, she has a round and soft plush body that bounces in the very right places iykwim and GODDAMMIT those idiot king and his husband's don't just see what a beauty landed in their hands??!??????? Unacceptable truly (no I am not projecting to the aforementioned fae folk no I'm not wdym)

the longer i wrote this, the more it escaped me 😭 this is a softer, happier approach in general, so it’s not totally “canon” compliant to the fae au || masterlist

It began, as all dangerous fascinations do in the fae court, not with a spell or a spectacle, but with a glance.

A too-long, too-still glance.

One of the green-moss Ladies who worked often in the the western wing- nose always in the air, tongue always sharper than sense- was the first to nearly walk into a marble pillar during a meeting because she’d been watching you descend the steps to the throne.

You hadn’t even done anything. Simply walked. But the fabric of your gown had clung and swayed in just the right way, the stitching pulled ever so slightly across the softness of your hips, your bodice gently curved from the press of plush breasts, your arms round and warm where fae tended toward the sharp and sinewy. Even your hands, gloved in dark lace and shiny steel, looked gentle. Prey-shaped.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered later, nose red from the bump, elongated ears still pink. “Completely inappropriate. Distracting. Utterly- unacceptable.”

And yet the looks didn’t stop.

They’d grown up among creatures who wore their cruelty like pearls. Beauty in the fae realm was meant to be honed like a blade- razor-edged cheekbones, teeth like opals, bodies willowy and cold and pulled taut by ancient glamours. There was a particular kind of aesthetic expected of queens: cold-fire lips, bone-thin limbs, voices like thorns against silk. Certainly, the Queen Mother embodied such beauty.

And then there was you.

Oh, you could wield thorns- no one denied that. But you were still so unbearably, unfairly soft inspite of everything the Queen Mother ordered for you to be dressed in. You had hips that swayed like music and a stomach that curved just enough to tempt wonder. The soft pudge of your thighs peeked from split skirts like promises. Your collarbone rose and fell with breath, and not even your fae-trained posture could hide the bounce in your step or the plush sway of your figure when you moved.

The palace staff, at the very least those who didn’t hate you on principle, were worse than the courtiers. They adored you, especially those who directly served you long enough for their opinions of you to shift and change. Those who were brought in by Johnny specifically after they’d noticed your old servants skimping on taking care of you also fit right in.

“She’s like something out of a mortal dream,” one of the castle maids whispered and giggled, half-swooning into a pile of enchanted laundry. “Have you seen the way she fills that midnight velvet?”

“She smiled at me once,” one of the palace guards at the east tower confessed. “Nearly dropped my blade. I didn’t even want to blink.”

The tailors added tiny hearts into the hems of your gowns, in silvers and purples and dark reds so the Queen Mother would not glower at and fire them. The flower-couriers argued weekly over who got to deliver arrangements to your quarters- just for the chance to catch a glimpse of your bare arms, your soft eyes, your gentle way of saying “thank you” like it meant something.

And through it all, your husbands remained so stupidly, criminally unaware. Though of course, none would dare say such things outloud.

King John, with his brooding silences and wine-slick muttering. Advisor Simon, who glared too hard to ever look properly. Advisor Johnny, who got never remained long enough to notice. Advisor Kyle, who was too busy standing protectively near you to realize the one he was guarding.

Unacceptable. Truly.

But at least it meant the courtiers could take more and more liberties. Standing too close. Speaking too sweetly. Offering gifts that were a little too personal. There were whispers now in the moonrooms and crystal hall- about what a tragedy it was for something so radiant, so luscious, to be tethered to those oblivious king and advisors.

“They still see her as strategy,” someone murmured once in the bathhouse, where even the tiles eavesdropped. The soft smell of your soaps and oils was like a siren’s song. “Not as beauty.”

But it wasn’t just lust nor just the curve of your body or the warmth of your skin- it was the contradiction of you; a queen who ruled with a sharp tongue and wore gowns that hugged your soft belly. Who could summon thorns with a flick of your wrist but still cried at sad endings in mortal books. Who sat on a throne of obsidian with all the weight of crown and court pressing down- and still smiled kindly at the maid who spilled tea.

You were prey-shaped, yes. No one would ever deny that.

But you were beloved.

And eventually, much to the courtiers’ combined disappointment and relief, your husbands began to notice.

Not because of the murmurs (though they were (getting louder) or the offerings (those had become truly absurd- someone gifted you a custom-carved bathing pool shaped like a swan), and not even because someone visibly was attempting to become a lover of yours, kings and advisors be damned.

No.

It was because you’d started laughing more, smiling softer, and they weren’t the ones causing such changes.

And that- that made the boys very, very stupidly possessive.

But that’s a tale for another day (noona ran out of things to write).

[thatrandomidiot182]

Glimpse of Another Life

Variant! Invincible/Mark Grayson × Kryptonian! Reader

Warnings. minor angst, mentions of unrequited love, mentions of death/murder.

A/N. This is verrry dialogue centric, and written during 3am spurts of inspiration, so it's not the greatest, but I do like how it ended up. I hope yall like it as well! P.s. This is not referencing any of the canon Mark variants, but it can be seen as viltrumite Mark if you want! I just had this idea and wanted to share bc pathetic Mark has me DOWN BAD 😫

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"I thought I'd find you here."

The statement sends a wave of panic down your spine, breaking the peaceful silence you had tried so desperately to find. Your body springs up, instantly uncurling from the fetal position you had been floating in as you tense, preparing to face the source.

"You always came up here after a rough day."

God you wish he'd just shut up.

You never thought you'd feel like this, but after everything that's happened these last twenty-four hours, all you wanted to do was escape that damn voice.

It's why you had fled the planets atmosphere in the first place. Speeding off to curl up in your hiding place next to the sun as soon as things had died down.

It was the one place you knew you could avoid Mark— or at least, your Mark.

It was the one place you could escape the sound of his voice spitting words he'd never say.

"You look exactly the same... You're as beautiful as the day I lost you."

He whispers your name like a prayer, and it sends a violent wave of nausea rolling through your stomach.

Just yesterday it would have brought you an embarrassing amount of glee to hear his voice calling out to you in such a tone.

The teasing lilt and deep, raspy pitch would normally send a wave of comfort over your tensed figure, instantly quelling your fear... Mark always did have the innate ability to shatter your defenses. Even with something as simple and small as a laugh.

"Please. I'm not here to hurt you. I'd never hurt you, I just... I needed to see you again. It's the only reason I came here."

His voice trembles, pitch heightened as he begs, "Please let me see you."

Your body trembles as you feel his presence drawing closer. Whether it was with fear, rage or exhaustion, you don't know. Maybe a sick combination of all three...

"I'm not that person..."

It was the only thing you could think to say in the moment, and your enhanced hearing allows you to hear the stutter in his breath all too clearly...

Along with his heartbeat, which was beating almost as fast as yours.

"I know."

His voice is small, defeated. As you finally turn to face him, body coiled and tensed for a fight, you find yourself freezing at the sight�� because this Mark was different.

His face was stronger, more defined. All chisled cheeks and sharp jawline, no trace of the leftover baby fat you loved to squish when he was being too cocky.

Prominent eyebags and traces of a five o-clock shadow age him significantly. Although, taking into account the scars that littered his face and hands and the pure size of him, it was safe to assume he was a bit older.

As your gazes finally meet, you find yourself hesitating at the amount of pain and fondness his eyes held.

That hesitation lasted for only a moment, because as soon as your brain processed the full image of this Mark, you froze.

There are quite a few reasons you feel as though you should be afraid of him, but none of them were what set you off.

It wasn't the suit, which was, to your horror, the classic Viltrumite uniform that you had seen on the previous visits from the race.

It wasn't the length of his hair, which was only slightly shorter than your Marks' was and added to the aura of stern maturity he carried.

It wasn't even the broad expanse of his shoulders, that easily beat your Mark's in comparison, that caused you to freeze in such fear.

It was because of how much he looked like his father.

From the slope of his shoulders to the cinch of his waist, even down to the swell of his thighs, this Mark was undeniably his fathers son.

You'd never thought that Mark had looked like Nolan as much as everyone said he did, but seeing what could be– what is, this other Mark... One who is far from the slender, goofy, childhood best friend of yours that can't build huge muscles if his life depended on it...

Suddenly made you grateful that Debbie's genes had put up such a fight.

Because even as you see Nolan in the mass of his muscles, and the stance that takes up as much space as possible while simultaneously exuding danger and strength– You can still see the remnants of his humanity in the shape of his eyes and curve of his lips. In the slope of his nose and the brown of his iris, you see traces of one of the greatest women you've ever known.

Which is the only reason you haven't moved to attack.

Because this Mark was different. Not just from your Mark, but from all the other Mark's who you had fought (and killed) throughout the past few hours.

Whereas those Marks were all varying in size and stature, their eyes had all held the same sinister glint.

They all shared the same sick inclination to violence and pride, never hesitating to attack first, with a stupid, egoistic whip and strength that rivaled your own.

He didn't.

Despite his size, his posture was carefully submissive, hands splayed open before your eyes in a show of innocence and vulnerability.

His eyes were gentle and tired, rather than obsessive and manic as the others had been.

Still, despite his seemingly unviolent nature, you don't know why you never attacked him.

Maybe it was the desperate hope to find another Mark that was good, or at least, not as bad as all the others.

Maybe it was the overwhelming exhaustion that had numbed your mind since you were first forced to kill a version of your best friend.

Or maybe it was because he somehow knew where to find you, when even your Mark had no idea about your solar absorption, that led you to where you are now.

Sat next to him in a cozy little crater on the moon, overlooking earth as he recalls your alternate life.

"We grew up together. Inseparable since the moment Nolan brought you home from the GDA after your little ship landed in the middle of New York." You note the peculiar use of Nolan's name, nodding along with his words as you reflect on your past with your own Mark.

"I used to be so jealous of you growing up. Unlike me, you had your powers since birth. Nolan always told me that it didn't matter how long you had your powers because when I got mine, I'd be stronger anways." He scoffed, "Fucker was always trying to pit us against each other..."

You tilted your head at that, confused by the notion, "He... never did that here." Your voice was hesitant, unsure if sharing the fact would comfort or further upset him.

Based on the way he smiled at the sound of your voice, you assume he wasn't too concerned with your actual words.

"That.. Makes me so happy to hear, actually." He laughs, breathless and without much humor, "I imagine we– You have a much better relationship with him then..." He trails off, glancing questioningly your way.

You pause, "With Nolan? Or..."

He huffs, leaning more into his elbows that are crossed over his bent knees as he responds, "Both, I suppose..." He gazes out at the expanse of space longingly, "I've thought about it a lot... What it could've been like if he never made us hate each other."

His grin falters, "But that didn't happen. Well, it did, just– not fast enough..." He stutters, and you watch nervously as his fists clench.

"We were at each other's throats our entire lives, and it only got worse when I finally got my powers– I think I was thirteen?" His body remains tense as he continues, "I used to see you as competition. Nolan always paid more attention to you. He took you with him on patrol, he trained you, he.... He made me feel like you were in the way of our relationship as father and son."

He scowls, "I felt like I had to fight for Nolans attention whenever you were around, and it made me hate you because you seemed to take it for granted. You were never enthusiastic about spending time with him, you even seemed to avoid it, and it pissed me off to see you taking advantage of it when I had to beg for crumbs of his approval." He grit his teeth, shuffling ridgedly and you instinctively lean further away at his agitation.

His head snaps your way, and your heart lurches in your throat, wide eyes meeting his as he softens under your flighty stare.

"That's exactly what he planned..." He trails off, head turning away as his body slumps, agitation fizziling out at the sight of your fear. "He wanted me to hate you, so that I would eventually have the will to... eliminate you when the time came to conquer earth. He-He knew that you were the only thing that could pose a threat to our takeover." You both winced at the wording.

"It wasn't until junior prom that I actually opened my eyes..." He laughed sadly.

"Mom made us go together, seeing as neither of us were very popular and tried to use that as an excuse not to go..." He smiled with a wistful sigh, "I'm glad she did. It... ended up being the best night of my life." Your heart clentched at the sight of his crooked smile. His eyes were glazed and reflected the light of the stars in a way that had your breath hitching all too familiarly.

He laughs again, eyes crinkling with affection, "I still remember how awkward you looked in your cute little outfit." His voice took on a teasing lilt as he glanced at you, "Standing at the top of the stairs all grumpy because mom wanted a picture..." He leaned back to lean on his hands with a laugh, "I remember standing there like an idiot. Gaping like a fish because, all of a sudden, you were more than the annoying kid who took my dad from me... You were just... A normal teenager... Who also happened to be the prettiest person I'd ever seen." Your cheeks flushed, and despite knowing he's not actually talking about you... you couldn't help but let yourself indulge in the compliment that your Mark had never even come close to speaking.

"You know, I beat myself up the entire car ride to the school. It was so awkward and it made me realize that despite my dad's interference... You never hated me."

Your eyes are wide and curious as you listen. His voice held so much fondness for this other version of you, it was shocking to imagine him ever hating her.

"I felt like the worst person alive when I realized that despite how awful I was to you, you never held it against me. Guess it's because you knew that I didn't know who my dad actually was..." his voice trailed off, and you could sense the rising anger simmering in his eyes.

"Who knew all it took for you guys to get along was teenage hormones and the dougie..."

Your absentminded comment snaps him out of his haze, drawing his attention as a bewildered stare graces his features.

"I mean, a sixteen year rivalry ended in one night! Must've been some prom..." You smile as you finally get a laugh out of him, quietly reveling in the sound.

"Yeah. It sure was." He smirks, eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief, "You can dance a mean cupid shuffle."

You burst into laughter, tossing your head back with a grin, "Tell me, does you having two left feet translate to every universe?"

He grins back, "Well, yeah– but you said it was cute!"

Your laughter rings in the quiet expanse of space, heard only thanks to the superior senses of your respective alien biologies.

In your humorous fit, you fail to realize how close you began to lean towards Mark until the warmth of his bicep met your own.

Your laughs dwindle at his sudden silence, head tilting to eye him as you grow concerned.

You were met with a gentle, fond smile that set your heart ablaze. His eyes were soft, cheeks pink and dimpled as he stared at you reverently.

You stayed quiet, allowing yourself the moment to soak in his undivided adoration, silently preening under his gaze.

It wasn't until he reached a hand up to brush against your cheek that you snapped out of your stupor. Hesitantly pulling away as you reprimand yourself for getting swept away.

After all, this isn't your Mark.

This isn't your best friend (and nothing more).

Your Mark would never willingly speak so adoringly of you.

Your Mark would never caress you so softly, as if you were something to be worshipped.

Your Mark just didn't love you like you loved him.

It was cruel and unfair to lean into the embrace of this Mark and take advantage of his feelings because at the end of the day, you are not the you he fell in love with.

Your thoughts drive you to break the silence with a sharp sigh, pointedly ignoring his hurt stare as he slowly lowers his hand back to his side.

"Why are you here, Mark?"

He stares at you with a furrowed brow, "I told you, I wanted to see–"

"No, I mean–" You take a breath, gesturing to the earth before you half-heartedly, "Why did you come here with them, if you don't want to conquer our world like they do?"

He takes longer to answer you this time, and you began to worry about his answer.

"It was the only way to see you again." His voice is shaky, the warmth from your previous conversation gone as he glares out at the planet. "Angstrom promised that if I helped him get revenge, he'd let me see you– have you." He pauses, and you tense at the implication of his words.

He sighs, wincing at your jumpiness as he rushes to reassure you, "I'm not here to be the bad guy. I don't want to conquer this earth, I could care less about this Mark! I just– I needed to see you alive. T-To know that you're happy and healthy here... and to make sure it stays that way." His last words are spoken so softly they were almost whispered, and you hesitate to believe them for the sole reason you think you might have hallucinated them.

Nonetheless, you stay silent at the revelation, allowing yourself the time to properly digest your entire encounter thus far.

Your head is far more clouded than when you originally came up here after Mark had disappeared with Eve. After your heart could no longer take killing him again and again...

You don't know what you're supposed to do anymore...

You want to cry, but you can't because you know the Mark next to you will want to comfort you, and the worst part is that you'd allow it.

You want to go back down and pummel every varient you come across just to let out the frustration you feel, but you won't. Not after discovering the possibility that they're not all bad.

So what can you do? What should you do?

What will you do?

What you always do–

"Well, you said you weren't here to be the bad guy, right?"

You slowly rise from your seated position, looming over Mark with a steeled gaze.

Despite your seriousness, you can't help the quirk of your lips at the intense way he nods his head. You shoulders stiffen as you turn back towards earth resolutely, sparing him one last glance before taking off.

"Prove it."

–Save your planet.

[etherealrin]

✧₊⁺ thinking about nerd!karasu...

nerd!karasu who wears heavy rimmed glasses whenever he's in class or studying. though he wears contacts most of the time and whilst playing football, he houses a firm belief that wearing his glasses make him a better student.

nerd!karasu who accidentally becomes your academic rival after placing above you one too many times in the test rankings. it pisses you off how he's so good at analyzing your facials, knowing exactly how to press your buttons. and he wasn't even a psychology major!

nerd!karasu who's in love with anthropology and can occasionally be found on weekends sitting in random cafes near campus. according to him, he's "people watching."

nerd!karasu who needs a matcha latte every morning or else he cannot function at the 9 AM lectures he foolishly thought he could wake up for when he was doing course registration.

nerd!karasu who despite being known as "studious" somehow has time to be the star player of your university's football team, and a full time gym rat. does this man even sleep?

nerd!karasu who is often caught at the convenience store at stupidly late hours. one time you witnessed him microwaving a buldak carbonara inside of 7-11 at 3 am. why were you there? to get a red bull (so you could continue your all nighter.)

nerd!karasu who's keenly perceptive; he knows when you're feeling down. if he's feeling generous that day, he'll ask if you want to grab pastries together (when you're in a bad mood he almost always pays.)

nerd!karasu who during midterm and finals season is too tired and locked in to gel up his hair so you're blessed with the rare sighting of his raven colored locks falling naturally down his face. his bangs get into his eyes and he has to shake his head to clear them.

nerd!karasu who has this infuriating (hot) habit of lifting his shirt up to wipe his sweat in the too-warm lecture halls, giving everyone a glimpse of impeccable washboard abs. he winks when he catches girls staring.

nerd!karasu who's favorite subject is chemistry, which you happen to share with him. your professor had just assigned a month-long lab report that would total 20% of your semester grade, so you were really praying that your partner wouldn't be a complete bum. when karasu’s name and yours are called together, you're not sure whether to be relieved or distressed. on one hand, karasu was insanely smart. on the other, he was annoying, your number one competitor, and kind of beautiful. scratch that, he was majestic.

karasu wastes no time tracking you down after the professor is done, his smirk making you self-conscious.

"would ya look at that, sweetie. it's us two, again."

"yeah well, don't drag us down," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. you pretend he has no effect on you, that his deep eyes don't draw you in with a magnetic pull.

and maybe nerd!karasu had pure, academic intentions when he invited you to his room to work on the report. maybe he didn't mean to lean in too close, to flirtingly tease with you.

you're trying to type and he's making it impossible because he insists on "making sure you didn't mess up his pc settings." what that really entails is his hot breath on your neck as you attempt to finish up the document. karasu is staring shamelessly; you're trying not to think about any of it. you're in his room, sitting in his chair, with his things surrounding you—worst of all, he's way too close. every little spike of his purplish hair, you feel against your skin.

"you're turning red," he notes, peering at you through his black rimmed frames.

"maybe if you got off m- huh?"

karasu's pulling you in by the waist, expression unreadable and eyes shining with anything but the intent to do schoolwork.

"we're practically done now. i think that we should stop studying the reactivity of elements and start looking at attractivity instead."

a/n: karasu and his cheesy chem pickup lines…we've seen nerd!gojo but wb karasu!! even better bc imo this is so canon.

masterlist!!

[reidsmanuscript]

Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough though because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

You kept your voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.” 

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

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You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

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part III　 Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

[batbabydamian]

Hellooo it's a been a minute- feel free to ignore BUT if you'd be so inclined... thoughts on the latest batman and robin issue? I absolutely adore Damian volunteering at the hospital, it's such a sweet step in his character arc (also something abt how Thomas AND Ras were both doctors, Talia was studying medicine in Cairo when she met Bruce, Alfred was a personal surgeon for Bruce for years...the one thing his family has in common is healing) and I'm very interested in the whole "Damian maybe quitting robin" thing. I doubt they'll commit to that (bc then they don't have a book lmao) but it's still an interesting question to ponder. I've seen ppl speculate that the doctor Damians volunteering for is a suspect and he's trying to drive a wedge between batman and robin?? So that's a possibility.

Anyway yeah! Sorry for the big blab but I like your Damian thoughts and figured it was worth striking up a convo. Hope you're well!

Damian blabbing is always appreciated!! 😤 i’m swamped with irl responsibilities so rambling about the series has been delegated to yapping sessions with @gotham-snark LOL so i’ll tag her in for any further thoughts!

Damian volunteering at the hospital!! is so sweet!! orz hopefully it becomes a part of his civilian life or a future in the medical field… i lean toward Damian pursuing something wholly his own but this healing route is something i’m still happy with, especially for the reasons you mentioned with both sides of his family! 🥺 also like you said, just a beautiful character arc for him when fighting has been the priority for most his life, which Bruce has pointed out enough lol

idk if Damian will have the same medical skillset in this run, but i like the idea of him being this incredibly capable lil hospital volunteer 😆

Detective Comics (2016) #995, #996 (it’s a simulation in these panels but his skillset's gotta be part of the database) not that they'd let him but imagine this kid participating in surgical operations at the hospital haha

Damian's comment about quitting looks more like a nagging thought after all the recent events, from the incident with Emma to learning more about himself and Thomas. another glimpse of his uncertainty in his future!!

but ykw i’d take him quitting the vigilante life over becoming Batman in whatever future TKing’s hoping with Trinity now being canon sdfghj please PKJ take Damian far from that i’m begging... seriously though, yeah! he's absolutely not quitting when he's making regular Robin appearances in other books and confirmed for a movie in the future (the latter idk for better or worse...)

it’s interesting to get more in depth with how Damian is affected when he “loses” a civilian on his watch - even worse that she’s a child, and Damian mentioning that he was mean to her augh 😭

it reminds me of how much responsibility Damian takes when he feels that he's failed people, like Sasha/Scarlet and ofc Pennyworth. not to mention the entire Year of Blood

Batman and Robin (2009) #6

with Sasha, it was briefly explored. Damian expresses his feelings to Dick, who replies with a joke. Damian helps Sasha against Flamingo and ends up getting shot, but it's not clear whether he calls it even for taking the bullets to his back or just for the save. alternatively, she did leave Damian with Flamingo to run away, kinda like how Damian left her with Pyg. either way, that inner conflict's quickly resolved!

Batman: Alfred Pennyworth R.I.P. (2020) and Robin (2021) #8

with Alfred...what a mess asdfg but disregarding Bruce/Alfred being the ones at fault, Damian's guilt spans over so many titles from 2020 to finally having a resolution just this year

all this to say again!! that this Batman and Robin run is an amazing jumping-on point for new and old readers to read a complete arc with this kind of conflict for Damian!! very invested in how he's been trying to deal with it, along with the ensuing drama with his father!! even though we're not getting Damian's full thoughts yet, the image of Emma lying on the ground replaying in his mind has been so impactful 😭

speaking of Alfred, this!! cheering!! Williamson's made an attempt to show it was Bruce's mistake but still ended up making Damian the instigator. so it's nice to see PKJ continuing to make it clear!!

Shadow War: Alpha (2022) and Robin (2021) #14 the way i cheered in Shadow War then sighed at Robin 14 hhh it's like Damian can only make jabs at blaming Bruce in the heat of the moment. is it a rule not to say that Bruce made a wrong call back then and got Alfred killed...

Dr. Bashar lol we can count him out based on him being too obvious a suspect like the classic finger pointing of “it’s the doctor!!”. he was supposed to be trapped in the ballroom with Damian and the guests which should've been in flames. he's also just been v nice with Damian 🥺 OR SLAPPING MY CONSPIRACY BOARD Bashar could be part of the Nicodemus Crow cult/Mementist/Memento 🤔

a friend of the late Waynes and met Bruce as a child? introduced along with a new villain that’s themed around reenacting past tragedies? HUH

some headscratchers in issue #16!

Damian's learning more about Sacred Heart from Thomas's journals, so could there be more to the restored hospital? and then there's the convenient mistake in scheduling Damian during the setup at Arkham, putting Bruce at a disadvantage and a lack of a rebreather

clearly we need to wait for further issues to know more about what went down between Bruce/"Jack" and Memento, but just funny how Bruce says this while Damian is probably with Bashar at this moment lol

it also doesn't help that the Jack flashbacks are being paralleled to Damian in the present day, so whatever's the final flashback could mean big trouble or big reveal

extra details i'm squinting too close at, like really reaching here:

Bashar and Memento are both mr. worldwide...

if Bashar's aware he has people against him, he could've been the "supposed sympathizer" supplying weapons to the thugs to encourage a break-in. if Bruce hadn't gone down to the lower levels to deal with them, he wouldn't have had that face-off with Memento in the boiler room

Emma’s mother as a nurse recently stationed at Sacred Heart? could even see a possible interaction with Damian

EDIT: i was so caught up on Bashar, i failed to mention Lautrec LMAO (i even missed reading an entire panel about her until Nico mentioned it hsjddj BLESS) but she seems to be a big player just based on the fact that PKJ and Mendonca are selling the issue as a “first appearance” for her!

GODD THIS RUN IS FUN every issue is meaty, and always leaves us hungry for more like woah!! potential character development!! family drama!! engaging mysteries and detective work!! DAMIAN!! i rambled more than i thought haha I'D LOVE TO HEAR MORE BATMAN AND ROBIN (2023) BABBLING!! OR ANYTHING DAMIAN!!

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK LADEL, I HOPE YOU'RE WELL TOO!! ☺️

[dream-with-a-fever]

the people who claim ginny’s “personality” came out of nowhere never fail to amaze me with their inability to actually comprehend the text

it’s literally shown in PS (fleetingly) on the train platform and talked about as early as CoS that ginny weasley is a certified YAPPER. she’s a talkative, opinionated gal. ron points out that her quiet / shy behaviour is very unusual for her, so if one does have basic comprehension skills, it is pretty clear that the ginny we see in the earlier books (which are from harry’s pov) is not who she really is. ginny says as much herself in HBP, “i never used to be able to talk in front of you remember? hermione thought you’d take more notice if i was a bit more… myself”? like are we comprehending this? it’s not rocket science…

as the books go on, her confidence around harry grows the more she detaches herself from the idea of harry that she grew up with, and the actual harry. this journey is slightly impeded by the fact that harry saves ginny’s life in CoS, which she feels a significant amount of guilt and embarrassment over (which harry himself picks up on this in PoA), not to mention she’s still processing the trauma that accompanied that experience (as seen in the way she reacts to the dementors — she is the only one who has a strong reaction to them, like harry). in the years following, we find out in CC (whether you take that to be canon or not), ginny explains she was very lonely during and after the diary debacle, as she felt very isolated from everyone else. this would also cause her self-confidence to take a severe battering, therefore her true personality is not able to shine, especially not in front of harry potter aka her crush aka the boy who saved her life and almost died doing it.

in GoF, harry (and in turn us, as the readers) start to see glimpses of her playful personality - she’s close with fred and george, she calls her brothers out when they’re being unkind, she goes to the yule ball with neville (turning down the opportunity to go with harry, because she doesn’t want to go back on her word), she gives ron’s owl a silly name and she starts to let go of her childhood crush, and takes a chance on another boy who’s actually shown interest in her.

by the time we see her again in OotP, OF COURSE she has undergone some serious character development. she has a boyfriend now! she has a group of friends now! she’s able to be herself around harry! she has a better support system now, her self confidence has returned, and with it, her sense of self worth. she calls harry out on his shit when he needs it, she also comforts him and gives him the space to share his worries without judgement or admonition, she stands up for what’s right, she kicks ass at quidditch (which she’s been wanting to do for the past four years bc she has been practising since she was six years old!), she joins the fight at the DoM, risking her life and dumps her boyfriend for being a sore loser! because she deserves better than that!

the ginny we see in HBP has gone through So Much. but she has only continued to grow as a character - with so much heart, wit and spunk. of course, harry is paying attention now and of COURSE he’s a flustered mess trying not to fall for his bestfriend’s sister for nearly 800 pages but he can’t help it!!!

a lot of ginny’s development happens behind the scenes, in quiet ways, but if you actually pay attention, it’s very obvious who she truly is. the reader slowly becomes more fascinated by this girl as more and more of her story unravels — as does harry. and that’s the beauty of it.

[penvisions]

of beskar and kyber {chapter 24}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: Time moves slowly as you and Din search the galaxy for signs of your old way of life, growing closer and cultivating your relationship with each other as the days pass by.

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: plot heavy, reader is canonically tan, sort of a mix of oc / reader insert, canon typical violence, canon typical language, din and reader have potty mouths bc i say so lol, mando'a language - translations may be a bit pedestrian, glimpse into jedi culture, reader has a lot of internal monologue, reader feels the emotions lingering in the force at various sights of jedi battles and locations, emotional turmoil, off screen deaths, physical attraction, reader and din be lookin' at each other, soft din, reader grows into herself more, smut, adult content, oral (f and m receiving),p in v, unprotected p in v, confessions, pet names (mando'a), making din engage in pillow talk is one of my finer moments lol, i think that's it for this one!

A/N: this'll be my last chapter for these two for a hot minute but that doesn't mean i love them any less ♡ in regards to this post, i will be focusing on a few things before i return to them, but i promise that i will because they mean so much to me

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“Harder,” You grunt, feeling the sweat drip down between your shoulder blades- skin hot and air too little in your lungs. You feel the head of Din’s body close, so close, pressed up against your bad where he’s practically plastered. His chest heaves in time with your own, his hands trailing over your sides where he grips you tight, fingers digging into the give that’s developed there over your time together.

As soon as they tighten, you turn in his grip and press your chest to his. What little clothing you have on allows for the soft, dark hair that decorates his chest to hush against your skin and you close your eyes in a long blink to savor the feel. His beautiful face dips, warm brown eyes meet your own when you open them- and then you hook your arms underneath his and you press into the joint atop his shoulders.

He grunts with the force of your fingers digging into him, body jolting as his brows furrow and his mouth forms a thin line. His hands twitch, as if overwhelmed. As they fall from your body, you adjust your weight firmly on your feet and haul him over your shoulder completely.

It’s too fast for him to counter the move, his back slams into the lush grass you both stand in. Before he can spring back up, you’re moving to straddle his middle, the blade you pull from your pouch positioned against the underside of his chin as your knees dig into the soft flesh of his forearms at his sides.

“I told you,” You put all of your weight on him even as his legs lift up for his feet to press flat into the ground. His hips press into your lower back, but it’s not enough for him to through you off as you lean back against them with an arch of your body. “You need to hit harder if you’re going to do anything.”

His pupils are blown wide as the brush of your ass meets where his belt secures his pants around his waist. The blade doesn’t loosen from your grip even as you lean down to press your forehead to his in the way you two have made your own.

Two fingers pinch your backside and it gives him enough room when your jolt at the unexpected action to flip jostle you off of him. He’s pinning you face first in the grass, hissing slightly at the slice of the blade into his forearm as he does so and takes both your hands forcefully behind your back, knocking it away with a flick of his wrist. Your breath leaves you as your chest presses into the ground and his weight presses to you, his knees now holding the backs of your thighs down.

You wiggle, testing his hold. But a deep chuckle sounds from behind as you manage to do nothing but press into his crotch. You can feel him through the fabric when he grinds into you. You grip tight to the belt looped in his flight pants, fingers tangled beneath the security there. He doesn’t think anything of it, momentarily lost in the feel of your continued wiggling when suddenly you pull him so roughly forward that he loses his balance. His knees slip from where they dig into your thighs, and it gives you enough room to get up on your knees and unclasp the mechanism of his belt. You buck him over onto his side and whip the belt from his pants to tie around his wrists. Pulling taut and clasp it back shut in an imitation of the binders he once used on you so long ago.

The actual binders he had fastened to the part of the belt that rests against on the back of his waist are clinked around his ankles and buzz as the shock sensors activate. He’s flat on his back, shirt rucked up and all limbs tied as he watches you straddle him for real now. Knees on either side of his slim hips, you lean down whisper in his ear.

“Looks like I win, ik’aad.” To ease the defeat a bit, you grind down on him and are rewarded with a guttural sound punching from deep in his chest. He’s fully hard now, beneath you and his breathing heaves in and out as he looks up at you through his lashes. Your giggles only work him up more, the sound so pure and lighthearted that he can’t even be mad you one upped him with dirty tactics.

Not if the smiling visage of your lips are moving down to press to his own.

Dust flies around you as you walk down the no longer tended to road. A simple foot path that leads straight to the ruins you’ve been searching for. The mask pulled up over your nose allows you to breathe easier as the wind whips around harshly.

The hush of the door closing and the whine of mechanics as the ramp recedes back into the ship to securely lock replaces the wind and then it’s silent. It’s late but you know Din is up in the cockpit, watching for your return and his boots sound on the ladder as he descends into the hull space.

He doesn’t ask how it went and you only offer a small shake of your head. All that was to be found within the ruins was residual energy, the force calling to you as you search through meditation for any sign of the life you once led.

He trusts you to make the calls on this, to help find the loose threads of what was once a sprawling and integral part of the galaxy. He doesn’t know much about it other than what he’s gathered from you directly and the little the Armorer shared with him and the next plan of action will help him to learn more.

He watches silently as you remove your cloak, still the same one he first bought for you a whole rotation ago. The floral metal clasp clinks quietly as you fold it and set it on the makeshift table you stand beside. Removing the mask, you can feel his eyes through the dim lighting tracing your face as it’s exposed.

He doesn't push for answers, easily reading your solemn demeanor.

The ruins, they gave you so many answers. The scenes that flitted up in your memory as if they were a holo net show

With a sigh, you remove it completely, the cowl around your neck as well. The beskar fastened to your shoulders feels heavier in the wake of your exploration, the discovery of the smaller skeletons too much for your heart. You feel his eyes watch as you retrieve a mug and a pod for the caf machine. It putters to life and you grip the small counter set into the wall that's still exposed from his own earlier activities.

"I need to go back at first light." You hang your head, eyes unfocused and chest tight. The screams still echo in your ears, the panic and fear. Ringing loud, the emotions filling you up until you hear a loud crack and hot liquid sprays all over you.

Eyes snapping back into focus, you feel a firm hand on your back and Din's breath against your ears. The drone his voice was, mingling with the screams becomes clear now as he whispers soothing words to you. The mug, it was cracked and steaming caf trickles down the counter and onto the floor, soaking into the front of your shirt. He approached as soon as it happened, shutting off the machine to ensure it didn't keep running.

"I've got you, you're safe, ner karta." His voice is a hum in your ear, deep and soft around the edges.

"S-sorry, I didn't-I-"

"I know, it's okay." He soothes you, sturdy body pressing close against your back, his hand migrating to your front and flattening in the middle of your chest to rest over your heart. You're sure that he can feel how fast it beats beneath your ribs but he doesn't say anything more. Offering you comfort and reassurance when you realize the heavy energy in the air that you pulled with your sensitivity.

"They deserve a proper burial." You whisper, just as you feel the brush of his plush lips on your temple and then your cheek as he slowly turns you in his arms to face each other. His helmet is resting on the table beside your stuff, you glimpse it over his shoulder.

"Of course, mesh'la."

It’s quiet for a moment, both of you just holding each other. The caf that soaks your shirt is bleeding into his flight shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves to nudge his nose against yours.

“Can I kiss you?” His lips are already brushing your own as he asks and you surge up to press them properly together. Heat lances through you and you’re throwing your hands over his shoulders to move against him as close as possible. He’s hauling you up into his arms, hands supporting your weight by the back of your thighs and then he’s moving through the space toward the bunk.

The door is open and shut in a flash, your tongues licking into each other’s mouths as he moves to sit on the edge of the cot. Your hands detangle from around his neck to trail down over his shoulders, unclasping the pauldrons and chest piece as you go. The beskar thuds atop the covers of the bed as you finally get to the padding underneath. With snaps and sounds of ripping velcro, you remove it in haste, ruffling his longer hair with the action. As soon as he’s down to just his flight suit top, you ruck it over his form while he rips your own tank top to join the scattering of armor and clothing surround you both.

The wrap you wear to keep your chest secure is loosened enough to fall around your waist. He’s kissing down your throat, nipping into the sensitive flesh there as he moves down to capture a tight nipple into the heat of his mouth. His tongue laves over it, teeth nipping and pulling ever so slightly. A moan flies from your open mouth and you undulate your hips against the line of him pressing up into the zipper of his pants.

You’re not quite flush against him, the armor over his thighs preventing you. But with a snarl of frustration, he’s standing and turning you in his arms to press your back into the plush bedding you insisted on purchasing months ago. You watch with hooded eyes and exploring fingers down his exposed chest as he shrugs the shirt off. His skin prickles into goosebumps as your nails scratch down the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his pants.

He lets you unclasp the belt and unzip the front while he removes the remaining armor from his thighs and step out of his loosened boots. The beskar sings as he gathers it all, leaning over you to reach the further pieces up the bed with a full bite to the underside of your left breast. You keen at the feel of his mouth on you, eyes fluttering shut as he quickly puts the armor away in a crate that remains propped open for occasions just like this beside the door.

He’s fully naked and slowly stroking himself when he turns back around to look at the sight you make on the bed. Completely exposed yourself, pants having been kicked off and boots piled at on the floor. Your hands are up and down your chest, fingers grazing your sensitive neck and then cupping yourself. There’s already a red indent of his teeth where he sunk them into you and he groans at the sight.

“You feel so good, don’t you mesh’la?” He’s not teasing, no. He knows how soft you feel in his own hands, from previous instances of exploring your body. But this- this is the first time he’s seeing it all on display for him and him alone. The first time he’s getting to taste and kiss. The air inside the bunk is charged, almost tingling as he steps toward you. He let’s go of himself, allowing his cock to bounce up slightly. The weight of him, you’ve felt before, you’ve touched before. But it was never this intoxicating, this thrilling. He’s such a beautiful tan all over, the head of his cock ruddy and dripping. And it’s all for you, he’s completely yours.

He curls his palms over your knees and pulls them apart, eyes locked on yours to ensure you’re okay with it before he’s glancing down to see you spread for him for the first time. You’re glistening. Slick coating you and your clit it swollen and peaking through your folds. He groans at the sight, trailing a hand gently up your thigh to swipe two fingers over you. You cry out at the contact, shooting up from the bed to watch with wide eyes as he closes his plush lips around those same fingers and hums at the taste.

He's dragging a thumb over the swollen nub, pulling a keening noise from you as your hips buck up to chase the feeling. He chuckles as he kisses your chest, leaning over you from where he stands. His eyes catch yours just as he presses a finger to your core, pausing to make sure. His eyes flutter at the slick he feels there, thick lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks for just a moment. When he opens his eyes back up, he’s boring straight into your own hooded ones. They’re dark, the color nearly gone as your pupils blow wide with the emotions he stokes in you, the pleasure he so easily conjures from you- for you.

“Tell me, okay, tell me the moment you don’t like something and we stop.” His voice is serious, almost commanding in his sentiment. Your comfortability is the only thing he’s concerned with, taking precedent over the pleasure he wants to give you. He looks beautiful in the faint light of the bunk and he’s all you’ve never thought to search for in that moment.

“Ner karta,” You trace a hand down the side of his face, cupping his jaw and pulling him down into your space. “I trust you, more than anything. I want you, I want this.”

You kiss him so intensely, the breath in his lungs passes into yours. He growls at the feeling of you cradling the back of his head, fingers tangled in his curls as you press your body to his. You grind your hips against his hand, urging him. When his fingers breech, your voice leaves you in a whine. He keeps your bottom lip between his teeth even when you pull away, you clench around his curled fingers at the overwhelming sensations and he preens at the way your body reacts.

He pumps his fingers in and out, languidly stroking you when he’s got them as deep as they’ll go. You’re flat on your back and he’s kneeling to trail sucking kisses down your chest and stomach. He revels in the way your muscles clench and jolt at the tickle of his moustache, the scruff over his chin. He hasn’t shaved it, not since you lovingly caressed it the morning he had resolved to do just that. That was weeks ago.

Your body isn’t your own, but it’s more, as Din gives every inch he can his undivided attention. You feel so hot, pleasure striking up your spine and pooling low in your behind your hips. His fingers fill you so intoxicatingly, your hips chasing his movements. Your back arches as your vision blurs when his lips close around your clit and gently kiss there.

“Oooh, fuck,” Your voice cracks on the hard ‘k’ sound, mind buzzing as Din curls his hot tongue around the swollen bud. You choke out another sound, but the meaning behind it is lost to you as he softly flicks against it over and over again. Pleasure blinds you, your vision completely gone as you clench your eyes tight and pull the hair your fingers are tangled in.

Faintly, you hear a growl, feeling it more where his mouth connects with your core as his fingers stroke deep. Arousal leaks out of you, gathers in his clenched palm and down the taut muscles of his wrist. He laps up as much as he can before moving back to your clit, circling it once more before he dares to suckle at it.

The heat in your middle flares, the flames of it consuming you as you cry out with the force of your release. Waves of pleasure ripple over you as your back arches and your head thuds heavily atop the covers, drowning out everything else from your senses.

“Fuck, ner karta,” He’s suddenly scooting you up the bed and draping himself over you. The long lines of your bodies buzzing where you connect. You feel him rest right between your folds, his hands cradling your cheeks as he leans in and kisses the breath from your lungs. Your hands scrape down his back, nails digging into his shoulders as you buck up from the feel of his head dragging over your clit. It’s so much, the pressure still cresting, breaking, washing away everything but the man in front of you. His skin, his touch, all of it searing into your memory to remain the only ones you have.

“D-Din,” You pant, blinking furiously as white speckles the edges of your vision. Fading as the pleasure begins to wane and your body loosens beneath him. And then suddenly, your head is clear as the open sky. The words bubble up, the need to say them taking over completely. “"Mhi solus tome.”

He sucks in a deep breath, eyes meeting yours as you gaze up at him with clear intention, your hands move to rest on his shoulders and you giggle, a giddy feeling taking over as he grinds against you, repeating the words back to you in that deep voice, you feel and hear them so intensely.

“Mhi solus dar'tome,” He continues, feeling the connection that sparked when he first laid eyes on you flare and wash over him like wave, he knows he was meant for this. That you were meant for this- you are his and he is yours. Completely.

You repeat the words, nose brushing his as you cradle his face, dark scruff soft in your palms.

“Mhi me’dinui,” You press the words into his lips with a kiss, moving to each of his cheeks, each brow line, his nose. He sighs softly, like your touch is the only thing he’s ever craved, ever wanted for himself in this life. He nudges his forehead against yours, almost caressing like a loth cat would and you smile shyly at the passion and love swirling in the depths of his dark eyes.

“Mhi me'dinui an,” He continues on, bearing his weight on his knees now, nestling between your thighs as you wrap them around his waist. The solid length of him is the prefect pressure as it nestles between your folds, the head of his cock pushed down by a hand firmly wrapped around himself.

“Mhi ba'juri verde,” You both say at the same time, in the same hushed voice only for each other’s ears as he notches himself right at your fluttering entrance and pushes in gently. Twin moans spring into the air as he feels how tightly you wrap around him, moving slowly until he’s sheathed completely inside, your eyes flutter shut as you revel in the fullness of him. It’s almost too much, how thick he feels inside, each ridge and vein pulsing.

He stills, leaning down to press his forehead to yours once again. You moan out at the grind of his hips flush against yours and you clench around him. It pulls a choking sound from deep in his chest that vibrates through you. His heart- it’s beating as fast as yours.

You whisper his name, praise and pleading all tumbled into one. You raise your hips, getting a feel for how deeply he’s inside and pleasure glitters through every nerve- lighting you up like nothing ever has before. It’s so much more, the desire, the willingness, the wanting.  He’s everything you never thought you deserved but he’s real and he’s here and he’s pulling out until just the head of his cock is stretching you open, slick shining when you glance down.

You’ve never been this wet, you’re practically dripping even as he nestles there with a heavy breath, his chest is heaving as he leans up a bit to take in the sight himself- to look at you, to see the way your plush lips are parted and your own breath matches his. He twitches, pulses, hardens even more and you cry out as you feel it. Locking eyes, he trails reverent hands down your front. Fingers pause to brush tight nipples, the mark he’s left from his bite, down the line of your middle and then he’s feeling where you’re both connected. His fingers slide easily around himself, caressing until they find the tight seal of your entrance around the tip of his cock.

Your body hums, those same flames licking up your entire body.

He’s pushing in, lips parting as he huffs out a grunt.

“Fuck, ni riduur, you feel so good,” He practically growls as he bottoms out once again. His hips begin to snap against yours in a steady pace, his hands secure in the curve of your waist, fingers digging into your hips. Your answer is a hitch of breath and a stuttered cry as he finds that soft spot inside you, your body loosening in his grip as you look up at him completely wrecked. The slap of skin on skin, of your bodies moving together, rising together, it’s a buzz in your head- his grunts – your keening moans, it feels like nothing ever has before. You feel the jolt of him bottoming out in your bones, feel the heat that presses in on every inch of your skin. The slick mess between your thighs, the dampness of his skin against yours, your pulse racing and jumping in your throat.

It’s sudden, the way his voice rises as your name leaves his lips, his breath punched out of his throat as his entire body tightens with the intensity of his release. The overwhelming sensation of him filling you- hot and thick and so fucking much, causes another crest in your body. The flames are glittering, the fire so bright and hot, your eyes clench shut and it’s all you know as your body tenses impossibly so.

You cling to each other, fingers bruising and panting breath hot. You whine when his hips jerk forward, further pressing into you as his eyes gaze into yours. He’s still so thick, so filling, even when he gently pulls out. You feel the way you leak from the action and it sends a shiver up your still heated skin.

You don’t move much of your own accord, completely pliant in in his hands as he lays down and pulls you to his chest. The brush of his dark hair there sends another shiver over you as it drags on your own, his arms wrap around you and you bury your face into his neck, placing gentle kisses where you feel his pulse race. You both lay there, wrapped in each other- reveling in the way your bodies moved with each other, reveling in each other.

Just as your breathing calms and your mind blurs, you feel him shift a bit to adjust the pillows. One hand trails down your arm, from your shoulder down to the knuckles of your hand. Reverently, as if he’s worshipping you as you only hum in response. Sleep tempts you, curls around your mind and body but then Din is speaking in a hushes tone that keeps you afloat.

“I’ve never…done that before.” His cheeks tint a ruddy shade as you tangle your fingers with his, laying side by side and facing each other. Legs intertwined and hands still linked. Your eyes open just a bit before the feeling of him licking through your folds steals your breath, the memory of it alone enough to send glittering pleasure up your back. It brings an embarrassing heat to your chest even as you recall how enthusiastic he was about it. How he wanted to do it.  “But you taste so sweet, ner mesh'la riduur.”

“Gar liser vaabir bic tug'yc, ik'aad,” Your thighs tense as you clench them, feeling the wetness of your both smearing as arousal pools low and hot behind your hips, where it was lingering. “A gar'll ve'ganir a isirir be gar sa pirusti.”

Then do it again, baby. But you’ll get a taste of yourself too.

“Jate. Ni mirdir ni kelir, staabi jii.  Ve'ganir shol'shya teh gar, akay gar kar'taylir naas a ner gai.” His voice rumbles through you as he pushes against your chest with his own, growling at the feel of your hardened nipples against his skin. The softness of the skin there intoxicating, he cups them as he kisses down your neck and laves his tongue over each one until you’re whining and wriggling beneath him.

Good. I think I will, right now. Get another from you, until you know nothing by my name.

He moves down, down, down- until his wide shoulders push your thighs apart. The muscles in them shake, a testament to just how much pleasure he can wring from you, how much he’s about to wring out again. He looks up at you, his hair mused and damp, curls plastered to his forehead. His breath puffs hot against you, spread out right in front of him, a hand settled below your belly button.

His tongue licking a wide stripe over your entire cunt has you crying out his name and forgetting everything else.

The combination of a soft coo and deep voice on the outskirts of your consciousness slowly draws you back to the present. Letting out the deep breath you had taken in, you crack open one eye and look for the source of the interruption. The sight of Din decked out in his armor, helmet securely in place and holding a calm ad’ika warmed your heart.

“Wanna come down and join us for dinner?” His voice is smooth, the modulator a softer volume as if he’s adjusted it to not display so loudly- something you’re grateful for as the ache in the back of your head throbs in tune with your elevated heartbeat. He’s patient, your silence as you think over the offer.

“You cooked?” With a raised eyebrow you take in the way his chest is moving with even breaths, he’s calm despite the worry you can sense in both of them as they look in on you in the dark bunk across from the cockpit.

“I did, don’t sound so surprised,” He’s teasing, trying to keep give you a little more than you’ve been able to the past few days. That last planet…you still carry the disjointed memories lingering in the energy there with you. “Made some stew. Warmed up the bread we picked up in town the other day.”

“I…I want to,” You sit up just a bit, the motion not much but enough to send an ache all throughout your body and you shudder, suddenly burning up from the movement.

“I’ll bring some up once he’s fed and put to bed,” And then he’s gone. The blanket secured over the port hole in the ceiling wafting a bit from the pressure of the door hushing shut with the click of a control.

You don’t know how much time passes as you float on the cusp of sleep, your body settling into a relaxed state. The soft sounds of Din tending to ad’ika soothing you enough to help the headache wane. But it still flares painfully in your temples and the back of your neck when Din’s opening the door back to your bunk when he returns to you. He’s still decked out in his entire suit of armor, though you see through shallowly cracked open eyes that he’s got one of the travel thermoses in his hand. The steam wafting up from it smells heavenly and your stomach makes a loud sound.

He doesn’t say anything as he hands it to you, his fingers lingering in a loose clutch around your wrist to ensure you’ve got the weight of it secure in your hand before he pulls away. He sits quietly as you sip at the broth, the utensil sticking up not spurring you into taking bites of the meat and vegetables until you look up and see him watching you.

Gone is his helmet, his brown eyes locked on your form. Searching, making sure you’re okay. He’s been more…aware of your breathing and the smallest movements. Picking up the ways in which you calm yourself when frustration bubbles up at not being able to remember something about the culture your in search or the way some of the metal rings you work with snap under the force of the pliers your use to string them together.

More of you is rising to the surface, more of you on display for him to see.

You don’t hide any of it, willing to show it to him- to feel it yourself. You haven’t been able to feel it for so long. But you’re safe here, safe with him. Stronger than the things that try to bring you down, the temptations that once lured deep inside.

When you finish the entire serving, he’s gently taking the thermos from you and setting it aside. His body fits perfectly against yours as he settles into the bed with you. His armor and yours collected at the foot of the bed, within reach should the alarms alert you of incoming ships or the hyperdrive shifting.

“I haven’t been here since the attack.” Din’s helmet turns to take in your still form beside him. He’s just guided the ship to land in the assigned port spot. It’s on a higher building on the outskirts of Coruscant.

Buildings stretch as far as your binocs can scan, Din’s visor no doubt even able to see through to the horizon blocked by the differing levels and bright flashing signs that fill your combined vision. The sun is bright in the late morning, shining high above it all. There is movement all around, so many people moving and going about their days, it’s dizzying. But you’re here too, about to blend into it all with one goal in mind- visit the place where your temple once stood.

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[honestsycrets]

dedication | young!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | young geneticist!miguel o'hara x scientist!reader

❛ type | oneshot, explicit.

❛ summary | alchemax is a dangerous place to work. miguel's new assistant may be over her head. maybe he can help her, though.

❛ tags | virgin reader, f!reader, shitty science, plot heavy, loose canon references, literary liberties, loss of virginity, overprotective Miguel o'hara, jealous miguel o'hara, some objectification, workplace politics, aftercare (as requested), corruption (is it tho?), bc what bc, Spanish is not translated, young!miguel, heel-foot fetish, somewhat romantic.

❛ fulfilled request | can we please have a miguel x virgin reader and he didn’t even know until he was already putting it in?? And then voila his corruption kink unexpectedly growS? @a--dedicated--fangirl

❛ sy’s notes | miguel sort of works on that whole corruption aspect throughout this fic, but i wanted to meld these two ideas together to create a reader who is entirely dedicated to Miguel. This piece was a bit long for me.

“Miguel, your new assistant is here.” 

On paper, you’re an excellent candidate for the genetics program. 

An excellent GPA, renowned company internships, decent publications, and a diverse upbringing. It was all good. Great, even. But as the head of the genetics program at Alchemax, he has a little thing called priorities. Interviewing everyone himself was low on the rung of shit he felt like he should be doing. There was, however, one little, itty bitty, tiny problem with bringing you on board.

“Dr. O’Hara? ¿Estas bien?”

That shirt-- is not meant to hold those-- His brain was left field, glimpsing at them. A slightly sheer button-up revealed the outline of your bustier and its inability to conceal your body. They should have been illegal. He was pretty sure they were illicit in the handbook on his table. He should really read that again. Maybe then he wouldn’t be salivating over something as simple as a co-worker-- He needed to get out of the lab. The bleached walls tightened around him, the space smaller than he remembered. He was going to get caught.

Realistically, the lab was full of witty people. Many of them were witty men with subpar looks and stupider dicks. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Not only because your lips were plump, painted petal-pink, and kissable or because the depth of your sultry eyes went straight in the dick. No, but because that would be improper of a man of his stature to tell one of the only women in his care that she was too gorgeous for the job you were clearly qualified for. 

“Sí, coño,” He fixed his glasses, crooked on his broad nose. He stood up from his desk and grabbed his lab coat, swirling it around his broad shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, you tracked the movement with your eyes. “Do you want a cafecito? Miss…”

You told him your name. He mulled it over on his tongue, lathing it in a gentle acknowledgment. Cemented it in a place he wouldn't forget. You tinked your head to the side, your lashes fluttering when he cleared his throat. Great, just shocking-- 

“After you,” he headed for the door. He held it open for you, plastering his back to the wood. It didn't matter. You slid by closer than he’d prefer, your hand catching on his belt buckle with muttered apologies. This wasn’t going to end well. 

Cafecito is an excellent excuse to pull his dumbass together. 

It also calms his nerves, centers his mind, and allows him to compartmentalize. Whether or not you could hold your own wasn’t his issue, his issue was the necessity of someone he could trust. Ugly, beautiful-- so long as they were efficient, Miguel would make due. The cafeteria was a large and clean space. The many tables were crowded with wrap-around stations for poorly crafted, misery-inducing meals. Miguel paid and took a seat at a creaky table. One where he could see the door open, shut, and keep an eye on the comings and goings of meager scientists and annoying managers. 

“You’ll be working with me.” 

You pursed your lips around the warm cup of coffee, taking a ginger sip. He noted your lipstick stain that remained as you pushed the cup toward the middle of the table you shared with him. This damn suit vest was stifling. He gave you a long, slow look, tilting his head to the fact that you’d not drunk anything. It’d be rude to acknowledge.

“Delgado told me,” you smiled warmly. “He said you’re a genius. I don’t know that I believe in geniuses.” 

Hmph. Delgado, things fell into place. That sycophant knew what he liked. He also knew that Miguel was better than him, always was, and always would be. Miguel offered you a slick smile, convinced he could assure you otherwise if he needed to. “Delgado says a lot of things. I’m surprised he gave you to me.”

“Why is that, O’Hara?” the way his name slipped off your tongue was a hot sin. If only he believed in a god. His eyelids shifted over his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark.

“You’re beautiful. He likes to collect beautiful things,” Miguel tried, curious.  Your nails clicked in succession over the table. A repetitive click, click, click. He would be annoyed too if he were no more than a ploy. A distraction. Miguel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t working. His eyes flickered down, catching one of your palms curling into a tight fist, tension rolling through your fingers and up your arms. “He knows I do too.” 

You leaned in, close enough that he could spot the unique freckles spread out in a crescent moon beneath a layer of makeup on your face. Beautiful. “I’m not here to belong to you, O’Hara. I hope you know that.” 

He was off to a great, fantastic start.

 “Understood.” Miguel leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping up his lips. Or, believe that you believed that. You spared him any more mincing comments. Appeased by his suggestion, you brought your drink back to your lips.

“Good. What are we sequencing?” 

“Me.” 

You swallowed. “You? You can’t be--” 

Mhm, he stared, lips pressed tightly together. “You’ll code my DNA. Then we’ll splice it.” 

"With what?"

"You'll see."

“Is this your little,” you swirled your finger in a circle. “Pet project?” 

Unfortunately not, he would have liked to say. That information was confidential, and though you worked on the project, there were levels to his willingness to involve you in the delicate flow of workplace politics. Still, you might make a healthy distraction from his work. Miguel took a swig of his cafecito, boring into the black substance.

“Something like that.” 

Having a pretty assistant means things don’t always get done according to schedule. Not quickly enough, not by far. There is a time limit to everything at Alchemax. The quicker, the better. Thus this project demanded more hours of his time. The project was spliced between the work required of him by superiors and you, your quirks, and your preferences. 

Miguel has learned a great many things about you in a short amount of time. You don’t appreciate misplaced pet names. You actually can’t handle coffee because of the caffeine or the sugar. He also learns things about himself. How little he likes when Delgado comes to check on progress because he isn’t actually checking on shit. He's checking you out. 

He likes to weasel his nasty fingers around the door, peering in to try and find out what specimen he’s actually working on. Miguel was much too smart for that. His beady eyes caught Miguel over your shoulder, mumbling up to him about a new finding in tests you ran earlier that day. Your face mask twirled around your index finger, finally free and at a documentation workspace.   Funny, because he clearly redacts information from your well-recorded notes on the daily. You refuse to include less.

“Hey Mike,” he said. “How are things… Oh hey, you. You settling in, honey? Mike treating you ok? I can discipline him for you.”

“As if you could,” Miguel huffed. 

But Delgado spying on you, the way you record progress by pouting out your lips, shifting between paper and your lab reports, was intolerable. Because... well, he has sensitive information on there. Your nose scrunches in distaste, but you bow your head just slightly as a hello. He might be his supervisor, but Miguel doesn’t need one to know why this asshole is in his lab turning his smarmy brown eyes over the way you sit: one leg over the other. You seem to realize it too, trailing your eyes over his gaudy suit to Miguel’s sinewy hand on your shoulder. 

“Stop being a creep,” Miguel complained, “She has actual work to do.”

“Actual work? As opposed to--“

“Yes, what you do.” Miguel spat out. You eschewed a giggle, turning your face over a pristine white lab jacket that thankfully, you had no qualms in wearing. Otherwise, he might not finish any work in the lab at all. 

“I supervise--

“You’re still talking but we’re not listening,” Miguel waved him off, plucking up papers by your side. Your eyes snap up to Miguel’s deep chocolate eyes hidden behind the thin frame of his metal glasses, waiting for a proper response. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Miguel walks to the door, locks it with a click, and returns to your side. You glance at his white lab coat, fluttering around his tapered waist. He loves the way your eyes look at him with a soft, inviting expression, beseeching him to come to sit by your side as he always did. “Not a fan of Delgado, I take it.” 

“Are you?” Miguel sits with his legs spread, his fingers threading through his thick brown hair. You set your papers down, swiveled toward him. The wheels of your rolling chair squeak on either side of his thick, black boots. His eye catches your thick thighs, squashed between your midi skirt, its atrocious slip causing him discomfort. His hand leaves his thick hair, dropping in unison side by side. 

“I can’t stand being called honey, Mike.” 

“Shut up.”

The days proceed similarly. Days filled with brushing past him as he slides in samples and reagents. He might lose a sample, clattering on the floor, and you always rush to help him clean up. Lunch together, because no matter how late he eats, you’re there beside him. Then as night falls, you stay until he has finished whatever he needs to do.

“Time to eat something,” you slipped into his office. The clock ticked past midnight. Miguel flicked through handwritten pages of information that did not need to be recorded in computer files. You watched his eyes scan over the ink on the page, acknowledging you with a grumpy grunt. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing the last section of the project.

“Empanada,” you turned his palm over, placing the flaky pastry in his hand. Caramelized apple. He loved a good apple empanada. He watched as you walked over to the coffee maker, drawing him a warm cafecito just how he liked it. Miguel dropped his pen, stretching out his aching spine. 

“Gracias. From where?” 

“I made them,” you set down the cup a little harder than intended. The surface rippled, throwing hot coffee drips onto his pages. His eyes flickered up from the pages to your eyes. Without thinking, he blathers:

“That so?” A pause. “Don’t you have a man?” 

“Miguel. With this sequencing project, you’re the only man in my life. Shut up and eat the empanada.” 

“Huh. Good. I like that.” He swallowed the empanada with a bob of his head, his tongue lathing over his teeth for any more of the sweet sugar. He stood up, finding your expression soft, drawn out by a sense of longing that he couldn’t imagine he saw.  

“You like my sad love life?” 

Yes.

“No, we have a company event. A ball,” Miguel chided, his tone gentling as he slipped away from his desk, abandoning his steamy coffee on his desk. He backed out of the doorway, “It’s all Stone’s politics. You know how these things are. I have to go. Come with me.” 

“Is that a request or an order?” 

“A date.” 

I’d love to. Your words were the only thing that made tonight bearable. Slinking his tanned skin into a dark blue suit that cinched everything too tight was… unbearable. It clung to his skin like a second skin and choked off his air. But it might be worth it to see your face-- just maybe. He tracked the fluttering tails of fish behind bulletproof glass, following them as they fluttered away into their rock. He wished he could too. 

“Miguel?” 

“You’re here,” he turned around, dropping the champagne he idly held in his hand. It went forgotten by his boot as you called his name again. His gaze fixed on yours, the slinky navy blue dress caused his heart to thrum through his chest, chasing the sight of your body at his feet, picking shards of glass up with the aid of a worker, apologizing profusely for the mess. A soft puff of breath slipped from his lips as you stood back up, gripping your purse a little harder in your hands. He ran his hand over his jaw, drawing himself back to his senses.

“Miggy,” he husked out. “Call me Miggy.” 

“You look handsome, Miggy,” his name felt unreal on your lips until he felt the pressure on his elbow. Your soft hands slunk around his, cradling him for some security in the face of the large doors. He shook himself back to his senses. Right, there was a reason he was here. “But shouldn’t we go?” 

He should have-- but did he want to? No, not really. He didn’t want to see Stone’s greasy face, let Aaron take a peek at how you looked dolled up, or any of the rest of these fuckers. What he wanted was something else entirely. 

“Listen.” Miguel stopped, his other hand coming to the jeweled bracelet on your wrist. The doors to the ballroom lapsed, groups of older men filtering in and out with their pieces of the night: doting wives, longing husbands, and partners that their wives or husbands probably didn’t know about. “Don’t wander off from me. They’re all snakes. All of them.” 

“Even you?” 

“Hermosa,” you didn’t leer at him. “I’m the least of your worries.” 

He wasn’t wrong. The ballroom was dolled up in lush fabrics, fine china, and a copious amount of food as it was every year. Miguel found the attempt to distract from what really went on behind closed doors at Alchemax a bit cloying. This year the music was at least tolerable. It filtered out into the ballroom in a syrupy melodies driven on by the soft, promises of rich men for the exchange of sex. For much of the night, he could stomach the various men poking and prodding at him about his impending research. So long as you were here.

“Miggy,” you breathed, a hot puff of air against his ear. He leaned down, his hand atop of yours. “Will you dance with me?” 

Dance? Miguel had two left feet-- it’s why he was a geneticist. For all the work you did on his behalf in the lab, including this very night, he owed you the benefit of whatever you wanted. He searched out a quiet area, one where the only disruption could be the stream of moonlight in through a window. You preferred it over the wall of vivacious men and over-powdered women. He preferred it over the atrocity of his footwork.

“It’s not much of a date,” Miguel’s hand slid around yours. He encompassed your small palm with his large hand, the other gliding across the soft, exposed skin of your back. You swayed with him, side to side. He was an awful dancer, but there was something endearing about that. He saw it in your eyes, the glimmer of curiosity, gliding your dark heels against the inside of his foot. Damn, he still sucked.

“No,” you agreed, shifting to take the lead. He followed your steps. Right, back, left, up. Maybe he stepped on your long dress once or twice, too. Shock, he cursed again, stepping over your foot.

“You’re remarkably bad at this.” You settled your head on his chest, letting your box steps fade into little more than the shifting of your hips. 

“I know. Let’s just-- sway?” 

“Swaying is good.”  

“O’Hara,” boomed Stone. But of course— peace couldn’t last forever. Like a bullet through the chest, a voice caused him to turn in startle. His tan cheeks flushed with warmth, feeling cut off from the cover of others. He was dressed in the most gaudy of clothes that almost seemed to match the crooked expression on his pale face. No matter how many times he tried to fix it, it always looked… wrong. 

Stone’s hands came together, clapping multiple times to force the crowd of politicians, scientists, and bought-in participants to fade away. His voice caused Miguel to growl, a low rumbly noise that you soothed with your breasts pushing gingerly against his arm. He could do it. He could handle this pompous little shit-- “And who is this beauty? A new girlfriend, perhaps? Fiance? O’Hara could do with a wife. Settle him down, y’know.”

Miguel huffed out of his nostrils. “This is my lab partner,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “For… the project.”

“Her? A lab partner? Ha!” 

Shock. He didn’t have to look at you to know you were insulted. Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing out the tension as you smiled through the interaction, taking over for Miguel. “We have measurable results.” 

“That’s what I like to hear, sweet thing. Now, Miguel, Aaron has found a test subject…”

“I’ll interview them.” 

“No need! I--” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone. I’ll let you two talk,” you slipped away, your heels clicking off into the busy crowd. Stone was talking. Miguel knew he should listen closely. His half-formed plan to see what the future held for his research was wafting into the air, wisps of it in his ear. Tomorrow-- test-- can you? Panic blinded his senses. He could find you nowhere in the room, and even if he did, would he be too late? 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, it’s… excuse me.” 

The issue with falling for someone was the scythe of his fear. His position was inherently risky. No matter how many groups of people he cut through trying to find you, you weren’t there. No tiny little appetizers of shrimp on half a skewer. No booze, because your head would swim. Not near the bathrooms, either. He rushed down the steps when he found you, just before the large iron gates, staring up at the stars peppering the sky. 

At your feet, Aaron. His drunken fingers trying and failing to guide the strap off of your ankle. You, of course, sat there staring dumbly down at his failed attempts to do something as simple as fix your damn heel.

“I’ll take it from here.” Miguel booted Aaron out of the way. Who, with his sloppy sloshed curses, tried to win a fight with him. He eventually won out. Aaron slunk away, somewhere up the steps. Miguel wasn’t counting. “You didn’t listen.” 

“Hm?” 

Miguel loosened both straps, sliding his open palm under your foot for one then the other. You gazed at him, sliding the black heels off your feet, tutting his tongue at the blistered back of your feet. 

“I told you not to wander off.” 

“I just wanted to see the stars. Besides, it was just Aaron.” 

“It’s never just Aaron. It’s Aaron and Stone.” Miguel’s eyebrows pushed against one another, recording your failure to listen. You crossed one leg over the other, sliding your toes over his silk tie, kept beneath a vest. He knelt before you, searching your eyes for the right answer. “You don’t know… what you’re getting into. I’m trying to keep you safe.” 

 “I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself, Miguel. Please don’t--” you sighed. “Don’t be like them.” 

He knew what you meant. Like Aaron, peeling off your shoes at the sign of discomfort because you were a pretty woman. Or Stone, who couldn’t comprehend your value as a scientist. Those who doubted you because of your color, gender, or a mixture of the two. His mouth twisted in frustration. He was in deep. Whatever you desired, he wanted to give. It came at a price.

“Are you mine,” the words came out stiff, “or theirs?” 

“Miggy,” you turned the word over on your tongue, willing him to stand down. His dark eyes settled on yours, unmoving. “Why do I have to pick?” 

“You can’t have both. You’ll have to choose. One day.” 

Your mind worked. He knew from the way you pursed your lip out, then in, puncturing its pillowy surface with your teeth. You shifted your gaze to the water, the stream coursing down the unfeeling stone. Miguel's fingers ran across your inner thigh, causing you to gaze down at him. The steps of others on the other side of the fountain, fading into the depths of the night caused you to break his gaze. Miguel offered you his hand, fitting the shoes under his other arm as he walked toward the valet. You took his hand and interlaced your fingers.

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” you said, though the words felt thready and thin, nary a whisper. Something in the undercurrent of your voice concerned him. A thread that needed to be snipped, convinced of the vileness of the city-- of who you worked for. 

He doesn’t make mistakes. 

But he left the project code on his desk. It should have been there, yet, the corpse of a decrepit, awful creature withered on the lab floor proved otherwise. Someone had taken it because he was distracted. As a result, someone lost their life... even if it was Stone's doing.

Now, scouring through his papers, his hands tremored like a common drug addict. He supposed he was one, a druggie, tremoring like a shot hungry, Rapture crazed-- 

“Miggy?” 

He snapped around. His gaze melded your figure into one beautiful blurb, even with the glasses on his broad nose. It was your voice, coded in something close to concern. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, long strands falling messily over his eyes and cheekbones. He flattened his hands out atop his head.

“What are you looking for?” 

“The notes,” he weathered a breath. He doddered about the room, throwing a stack of paper onto the floor. They crumpled over the floor, mixed projects, notes on the specimen, but none were his. “Where are my notes?” 

“You’re sick,” your voice broke gently, as if speaking them alone helped. A horrid crack of laughter slipped from his throat, drawing into a long lament as he repeated the words after you. Sick, you said, he was sick. If being sick was the least of his issues, he would have been a happy man. Your steps rang into his ear, heavier than before, painful and loud. He crumpled onto the couch in his office, his hands cupping them. Your soft hands coursed over his chest, unbuttoning his starched button-up and sliding it down his muscular upper arms. “This might hurt.” 

No kidding, needles always hurt. But the instantaneous relief that flooded his system overrode the momentary pain. As your fuzzy figure came into focus, he recognized the drug that you set aside. 

“You didn’t--” 

“You were right, Miggy, about the-- Mr. Sims.”  Miguel gazed at you, leafing through novels of notes with trembling hands. He cursed himself for subjecting you to seeing that. Not quite human, not quite... The twisted look on the poor man’s face. What months of research with one another had offered. He would fix it. He knew the research was on point. It was the application that was lacking.

“I have a copy of your notes,” you murmured as if someone could hear. They likely could. “¿Ay, puñeta, dónde está? Ah! Here, here it is. Your… profile.” 

“You kept it,” he glanced down at the hastily scribbled note attached to the clip. ‘Miguel’s profile’ alongside a soft pink heart. He stopped your hands from thumbing through another leaflet. His eyes traced the dry ink of the heart. His thumb moved to stroke it, catching the sight of bubbling tears welling over in your eyes out of the corner of his eye. The tears slid down your full cheeks, triggering his discomfort to well up in his stomach. Miguel shifted closer, flicking fat droplets off your slight jaw.

“Hermosa,” Miguel shifted his head, cocking his eyebrow. “¿Que te pasa?”

“I should have listened to you Miggy,” you began, inhaling air forcefully through your nostrils. Breathe, you murmured. Miguel's soft hand cupped the back of your neck like a collar. You were happy to be collared by his hand, it felt safe. 

His eyes narrowed, thumb caressing the loose strands of hair at your nape. “You should have. You know I'll take care of you."

You nodded.

"You have to be fully dedicated to me.” 

“I am.” 

“Show me.” You fluttered your eyes, the gears of your mind working to understand what he meant. His hand fell away to trace the bow of your black blouse. He tugged on the knot, slipping the bow loose and running his fingers over your exposed cleavage below. “Take off the blouse.” 

Was it necessary? Some might have said no-- but sex, in its connective nature-- was the ultimate dedication. At the end of it all, that's what he craved: your eyes, your actions, all born with him in mind. With trembling fingers, you untucked your shirt from your black slacks. Miguel sat back, tracking the soft lace of your balconette bra teasing his eye. You loitered for a minute too long, enough for him to lift his thick eyebrow.

“Don’t stop now,” he said. Your knees knocked together, slipping the shirt over and off your torso before draping it on the arm of his couch. Your bra followed quickly after, slipping out of the twisted straps. You skimmed your hands over your breasts, holding them for comfort.

"No." Miguel flicked his fingers, motioning for your hands to move from your thick nipples.  You pushed your breasts together, allowing him to marvel at them a second longer. “Que maravilla... You have no idea how long I’ve waited. Go on, take off the rest now.” 

You suckled in breath, sliding the button of your pants loose. Then the zipper, its cloth scratching your thighs on its way to pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, joining them too with your shirt. Miguel sat up, running his calloused fingers over the side of your hip and waist. His thumbs hooked in your panties, drawing them down over your pussy, a moist spot on your panties connecting a small string of wetness to your pussy. His palm slid between your thighs, pinned by your thighs pressed together, whether out of an innate need for more pressure or shyness to show him how wet you were. Hm. Miguel melded your ass, striking your skin with his large palm, it jiggled.

“Miggy,” you breathed, shy and intimidated. “I have to tell you something…” 

“Lay down,” he told you. 

“But Miggy, what if someone…” Your eyes darted away from his, chewing on his cheek as you slid back down beside him. You settled on the couch, your legs thrown over his thighs. The couch was stiff, hard against your neck. You stole a haughty glimpse at his face, focused entirely on coursing his palms over your calves and thighs, then back down to your slight toes. He ground your feet over his stiff cock, obscured by the fabric of his slacks. He felt big-- bigger than you could have imagined from the look on your face. 

“¡Basta!” Miguel growled, “No one is going to come in. Let me see you.” 

You flushed. 

“You want me to…” you glanced down, your curls were soft to the touch. 

“Touch yourself for me.” 

With your heart strumming in your chest, you shifted your hand down, spreading your lips, soft and wet. You were so wonderfully shy to follow his orders, the pads of your fingers rubbing along your outer lips, massaging them warm and swollen. You buried your eyes into your other arm, dragging up and down, over and over. A delightful sigh greeted his ear, ensuring that though you were too embarrassed to look at him, you loved it. He allowed it for now-- because he was a gracious, forgiving man. 

“Shock,” Miguel shuffled at the button and zipper of his pants, freeing himself from his slacks. He spat into his palm, stroking over his fleshy length, squishing his cock against your foot. Your toes curled over his cockhead, engrossed in Miguel’s rumbling pants, the soft pleasure that bloomed from his chest. Your eyes trained on his lips, the slight breath suckled between his teeth. Your fingers glazed over your stiff clit, pausing as though you needed his permission, just how he wanted it. Your sweet submission. 

His eyebrow perked. “You can touch it.” 

“Oh,” you glanced down, tracing the way Miguel fisted himself, swirling up to his cockhead, along fat veins and the bubble of salty fluid on his tip. His permission seemed to spur something else in you, flicking your swollen clit to the sound of his pleasured growling, your own pleasure growing in tandem with his. 

“¡Ya!” he annunciated, watching as you failed to stop. All at once he stopped his ministrations. A sigh escaped his chest as he pushed himself up, smacking your hand away from your puffy cunt. His cock bobbed between your bodies. You wanted to touch it, but couldn’t.

"Wait," you cried out. His cock twitched as he lowered his hips down, drawing sweet lubricant on his cock, stroking your pussy. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a warm kiss. He dipped his hand down, his cockhead prodding and poking, dipping lower with the aid of his hand. 

“MiggyI’mavirgin,” you said all at once, his cockhead nudged against your entrance. Miguel’s head about snapped as he looked up, eyes popped wide open in disbelief. Before he could quite form a coherent thought, your hands shot out to grip his suit vest, stopping him where he was.

“¿Qué dejiste? Say that again?” 

“I haven’t… I haven't had sex,” you murmured. He hadn’t put it together. Your shyness, the awkward way you shuffled around, loosening your bra and hiding your perfect breasts from his eyes. The words were finally out in the open but didn't register.

"A..." Miguel fisted his cock, once, then twice, shifting back to kneel before you. Your eyes fell on his muscular thighs, the way his hand fisted his dick. “You’re a virgin?”

“I’m too old for this,” you mumbled, hiding your eyes with your palms. Miguel shifted to cast aside your hands from your eyes, his muscular body caging you underneath, looking for an explanation. “I just. Between school, work, I never had time.” 

Not that he was complaining.

"No boyfriend?"

You shook your head. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only were you gorgeous, but you were untouched. His, completely and fully. He liked it better that way-- to be the first memory smeared in your head. So that when you looked back on this moment, right now, it would forever be marked by his face.

"It's mine," he blurted out all at once. "I want your first to be mine."

His hand dropped down to your cunt. The pad of his middle finger worked at your entrance as though he were exploring the truth of your statement, stretching you with the aid of his fingers. You were tight, it had to be true.

You nodded, face buried deep in your arm. It didn’t take but moments for him to draw his hand back, suckling the lubricant from his fingertips. You distantly registered his words, “Damn it, you... you don't know what you do to me.” 

Before you could say a word more, Miguel positioned the head of his dick against your slippery virgin hole. You clenched, glancing down between your bodies again, as you had a dozen times, anxiously waiting. Miguel hushed you, the repetitive shushing of his lips soothing you into complacency, forcing your muscles to relax. “It might hurt. But the pain won’t last,” he assured you.

He rolled his hips forward. His sharp exhale shook with every centimeter that gave way. Your walls were forced apart, suffocating you on the shock of adjusting to having someone, no not someone, Miguel-- your Miguel, sinking into your tense body. He throbbed, twitching in your body. His hands fisted in the aged couch, catching the breath in his chest. 

“Ay, Miggy,” your nails dug into his shirt, loose around his firm muscles. “Miggy, no puedo,” 

“You can, you’re so good, eres tan buena,” Miguel swept your lips between his, taking the moment of your surprise to bury himself further, swallowed by your cunt that resisted his intrusion. Your lips fluttered in the kiss, keened out a cry. The pain of his dick, forcing its way through your passage is quelled by the knowledge that he’s here, with you, his girth forcing you apart, stretching you apart, seating himself flush against your womb. His voice was caramelized, sugared over, and so good. “Look at how well you’re taking me already.” 

“Coño, that’s a tight pussy,” He slid his hips back, the warm sensation of his withdrawal pulling free before shoving back in, a cry shoving forth from your lips, filling his office and the connected lab with your cries. He might have heard someone draw the door open, his hips driving back in, centered on the magnificent groans that stuttered free from your chest with Miguel’s careful thrusts. You keened his name, a repetitious Miggy, Miggy, Miggy-- it was Aaron, probably. He recognized the way his feet drug on the floor. 

He hoped he didn’t just hear it. He hoped he saw it too, the way his balls slapped against your ass, the mess of blood soaking the already unhygienic couch, the way his cock pulsed. You were blissed out, so full and well of him like no one else ever had-- because you were his, and his alone. It wasn’t just sex. It was more than that. From Aaron, whose shuffled steps fell out of his office, to any other little bitch in the office who had their own gain. 

“Damn,” Miguel shifted back, hooking his hand around your thigh to drag you back onto his dick. He swirled his thumb against your stiff clit, whirling it around in one circle, then another, and by the third your knees knocked together, bearing down on his cock to hold him still. “I can’t--” you stuttered out, I can’t--” 

“You’re going to,” he hissed. “You’re going to cum right here, right now, split open on my dick.” 

With another circle, you croaked an ugly cry, a terrible, ugly cry that Miguel couldn’t find any more beautiful as your body buzzed around him, tightening and squeezing your already tight cunt around him. Blissful pleasure radiated there, riding his dick for the friction against your virgin walls, your thoughts fading into a realm of insistent pleasure, where thoughts were space mush.

Miguel withstood the pressure on his cock,  clamping his hand down on your hip. His thrusts stuttered, filling your belly with whip after whip with his full hot cum. Your body twitched in the throes of his orgasm. He tracked his eyes down to your body, withdrawing with a bubbly pop of his dick from your abused hole, the intermingling of cum and virginal blood dribbling down your cheeks. 

Your gaze tracked Miguel, pressing his lips toward yours one more time. You shifted on the couch, legs pathetically tremoring. Miguel chuckled and walked toward his electric kettle, papers crunching underneath his feet, “Don’t bother moving. Not that you could, anyway.”

He warmed a warm cloth with hot water, testing its temperature on his palm before sitting beside your crumpled legs, spreading your legs to clean his mess and sooth the abrasive way he took you. He spread your lips, ensuring you were clean before he would flip the cloth, dropping it on top of your vulva. 

“You know you’re mine,” he asked, though it came out as a statement. With another cloth, Miguel cleaned his soft cock of the mess, exhaustion of the sex and what was to come returning to his gentle, deep voice. 

“Sí,” you answered. 

“And you’d do anything for me. Only me.” 

The words were laced with something more than a suggestion, but an affirmation of your loyalty. Your love. You pushed yourself up, hanging off his arm after he tucked himself into his pants. “Para siempre.” 

He leaned down, plucking the bundle with his sequenced DNA information. Your eyes coursed the information on the page, darting up to his tired eyes. You wanted to ask why or what he knew. Miguel knew it didn't matter. You were his now, from the top of your head to the bottom of your gorgeous toes. You trusted him fully. As you should. With the empty vial of Rapture sitting beside him, forgotten, he spared you a mincing smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Good. Let's fix our project.” 

[k4marina]

— i. Bloodline || Heart of the Dragon

synopsis: a library that leaves you with more questions than answers

warnings: got canon shit, brief mention of cersie, natural disasters, death, spelling

series masterlist || next part

~ 6.5k word count. i know, its a long one

game of thrones x modern!fem!reader

[gif found on pinterest]

After our breakfast Daenerys told me that there would be a Small Council meeting in the afternoon where I would be able to meet everyone. 

“I have to see my dragons right now, but I will see you at the meeting,” she’d said. “We’ll further discuss everything with the rest of my council, until then you’re free to roam around as you please. I’ll have someone give you a proper tour of the castle within the week.” 

The castle halls were mostly empty, minus the few guards on patrol. Unlike last time, no guard eyed me with suspicion. Rather, they were a bit more cordial, almost like how they’re with Daenerys. I stopped walking as I came to the end of the hall. In front of me were a set of huge double doors. Two small rectangle windows were on either side of the doors, giving a glimpse of what was inside. 

Looking through the glass I could see huge bookshelves filled to the brim with books. Sneakily, I looked back and around me, making sure that no one could see me enter. The library was dim, only like by candlelight and whatever sunlight that could seep through the dark curtains. No one seemed to be inside either, the many tables in the room were covered in a coating of dust rather than books. 

Off to the sides of the room were a small set of stairs that led to the second story of the library. The shelves were labeled well and in High Valyrian, just in a very fancy way, like how Old Westerosi was written out during this time. The subjects ranged on and on, most of which was about Valyrian culture and history. 

The bottom floor of the room was full of Valyrian history and culture. Just by looking at the books inside the shelves anyone could see that they were very old. When I reached the end of the room, I carefully went up the stairs, the floorboards creaking underneath my feet. 

Upstairs, there were far fewer bookshelves than downstairs. A circular table was set in the center of the room and large paintings hung up high on the wall behind it. Walking past the table, I came face to face to the former Lords of Dragonstone. All of the Lords and their families who resided on Dragonstone before the Conquest were there.

On the far left, where the line of paintings began was a family portrait. There was writing engraved on a golden plaque underneath the painting. 

“Aenar Targaryen, First Lord of Dragonstone.

Gaemon Targaryen and Daenys Targaryen.”

Underneath Aenar’s and his two children's names were the names of his many wives, five to be exact. I haphazardly read through the names, most of which were of Valyrian women, a few from different areas of Essos. 

“Vellela Irnoran, that’s most likely from the Free Cities, Naqari Ghe- shit, how do I say this? Ghezihl, oof, that has to be Ghiscari. Jelaehna Vellar..ys.” 

Jelaehna Vellarys. Jelaehna Vellarys. Vel-lar-ys. 

“No fucking way.” 

I squinted, leaning into the painting trying to find some resemblance. She sorta looked like me? But then again, every Valyrian would. The same silver hair, the same deep lilac eyes, the same necklace- 

There, on her neck was the same necklace that hung around my neck. Two dragon heads, red ruby, and a sword. Thinking back to my family's words, I know that the necklace had been passed down for generations, but nothing to suggest that there were more than two. From what I’d been told, there’s one necklace in Volantis and the other with me. 

Maybe, there would be more information here. I glanced over the bookshelves. Unlike the other ones downstairs, these ones were labeled by years. Judging by the lack of BC or AC, it looked like they were written before the conquest. I moved towards the shelf with the oldest year. The bookshelf was filled with what looked like journals and letters. Skimming through, I could see that they were in different sets of writing, but one caught my eye. 

A brown leatherback journal with a red ruby and the initials J.V. I grabbed it and any other books that resemble them and brought them to the roundtable. The first book was a personal journal of Jelaehna written during her time in Valyria. She described her daily life as one of Aenar's wives in the Freehold. It was interesting to learn about what life was like in a once powerful empire that’s nothing more than rubble now. Mid-way into the journal was what really caught my eye. 

This morning, after our morning meal with the family, Daenys came to her father, almost terrified, and told him about her dream. Aenar, confused, calmed her down and told her to explain herself, thinking it was some sort of nightmare. Despite the political stress and pressure of our family possibly losing its position to another house, he still took the time for his children.

Daenys told her father that she’d dreamed of the end of Valyria. At first, Aenar laughed and told her that nothing of that sort would happen. We as well as everyone in Valyria had dragons – even children have dragons. There are so many that we’re completely invincible. How else could we have grown our Empire so far?

However, the look in her eye was enough to convince him. When he confided in his other wives, including myself, he too was convinced of the impending end of our home. Bhaesa, the third wife, claimed that it was just Daenys’ wild imagination and nothing more, that the stress of politics was the cause of such absurdities. But Aenar shook his head and claimed that Valyria would fall and collapse into itself. Flames would erupt from the ground, fire would rain on all of us and our dragons would be able to do nothing.

Everyone went back and forth for what felt like hours however, none of it would deter Aenar. He was fully convinced that his daughter had dreamt of the end of Valyria. When would it happen? Who knows. All Aenar knows is that we must leave urgently. 

The next few pages weren’t as dramatic as the last. According to the journals, Aenar had begun preparations for the entire family's departure. He started selling away valuables and any land we owned in the Freehold. During this Jalaehna had written and received letters from her family. 

Jelaehna, 

I’m writing to you from Volantis! Brother and I had just arrived a few days ago to our new home. We’ve been settling in and adjusting to our new life here. Your goodsister’s have already started strolling through the markets. It seems that there are even more shops here than in Valyria, despite Volantis being smaller. 

Today, brother and I toured our new shop. It’s bigger than what we thought and its forge is doable. If needed we can renovate it whenever we see fit. The shop sits in the main district, besides a bakery that sells very well made bread, cakes, and cookies. Brother is thinking that with maybe a few months of more work, we’ll be ready to start our shop. We’ve already received a few orders!

Enough of that, I’ve heard from Mother that your husband has lost his mind. She tells me that his daughter had dreamt that Valyria had been submerged into flames. Is this true? If it is, I will come down to Valyria myself so I can talk some sense into him. 

I understand that the Empire politics are not for the faint of heart and that Lord Targaryen is in a tough position, seeing how your rival house is gaining more support than Aenar, but to take such drastic measures for a simple dream? Don’t worry, if need be, we’ll help him in the upcoming council meeting. 

I’ll write to you again when everything has finally settled. Perhaps you and your son can visit us in Volantis, I’m sure he’d be excited to meet his cousins again. Don’t trouble yourself with Aenar or Daenys’ drea., I’ll have father come and talk to him.

With Love, 

Your Dear Brother.

Son? 

From what I remember, Aenar only had one son, right? Though, if he had multiple wives then he’d have more than one child, but none other than Gaemon the Glorious and Daenys the Dreamer were written down in the Targaryen family tree. 

And the shop, by its description it's exactly where my family's first shop was located. Could it be the same shop? I groaned, rubbing my eyes. If only I were in Volantis more, then I would have been able to learn more about our family history. 

The next few pages were mainly her daily activities with the occasional “I think my husband has gone mad. He’s started to sell all our lands and belongings.” Though, that wasn’t all of it.

We’re finally leaving. 

Aenar has worked tirelessly for most of the year on selling away our belongings and lands. It seems that there’s no turning back any longer. His wives and I agree that he’s lost his mind, however he claims that what he’s doing is for the good of our family, for our children. 

A few of his wives protested, claiming that if he left then they’d stay in Valyria. However, Aenar was quick to rebut. No matter what, everyone is to leave. He’s even thinking of bringing a few servants that can tend to our dragons to our new home. 

I feel that the reason why so many are upset is because of how far we’re moving. It’s not that we’re moving to Volantis or all the way to Bravos. We’re moving to Dragonstone, the lone castle on an island in the Narrow Sea by the continent Westeros. We’re practically moving our entire life to an unknown land. We leave in a few hours, all the dragons have been prepared for our departure. Anyother belongings that would weigh down our dragons, or wouldn’t fit, were sent over by boat. 

Whatever this is, I can only pray to Tyraxes that this will only benefit our family and children.

~

We’ve arrived on Dragonstone. 

The journey lasted roughly four days. We stopped when we had to sleep, eat, and stretch our limbs. Our last stop was in Bravos. The small city seems to be developing fine. I’m sure within the years Bravos will become a place of influence not only in Essos, but perhaps Westeros as well. 

When we landed on Dragonstone, we were surprised to see a small Valyrian village in the hills. They too were surprised to see us. Apparently, when Dragonstone was first created, almost two hundred years ago, a small group of people were left behind to maintain the castle and the land around it. The castle itself is not what we had imagined. It’s spacious with multiple floors, and it’s littered in dragon motifs and writing in Valyrian. 

As of writing this, Aenar and Gaemon are arranging where to put our belongings and are checking everything has arrived well and on time. During all of the planning, Gaemon has helped his father a lot. It's nice to see as a mother when your child and husband spend time together. Daenys is tending to her dragon Balerion. Compared to the older four dragons, Balerion seems to be growing well and will most definitely be a strong dragon. The other wives are either touring the castle or they’re resting in their chambers. 

Hopefully our new life on Dragonstone will do us and our children well.

I reread the same words over and over again. Surely, what I was thinking wasn’t a stretch. I mean, if anyone else were to read this they would agree as well, right? If only I had the journals before these ones to know for sure. 

The next few hours I was immersed in the entries about the Targaryens familiarizing themselves with their new homes and what their new life was like. It seemed that along the years, Aenar had other children with his wives though, some of them died during infancy. Pages and pages were filled with Jelaehna’s thoughts and her daily activities. It really put into perspective how even all these years back people were just like us. Sure, time’s may have changed but simple things that people enjoy to do have not.

They were right. It finally happened. 

Ever since I heard the news my body had been completely numb for many reasons. 

Valyria is no more. Our once beautiful home is now nothing but ruins. Its beauty, its culture, its people will never be seen in this world ever again. Ever since we were told of this, I keep finding myself praying to all the Gods in the world that it’s not true, that it’s nothing but a sick sick joke. But it’s not. 

This morning I received a letter from my brothers in Volantis informing me that Valyria was destroyed by a chainreaction of all its volcanoes setting off, one after the other causing the earth and the sky to shake so violently that it was felt in Volantis. Volcanic fire rained down onto our Valyria, burning everything in sight. The smoke and fire from it is visible from Volantis and it most likely will be for the next few weeks, possibly months – a looming reminder of the death of the most powerful empire on the planet. 

My brothers also tell me that no one has survived, not even the dragons that would soar high in the sky. Who knew that we would be burned by the very same fire we were forged from. 

There’s a hole deep in my heart. 

Not only have I lost my home, but I have also lost my family. My mother and father, my two brothers and their wives and children. I have cried so much that I am unsure if I have any more tears left to cry. My sorrow is slowly being replaced by anger. Anger that this had to happen. Anger that none of the empire's best scholars were unable to predict this. Anger towards the Gods for destroying those who  worshiped them so greatly that we built temples that reached the skies. Anger that all those people laughed at us when we left instead of leaving with us. 

The entire castle is in mourning. Daenys is distraught that her dreams had came true and that only she was the one who had dreamt of the end of our home. 

In the end, we’re the last of Valyria. We’re the last Dragonriders. 

We are all alone.

The wore out paper was warped in some areas, the ink smudged as if small drops of water had been dropped on it. The paper was smooth under my fingers, if I pressed my fingers deeper into the paper I could feel where the tip of the quill was pressed in too deep. 

A wave of sorrow washed over me as I reread the words. I could feel myself, again, mourning a land that I had never seen, that my family had never stepped foot on for hundreds of years. Of course as I got older I always wondered what could have been if Valyria lived or if my family had never left. I could feel this woman's anger and pain, a woman I’d never met but felt so connected to, I could understand how she could feel totally alone in this world because I am too. I have no one. No family or friends. I don’t know how to go back to my time, or if I can even go back. What if I died in that cave when I was brought here? 

I drew in a deep breath, collecting myself and reading through the last of the journal entries. The last entry was about Gaemon and Daenys’ wedding. They had married in the ways of Old Valyria, surrounded by their family and members of House Velaryon, who the Targaryens had befriended a few years after the doom. 

I must admit, I have not felt such happiness since the birth of my son. Today was the union of Daenys and Gaemon. Their wedding was a small intimate affair with just family members and members of House Velaryon. Daella, Lord Velaryon’s wife, had congratulated me and gifted Daenys a beautiful dress. When she saw it, her eyes blew wide and she could stop smiling. 

As a mother, watching your child get married is an entirely different kind of joy, one that makes your heart ache from happiness and from the realization that our children are growing up. Now, Gaemon will start his own family with Daenys and their children will carry on the Targaryen names. 

I could feel my fingertips buzz. So I was right. Jelaehna was Gaemons mother. Which means she’s both Daenerys and I’s ancestor. She has to be the link between us. 

“My Lady,” I let out gasp, my head snapping back towards the voice. Behind me, a guard stood by the staircase. “Her Grace requests your presence.”

“Uh, yes. One moment, please.” I rearranged the books on the table, grabbing Jelaehna’s journal and the letter from her brothers. 

The guard made space for me to pass him and step down the stairs before leading me to where Daenerys was. The double doors opened wide and I was met with five pairs of eyes. Daenerys smiled at me, beckoning me over with her hand to stand beside her while the other four in the room eyed me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. 

It was clear that some didn’t expect another Valyrian looking woman to be on Dragonstone. There were three men, one of which was of dwarf stature, and one woman, all wearing a three headed dragon pin. 

They have to be Daenerys’ small council. 

“This is Y/n Vellarys. She will be joining us in my quest for the throne,” Daenerys said as if there was no room for arguments. 

“Y/n, this is Missandei, my closest companion. Grey Worm, he is the commander of the Unsullied. This is Lord Varys, Master of Whispers, and Lord Tyrion Lannister, my Hand.” 

Out of everyone, Missandei was the one who looked the least confused at my sudden intrusion. Daenerys must have told her about me, but I don't know how much. 

“Vellarys,” my eyes shifted towards Tyrion. “I apologize, My Lady, but I don’t believe I have ever heard of your house.” 

I nodded. “It’s, uh, not from Westeros. My family is from Volantis.” 

Me mentioning Volantis caught Varys’ interest. “Volantis? You wouldn’t be referring to the Vellarys of the Old Bloods, My Lady?” 

“I am.” I replied, catching a few people off guard. 

Tyrion looked over at Varys for him to explain. “The Old Bloods are families in Volantis who can trace their lineage directly back to Valyria. They’re very powerful and influential people.” 

“You seem to know a lot about my house.” I say. I could feel his eyes bore into mine. Clearly, to a man like Varys, who himself is a mystery, even to Daenerys, meeting another mystery is almost threatening.

“Not as much as I presume you do,” despite his words being somewhat nice, I felt that there was an underlying message behind them. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, exactly why are you here? From what I’ve heard from my little birds, the Vellarys have shown no interest in Queen Daenerys.” 

“I’m here for the same reason as you,” I said. “To make Daenerys queen. Take back the throne from the usurpers and bring back the Targaryen dynasty.” 

I guess my touching words moved Grey Worm a bit since his frown softened. But despite that Varys still didn’t let up. 

“And how can we know you’re to be trusted? We know nothing of you. You’re a complete stranger.” 

“Varys,” Daenerys warned. 

I moved my hand a bit in front of Daenerys, cutting off her words. “You make a fair point. Yes, I am a stranger… to you. But to Daenerys,” I turned towards her. “We can say we’re long lost relatives.” 

 Daenerys frowned, “what are you saying?” 

“I found these,” I held up the book and letters that were in my hand. “In the library. They belong to Jelaehna Vellarys, one of Aenar Targaryens wives that he brought to Dragonstone after Daenys the Dreamer predicted the Doom of Valyria. She was also the mother of Gaemon the Glorious.” 

Daenerys’ face contorted from confusion to shock. I handed off the journal to her, showing her where the evidence was. After reading it, she handed it off towards the others. I also handed her the letters between her and her brothers in Volantis. Varys looked up from the evidence, in his hand, at me looking gobsmacked.   

“There’s only one Vellarys family that has ties to Valyria and lives in Volantis. Everything I’ve been told about my ancestors matches with what’s written in there.” 

Everyone read over the letters and journal pages, making sure what I was saying was true. I could see their faces shift from surprised to confused. 

“Then why didn’t you seek out Her Grace before now?” Missandei asks. “I’m sure you’d heard of her presence in Essos. Why did you wait this long?” 

Everyone except Daenerys looked at me waiting for my answer. “Does it matter? I’m here now, aren’t I? Besides, I doubt there was much I could do back there. The Gods have brought me here to help Daenerys now, surely there has to be a reason why, right? And I could say the same about Lord Varys. You’ve known about Daenerys the longest out of everyone here, yet you decided to join her side now and not back then.” 

Varys looked a little taken aback that he’d be called out. Did I feel bad about it, sorta. As much as good the man has done and will do in the upcoming events he still betrayed Daenerys and I’m sure my arrival has ruffled some of his feathers. 

“Ah, yes.” Varys said,  “I suppose you make a fair point.” 

Seeing that the conversation had ended for now, Daenerys spoke up. “Now that all is out of the way, I’m sure that you all know why we’re all here – to take back my throne. Grey Worm, what is the condition of the Unsullied and Dothraki?”

The commander straightened his back as he reported to his Queen. “The Unsullied have been training well, as well as the Dothraki force. They have been participating in drills and sparring with one another since we have arrived.” 

If I remember correctly, the Unsullied are elite warriors from Astapor who have been trained since they were children. However, their armor and weapons don’t seem to reflect their ferocity. 

“What about armor and weapons?” I ask. 

Grey Worm looks at me confused, “our armor and weapons are fine, My Lady. Their spears are in great condition and the Unsullied take great care of their armor.”

“I know that. I’m just wondering if you think that fighting against the Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard in leather armor and a singular plate of steel and a spear is a good idea.” Something that always rubbed me the wrong way was the fact that these elite warriors weren’t given better armor or weapons afterall, every great warrior needs equally great weapons. 

Grey Worm frowned, offended by my words. “If you are trying to say that our men are not as good as those of Kings Landing, then you are highly mistaken.” 

I shook my head. “That’s not what I’m saying. All I’m saying is, isn’t it better to get just as great armor and weapons for your warriors? We have to take into account what kind of men are under Cersie Lanninster and plan accordingly. Obryn Martell was known as Dornes Viper. He was the best with whatever weapon his hand could reach, especially a spear. But he died a gruesome death at the hands of The Mountain.” Tyrion visibly swallowed at the thought of the man who had fought for him when he was on trial for Joffrey's death. “We have to be vigilant with the lives of our men. The Dothraki can’t properly fight in the streets of Kings Landing, but the Unsullied can. And on top of that, you’ll be fighting in unknown territory, you’ll need whatever protection you need.” 

Grey Worm seemed to mull over my words, slowly coming to terms with them. Daenerys as well seemed to agree with me. “That isn’t a bad idea. We’ll have to find a way to gather supplies to create new armor for the Unsullied.”

The next few hours were spent talking over things I had no idea about so I kept mostly to myself, chiming in whenever I felt that it was necessary. Throughout the meeting I could feel the others looking towards me, almost analyzing me, especially Varys. For such a passive looking man, he had a threatening glare. It was less of a “I will kill you” kind of stare and more like looking into the eyes of a psychopath where just his stare is enough to make you question yourself. 

If this meeting has made one thing clear is that my position in this world is still questionable. Not just logically, but also physically. Just because Daenerys trusts me (to what extent, I don't know) doesn't mean that everyone else will. From what I’ve noticed, Missandei won’t be as hard as expected, maybe a bit of smooth talking will be enough to show her that I’m not an enemy. Grey Worm is also in the same boat as Missandei, I just don’t know if my armor comment rubbed him the wrong way or not. 

Getting Tyrion on board will most likely be a game of witts or a game of who can down the most glasses of wine. I remember reading about Tyrion's life after Daenerys’ death. Apparently, he had started to deteriorate –drinking all day and night, spending days, almost weeks, in brothels, a real downward spiral. Of course, this destructive lifestyle caught up to him and within a few years, death was knocking on his door. Before passing, he wrote in his diary. If I remember rightly, he claimed that this downward spiral was his atonement for his sins against Daenerys. After the betrayal he suffered by his liver Shae, he said that he slowly started to lose himself, even after meeting and joining Daenerys. 

It was speculated that when they came back to Westeros he mentally fell back into the hole that he had tried to climb out of. In all honesty, I couldn't blame him too much.

Imagine coming back to King’s Landing after your sister, who’s abused you your entire life, tries to kill you for the murder of her son even though you didn’t do it, and then your father says he’ll “help” you meaning, “i’m sending you to the wall, loser, have fun freezing” as a sure way of getting rid of you, and then your lover, who was supposed to be your ride or die, betrays you and gives a false testimony that basically just signs your death warrant, and then after all that bullshit you live and decide confront your father, only to find your “lover” in his bed.. 

Yeah, if I was him, I wouldn’t want to come back to King’s Landing. 

I let out a sigh, craning my head back to relieve some tension, only to catch Varys looking directionally at me through my peripheral. 

Varys. 

He was an interesting man. Even after all these years, there’s practically the same amount of information as there was when he was alive. People have speculated that he’s a Blackfyre or a fucking merman, though, there isn’t much to that theory. However, one thing is true; he is not loyal to Daenerys. 

It’s highly suspected that because of him Missandei was captured which led to her execution. He also tried to poison Daenerys and sent letters to the nobel houses where he exposed Jon Snow's true identity. All in all, he’s someone I have to watch out for. Not only for my safety but also for everyone else. 

“Y/n?” 

My eyes shifted towards Daenerys, “hm?” 

“Is everything alright?” She asks. 

I nod. “Yeah, just thinking.” 

If I want to help Daenerys, I’ll have to use everything I know from my time to change upcoming events. Meaning…

“Cersie has scorpions.” 

Confusion washes over everyone's faces. 

“Scorpions,” Tyrion repeats, “like the poisonous insect.” He makes a crawling motion with his hands, imitating a scorpion. 

I shake my head. “No, not those. Scorpions. The things that took down Rhaenys and Meraxes.” I lock eyes with Daenerys, who seems to be understanding. “Cersie is mass producing them so that she can take down the dragons.” 

A look of horror came across everyone's faces as the realization sunk in. Daenerys’ dragons were her trump card, everyone knows that, she brought them back from the dead. So the fact that Cersie has a weapon that could bring them down left an awful taste in everyone's mouth.

“That's preposterous,” Varys says, catching everyone's attention. “I haven't heard of anything like this. How do we even know that what you're saying is the truth.” 

“Just because you haven’t heard of it yet doesn't mean it's a lie.” I say. “And who knows, by the time you’ve learned about it, one of Daeenrys’ dragons might have an arrow in its skull.” 

“Your Grace, are you sure that we can even trust this information?” Varys says in his sweet condescending voice. He stares down at her, waiting for her answer. 

Daenerys takes in a breath, looking between Varys and I. “How sure are you?” She asks, looking into my eyes. 

“Very. You know I have no reason to lie to you,” I reply. 

“Very well.” She subtly nods. “I trust you.” I let out a small smile and Varys tries his best to hide his annoyance. 

“If Cersei does have these scorpions, then how do we protect the dragons?” Missandei asks. 

“I’m thinking the same,” Tyrion agrees. “If these scorpions can kill a dragon like Meraxes, then you can just imagine what kind of damage it would do to the ones we have now.”

“There has to be something in here that will tell us how to train the dragons. This castle is littered with libraries. Surely, there is something that will give us a one up on the scorpions.” Daenerys said.

“I’ll make sure to keep my eyes open.” I replied. I was already going to go back to read some of the other journals. And seeing how the library was more of a family only kind of place, I’m sure there has to be something useful.

After wrapping up the meeting, an hour later, it’s just you and Daenerys in the council room after she’d dismissed everyone but you. She looked like she was in deep thought, going over the events of today, and most likely yesterday. 

“You’re tense.” I say. 

She sighs, slowly releasing the tension, and rubs her face. “This has been so…” 

“Confusing.” I finished. “Yeah, I get it too.” 

She shook her head, most likely in disbelief. “Not once did I think that any of this could be possible.”

I softly chuckled, nodding. “Me neither. But then again, if Dragons can exist then I guess anything can be possible.” 

Daenerys smiles, agreeing with me with a chuckle of her own. Her eyes travel down to the journals on the table. “Is it true?” 

I hummed. “There’s even a painting with all of the wives and she’s front and center with the same hair and eyes and necklace.” 

“Gods,” she says. “So this means we’re…” 

“Cousins. Well, distant cousins.”

She huffs, “very distant.” 

“Yeah,” I laugh. “A lot of distance.”

Silence washes over us again as we go over our thoughts. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

I frowned, looking at her now. “I told you. I want to help you win the Iron Throne.” 

“Yes, I know that. But why? Won’t this change everything in your time?”

She’s not wrong. There've been countless movies, shows, and books about time travel where all anyone could talk about was to “not change anything in the past, otherwise there would be consequences in the future,” or something like that. 

“My time… just because it’s the future doesn’t mean it’s the best. Especially for a woman.” My face hardened. “It seems that no matter what we do, we’re always questioned and looked down on. We’re selfish if we want to focus on ourselves and our career rather than being a wife and mother. But then we’re low and shallow if we want to settle down with a man and stay at home to take care of the kids. No matter what, we can’t win.” 

“Rhaenyra didn’t win the throne even after being named heir by the King. She was questioned and overruled by her stepmother and half brother, despite having every right to ascend the throne. All because she was a woman.” I remember when I learned about the Dance of Dragons and how it all left a bad taste in my mouth. I remembered how all the boys in my class laughed at her, claiming that she would’ve been a worse ruler than the drunkard rapist, Aegon. “Even after all these years, nothing has changed. When I first started to learn about the history of Westeros, I always told myself that if I could change anything, no matter the consequences, I would do what I could to put a true Queen on the throne.” 

Daenerys’ lilac eyes looked into mine. I could feel her emotions without having to exchange any words because they were just like mine. Despite being from separate times, nothing has changed. No matter what, a woman has truly never won. 

“Somehow, the Gods have given me the chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do. I don’t care what the consequences are in the future. Besides, I don’t even know if I can return back to my time.” 

Silence fell over us. I stared out the window behind her, watching as the clouds passed by. Despite being here for only one day, I couldn’t help but feel that all roads towards my time have been severed. As if the Gods were telling me that there is no way back, no matter how much I might try. 

I’m pulled out of stupor when I feel a warm hand on top of mine. Daenerys gives my hand a squeeze. She looks at me with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. We’ve both lost a lot, all in a short time. In another world, she’d be living in Kings Landing with her family. Aneys would have never been pushed to madness, her mother wouldn’t have died in labor, Rhaegar wouldn’t have been killed at the trident, and Viserys would have grown up looking up to his older brother while also looking out for his younger sister. She would have grown up as she should have. 

“Thank you,” she says, giving my hand another squeeze. “I know all of this is very confusing, but thank you for helping me. Hopefully, your contributions will have a positive effect in the future.” 

I gave her a smile, “you don’t have to thank me, Daenerys. I would’ve helped regardless of the outcome. It’s your family's throne, not the usurpers.” 

—-

The castle grounds were amazing. It really puts into perspective how powerful and massive it is when you’re trying to take a tour of the place. Currently, we were in the south end of the castle where the soldiers would train. The courtyard is spacious, and like the rest of the castle, is dark and gray and littered in dragon motifs. 

“It seems that they’re in the middle of a training session,” the servant who’d been giving me the tour siad. We stood off to the side so we wouldn’t distract them, but considering they are the Unsullied it really didn’t matter what we did, as they would never lose focus.

“Are you enjoying the tour, My Lady?” Gray Worm asks as he approaches us. The Servant politely nods towards him and fades back to give us some space. 

“It has its highs,” I reply. “I’m not interrupting here, am I?”

“No, My Lady. You’re fine.” I looked towards the Unsullied training. “They’re great warriors.”

“Thank you,” Gray Worm nods his head. “Would you like to look closer?”

“What?” I shake my head. “No, no. You guys are busy. I’m already taking your time, I shouldn’t take anymore.” 

“No, please, I insist.” Before I could say anything, I caught a look in Gray Worm’s eyes. Is this a test? To see how I’d act around weapons? Of course, just because Daenerys has welcomed me with open arms, doesn't mean everyone fully has either. 

“Alright. Lead the way.” 

He holds his arm out and helps me down the stairs and leads me to the training grounds. We went past the archer’s, all of whom hit the bullseye every time. Then past the soldiers sparing one another. Most of them were fighting with spears and shields. If I had remembered correctly, their armor and shields were far more extravagant then what they had now. I made a mental note to talk to Daenerys about it.

Lastly, I was shown to the armory. It was a grand room, stocked with swords, shields, spears, and bow and arrows, as well as pieces of armor. A lot of it looked like it was Valyrian, most likely belonging to the Targaryens. 

“This is what was left of the Targaryen armory after the Baratheons fled the island.” Gray Worm explains. He points out certain pieces and explains what they are. 

“Fucking hell,” I mumbled, getting a closer look. “Not once did I think I’d be here of all places.” My eyes raked over the endless amount of weapons, taking it all in. No way any museum could beat this.

“Would you like to spar?” Gray Word asks, catching me off-guard. 

“Me? I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I shake my head. 

“You were not taught?” He asks. 

I shake my head again. No actually, where I’m from we don’t fight with swords anymore. “Never had an opportunity to.” 

He goes quiet for a second and I think that he’s dropped it, but he surprises me when he speaks up again. “Would you like to learn?” 

“I don’t think I’d be a good idea. Besides, aren't you supposed to start learning at a young age? I’m pretty sure my ship has sailed,” I joked. Gray Worm slightly frowns at my “odd way” of speaking. 

“That may be true however, anyone can learn at any age.” He looks between the swords and then me. “So, would you like to learn?” 

It wasn’t a bad idea in hindsight. This is Westeros during the Game of Thrones Era. Practically everyone dies if they’re not prepared and I can’t take any chances here if I want to make it back to my time without a scratch. 

“Alright. I do.”

a/n : finalyyy it's here. i know it's a long one, but i had so much that i wanted to write. i'll try to keep the next few chapters a little light, but no promises lol. feel free to comment your thoughts and do all that other stuff &lt;;3

comment it u want to be on the taglist !!

taglist :

@wotcherpeak @music-luver25 @your-favorite-god @radiantdanvers @cluelessteam @ministark @laanswife

[inloveinsickness]

hii! may i please request suna rintaro w maybe some friends to lovers? u can have creative freedom w it! i just want it to be completely sfw bc i’m only 17!:)

❝ SO HIGH SCHOOL ❞ — suna rintarou

cw. gn!reader, implied friends to lovers, slight canon divergence — inarizaki beats karasuno, light swearing (like once) | wc: 600

event masterlist

the gymnasium is ablaze, drums and horns in an intense battle of psyche against each other as the teams fight it out on the orange court with rally after rally.

you’re sitting at the edge of your seat, eyes wide and hands clenched together as the last few points of this definitive match drag out. your heart rapidly races against your chest and your palms are beginning to sweat, you’ve been awfully quiet for a while now, focused on the game at hand and nervously bounding your leg up and down.

suna doesn’t know that you’re here, you told him that you couldn’t make it because you were called back to school to help with tutoring. he didn’t mind too much considering the circumstances and this wasn’t the finals or anything. nonetheless, you caught a glimpse of disappointment flash in his eyes for a split second, and you knew you’d do anything in your power to show up today, even if it meant bowing on your knees and apologising to your poor kouhai for rainchecking on her. she just politely patted your back and told you to go get your man, much to your embarrassment.

it’s down to inarizaki’s match point, and atsumu’s yelling for the cover after karasuno barely manages to bump the ball back over the net.

with a pass directly to atsumu, the twins once again attempt their minus tempo quick attack and with bated breath, the stands fall silent and the air is stifling, the crowds listening out for the decisive whistle and call that would determine who moves on to the next round of the tournament.

“what a spike from miya osamu, beautifully set by his twin brother miya atsumu, and with that, inarizaki takes the win today and clinch a spot in the top 16 for this year’s high school spring volleyball tournament!”

you shoot up from your seat hidden in the corner at the side of the court, hands over your mouth as you bask in the loud cheers of the people around you, fellow inarizaki students, teachers, and spectators alike. your eyes scan the orange court, searching for your best friend in a sea of black and orange, and when they do find his, you can’t help but let out a tearful laugh at the way they widen with disbelief, and soften as his arms open wide for you to run into.

as you throw yourself into his embrace, suna catches you with an oof, lightly spinning as he tries to regain his footing, “woah easy there, tiger.”

raising your voice so that he can hear you over the crowd, “congratulations rin!”

you wrap your arms around his neck as his hands tenderly rest against your waist to support you, forehead leaning against his as your breath fans against his cheeks, more quietly this time, “i’m so proud of you, always.”

in this moment, time stands still and all the surrounding noise fades, it’s just the two of you standing in the middle of the tokyo metropolitan gymnasium, nothing but sweat and polished hardwood floors beneath your feet.

suna whispers, “i fucking love you so much, i could kiss you right now.”

“do it, i dare you.” your face is graced with a shy smile and a cheeky glint hidden in crescent moons for eyes, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

and who was he to ever back down from a challenge, head dipping ever so slightly to finally capture your lips in his.

they’re right, we don’t need the memories, let’s just live in the moment, you and me.

notes. hi chloe !! thank you so much for your request, this is my first time writing for sunarin and i hope i did him justice ♡ i look forward to interacting more with you, lovely !! (dividers: @/cafekitsune) reblogs & interactions are always appreciated !

© yogurtkags. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.