#every day i have these rogue Thoughts lmAO

[lycankeyy]

Even as someone who's not like Deep In the Trenches it pisses me off so much how many posts I've seen boiling down Rogue's issues to "wanting sex" or talking about how "she can touch people through clothes" so she should just Get Over It (usually to the effect of "so she can get with Remy".)

In terms of X-Men representing minorities its always been blatantly obvious to me that Rogue's mutation is (or can be easily interpreted as) an invisible disability. She Cannot Touch People. And to this extent, it's perfectly normal for disabled people to mourn the things they can't have or do because of their disability? Especially when there's a degree of trauma there? Yes there's workarounds, but that doesn't change the fact that she cannot do something that most people take for granted. Rogue has clearly been in a state of severe grief about this, which is what makes the narrative so compelling.

She wants to be with Remy, clearly. But she's so consumed by her feelings about her mutation that she can't see that they can be together. Her attraction to Magneto is, by her own admission (as she seems to have gotten over her infatuation with him based on his ideals before joining the X-Men), the fact that his powers cancel out hers. It takes her healing past her grief, after sharing a dance with Magneto, to realize that she cares more about Gambit than her ability to touch someone's skin.

There are plenty of actual criticisms you could have about this and Rogue's character; in this vein, it's easy to criticize how complaining about her disability frequently is one of Rogue's main character traits - but "there are other ways she can have sex so she should get over it :/" is like. The most bizarre and Nothing criticism ever

[astarionancuntnin]

Hyello! I don’t know if you do requests but I thought I’d ask so the request is that x reader is honestly pretty badass and Astarion does something that pisses her off and so she barges into his tent after a long day to tell him off and fight him but decides that amidst the anger there is also hunger and decides theres a a way he can make it up to her and smutty content insues, preferably very like animalistic?? think closer by nine inch nails lol i do like the idea that they're both fighting for dominance in the interaction, you choose which one wins lol hope I’m not bothering you

did i listen to closer on repeat to bring you this? perhaps

and i never really put it out there, but hell yeah im taking requests! thank you for being my first <3

(also thank you for your patience i was heavily focused on my last chapters for die for you before approaching this ask and then it really went overboard LMAO you said "animalistic" and i took it literally, i hope you enjoy!)

Run, Little Fox

pairing: astarion x reader!ranger!tav

rating: E

word count: 5.1k

cw: 18+. smut, biblicaly accurate Astarion primal!astarion, predator/prey, knife play (if you squint), rivals/hate sex, mildly dubious consent, fighting for dominance, p in v, blood/vampire bites, creampie, very slight somnophilia (but id rather mention it, never too safe)

read on ao3

or keep reading down below~

That’s it. 

That was once too many.

This brat of a rogue had gotten on your nerves more times than you could recall, and today you decided you had enough. Your group trusted and respected your position as their leader, a brave and cunning ranger whose decisions everyone agreed with — as they were for the greater good — so why couldn’t he do the same? It wasn’t enough that he questioned your every move in front of everyone else, no, he grew bored of you ignoring his remarks. He just had to act on his impulses and get you in trouble this time. 

You had intended on getting information out of a group of adventurers, when he had tried to pickpocket them in the middle of your discussion, and when he got caught, things obviously went south. You tried to talk things down, but they wouldn’t hear it. One thing led to another and next thing you know, they laid in a pool of their own blood and you stood with no more information than you started with. All of it, because of him, and he had the gall to say it was your own fault for not defusing the situation better. Really?!

The stress of this adventure — the impending doom that those tadpoles in your brains were — was already enough weight on your shoulders, you didn’t want to deal with Astarion’s trickery on top of it anymore. No — you couldn’t. You had enough of his unnerving attitude; enough of his shameless flirting when it was clear you weren’t interested; enough of his impetuous disdain and insolence that matched your own. Tonight, you would set the record right.

Once back at camp after this horrendous, unending day by his side, the first thing you do after dropping your loot and equipment at your tent, is bolt straight for Astarion’s. 

Still covered in a mix of your sweat, today’s unfortunate souls’ blood — and your own — you burst through the entrance of Astarion’s tent without so much as a warning to find him peacefully laying, with one arm behind his head and the other already flipping through the pages of a book he had found, and most certainly stolen, during today’s stroll.

He barely lifts his head to notice your intrusion, his eyes darting your way, half-lidded. “Looking for a cuddle?” 

The sheer audacity of the smirk he gives you. 

“You—” You fully step into his tent, staring him down with an anger that couldn’t be contained, as you close the flaps behind you, “Have been a pain in my ass for long enough.”

He scoffs, “Darling, we haven’t been close like that yet — unless this is your way of asking?” He closes his book and puts it aside to focus on you, as he rests on his elbows, his taunting smile never leaving his lips. What you wouldn't give to wipe it away from his smug face.

“The last thing I want is you anywhere near me.”

“You see,” he checks his nails, bored. “I have a hard time believing that, dear.”

“Get over yourself.” You cross your arms over your chest, annoyed at how well he could annoy you. “What makes you think I want anything to do with you after the commotion you caused today?”

“For one, you came to me, in my tent. If that's not a dead giveaway, I don't know what is,” his eyes dart back to you. “And to further prove that point, you still haven’t left — even though you claim I am the reason for your frustration. Really, it's as if you relished my company after all.”

You open your mouth to contradict him, but your words are left hanging when he gets up, his shirt slightly unbuttoned revealing the lines of his muscles concealed underneath and you can’t help but let your eyes wander longer than you intended, gulping as you do so. He chuckles lightly before he speaks up again.

“Secondly, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Your eyes shoot up to his face again, and you ask defensively, “Would you rather have me not look at you?”

He gives you a mischievous look as he eyes you up and down, and he meets your gaze with just as much intensity.

“Third, and lastly, I can smell you, darling.”

“I haven't washed yet.”

“You know that isn't what I'm referring to.”

Your heartbeat quickens, as the air seems to draw out of the tent, “Well, whatever you think this is, isn't your doing,” you lie plainly in the hopes he buys it, but his smirk leads you to believe he sees right through it.

“You’re not fooling anyone but yourself, dearest.” He tilts his head, a long silence settling in between the two of you, with your breathing as the only sound audible in the space of his tent. “Maybe… There's another reason you might be frustrated. That all this, pent up anger building inside, is because of something else that you can’t control.” He closes the distance between the two of you, stopping but a whisper away from your face, and his voice gets lower, deeper. “Something that you would rather not have to deal with, but for some reason just can’t get rid of. Something that just rubs you the wrong way, and is the same reason why you can’t help but want to stay in my presence.” 

You scoff, challenging his gaze, “If that something you’re referring to is you, Astarion, then you’re right — you are the sole reason of my frustration as of late, but I could do without your irritating presence.”

“Oh, but I could make it much more pleasurable.” 

You lean back, and turn your head aside, trying to make some distance between the two of you, ”You give yourself too much credit.”

He slides a finger down your throat, leaving an unexpected shiver in its wake as he exposes your neck, when he pushes your vagabond strands of hair away, before he continues.

“Why don’t you give me a chance to show you exactly what I mean? We would both benefit from this, really; I could fix your predicament, and in exchange, I could receive… a little something from you in return.”

You contemplated the opportunity laid before you for just a second before opting for the reasonable choice. You grab his hand, pulling it away from you and when you speak up again, the anger in your voice is gone, leaving place for your much smoother, yet very assertive tone. “If you want my blood, you’ll have to earn it.”

You release his hand and he keeps it in the air where you left it, cocking his head to the side as he looks at where your hand had held him, “Earn it, you say?”

You nod, “We wouldn’t want you to become soft now, would we?” A smile of your own takes place on your lips. “If I am to be your meal, it’s only fair that you work for it.”

His eyes dart back to yours as a smirk appears on his lips, “I’m all pointy ears.”

“I’ll be hiding in the woods. If you can find and catch me, you get to drink from me. But if I catch you instead, you’re never getting a drop from me.”

He sighs, “That’s hardly a fair proposition, darling.” As you’re about to contradict him, he continues, “Here’s mine instead: if you catch me, fine — I’ll keep chasing boars and whatnot in the woods — but if I catch you…” He leans over the crook of your neck, whispering. “I get to drink from you every. night.”

You grab him by the chin, bringing him face to face with you, “If I catch you, you don’t get to put the party at risk anymore. You will be kicked out of the camp if you do.” If you had to put your vitality on the line, he had to bet something just as valuable.

His fangs glow in the faint lighting of his tent as he smiles. “Deal.”

You drop his chin as he steps back and you notice how something about him seems to be shifting; the pupils of his eyes widen, darkening; his own breathing stops; the hands at his side turning into claws, with his long and sharp nails peaking out, ready to hunt. There was nothing left of the rogue in distress that you picked up a few weeks ago, who could’ve pretended to be nothing more than an innocent, but rather pale, elf. 

When he opens his mouth to speak again, you spy his elongated fangs; much longer than you remember them to be, and his voice—

“Run.”

You don’t lose a second more; the vision of nightmares before you triggered your fight or flight reaction and without your weapons, the choice was clear. You turn around and slide through the flaps of his tent, bolting straight for your tent, where you quickly manage to pick up your trusty dagger and your set of bow and arrows.

Thankfully, everyone else at camp had gone off to bed, so no one notices you as you pick a frantic run towards the deep woods, making distance from the hungry vampire on your tracks. 

The woods are dark, with only the faint light of the moon guiding your tracks. Once far enough, or so you think, you hide behind a tree to control your breathing; you had no intention to lose to this, you needed all the advantages you could get. With your experience as a ranger, you were almost assured to catch him off guard.

Almost.

What you had seen in his tent before sprinting off was like nothing you had ever seen before. Of course, you knew Astarion was a vampire, but this was… different.

Terrifying. 

A beast, straight out of those scary bedtime stories you recall from your childhood; a monster guided by his thirst for flesh and blood, who would show no mercy, no remorse. It was merely enough to make you question this challenge with him, Gods, how embarrassing would it be to lose your life to a stupid game you had initiated purely out of spite?

The rustling of leaves nearby brings you back into focus, the adrenaline in your veins keeping you on edge for any sound. You ready your bow before you peek out of your hiding spot to aim where you heard the sound and wait patiently for another moment, your eyes never leaving the bush right until you hear another crack — right when you release the arrow, your aim striking true as you hear a loud thud. You wait a few more seconds, and when no sound can be heard from the bushes you leave your cover, advancing towards your prey. When you push the branches away, you’re face to face with none other than—

A boar.

Shit. Well — guess you caught your next meal.

Another rustling of leaves has you drawing out your bow again, ready to strike, but you’re unable to tell where it comes from.

“How does it feel, little fox?” You hear him through the woods, his deep and raspy, but unnatural voice almost echoing through you. “To be the one being hunted?”

“I’m hunting you, too, in case you forgot,” you mumble mostly to yourself, not wanting to draw out more attention and telling on your location. 

Although you were confident in your capacities, you couldn’t deny the fear building up in your chest. The unnerving feeling of knowing he was around, knowing he was onto you, but unable to find him through the dense woods, the reminder of what he looked like before you ran for your life, a creature of darkness—

“Keep running, you delicious little thing,” his voice already seems to be coming from somewhere else, where exactly you couldn't tell, as if he was constantly moving and it came from everywhere all at once. “You’re making this too easy for me.”

Damn him. He could be anywhere, it was useless to stay there, out in the open, when he was clearly onto you. Then again, he could also intentionally be pushing you to run, only to lead you into a trap of his, right where he wanted you to be. 

No, you’re smarter than this. You won't let your emotions get in the way of this: you were a hunter, born and raised for this kind of situation.

He is just another prey; you can outsmart him. You are better than him.

You put away your bow and arrows; you know your long range weapons would be of no use to you if you couldn’t see your target. If he’s trying to make you run, he has to be further ahead, so the smart choice would be to go back on your tracks.

You turn on your heels in a heartbeat and start sprinting in the opposite way, not even bothering to look behind you for any sign of him, as you hear the clear rustling of branches around you. At this moment, you know he’s right on your tail, the sounds of the forest barely covering the sound of his own movements between the trees — if that was even him. You assume it is, but who’s not to say it isn’t just another boar? Either way, all you can do now is keep running, hoping he will tire before you.

But you were against a creature of the night, someone — or rather something, now — much more in its element, in the darkness of the woods, than you were. 

You don’t run for long before you stop abruptly in your tracks to change directions, leaving the clear road for the crowded forest, where you think you could lose him.

You're temporarily reassured when you don't hear him anymore, and allow yourself to breathe again. Your heart is pounding in your chest, faster than ever, as the fear of being chased — of your life being on the line — created a warmth within you that pooled right down to your core. The risk of being caught, as for once you’re the prey, and you can’t explain it, but it excites you. Although Astarion had gotten on your every nerve, you had to give it to him — he was right that his unnerving attitude had gotten a rise out of you in the most carnal way — but you’d never admit it to his face.

A good minute passes by with no sign of him, and you feel safe enough to peek out of your hiding spot, investigating the beaten path for any sign of life. When you’re met with a dead silence, you move away from the tree you had been leaning against, only to come face to face with Astarion, who drops from the branches just above you. His eyes are somehow a much deeper shade of red, his pupils fully blown out, and he even seems taller as he smiles down on you, and that’s when you perceive the additional fangs that appeared next to the smaller ones you knew. 

You’re fixated on his sudden presence, assessing your opponent the way you would a wild animal, and you remain unmoving, focused on your own breathing.

“Nowhere left to run, I’m afraid,” the voice that comes out of his mouth is otherworldly, almost a growl and nothing like his sultry voice he used to try and charm you before. It’s as if anything that once made him pass as a mortal was gone the second you ran off from him.

You want to turn around and sprint in the opposite direction, but he's faster than your thoughts. Before you can even move a finger, he grabs you by your neck, his sharp nails digging into your skin enough to draw blood as he pushes you against the nearest tree, slightly lifting you from the ground. Instinctively, you reach for your dagger, but he is fast to catch onto your intentions and takes it away from you, throwing it on the ground far from reach. With no other options left, you reach for his hand around your neck, trying to hold on as your vision blurs from the chokehold he had on you. 

“Caught you, little fox,” he leans into your neck where you bled from to breathe you in, and licks your skin from the bottom of your neck up to your jaw, tasting your sweat mixed with the dry blood left on you. Your camp clothing leaves you dangerously exposed as opposed to your armour, and he had every intention to take advantage of it. “You will make a fine meal indeed.”

He presses his entire body against you, and you can feel not only his oddly cold breath down your neck, but also his hard bulge rubbing against your navel, right above the heat between your legs. 

A particularly bad idea crosses your mind, and you know you’ll blame it on the lack of oxygen later, but for now, it’s the only option you have.

Your hand slides down to his crotch, where you squeeze his length through his trousers, making him shudder against you and loosening his grip on your throat. You take this chance to free yourself as you quickly push him away and against the earthy ground of the forest, pinning him down using your entire body weight. You land right next to your knife and grab it just in time before he comes to his senses, now holding it against his throat.

“I win,” you say, breathless, over him.

You remain unmoving, with the threat of your knife keeping him in place, but unsure what to do next — until he laughs. You’re taken aback, but you keep your position, pressing your blade deeper into his throat.

“Well done.” His voice softens, still deeper than what you’re used to, but less guttural than it was a minute ago. “You have me completely and utterly helpless. What will you do next, I wonder?”

You don’t get to answer before you feel him moving under you, his hardness rubbing against that sweet spot between your legs. Your breathing quickens once again, caught off guard by the delicious movement of his hips against you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, the words almost getting stuck in your throat.

“Fulfilling my part of the bargain, of course.”

“That’s not—” he lifts his hips higher, the tip of his crotch rubbing against your clit, and your body tenses at the contact. He’s rock hard and between your thin camp clothes, it's almost as if you were rubbing skin to skin against each other. A pleasurable shiver running across your spine, and you allow yourself to close your eyes for just a moment, fighting between giving in to your desires or stopping yourself from letting this go any further; it was clear which side of you was winning over, as your hunger for that something more was becoming impossible to ignore. You soften your grip on his wrist and your dagger against his throat, and that’s all he needs to gain back dominance over you, flipping you back under him and seizing your wrists to pin you down the same way you had him only seconds ago.

“Now,” he says, “this is much better, don’t you think?”

“Oh you prick,” you groan, fighting to free yourself from his grip on you, but he only tightens his grasp around your wrists. His immortal strength beats yours and your hand twists under his crushing grip, making you finally release your knife.

You curse under your breath for letting yourself be bested by the most annoying member of your party; the one who you had dreamed to put back in his place was now dominating you instead. A mix of anger and shame swirls in your stomach, along with something else that you want to deny, but can’t for the life of you understand.

Your eyes meet his, dark and hungry and so incredibly close to you. His lack of breath is strange in comparison to yours, so heavy that your chest rises with each breath you take, brushing against him. It wasn't a position you were used to, either, and you find yourself liking it more than you thought you would; with his entire body pining against yours, his legs surrounding yours and keeping them closed together, your wrists held strongly above your head; a prey caught by her predator.

You remain unmoving in this position for what feels like an eternity, until he licks his lips, his eyes falling to the space in your neck that was exposed just for him.

He leans into you, his deep voice shooting a warmth straight to your core. “This little game of yours made me quite hungry.”

You gasp when you feel his bulge rubbing against you once more and touching that sweet spot that made you rub your thighs together. 

“Perhaps,” he whispers, “you've grown an appetite of your own, little fox?”

You take a few breaths, "If you wanna feed, be my guest. You…” you sigh, defeated. “You earned it. Just— be quick about it.”

You turn your head aside, looking away and giving him space to feed, only for him to lean back, “Quick? Oh darling, you’re mistaken if you don’t think I won’t draw this out as long as I possibly can.”

He pushes your wrist up above your head where he can hold them both with one hand, while his other hand slides down to your chest, his sharp nails grazing against the curve of your breast. You close your eyes as his hand continues its journey down your navel, and into your pants, rubbing against the moist spot that kept growing in your panties.

“But don’t worry — I’ll make sure we both get our fill tonight,” he growls.

Your hips move of their own accord, wanting more of him and his touch, almost against your own will.

“Greedy, greedy, little fox.” He flashes a toothy smile, “Can't get enough? I'm not surprised.”

Your eyes open back up and you stare at him, frustrated, “Gods, do you ever shut up?”

“You have such a way with words.” He sighs, pulling his hand out of your pants. “You know, it's a wonder we haven't gotten killed because of your social prowess.”

“If you think you’re so much better than me, why don’t you—”

His lips collide with yours into an hungry kiss, one bold enough to shut you right up. A part of you is disgusted, furious, even, that he would push himself onto you, but your body’s reaction betrays you, as you kiss him back with the same intensity. It’s sloppy, his elongated tongue invading your mouth and rubbing against yours, until he bites into it and sucks, letting your crimson hit his lips. 

You moan as you pull back, rolling your tongue around to feel the puncture he made, and he smiles down on you, his teeth tainted by your blood.

“Ah… delicious.”

Something comes over you, a supernatural strength — almost animalistic — and you flip him back around on his back to take control once again. Your dishevelled hair frames your face over him, and he gets to see you panting, teeth bared, with angry eyes towering over him. There's a flash of surprise in his eyes before they take back their lusty look, and his hands fly to your shirt, ripping it open as his nails tear through the fabric as if it were air. Your shirt is quickly discarded, exposing your skin to the cool night air that raises the hairs on your back.

In the frenzy, you give the same treatment to his shirt, using that strength to destroy his clothing and revealing the very muscles you spied earlier in his tent. He raises himself up to meet you where you sat over his hips, his mouth finding yours  and kissing you feverishly as he did before, while his hands work to remove your pants. 

With a grunt from him, you're pushed back on the harsh forest ground where he rips away your trousers, leaving you only with your panties to cover you. You gasp into his mouth, breathing in his cold breath, when the night air that matches his breath hits the thin fabric of your undergarments. The shock of temperature affects you more than you had anticipated, as you are completely soaked from your arousal that had pooled down there since the beginning of the night. Astarion instantly notices it, and laughs ominously.

“Are you still going to deny it now?” He pushes your underwear aside and slides his dexterous fingers between your folds, discovering just how dire your situation is. “Hells, look at how wet you are, just for me.”

His fingers feel good, and fucking Hells you didn’t want to admit it — he was an absolute asshole — but that ship had sailed a while ago, and now you just wanted to know how good he would feel inside you.

“If you still want to feed, you better do it now before I change my mind,” you groan.

“Change your mind?” He scoffs. “I'm afraid that isn't an option. I won fair and square, little fox; now I get to devour you every night.” He flips you around, the sudden roughness of the earthy floor rubbing against your sensitive nipples making you gasp in surprise. You feel him move behind you, and you're not sure how or when it happened, but he must've removed his own trousers as you feel the ghost of his cock hovering just over your entrance. Your heart threatens to burst out of your chest with anticipation, and this feeling goes into your throat when he grabs you by the nape of your hair and pulls you into him, making you arch your back and clearly exposing your neck to him in the process. “Starting tonight.”

Within the same beat, he thrust into you, his hips slamming hard against your skin, and his fangs dive into the crook of your neck, finally taking what is rightfully his.

You cry out at the stabbing pain in your neck, this one much more different than the first time he bit you, as his elongated fangs dive deeper into your neck to draw out more of your life source, and the additional fangs leave more marks into your skin. It hurts and yet, you find your core growing warmer and wetter; between his bite and his reckless thrusting into you, with the added sensation of his initially cool skin getting warm from your blood. His thrusts gain in speed and force, and in that position, there is nothing else you can do but take it.

Even as you try to reach behind you with that last remaining will to have control, to grab his hair and pull him forward, Astarion takes a hold of your arm and pushes back against you, using his entire body weight to hold you firmly against the rough ground, and his hips to slam into your needy, little cunt. With your hair still pulled back, but your wrist now stuck in his grasp, he continues to take his fill of you with no restriction.

“Look at you, finally put in your place,” he growls as he licks up the drops of blood leaking from the fresh wounds in your neck. “Is this what you’ve been desiring all these times your eyes got lost at the sight of my body? What you’ve been dreaming of? To be properly used, like a bitch in heat? Ravaged by a beast?”

You manage to get a few words out between rushed breaths, sneering.

“F— Fuck. Y— You.”

He snickers wickedly, “I guess that answers my question. Don’t worry, pet. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh you—”

“Shh now,” Before you can even finish your sentence, his hand quickly moves from your wrist to your mouth, muffling any sounds coming from you. “We wouldn’t want to risk waking our dear friends, now, would we? Unless that’s what you want?” You groan in the palm of his hand and he chuckles. “You depraved little thing. I’ll give you just what you desire.”

His hand previously holding your hair goes down your body to hold your hips in place as he fucks you, and his teeth sink into your shoulder on the other side of your neck. The gesture meant only to keep you steady as he fucks you senseless. With his fangs deep into your skin, his nails cutting the soft skin of your hips and his dick pounding your abused cunt, you scream into his hand as you reach your climax. It’s nerve wracking, mind shattering, and leaves you completely drained. 

With a final push inside you, Astarion’s hips still and he growls into your neck, taking his last sip of you, as he pulses around your inner walls, filling you up with his warm seed. Your muscles fail you, as your body goes limp against the earthy ground, and you barely feel anything else — leaving you almost unconscious. Behind you, Astarion pulls out of you, and a weak moan escapes you as you feel his load leaking out of you.

While you’re recuperating from this treatment, Astarion loses his monstrous features: his nails retract, his pupils go back to those annoyingly charming red ruby eyes, his fangs retract just enough to fit back into his mouth, and he mimics breathing again; now passing as a mortal again.

With the minimal strength you manage to gain back, you push yourself up, and gather the few pieces of clothes that were shredded during your nightly session; tomorrow you would definitely need to find new camp clothes, these were the only ones you had and they were utterly ruined. Thank the Gods everyone else was fast asleep and you’ll be able to walk back to your tent without any remarks.

As you’re about to take your leave, completely disregarding the rogue who looked just as messy as you were, you hear him clear his throat.

“It’s always a pleasure to be doing business with you, my dear. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

You roll your eyes before shooting him a glare. “Don’t push your luck.” Your cheeks still flushed, your hair all over the place, and your form barely clothed, making you not as convincing as you had hoped for. 

You only catch a glimpse of his smirk in response to you as you walk away, and when you catch yourself actually looking forward to it, you tell yourself it's only for the opportunity to put him back in his place. 

Perhaps another white lie to coat your true feelings, but no one needed to know about that.

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[disniq]

heyyy it's the tropes jason anon again back at it with a new question! what quotes from the comic books would you say describe jason & his philosophy well? thank you so, so much for helping me out ❤

Hi again Anon!

Full disclosure here; I don't think Jason has been written consistently enough over the years to necessarily have one set, inarguable philosophy. But I do think there are certain themes that carry through.

So;

Red Hood: Lost Days #3

This is, notably, the first time Jason kills. (I'm not including Garzonas, which is debatable, or the Cheer incident, which is a retcon) He finds out his hand-to-hand teacher has a barn full of drugged children about to be sex trafficked. The cops and politicians are in on it, making lawful justice extremely unlikely, but taking out one man takes out the system. Jason crosses that line for the first time because nobody else is there to stop it, and this is the most practical route.

He does not see it as "murder" because he feels it was deserved.

Red Hood: Lost Days #4

After that line has been crossed - as Talia points out here - a pattern emerges. It's notable that Jason does not kill all his dubiously skilled teachers, only the ones he deems the worst of the worst - people deliberately and repeatedly harming everyday people, especially children.

Jason reiterates this in his famous utrh speech. He's not talking about killing every rogue, every criminal. He's talking about killing the worst of the worst, the people who can finagle their way out of the system, the people the system fails to catch.

Under the Red Hood

It would be remiss of me not to include that one time Jason killed a nazi. Good for her dot gif.

To Jason, these people are beyond the regular means of justice, so he provides his own. He stops them from hurting anybody else.

This is not an exclusively post-resurrection opinion of his, either. Jason expressed similar thoughts during his Robin run.

Batman #422 (thank you @benbamboozled 😘)

This woman, Judy, baited her sister's murderer into attacking her too and then slits his throat. She's unrepentant, and Jason agrees with her decision. (Bruce, for the record, gives a speech on how "nobody is above the law" which is. An interesting stance for an illegally operating vigilante to take lmao)

It makes sense to me that Jason, as someone who has seen the system fail repeatedly (both as a civilian and as a hero), would have those kinds of doubts. The system doesn't always work. The system often fails the most vulnerable people.

When Bruce was failed by the Gotham justice system, he became his own extra-judicial system. When Jason is failed by both the justice system *and* Bruce's own vigilante system? Why wouldn't he do the same.

Unfortunately, this thread is mostly dropped for a while with the wave of writers who either actively hate Jason and try to make him capital E Evil or who are playing shameless self insert with him, but there are two more recent panels that I want to include too;

Task Force Z #12

So, in TFZ, Jason pushes who he thinks is Bane off a roof for killing Alfred. It... is not actually Bane, but instead the brainwashed former corpse of Gotham re-reanimated via comicbook science and. You know what, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that Jason regrets killing Gotham because he didn't deserve it, but reiterates that he will kill the real Bane if he gets a chance.

Jason sees killing as something he can do that others can't, that others maybe *shouldn't* have to do.

The Joker: The Man Who Stopped Laughing #8

And finally, I adore this little beat in JTMWSL. This is something Jason thinks about. He's not just some brute that doesn't understand that "killing is bad". He thinks about it, reads theory about it. He sees that between the black and white, there are many, many shades of gray.

He understands that people who don't kill with their own hands aren't necessarily good people - like these cops here, gleefully waiting for him to be killed in prison. And that the people who *do* get their hands dirty aren't necessarily the bad guys - like poor Judy.

And I think he probably varies where he places himself on that scale at any given moment.

[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

[ryuichirou]

Replies

Slowly but surely replying to older asks. I say it every time but I mean it: thank you for being patient.

One ask about Shroudcest and one ask about Rookvil today!

Anonymous asked:

Imagine imagine imagine.

Cause this is funny to me.

Someone's flirting with Idia, yeah? (or just talking to him, not even flirting) (well, I guess it'd be a one sided conversation....)

And Ortho was off doing whatever and he comes back and he notices-

And he gets all angry and whatnot-

And Ortho's got instant connections to the internet-

And he figures out who the person is and basically destroys their social life.

Like, in the middle of this conversation, this person checks their phone and finds out all their friends have ditched them and their entire online life is up in flames.

Simply because Ortho got a little jealous.

Anon, this is so unbelievably easy to imagine lol Despite Ortho really wanting his precious Idia to have more friends and connections, he is much more jealous than he thought! And much more of a little shit than people think… We really love this kind of scenario for them, to be honest.

Ortho is way too powerful for how emotionally unstable he is! Rogue little yandere robot :( His niisan is his and his only! That poor guy probably just wanted to talk about homework or something trivial like that…

Anonymous asked:

the rook hate be crazy, sorry for the nonsense you’ve been dealing with for doing nothing wrong. anyway rookvil appreciation hours. rook is so observant and reverent that he’s always looking out for his queen and vil is just a bit tsun lol but i love how vulnerable vil is with rook. like the lines implying vil has cried in front of rook before, that they sleep in the same bed, rook knows vil’s family situation, vil commenting on rook’s thighs in beanfest implicitly meaning he spends a lot of time looking at them lol, rook has access to vil’s room and waits for vil… as much as i love savanaclaw rook and mourn his loss everyday, he willingly changed himself to be worthy of being by vil’s side via his own free will; vil did not MAKE him do anything they just talked a lot. my mans is more whipped than heavy cream. idk about you but rook mentions he struggled to feel or express emotions before he knew about theater (specifically neige but let’s ignore that for vil’s sanity lol) so it feels significant that rook obviously feels and emotes so strongly over vil (also something something ortho struggles to feel or express himself before movies and acting so what i’m getting at here is they should spitroast vil at least once lmao.) if it was revealed they’re canonically dating the only part i’d be surprised about is that it got through disney’s censors.

It’s okay, Anon. The whole thing kind of made us appreciate Rook and RookVil more, to be honest lol I sketched them for a couple of days nonstop after that whole thing happened.

It also made you write this ask! It took me some time to reply, but every time I was rereading it I smiled because god this is such a good ship. Everything that you’ve listed is just so… wonderful. All those interactions, all this connection, all those moments that imply their closeness that is on a much deeper level than we get to see. Sometimes when these two talk, it feels like we’re eavesdropping lol they just have this vibe to them, as if every dialogue has some additional context that we don’t quite get.

Vil’s comment about Rook’s thighs and him bulking up though lol poor Epel didn’t know what to make of it and probably didn’t want to think about it…

You’ve made such a good point about Vil being more vulnerable with Rook, and I think this vulnerability is very important. Vil feels like someone who probably doesn’t usually allow people to get very close to him, but once he lowers his guard for someone, that person becomes very special to him. Or I guess it’s the other way around… anyways, he trusts Rook enough to always have him by his side, and he probably vents his frustrations with the industry and anything else that troubles him to Rook the most.

And this trust isn’t one-sided: I feel like Rook trusts Vil a lot too. We know that he has a lot of secrets, and even Vil probably doesn’t know a whole lot about his upbringing and stuff, but he certainly knows more than other people + listens carefully enough to understand implications without prying into it too much. They give each other enough space in general, I guess? I know it sounds funny considering Rook’s whole stalking thing but lol their connection is special. They learn from each other and from what they have together.

It makes sense that one person that Vil trusts so much and loves so much is a weird theater nerd who doesn’t quite understand tact, but is very honest, supportive and genuinely passionate and loving. It makes sense that one person that Rook trusts so much and loves so much is an obsessive perfectionist that takes care of him, enables him and inspires him every day. Both of them are kind of insufferable, but they are the perfect type of “insufferable” to each other lol And yeah, let’s not forget about the power of knowing all the obscure theater/film references the other one makes!

I also absolutely agree that it wouldn’t be surprising at all if it was confirmed that they are dating lol The only surprising thing really would be the fact that Disney allowed it.

[rey-jake-therapist]

Oh. My. God. This last episode was SO GOOD! If Disney doesn't renew I give up on this franchise, I swear. At last some really fresh ideas about the Jedi! (Sorry but The Last Jedi was never as new and controversial as its fanbase claims it was: the consensus at the end was the same as usual: Jedi good, Dark siders bad, no complexity whatsoever!)

Most of what I expected happened 🤩 spoilers episode 8 below.

I wanted Koril (Osha and Mae's other mother) to be the Stranger's former master, but it seemed more likely that it would be Jedi Master Vernestra. And he's TERRIFIED of her?! My man had no problems facing a crowd of armed Jedi alone in episode 5, but as soon as she arrived he put on his helmet back and went hiding like a little child afraid of being punished hard 😳 I can't forget that the scar he had was in his BACK.... Meaning she thought she killed him by attacking him from behind. Not very Jedi, not at all....

Of course we could think he betrayed her, but considering his stance on loyalty, I find it hard to believe. Loyalty is very important to him, we saw it at the way he reacted to Mae's betrayal. And now we know that whatever happened, Vernestra probably lied about it.

Because yes she's a freaking liar! Instead of admitting that her former padawan is still alive and taking pupils, she puts all the blame on this poor Sol. I guess it's karma because that's exactly what he did with Mae. How not agreeing with this senator, who pointed that leaving too much liberty to the Jedi could be dangerous? How do you trust people who lie every time they need to cover their track? Nice foreshadowing of Anakin's betrayal, too... Yes sir, one day a Jedi will go rogue and destroy everything.

Osha thought she saw Mae kill Sol, but she saw herself in fact... she just probably didn't believe it could be her! Neither did Qimir. If he wasn't in love before, he's already naming the babies as we think lmao Poor Sol though, I'll miss him. I suspected it would happen, but still... It was painful to watch, almost as much as seeing Ben Solo kill Han in The Force Awakens. Except here at last, Osha had a good reason to kill him, while in TFA it was only done for shock value :/ I know Sol expressed remorse but it was definitely not enough to get forgiveness. He should have told the truth the Osha, to the Council. He had it coming....

Mae losing her memories of Osha was such a heart wrenching moment. Especially when Mae couldn't finish the song... 😭 in my predictions I saw Mae turn, but I didn't see *that* coming.... Reminds me of Revan! The Stranger agrees to let her go while he was obsessed with killing her, just because Osha asked him to.... That's love 😍

And they really had Osha and Qimir riding together in the sunset. They really did it!! After all this time spent trying to ship Reylo but never really getting it because these idiots just kept fighting with no conversation, my soul is healed at last... You know, the scene where they take the ship and argue like an old couple? I wanted a scene like that for episode IX. Or anything that would have been a scene together with no fighting 😔

[franollie]

do you personally think that fandom brings up misogyny unnecessarily and even when it has nothing to do with the issue at hand?

like some people get up and arms if you don’t ship batcat or brutalia (you’re not obligated to like anything for any reason) or if you ship bruce with someone else this topic will come up for whatever reason even though when there are actual instances of blatant misogyny in fandom and it’ll go fully ignored by these same people.

a point of bruce’s romance is to establish that he can’t really be endgame with any one person so i personally ship him freely. i don’t know why fandom is so obsessed with tokenizing certain shippers as certain prejudices when i’m sure that they genuinely have never interacted with said shipper one on one in their entire life

sorry for taking so long on this i have a LOT of thoughts on the topic

ok so in short: yes, i do think fandom loves to cry misogyny.

that being said, fandom operates in a blatantly misogynistic way (see how in large fandom favors men over women regardless of whether or not that man had more or less screen time than the woman). misogyny in fandom is a very real thing, but it is more a fandom as a whole problem than an individual problem. the only way the problem of misogyny in fandom can be solved is by actually engaging with the women in whatever franchise you're enjoying (writing for them, making art, reblogging art, writing metas, etc). show them the same amount of love that you show other characters

with that in mind, it is also important to note that sometimes you just don't gel with a ship or a character. i agree that people are drawn to certain dynamics and relationships, and you are allowed to ship what you ship. let's take the brutalia/batcat v bruharvey/batjokes because they are similar in dynamic (batman and one of his rogues). it wouldn't be fair to call a bruharvey or batjokes shipper a misogynist just because they don't ship brutalia or batcat. now, if they ship batjokes but hate talia for killing, then you could play the misogyny card. really it's just a matter of how you specific people interact with characters. i think a better example of this is superbat v clois.

i'm gonna try and stay as unbiased and objective as possible because superbat fans scare me lmao but a lot of the criticisms for superbat are about how it ships these characters at the expense of their relationships specifically with the women in their lives. to be even more specific, clark's relationship with lois. it isn't fair to say that "all superbat shippers are misogynist because they ignore lois" because i don't know why every superbat shipper ships superbat. maybe superbat is nostalgic to someone because they grew up reading justice league comics or the world's finest comics, maybe they haven't read or watched that much stuff with lois/clois in it, maybe they just think the idea of superbat is fun, who knows what the reasoning is. the problems really arise when they begin to change lois's personality and character to fit their ship whether it's by writing her as some bitchy ex of clarks or as a "girlboss who doesn't need a man and is superbat's biggest shipper uwu".

i do think when it comes to comic book fandoms in particualr there is another added layer of fandom superiority when it comes to shipping where there are the "correct" ships and the "incorrect" ships. but that's a whole other topic for another day

just to reiterate: fandom misogyny is a very real problem (look at the top 10 ships on ao3 for the past 5 years and that becomes abundantly clear) but the only way to combat it is by actually creating and sharing works positively featuring the women you like.

[whoblewboobear]

Hiiii!!! 📓

Hellooo hiii~ and OUGHHH Thank u 🥰 

So I pretty much rapid fire throw all my lil fic blurbs that I’ll probably never write on here but one of them that hasn’t entirely gotten its own spotlight is Porter’s backstory/character study. It’s mainly in bits and pieces but I’ve thought about it ALOT. I’ve rattled man around my brain for so long to figure out WHY he’s like that. Sooo I’m gonna scream about what I think his deal is for a lil bit~ A lot a bit actually lmao so it’s going under a read more 🤧✌️

~ The minute Porter was born his parents chose war over him. Handed him off to his grandparents the moment they’d both be able to go straight back into battle to defend the sunstone clan. He was left with his Paternal grandparents where they pretty much raised him like a soldier. He was homeschooled and along side his regular lessons like Common and Math, a lot of history lessons came from his grandfather who was a big war guy. He loaded Porter up on so many texts about wars that have passed, tactics each army used, etc. This is where Porter’s love for history comes in. 

He also learned cooking from his grandma and a little bit of sewing because she believed martial classes should always have their own form of mending in their back pocket. “There wont always be a caster around to do the small stuff.” Porter disagrees heavily in present day. He can sew and it’s a skill he kept up with but he almost exclusively dates casters that don’t mind using a quick mending on some of his things. 

(Jace sees this, realizes this, and then punches Porter so hard in the arm when he finds him sewing a pair of his pants bc “you ask me to mend your clothes all the time! You can sew?!” Jace doesn’t mind but he does give Porter shit about it from now on. But enough about Jace. For once this ain’t about him 😗✌️) 

Porter was definitely way closer to his grandma. She taught him everything she knew about divinity. Very very devout woman. She 100% believed in Ankarna as a goddess of Justice because she thought what the clan was doing WAS justice. With Porter’s grandfather, he makes it very clear during sparring and fighting practice that their goddess is weak and needs to be changed for the better and that Porter could be the one to do it. He has that drilled into him from such an early age too. Like imagine little 12 year old Porter being told “you’ll be the next champion, you will take back what we deserve.” It’s a lot of pressure. The war ended some years ago, but his parents died for this cause. He owes it to them to at least try. 

His clan is mostly in hiding. Somewhere high up in the mountains of chaos. I like to imagine that it’s the Cliffbreakers and a few other giantkin that found a home there. It’s prominent enough but secluded enough that adventurers pass through every now and then to trade or get in a long rest for the night. Porter loves sneaking out and watching them. He’s never seen so many different kinds of interesting and well traveled people before. By the time he’s 16 he’s a little tired of his training. There hasn’t been a war in quite sometime. Adventuring is where the battle is. 

One night the rogue of a visiting party has spied him watching the last few nights and offers for Porter to join. So he does and he likes the conversation and their stories. Their bard sing folk songs that are so new and different from the ones his grandmother used to sing him to sleep with. This is new and exciting and when the party offers for him to join he jumps at the chance. He leaves a letter, steals his dad’s old war hammer, and heads off with them just as dawn is breaking. 

He stays with that party into his late teens. He’s maybe 19 by the time the party raises concerns with their cleric’s closeness to Porter. Truly a fucking scumbag that was pursuing him when they definitely shouldn’t have been. Porter doesn’t see the issue, he’s confused why everyone is fighting about it or why the first person he’s ever been interested in, maybe even loved is being ousted from the group. They sit him down and explain the nuance but he’s a little too young and a little too angry to understand. So he leaves. 

Porter cycles through about 6 other adventuring parties, being messy the entire time too bc he absolutely does date at least one person from every new party he joins. He doesn’t mean to it just sorta happens 🤭 he’s partial to mages. He’s so fascinated by the concept of magic. Sure he’s still in touch with his faith and the little magic he can do because of it is nice but it’s not raw unadulterated power. 

By the time he’s maybe 36 he’s with a been with a sorcerer woman for about 3 years, he’s happy. He loves her, they had a small wedding when they stopped in a quaint and homey woodland town. She helps a lot with his temper when the rage is a little too much. One day she comes to him and says it might be time for them to stop adventuring. He’s confused until she places her hand on her stomach and says they’re having a baby. He’s scared but overjoyed. He loves kids. He used to babysit here and there with his grandma back home. So they do it. They break off from the party and settle in a town not too farm from Elmville.

Porter takes small quests here and there to keep them afloat. It’s not much and it’s not particularly interesting but he’s happy at home. Until he isn’t. After his wife has their baby girl, they’re constantly fighting. Fighting to the point of hurting each other. It isn’t pretty and they try to keep it from their little girl but god the older she gets the more she notices and that’s when Porter and his wife sit down and discuss separating. She tells him he can get settled before they discuss co-parenting and he agrees. He moves to Elmville, finds that the big adventuring high school in town is looking for a barbarian teacher. He feels qualified enough. Maybe it’s the arrogance and the ego talking but he feels like he can do it. So he applies and honestly, it’s such a weird interview. It’s so bizarre. Arthur is so strange but he hires Porter on the spot. With his teaching money he can finally afford an apartment. About a month or so of him getting settled his ex wife calls and says a letter from his grandmother came to the house. Porter made trips back to the mountains every few years but it became a lot less after his grandfather died. It was all a little too difficult for him to be back there. 

When he gets the letter, it’s from the doctor that lives in his childhood community saying that Porter’s grandmother is sick. Not on deaths door sick but sick enough that she needs someone to look after her. It’s not even a question in his mind to move her in with him. He takes care of her and he works, and eventually he starts co-parenting. His life is alright.

Sometime around late freshman year or the summer after his grandmother takes a turn for the worst and passes. It’s a bit much and it’s not fair and his heart hurts so fucking much. And somewhere in his grief he hatches a plan. To become a god and fulfill his role as champion long enough to kill god and take her place. He’ll burn the world to the ground if he has to. To make his family and his ancestors proud.

[sugoi-and-spice]

Hi! I’ve been planning on sending you an ask ever since I binge read the Play Nice!

Like I don’t think I can ever describe well enough how much I love and enjoy it! I can see how much effort you put into every chapter and conversation as it flows so perfectly! And the rollercoaster of feels was just mwah! Exactly what I’ve been looking for! Like my heart really jumped up my throat and my mouth fell open when Shiggy asked her about her boyfriend’s dick?! Omg!😄 Ahh and how bad I felt for her when they had sex for the first time. After their feelings became more clear, I waited the whole time for her to break up with Mirio. You portrayed Shiggy’s character so well and I especially liked when he was pretending to be nice to her friends!😄 Of course we hate AFO in this too for being a dick obviously, but Kurogiri🫶🏽 Ahh he was so lovely! And I liked the little details you added, like her forgetting what Kurogiri looked like as if he was just a dark mist, you know! I also love how you pointed out the fact that red is a color that suits perfectly for Tomura🥹 I also find myself reading the parts where Spinner makes Shiggy realize how horrible he was to her at first and how he apologized her about the pain he had caused. The realization and his apology is actually something I’m interested in to hear how you planned it and if it was difficult?

I think there are much much much more I like to say, but so that this won’t end up too long, I’ll also send you a ⭐, so pls tell us about what you yourself have been dying to comment🤗

OOhhhh my gosh thank you so much for all of these kind words!!! I'm so glad that you love the fic and especially that you noticed all the fun little callbacks and details to the OG series that I threw in. For the Kurogiri one, I was really proud of that ref, but also, it was a way for me to get away without describing what he looked like without a quirk! Lmao!

And oooh yay, thank you so much for the Director's commentary request!! I think I'd like to use this time to talk about MC's hometown: Sukari!

A Google search will quickly inform readers that this is not a real place lmao. I was thinking of going with a real town in Tottori or Shimane prefecture - very heavily considered Iwami as a little throwback to my days in the Free! Iwatobi Swim Club fandom lol (Iwatobi is based off of Iwami), but ultimately I decided that I wanted to have a little more freedom with the location, since I'd already locked myself into this dumb location research whirlpool by having the main story take place in Tokyo. (And I'm stupidly detailed with things like that).

And especially since in the potential sequel I'm brewing up, MC and Shigaraki are going to spend a pretty meaningful amount of time there. 😉

So I decided to make a new location! Fans of Shig/Reader fics are obviously familiar with the fic Griefing and I LOVED what Rotpeach did in that fic with their original locations, continuing with the Star Wars naming conventions. (Reader's neighborhood of Sabuterra being a play on Subterrel) Horikoshi utilizes in the original series. So I adopted that into mine too.

Sukari is a simplification of Sukarifu - which is how you pronounce Scarif in Japanese!

Scarif felt like the best one-to-one for the type of beach town that MC grew up in. The only other beach we see in Star Wars I believe is Kashyyk, which obvi, already has it's own namesake in the main MHA series, Kiyashi Ward. And I guess there's Wasskah, but I thought the vibe of Scarif was a lot prettier and more fitting.

(Only beaches we see in the movies and The Clone Wars at least. Lol sorry, I don't keep up with the books or comics.)

Plus, Rogue One is probably one of, if not my favorite Star Wars Movie so it all tied together nicely.

Thanks again for the Director's commentary ask! I'm having a lot of fun with these so if anyone else wants to get some quick behind-the-scenes on any of my fics, go ahead and send in an ask!

Original prompt here!

[wisecrackingeric-2]

Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

Summary: Set in an AU where Luis doesn’t die in RE4 and instead joins Leon in his missions, the two of them are sent on a mission to Spain, where they need to travel on horseback. Only problem? Leon doesn’t know how to ride horses. But Luis does, and he’s more than happy to teach him how.

Aka; Leon can’t ride horses so Luis teaches him how, and gay panic ensues. Some cute domestic dialog and humour at the end, too. Already established relationship.

Word Count: 10,000

Trigger Warnings: Discussions of Religious Trauma & Childhood Trauma, Implied Sexual Content (Nothing explicit, I try to keep it as mild as possible)

A/N: “Leon praisekink who”- my partner reading this

This entire fic is basically an Autism infodump about my special interest in horses LMAO. From the moment I saw Luis I thought to myself “oh yeah. That man was a horse boy”

Also quick warning for mentions of religious trauma and just general childhood trauma!! But this fic is 95% just silly flirting and fluffy romance with Leon being a flustered idiot. Sexual content is only ever implied

Also also sincerest apologies for any poor Spanish, I literally used Google for all of this CHBSHDNSXJ

((This can also be read as a sequel to my fic ‘I Don’t Care, I Love You’ https://archiveofourown.org/works/47597077 or as a stand-alone!!))

—

“ What?! Hunnigan, can’t you drop us off in, like, a helicopter or something??”

Government agent Leon S. Kennedy leaned over Hunnigans desk in shock and annoyance, while Ingrid just sifted through her papers silently, not even looking up to acknowledge Leon's overreaction.

Hunnigan had just unceremoniously given Leon his latest government-mandated mission: a trip to the middle-of-nowhere Spanish countryside, where even further beyond that lay an old, rundown farm. Apparently it was quite popular for locals to spread rumors and campfire stories about the place. But to the government and Leon’s dismay, it was also suspected to be housed to an underground group of rogue Spanish scientists; who were (again, heavily suspected- which to Leon meant basically confirmed) to be using its empty status as a testing chamber for the hundredth new strain of T-Virus. Even more delightful, people in the closest village were reported to be rapidly going missing and were last seen near the farmhouse. How fun.

“Leon, I think you’ll live” Hunnigan finally spoke, rolling her eyes. “It’s only a two-and-a-half day walk from the village you’ll be dropped off at”

“ Exactly, Ingrid! A two day walk!!” Leon said, throwing his arms around dramatically. “Can’t you give us even a Jeep?”

“Leon, a helicopter would be painfully obvious. And there’s no roads to the farm, it’s just empty fields”

Leon huffed, folding his arms and giving Ingrid a glare. Before he could speak up to complain more, though, she’d already shoved a pair of plane tickets and a stack of government documents against his chest. “You and Luis Sera will be leaving in three days. If you’re that worried about your poor old legs, you can have some extra cash to rent a couple of horses”

From behind Leon, a woman spoke up;

“ Oooooooooo , is Mr. Kennedy going on a mission with his boooyfrieeend??” Claire teased in a sing-song voice, mimicking the cadence of a schoolgirl. Leon just groaned and grumbled back a “shut up, Claire”, which caused her to giggle.

After saving Luis from a stab to the back- literally - he’d returned back to America from Spain as a wanted criminal for his involvement with Umbrella. But with enough bargaining (and near begging) from Leon, the president himself was kind enough to pardon Luis. Of coarse, he still had to face consequences; and was begrudgingly forced to work as an agent for the government. He agreed, but on one condition: He’d work with Leon on every mission.

At the time of finding out, Leon couldn’t figure out for the life of him why Luis would want to stay with him. It made his heart flutter and his face flush at the mere thought of it. But after confessing his love for Luis in an underground basement of a mansion (a long story for another day), the two of them became even more inseparable than before.

Luis always had a hand on Leon, and vice versa. There was never a moment where they weren’t together. Which did turn some heads at the office. And Claire obviously wasn’t an idiot.

“ Loo-ees and lee-oon sitting in a tree, k-i-s-“ Claire was rudely cut off when Leon threw his empty coffee cup at her lazily, which she caught in one hand without even having to look.

And so, three days later, Luis and Leon dragged their pre-prepared exhausted bodies back to Spain over a 13-hour flight. Which Leon felt was a bit cruel, but Luis was quick to point out ‘ we’re going back to where we met, mi amor! ’, of coarse that wasn’t exactly true, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

Leon hated airports. But he hated them a little less with Luis by his side, consistently holding his hand and giving him small kisses on the cheek whenever he could. And getting stopped by the TSA for all his rings on his fingers. But that was besides the point.

By the time they’d landed in Spain, an escort car was awaiting the two of them- driving a few hours out of the city into the countryside gave the two men time to take a quick nap before they’d inevitably be thrown into another life-or-death situation. Luis took the opportunity to rest his head on Leon’s shoulder.

To both of their surprise, they weren’t dumped in the abandoned, half-dead wasteland of a village they were expecting: instead, Leon and Luis found themselves walking through probably the most picturesque, quaint little town they’d ever been in. It was situated on a small, rolling valley, with cobbled staircases and ramps dotted everywhere with clear roads and signs mapping out significant locations in the village. Each house felt unique; bright and colorful, most were painted a soft pastel color or, kept their natural brick and stone color- most houses had charming little chimneys and square windows, usually accompanied by some kind of vine or floral arrangement wrapping around the windowsill or creeping up the walls.

Convenience stores and bakeries were commonplace, and the whole place seemed to smell like vanilla and smoke.

Luis had his fingers interlocked with Leons’ as they strolled around the village, staring in awe at the quaint beauty of it all like starstruck tourists. They definitely looked the part at least, with comically oversized backpacks on filled with weaponry and supplies. The townspeople didn't have to know that, though. It was a far, far cry from the run-down village the two of them had first met in.

“Cariño, are we in a rush?” Luis asked, his eyes scanning over the appealing bakeries. “If not, we could perhaps stop and get some Ensaïmadas to eat? My treat” he winked.

As much as Leon would love nothing more than to nod and rush his partner over to the closest bakery to sit down to eat all afternoon with him, the sun was already high in the sky and realistically, he knew that were most likely on a timer. What with peoples lives possibly on the line and all. It took all of Leon’s mental strength to shake his head, “We probably are, unfortunately.” Noticing the small, tired look of disappointment on Luis’ face, Leon leaned over to give him an apologetic peck on the cheek. “I’ll make it up to you when we get home, promise”

Luis just playfully scoffed and rolled his eyes, “What? With those cheap American bakeries? Next time we’re in Spain, I’ll treat you to some real caro español la cena, bonito”

Thirty odd minutes later, Leon found himself at the bottom of the village valley leaning against a wooden fence-post, his head lulled to the side as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the afternoon sun.

Hunnigan was right, the fence backed into what felt like a never-ending sea of long, grassy fieldlands; the overgrown golden grass swayed gently in the wind, stretching on for miles onto the horizon. Leon could just barely make out some large windmills in the distance.

Luis had told Leon to wait at the gate that was supposedly their starting point for making their way to the abandoned farmhouse, telling Leon, quote; ‘ stay right there Guapo, I’ll go grab something that’ll make our trip a lot more bearable’

Leon hoped it wasn’t bakery food. As good as it sounded right about now, he didn't wanna start hiking through long grass with a stomach full of sugar.

A figure walking down the cobblestone ramps caught his attention- he couldn’t make out the details of the man with the sun in his eyes, but he could see they were leading along two horses at the shoulders, and could hear the iconic sound of their hooves clip-. Leon realized he was coming towards him, and as soon as he covered his eyes with his hands to block out the sunlight, he realized it was Luis; smiling at him as he held up the reigns to show Leon clearer.

“Oi! Yankee! Look who I found!” Luis’ grin was wide as he stopped the horses in front of him, looking very proud of himself.

Leon couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over him; clearly Hunnigan had been merciful enough to give them some spare cash to rent some horses.

The one on the left that Luis was handing Leon was a dark bay, almost back color. It’s mane was short and shaggy, and despite its rounded young-looking face it was actually pretty big. The horse on the right was similar in stature, but was an off-white color, and had dark gray speckles splattered along its coat. Both horses were fully tacked up in possibly the most detailed tack Leon had ever seen. Not that he’d seen much horse tack in his life, to be fair, or paid much attention to them.

“…Luis, where did you find horses ?” Leon asked, a tiny bit of him expecting Luis to answer with an ‘I stole them’.

“I saw a small ranch on our way in!” He grinned, looking very proud of himself. “Hunnigan gave me some extra cash, so I asked the lady at the counter very nicely for the finest corcel they had”

Leon shot him a glare, “you flirted with the ranch worker?”

Luis gave him a fake gasp in response “what, me? Flirting? estoy dolido!” Leon thought for a moment he was being serious, but when he turned to see Luis fighting back his giggles, he knew his partner was truly being sarcastic. That lifted a little bit of the imaginary pressure off of his chest.

Leon extended a very wary hand to the horses nose- feeling a bit awkward, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to treat it like meeting a new dog or not. He hadn't exactly been around many horses in his life. Luis must’ve picked up on it, too.

“Don’t be scared cariño, he doesn’t bite” he teased, clearly already well-acquainted with his own steed as its giant head was resting against Luis’ shoulder, looking as if it was about to fall asleep with him scratching its forehead. Leon could feel the warm breath of his horse on his palm as it gave him a curious look. Was that a curious look? Horses didn't really have much… expression to them. But Leon took it not biting his hand off as a sign to go ahead and give its nose a wary scratch.

“Yours’ name is Oso, and mines Flicka” Luis handed Leon the reigns, adjusting his own before pulling out the stirrups from under the flaps.

“Are your stirrups long enough?”

Leon blinked at him, giving him a classic deer-in-headlights look. While Luis was expertly adjusting straps and pieces of leather here and there, Leon just stood there like an idiot; he’s had absolutely zero experience with horses, and no clue how to even ride a horse. Let alone ‘check the stirrups’ to see if they were ‘long enough’.

When Luis didn't hear an answer, he turned around and gave Leon a knowing smile, his hands on his hips as he tilted his head to the side a little.

“You don’t know how to check, do you, cariño?”

He didn't know why, but Leon found himself stammering over his words the second he was put on the spot- if it was anyone else, he would’ve snapped back a witty remark in seconds. But Luis had some kind of superpower to turn his brain to mush and make his face beat up the second he held any sort of power over Leon.

To make matters worse, Luis made a little ‘ tut tut tut’ clicking noise with his tongue, shaking his head, he moved over to Leon’s side, their shoulders pressed against one another’s. Leon suddenly felt very exposed beside him, like they were meeting for the first time again. As if they haven’t literally spent hours at a time cuddled up to one another naked under the sheets. That was just the charm of Luis Sera, he supposed.

“Here,” Luis pulled out the stirrup from under the horses saddle, his voice somewhat low and husky as he murmured into Leon’s ear; clearly enjoying this.

“Just pull them tight and measure them against your arm, they should be the same length”

Luis ran a hand down Leon’s forearm, stretching it out to check if it matched the length of the stirrups. Leon wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, or if Luis was being extra slow and careful with caressing his arm. He silently thanked a god he doesn’t believe in when Luis stepped back to help pull down the stirrups on the other side.

“Need a hand up?” Luis teased, already gathering the reigns on his own horse.

“N-no, thanks,” Leon said, stammering over his own words. The last thing he needed right now was a hand on his knee. Or any more ‘help’ from Luis, for that matter.

‘ Goddamn you and your stupid pretty face, Luis’

Shrugging, the Spaniard was quick to slip a foot in the stirrups and swing his legs over, and Leon couldn’t help but note to himself how naturally Luis took to being on a horse. ‘ Maybe he’s done this before? ’ He thought to himself, eyeing up the way he positioned himself in the saddle with his legs bent expertly on the horses side. He looked far too comfortable to have only done this once or twice, at least to Leon. Who, very ungraciously, grabbed into the front of the saddle and hauled himself up the horse; hearing it let out a grunt of annoyance as he slid his over each side as gently as he could. Leon tried to copy the way Luis held onto his reigns; but he ended up just balling them up in a fist. Which surely wasn’t the correct way to hold them. Also, Was he sitting too far back? Leon didn't feel quite comfortable in the saddle, but he also didn't want to shuffle forward and bother Oso more.

And plus, If Luis actually was more knowledgeable with horses than he was letting on, Leon didn't want to look stupid in front of him.

“You ready to go, Yankee?” Luis called out from just ahead of him, already walking forward. But before Leon could respond, Luis turned around and gave him a half-knowing smile.

“…muñeco, why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous” Leon retorted back, suddenly becoming aware of the way his face was beating up. His- probably inaccurate- grip on the reigns tightened. He turned away from Luis’ eye context, but the other man just turned his horse to walk closer beside him. Luis leaned ever so slightly over his horses side, just enough to break into Leon’s personal space. He looked up at him through his eyelashes,

“Don’t lie to me, muñeco”

“I’m not”

Leon totally was.

He wanted to turn away and cover his face with his hands so so badly, but neither of them wanted to be the first to break eye contact. Even if it meant Leon had to endure his face feeling like it was on fire.

Luis’ eyes drifted up and down Leon’s body; the blonde could almost see the gears turning in that pretty head of his as he examined him, humming quietly to break the awkward silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Luis met his lovers eyes again, giving him that crooked smirk that broke Leon every time without fail.

“You don’t know how to ride, do you, cariño?”

Ah, there it was. Luis caught him red-handed. Leon had never even been on a horse before, and this bastard could tell. His silence was enough confirmation for Luis to give him a lop-sided smirk. Leon could hear him whisper something along the lines of ‘ que harias sin mí?’ Under his breath, before he slipped off of his horse and made his way around to Leon’s side, all the while the blonde tried (and failed) to collect his scattered brain and save at least some of his dignity

“W-wait you don’t have to get off-“

“But how else am I gonna show you how to ride?”

Luis gave him an ‘innocent’ look up at him, and something about seeing the handsome man below him, staring up at him through his long fringe made Leon’s whole body heat up and tense. He had to suck in a breath when, even worse, Luis slipped his hands up his calf and thigh; Leon wanted to just die right then and there. He wanted to bury himself in a hole and never have to talk to anyone ever again. He just prayed that Luis didn't notice his (probably inappropriate) reaction.

“Can’t believe Hunnigan sent you out here without knowing how to even ride a horse” Luis gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Can you feel the horses shoulder? You should have your legs sitting just behind there”

All Leon can do is nod like an idiot, wanting so badly to pull his leg away from Luis’ hand, which was very gradually sliding further up as he positioned it behind the horses’ shoulder. But at the same time, Leon was thoroughly disappointed when Luis inevitably took his hand off of his thigh to cross his arms and inspect his posture.

“Now this is gonna feel really weird, but you should only have just the toes of your shoes in the stirrups. Then put as much weight in your heels as you can”

Oh yeah. Luis was actually teaching him how to sit properly. Leon forgot about that. As he was ordered to, Leon moved his foot so just his toes were sitting in the stirrups and he put as much

pressure down on his heels as he could; Luis was right, it did feel odd. He wanted to instinctively slip the rest of his foot back in and flatten it out.

“Point your heels down even more”

Leon did as he was told

“Even more”

“I feel like you’re just messing with me now”

Luis let out a loud, genuine laugh, clearly amused by Leons’ characteristic grumbling. His laugh was so, painfully contagious, Leon had a hard time biting down his own smile.

“I told you it was gonna feel weird!”

“But this just feels like my foots gonna fall out,” Leon complained in response, earning a little tut-tut from Luis.

“confía en mi, bonita, you don’t want a broken heel from this trip, I don’t think that’ll help our odds in the field”

Leon just had to trust that Luis knew what he was doing as he pointed his heels down even further, earning a satisfied nod from Luis.

“Good boy”

Oooooooohhhhhh there it was again. Leon was seriously considering jumping off the horse head-first with his badly his heart started hammering in his chest. He didn't even wanna acknowledge his jeans at this point.

“Now I’m gonna need your hands, muñeco,” Leon dutifully nodded as Luis leaned over to clasp his hands over his partners knuckles’. Leon just prayed he couldn’t feel his hands shaking- the blonde felt a little silly and embarrassed, in all honestly. They’ve held hands a million-and-one times before, why was now suddenly any different??

Giving a little hum of approval, Luis turned Leons’ wrists over so his thumbs were facing the sky. “Have your thumb resting on top of the reigns, and the rest of your fingers around it. Imagine you’re holding a bottle,” he instructed, and Leon moved to rest his hands like he was giving somebody a thumbs-up.

“Like this?”

“Sí,” Luis nodded, before sliding his hands up Leon’s forearms. Leon internally cursed himself for jolting a little in his seat.

“Remember amor, these are your steering wheels; don’t let go of them to hold onto the mane or the saddle,” with his free hand, Luis demonstrated fisting up a bit of the mane in his hand before letting go to pat the pommel of the saddle. Leon did his very best to ignore how close his hand was to his crotch.

“Trust me, if your horse spooks and you go flying, your saddle isn’t gonna do much to save you. You’ll just slip off”

“Gee, thanks for the reassurance” Leon grumbled back, finally gaining enough courage to snap back a witty response. At least he hoped it sounded confident.

“I’m just being honest” Luis laughed, giving his thigh a little pat. “Now, your reigns look short enough, but if for whatever reason you need them shorter, just slide your hands down the leather and adjust them however you want, muy bien? You should always be able to feel at least a little bit of tension in the reigns”

Leon nodded, tugging his reigns ever so slightly, noting that his horse didn't seem to mind; it’s ears were laid back, looking relaxed, if not a little sleepy.

“Now, give Oso a little squeeze with your heels”

A little confused, Leon did as he was told, and was surprised to find that Oso started walking forward; if not very, very slowly. He felt almost sleepy in his movements, and Leon let out a little noise of surprise. He was far too focused on the feeling of Luis’ hands on his legs to remember that, oh yeah, he was meant to be riding the horse. And it was gonna move. Obviously.

Luis began to walk alongside him, not that it was very difficult to keep up with his sleepy horse. “See why I asked you to put your heels down now, amor?”

“Y-yeah,” Leon stammered, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. He wasn’t quite used to the feeling of the horse moving underneath him yet. “I didn't think that’s how you made a horse, uh, go”

“I still can’t believe Hunnigan sent you out here with zero knowledge on how to ride a horse” Luis shook his head, kicking rocks as he continued to walk alongside Leon, who gave his horse another squeeze with his heels to at least speed it up a little. “Yeah, well, it’s not like they cover horseback-riding in military training”

“Maybe they should,” Luis have gave a playful wink,

“But then that’d mean you wouldn’t have me as your teacher”

“How dreadful” Leon scoffed. But he was right, he much preferred getting taught by Luis than some uptight military officer.

“Now, if you wanna get your horse to move to either side, just open your arms out, like you’re opening a door for somebody”

Sure enough, when Leon did as he was told, the horse moved to the right; almost as if it was following his hand instinctively. He couldn’t help but smile at his success a little, and turned his horse to the left to show off a little circle for Luis, which earned him a congratulatory clap.

“Sí!! You’re a natural, Leon!”

“T-Thanks,” Leon smiled to himself, swinging his legs a little like he was a kid again. He liked being praised by Luis, it felt a lot better than any kind of begrudging compliment given by the military officers back home.

“Now, if you wanna stop, just puuuull back your reigns close to your chest, and give them a little squeeze. If Oso doesn’t stop on que, just shorten your reigns up”

Luckily for Leon, Oso stopped right on que, directly in front of Luis, who was already giving the big horse a congratulatory scratch on the forehead.

“And those are your basics!”

“Those were just the basics!? ” Leon groaned dramatically.

“Don’t complain, bonito, we’ll be here all day if you do”

Luis was right, as much as he was uh…. Enjoying the other man’s ‘lesson’, they were on a tight schedule. The sun was already hanging high in the sky, and if they wanted to set up camp at the halfway point, they’d have to leave sooner or later

“Speaking of, we’re probably not gonna get anywhere by just walking” Luis pointed out, almost reading Leon’s mind. He was right, as grateful as Leon was to not have to walk the whole way, these horses walking speeds weren’t any better than his own legs. In fact, he reckoned he could probably walk faster than both Oso and Flicka combined. They seemed very…. Sleepy

“I’ll try to be quick, but ah.. I think you know better than anyone I like to take my time” Luis batted his eyelashes with a faux innocence, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his hand up to place it under his chin, clearly trying to get a reaction out of Kennedy. No shot. Leon was ready to stay stoic in the face of his flirting, even if he could feel his stomach churn a little.

“J-j-just get in with it then.”

‘ Very smooth, Leon’

“Fine, but you’re no fun” Luis fake-pouted. “I’ll get you to start with a walk, but while you’re at it, try standing up in your stirrups and balance. And don’t hold onto the mane or the saddle, remember”

Weird request, Leon thought to himself, but he did so anyways. It was weird, usually he prided himself in being actually relatively balanced for his size, but the movement underneath him made Leon wanted to instinctively reach his hands down and lean on the horses neck for support. But he didn't, and instead kept his eyes in between Oso’s ears, focusing entirely on continuing to move forward or turning in a half-circle every so often. Suddenly the way his feet were positioned in the stirrups made a whole lot more sense; his heels kept his legs a lot more balanced than if he had his whole foot in.

“Now, this part I can’t really… show you, you’ve just gotta feel it”

“ Great,” Leon mumbled under his breath, hoping Luis didn't hear.

“Can you feel your horses gait? It should be a one-two-one-two pattern”

It took him a second of focusing to try and decipher what Luis meant, but he figured out he was probably talking about the horses stride. Sure enough, when he counted the moment each hoof hit and lifted off the ground, he could feel that signature ‘ one-two-one-two ’ stride Luis was talking about. It reminded him a bit of jogging, except obviously, double the legs. He listened out for the clip-clop-clip-clop sound of the hooves, it was a much better indicator than trying to figure out the horses’ stride by pure instinct.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it!” Leon shouted out, turning around again in another half-circle.

Luis smiled, “great! Now try sitting and standing up and down to the beat”

That was infinitely trickier than just standing up in the stirrups. Each time he sat back down, Leon found himself struggling even more to get up without getting unbalanced- and then he wanted to hold onto the horses mane for support once he was actually standing, and by the time Leon would finally balance himself up, the stride had already switched and he had to sit back down again. Not to mention, it was getting increasingly difficult to focus on holding the reigns correctly, or keeping his legs behind the shoulders. And he was only in a walk still.

“Need a hand?” Luis offered out his hand to Leon, walking alongside the horse as the blonde struggled to get the trick right.

“Would that be cheating?”

“Not if it’s helping”

Leon thought for a couple seconds before taking Luis’ hand; and something about the way he smiled up at him, walking underneath Leon’s usual point of view…

It made him feel….

Interesting.

Maybe he wanted to see Luis underneath him more. Maybe he just wanted Luis to praise him like this more often. Maybe this was just a sign Leon needed to get laid more often. Who knows.

But one things for certain is that Leon was not going to forget this image anytime soon. He wished he had a camera, or some way to take a picture of Luis; he looked perfect to Leon, his hair in loose curls with that stupid toothy grin on his face Leon loved so much. He made a mental note to buy a new camera for next time they traveled.

“Ready to try trotting?”

All Leon nodded, not daring to speak as he turned all of his once broken focus back to the task at hand, taking this ‘lesson’ very seriously.

“Just give him another squeeze with your heels and he’ll be off. Just sit up and down, you’ll be fine. I’ve got your hand if you need me, cariño”

With just a little bit of contact in his heels, Oso was off. Suddenly that ‘ one-two-one-two’ pattern became a lot more exaggerated as the horse rolled forward, picking up its legs and the pace in the process. Leon felt like he was being thrown up-and-down, struggling quite a bit to not bounce around in his saddle. It was a lot easier to stand up and sit back down like this, though, now that he had a clearer moment to sit back down and back up again. Leon almost copied the horses motions with his own, sitting up when the horse moved up, and sitting back down when the horse moved down. At least that’s how it felt.

Luis was jogging alongside him now, hand barely on his knuckles as he gave a laugh of approval, whipping his long hair out of his eyes. “¡sí Sí! lo estás haciendo increíble amor!” He shouted over the rising wind. “¡sigue adelante, lo estás haciendo genial!”

Leon couldn’t help but smile, a wave of confidence rushing through him at Luis’ praise. He tried his best to keep looking forward at the imaginary road in front of him, but he couldn’t help but steal a look from Luis everytime he turned an imaginary corner. God he wanted to lean over and kiss that man so badly.

“Do you think you can go any faster?”

“ Faster?!” Leon snorted, shortening up his reigns a bit in preparation.

“I can try!”

“Good enough for me!”

Leon gave his horse a very nervous squeeze again, and he was off; the trot became bouncier and harder to sit, but Leon was actually doing it. He turned in a large circle, just to impress Luis, who had since fallen behind and was getting ready to mount his own horse.

Leon slowed down when he noticed Luis waving him over, shouting something over the now almost whipping wind, eventually coming back to a walk to meet him at the gate again, his heart thrumming with adrenaline. He noticed Luis was turned around, grabbing something out of his backpack on the grass.

“I can’t believe I forgot about this until now, but look what the lady at the stables gave me for free!”

Leon’s jaw dropped in a look of comedically disappointed shock when Luis pulled out a cowboy hat from his backpack, grinning like a madman

Of coarse Luis got a goddamn cowboy hat for free.

“Luis you got a cowboy hat?!”

“Whaaat you don’t like it?” He cuddled the hat closer to his chest, almost looking a little disappointed if it wasn’t for big smile on his face

“I despise it” Leon was lying. He actually loved it, it was just so corny and so very Luis that he wouldn’t let the Spaniard get away with it. It was actually a very beautiful hat, with encrusted diamonds on either side, accompanying the dark mahogany-coloured stains, Leon was actually a little jealous of the hat. Just a little.

“You should go back to that poor lady and give it back, it clearly doesn’t suit you” Leon bantered playfully

“ Doesn’t suit me? ¡Díos Mío! You hurt me!” Leon grabbed his heart in a dramatic show of pain, leaning his head back to shake the hair out of his eyes for extra emphasis. He slipped the cowboy hat on, too, for good measure.

“I can think of a lot more ways to hurt you”

Leon….

Did not mean for that to come out sounding sexual.

And of coarse, that meant Luis caught onto it.

“ Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, walking closer to Leon’s side.

“Maybe you’d like to see me with it on in a different position?”

Luis’ hand left his chest to sneak up Leon’s thigh, just ghosting the fabric of his jeans ever so slightly.

Leon completely forgot how to breathe in that moment. Or speak, for that matter. All he could do was stare right back into Luis’ gray eyes, which were staring right up at him through his eyelashes, underneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“Well mí amor… you know what they say about saving horses.”

Leon snapped out his teenage-boy brain for a moment to be completely confused. Huh??

“What… what do people say about saving horses??”

Luis bit his lip, smiling, giving the brim of his hat a condescending flick.

“Well, to save a horse…”

Before Leon knew what was happening, Luis had leaned up on his toes to snake a hand around the back of Leon’s neck, pulling him down closer to Luis’ height, and closed the gap between them to indulge himself in a kiss.

Leon didn't need to think twice about returning the kiss, immediately taking his hands off the reigns to slip his fingers into Luis’ long dark locks; grasping at them to bring his lover closer, tilting his head to the side so he had better access to his mouth. Luis returned the favor, squeezing a little at the short hair on the back of his neck he had his hand around. Leon sighed into it the kiss, feeling Luis’ eyelashes flutter against the skin of his cheek as Leon inhaled the smell of old leather and cigarettes. Luis always tasted like tobacco. Two years ago, he would’ve cringed at the idea of kissing somebody who smoked. Now he kisses Luis like the man was his only lifeline.

Unfortunately, though; Luis inevitably pulled back from the kiss, earning a little whine from Leon he didn't mean to slip out.

“…You ride a cowboy”

Ooooooooohh . That made a lot more sense.

Still, though, it caught Leon off-guard regardless. He stumbled over his words, trying to scold, thank and tease Luis all at the same time while his brain turned into mush trying to process all

The words at once. The imagery of “ riding a cowboy ” was unwantedly stuck in his brain now. Not that he minded very much.

Maybe he would like to see Luis with the cowboy hat on more often.

When all that came out were little squeaks of noise, Luis gave him a heart-melting smile, before taking off the cowboy hat to set it atop of Leon’s head; taking the time to brush his blonde fringe out of his eyes.

“You look very gorgeous with that hat on, muñeco”

Leon didn't bother to hide his blush this time, readjusting his hat to sit more comfortably, slightly tilted down. “You think so?”

“I know so”

The two men just sat there, staring up and down at each other for what felt like an eternity; neither one wanting to break eye contact, lest they let go of the moment they shared together.

But… they also had to get moving sooner or later. And Luis took the fall and gave a little awkward cough, turning around to do the walk of shame back to his own horse; it was Leons’ turn to giggle now, watching his lover swing his legs over the white mare and adjust himself in the saddle.

“You alright there, Don Quixote?” Leon called out, the wind suddenly picking up again as he had to raise his voice. This got Luis’ attention clearly, as shot back a very genuine smile at the tiny reference. He always loved it when Leon made little references here and there to the novel he knew off by heart. And was especially fond of when he called him ‘Don Quixote’

“¡Sí, Mí amor!” Luis yelled back over the wind, already beginning to trot past the gate and into the never-ending sea of golden grass.

“Let us save the Princess Dulcinea!”

“Lead the way” Leon smiled, following Luis past the gate- feeling a little bit like they’d just crossed the point of no return, chasing the sunset to whatever perilous dangers they had to face next. For a few moments, Leon could forget about the fact that they were about to face a group of possibly very dangerous scientists, with god knows what kind of supernatural virus bioweapons at their disposal.

For a few moments, Leon could just enjoy the way Luis’ hair blew in the wind, tangling and encasing his handsome face as the pair of them trotted through the long, yellowed grass. Cold wind nipping at their ears and noses as the sounds of their horses’ hooves thumped against the soil, leaving behind a trail of flattened grass in their wake.

Maybe an hour or so had passed before the wind finally decided to die down. The quaint Spanish town behind them growing smaller and smaller, Leon felt the familiar pull of anxiety grip his chest. He was very used to the feeling by now, watching as his only escape back to normalcy fall away into the horizon line. He shook his head, cowboy hat still somehow surviving the wind. It was hard to look forward; the grass surrounding them was almost reflective against the sun, almost glowing a golden hue as it stretched on for miles- it literally looked like an ocean, with the way every blade swayed in motion against any small breeze whatsoever. When a particularly strong gust would come through, it would send a ripple through the grass- almost looking like waves as it passes by the horses legs. It was long. Too; easily tickling Leon’s calf’s.

Oso and Flicka kept an even trotting pace- never far behind one or the other, if not always by the same side. Which Leon was grateful for, it meant he could always be almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Luis; he could spend the time getting into a rhythmic trot staring at his lovers pretty features- his hair, his nose, his skin- as Luis’ eyes scanned the horizon nonchalantly, constantly with a relaxed smile on his face. The sound of the horses hoofbeats synchronizing would be enough to lull Leon to sleep, if he weren’t in the situation he was in. He could really go for a nap right about now. His legs were growing tired from having to stand and sit repeatedly, and the beating afternoon sun was making him sleepy and warm.

Another twenty odd minutes pass, and as precisely according to plans the two men pass by their first windmill; it’s clearly old, wood tattered and worn, creaking with every turn. Luis looked absolutely delighted to see the windmills, though; pointing to them excitedly like a little kid, turning back to Leon as if to confirm he was seeing them, too.

“¡mirar! Windmills!!” He smiled from ear-to-ear

“It’s just like in Don Quixote!”

Leon couldn’t help but smile back at his enthusiasm. “Do you think our horses match, too?”

“Alas, no, Don Quixote had a mule as his steed,” Luis answered back, eyeing up the second windmill they passed. “He thought it was a white stallion. And Sancho had a little pony, if I remember correctly”

“Your horse is a bit of a white stallion, though”

“ Hah!” Luis leaned down to give his horse a big pat on the neck, earning a satisfied snort from Flicka. Leon followed suit, ruffling up his horses’ mane a little.

“These windmills look a lot like the ones back at my old village, though,” Luis changed the subject as they passed under the shadow of the third windmill.

“They were old, too. I don’t think anyone took very good care of them”

Leon was happy to start talking again; the hour of silence was slowly getting to him. Plus, he never turned down the opportunity to learn about Luis’ childhood. Neither of them had…. An ideal upbringing. That much was obvious. But where Leon became closed off and sheltered, Luis seemed to bloom the second he was out in the real world.

“Slightly off-topic, but how do you know so much about horses…?” Leon inquired, careful with his wording when it came to anything about Luis’ past.

“Did your Grandfather own some, or…?”

“Sí, we had some horses grazing on the property our little cottage was in,” Luis started. Leon remembered that cottage; tattered and burnt down, he remembered finding various bits and pieces of Luis’ past in the rubble. At the time, he didn't think to carry any of it back with him. But now he wished he did.

“In fact, the one my Grandfather used to let me ride looked a whole lot like Flicka,” Luis absentmindedly patted his horses neck again, staring out at the horizon, seemingly lost in thought as he didn't even acknowledge the fourth windmill.

“There were plenty of horses around, though, they were our only transport around the village, so it was kind of impossible for me to not know how to ride, y’know?”

“You guys rode horses around?? What, you didn't have cars or anything?” Leon snorted, trying to sound lighthearted. “Did you grow up in a cult or something?”

“Actually amor, yea, I did”

Oops.

Leon forgot about that. He internally cursed himself every swear under the sun as he should not have forgotten that Luis Did in fact grow up in a real-life cult goddamnit!!!! Leon tried to save himself, his mind reeling with every apology imaginable

“I- I- I- I-I’m s-so sorry-“

“Nono you’re fine cariño!!” Luis assured him with a playful laugh, clearly picking up on the fact that Leon just thought he’d just completely fucked up their relationship permanently “you didint say anything wrong!”

“I feel like I should’ve remembered that, though…” he mumbled under his breath, hoping Luis didn't hear him.

“It’s weird, I don’t mind talking about… that with you as much as I thought I would,” Luis began slowly, also seeming to be careful with his wording.

“I think maybe it’s… because you get me, y’know?”

Leon knew. He didint need to answer with anything, he just knew.

He hadn’t talked about it very deeply witn Luis, but he’d opened up about his traumatic childhood a little in the past. A good portion of it was repressed, though; and he wondered if it was the same for Luis. He couldn’t help but notice some definite religious trauma underneath his suave persona- the way he talked about his experiences with the Spanish church like it was a horrible memory was ever familiar to Leon. But he also noticed Luis hadn’t been entirely shut off from his faith like Leon had; throwing up the Sign of the cross everytime they charged into battle, or the cross chain necklace he hung around his neck- Leon highly doubted he was still a religious man, but old habits die hard.

“My village felt so isolated from the rest of the world when I was a child. I never knew life could look so..”

“Beautiful?”

“..Yeah,” Luis turned his attention back to Leon, breaking away from his gaze over the horizon. For a split second, Leon couldn’t help but wonder if Luis was talking about him.

“I still feel fond about the little things from when I was little, though. I remember my Grandfather used to show me how to fish on weekends, and he used to take me horse-and-carriage riding up to the church on Sundays.”

Leon let him talk, enjoying the way a familiar smile crept up on his face.

“Sometimes he’d let me use his old TV, and I’d just spend hours watching those Vienna Lipizzaners, hell, I used to imagine myself being one of the riders, all dressed up like Don Quixote riding off into the sunset to save his Dulcinea”

Leon laughed at the image of a baby Luis, laying down in front of a rickety old TV like he was watching cartoons after school.

“You were a ‘Horse Boy’?” Leon teased him. “That must’ve been hilarious ”

“Sí,” Luis giggles along, breaking out of his own memories for a moment.

“But I grew up as a girl, so it was a lot less awkward”

“Oh yeah, uh, me too” Leon corrected himself. It weird to think that at some point in his life, Luis presented as a girl; he couldn’t even begin to imagine the beautiful man riding the horse beside him to look any other way than he did now.

“Just Trans things, I guess”

“Truly,” Luis smiled, still staring into Leon’s eyes as they passed by the sixth and final windmill.

Leon didn't notice it at first, too focused on his lovers face; but Luis had reached out his arm, offering his hand for Leon to take. He gladly did. Even if it was a bit awkward trotting along beside him.

“I’m… I’m very glad I found you, amor. I’m not sure how we managed it… but I’m so so very grateful we found each other.”

Leon could easily give a whole speech about how he should be the grateful one; how finding Leon in that dirty, zombie-infested village while desperately searching for Ashley, and narrowly saving him from that stab to the back from Krauser was easily, without a shadow of a doubt, the best thing that had ever happened in Leon’s life.

But Luis already knew that.

So he just squeezed his hand tighter.

“Me too… I know I don’t say it a lot, but I’m dead serious when I say you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”

Leon could’ve sworn he saw tears welling up in Luis’ eyes, but before he could take the time to check if he was right or not, Luis leaned over his horse to give Leon another kiss. Leon leaned over his side, too, hopefully making the distance between them a little easier to manage.

The kiss this time was a lot less intimate, with Leon finding himself kissing Luis’ teeth half the time as the Spaniard struggled to bite down a smile; and when Luis smiled, Leon was never too far behind. He tried to nip playfully at his lovers bottom lip, scolding him for not being able to keep his grin down- but it was hard to stay balanced as the horses suddenly seemed to want to do everything in their power to throw the two of them off each other. Shaking their manes out and snorting, eventually the two men had to break apart as their horses drifted off to the side.

They were both a giggling mess at the comedy of it all.

“You’re an awful kisser on horseback, cariño”

Leon gasped dramatically, grabbing his hat to keep it from loosening “Ex- scuuuse me, but I didn't think I’d have to practice kissing on a horse to get your seal of approval!”

Luis threw his head back into the wind and laughed, kicking his horse along to speed up; Leon didn't even notice at first he was trying to run away from him before he was already far ahead

“ Oi!!! Get back here!!” He yelled out, hoping Luis could hear him over the rising wind.

“ You’ll just have to catch me!”

Leon was nervous to speed up, cautiously giving his horse another squeeze with his heels or two to just barely pick up the pace- thankfully, Luis slowed down for him, but was still just out of reach. He turned around to meet Leon’s gaze,

“Do you wanna skip the cantering lesson and go straight into a gallop, cariño?”

‘No, actually, not at all’ was what Leon wanted to say back. He was already nervous speeding up in a trot, and he had seen videos of people galloping on a horse before. If he was already struggling to keep balance now, it was highly likely that in a gallop he’d just slip off into the tall grass and never be seen again.

But…. Also, his legs were getting very tired. Riding turned out to be a lot more work than he was expecting. Any relief for his poor muscles would be welcomed.

And, plus… how could he say no to that face? Luis had a hopeful smile, waiting expectantly for his answer.

“…Uh, yeah, sure, I’m down to..” Leon hesitated for a moment, weighing up his options.

“But what if I slip off?”

“Then I’ll be there to catch you,” Luis responded.

Somehow, Leon didn't think that’d be realistic. But the mental image of his lover turning a sharp corner to dramatically save him from instant-death was very appealing.

And he trusted Luis. With every fiber of his being.

“Then tell me what I need to do”

Luis’ smile somehow widened, “attaboy!”

Leon forgot how nice it was to be praised by Luis. He would do any and every dangerous stunt under the sun if it meant hearing him say that again.

“Now, remember what I said about never letting go of the reigns?

“…yeah?” Leon was already getting anxious.

“Forget that. Actually, that’s a lie; keep holding onto your reigns. Just grab onto a part of the mane, too”

Leon did as he was told, grasping a fist of hair gently in his hands

“OK, now what?”

“Stand up out of your seat and lean forward, but not so much that you’re falling over Oso’s neck, just enough to be in a bit of a two-point position”

Luis demonstrated on his own horse, sitting up out of the saddle and leaning forward so that his back was laid out flat. It took Leon a couple tries, with his routinely falling back into his seat; but eventually, he found himself copying the two-point to the best of his abilities. It definitely took the pressure off of his legs, weirdly enough, giving them a well-needed relief.

“It’ll be easier to hold once we’re off!” Luis shouted backwards, his horse already switching gaits from a trot to a slow canter, waiting for Leon to catch up.

After waiting a couple moments to catch his breath, Leon finally sucks up his anxiety and kicks his horse along to move it into a trot. It was almost as if Oso read his mind, because in just a matter of seconds, the two pairs of riders were flying across the yellowed grass fields.

Luis was right; it was a lot easier to hold his position. Leon held onto the horses mane a little tighter instinctively, trying his best to not look down at the rushing ground underneath him, instead focusing on the sound of the horses’ heavy hooves hitting the soil. After realizing that he was not, in fact, actively slipping off the horse; Leon found himself actually enjoying this a lot more than he’d expected.

Leon was even brave enough to take one of his hands off of the horses neck to grab onto his slipping hat, laughing to himself as fringe blocked his vision every so often. It reminded him of speeding on his motorcycle, a bit, but a lot more.. freeing? That sounded cheesy.

Leon turned his head to see how Luis was holding up; and just as expected, his partner was giddy with glee. He even had one of his arms out to catch the wind, just smiling and laughing to himself as he galloped off in his own world.

Leon felt like he was in a corny horse-girl movie, off to save his fathers ranch on the black stallion he tamed with his ‘magical bond’. But he couldn’t care less. Not when Luis looked so gorgeous in the sun, his skin almost glowing and his long dark locks getting tangled and thrown back around his shoulders. Leon could stare at Luis’ body all day, the way his jacket he never seemed to take off hugged his chest and shoulders and hips perfectly. The gold floral accents occasionally glinting in the sun.

Leon could get used to this.

The two of them arrived at their designated Resting Point far sooner than they’d expected to, even on horseback. It was signaled with a long, fluorescent orange flag stabbed into the ground- another agent must’ve previously scouted the area for the safest place for the two of them to rest without danger. Despite their early arrival, though, the sun was still just beginning to set. And with no light pollution or city skylines in the way to full the glow, it almost blinded Luis while they struggled set up their makeshift tent; Leon offering his hat as sacrifice for the poor man’s eyes. The yellow grass didn't help much, either, it’s flaxen feel reflecting off the suns rays.

Eventually, the two men managed to flatten out enough grass to successfully pin up their tent. They only had one, but one was enough. Luis tied the horses off to one of their spare poles with a lead rope he had in his saddlebag, and took the liberty of un-tacking them both (mostly cuz Leon didn't know how). They both gave their respective horses lots of pats on the neck and scratches on the forehead, earning them a loud, heavy sigh. Oso was especially tired, grunting loudly as he rolled onto his side into the long grass- almost squashing Leon in the process. Luis, of coarse, laughed first and helped him up second.

They spent the early hours of that evening mulling over maps and coming up with strategies, sharpening weapons and making sure their guns weren’t jammed and could successfully reload. As the hours went past, the sun started to sink over the grass horizon. The windmills they’d passed earlier only now being tiny dots in the distance.

Leon cooked the both of them as decent of a dinner as he could with the supplies he was given- Luke-warm baked beans on toast. Leon was used to the gross food he was given on missions at this point, but still complained nonetheless. Luis complained alongside him, dramatically describing him all the better meals he could make with just their flimsy cooking pot and a makeshift fire. They ended up just snacking on the candy Luis had stolen off of the plane on the flight in after dinner.

Leon absentmindedly braided his sleeping horses mane as he watched Luis smoke, the sun now gone from the sky, leaving behind the most gorgeous pink-and-purple sea of clouds, the dim cooking fire being their only source of light, aside from the occasional flame from Luis’ lighter. They shared conversations over cigarettes; or at least, Luis did. Leon liked to just rest his head on his partners shoulders, watching the smoke from Luis’ mouth rise up into the air in coils and eventually dissipate. It was oddly beautiful.

Luis was beautiful.

Leon let Luis talk for as long as he wanted to. Occasionally joining in, or giving him a little him to reassure him he was still listening.

Eventually dusk turned to evening, and Leon had taken to laying in Luis lap; his hand running through the blondes hair, massaging his scalp and carding the strands out of his eyes. Leon was close to falling asleep just right then and there; feeling every one of Luis’ rings against his scalp, listening to his lover quietly sing a Spanish lullaby he did not recognise.

Eventually, it got completely dark, and the stars came out, as if they were shining just for the two of them. Leon was lucky enough to be able to experience seeing the milky away and hundreds of thousands of constellations in a remote area like this before, but it never got old.

He wondered to himself if Luis ever looked up at the same stars he did when they were younger.

“…Aaaaand that one’s called the Roosevelts belt”

“ Uh-huh. And that one?” Leon pointed up to a constellation that was very clearly the Great Bear, aka Ursa Major.

Leon knew Luis knew absolutely Jack-crap about constellations or star patterns. Leon had to learn the basics in his military training, but that didn't mean he actually remembered them at all.

Luis wanted to be ‘romantic’ and name as many stars as he could, just like in those old black-and-white Spanish romance movies. But instead of actually guessing the stars’ names, he just made them up on the spot.

“Uh…. The Monty Python,” Luis spat out, clearly making it up that very second.

Leon burst out laughing, slapping his shoulder playfully “Luis that’s a comedy group!”

“ No no es, tonto, it’s a very real constellation . Everyone knows about it,” he tried to make a serious face but to no avail. Even in the darkness, his smile was obvious.

“What do you think it is, then, muñeco?”

“That’s Ursa Major,” Leon said, matter-of-factly

“We had to memorize it in training, in case we ever got lost in the dark, or if we didn't have a compass on hand”

Luis just mocked Leon, clearly having been caught in his lies with a “ mimimimi oooooo look at meeee I know the the names of staaaarss”

Leon fell back into his lap in hysterics, trying and failing to whack Luis in the face to shut him up (gently, of coarse). “You are such a sore looser!!”

“It’s not my fault you’re a…. Uh..” as Luis tried to find an adequate insult to throw back, Leon reached up and swung his arms around the back of his neck, pulling Luis back down into the grass with him.

They laid there for a few seconds, everytime they tried to stop laughing they’d see each others face and just start laughing all over again. It had to have taken them a good few seconds before they caught their breathes again, their laughs eventually slowing down.

Staring up at the stars, neither of them wanted to leave each others sides. Sharing the occasional kiss on the cheek, they knew they had to go inside soon; the fire was already starting to dim.

“…Could you point out any more constellations? For me?”

Luis asked, his voice shy and genuine as his thumb was running over Leon’s palm.

He smiled, “I’m not very good at it, but… sure”

“I don’t mind. I just want to hear you talk”

They stayed like that for easily another hour. Only retreating back to their tents and warm sleeping bags once the cold had started to make Leon sneeze.

They curled up to one another, as close as they humanly could; if it wasn’t for the fact that the sleeping bags were tiny, they would’ve easily slept in the same one.

Leon could feel Luis kissing the tip of his cold nose. He was huddled against him, fists right up to his chin as he tried to stay warm, and he could feel Luis wrap his legs over his underneath the sleeping bags.

Leon was juuust about to fall asleep, seconds away when…

“Leon, do you think Ashley ever had a Horse-Girl phase?”

Leon involuntarily burst out cackling at the totally random question Luis just shot out of nowhere

“ D-do I- what???” He tried to ask in between giggles. Even in the darkness, he could tell Luis was grinning

“I dunno! I just thought of it now!! Ashley just seems like she’d have a Horse-Girl phase y’know??”

“Luis, Ashley spent a majority of her childhood as a boy before she got to transition, so I don’t think she would’ve had a Horse-Boy phase. But I’m sure you could ask her”

Leon could only just barely make out Luis’ wide-eyed shocked expression through the darkness

“ Ashley’s Trans??”

“You didn't know?!?! Luis !!” The two of them completely devolved into shocked giggled, unable to form cohesive sentences

“ Díos mío it feels like everyone I meet is Trans!!”

“Maybe you’ve got sixth sense for it” Leon teased. Luis paused for a moment and Leon hoped that meant he was going back to sleep; Leon was tired dangit.

“… I still think Ashley had a Horse-Girl phase-“

“Go to sleep Luis!!”

[m0ther-of-p3arl]

shepshermitdesign23 WEEK ONE

grian as a rogue

he is an avian rogue, chaotic neutral, he uses kind of long metal hooks that he holds in both hands (think jet from atla) his background is that he's yk looking for scar hes trying to find info on scar so when it says "grian needed that information" thats what i meant cuz he doesnt know where scar is and NEEDS to find him (that's his motivation)

(1946 w)

tw: slight blood, battling with magic and also not magic, yeah

i wrote this for @shepscapades hermit designing thingie but i decided to write a fic for it instead, as my drawing skills leave much to be desired lmao- so uh here have roguey grian being a rogue and stealing things! (btw i did not edit this even once so its really rough just bear that in mind while reading sldkjfs)

The stars are him, and he is the stars. This is a fact, something he knows beyond doubt, something that’s always been there underneath, rippling against the waves of Grian’s life. So as he leaps across the rooftops, a shadowed figure wrapped in black and gray, he stares up at them, breathing deeply to calm his rabbiting heart. This is fine. It’s just another heist, another job, it’s the last one.

It’s the last one. And of course, his last day on the job, he’s given an offer he can’t refuse, the biggest and most important thing he’ll probably ever do. Grian has been sent to steal the crown. The king’s crown. Ren’s crown.

Grian knew Ren once upon a time, before he was consumed by the power that was offered to him. He remembers how they would go out for drinks at the pub, laughing and towing along their respective boyfriends, betting on the raucous barbarians that just couldn’t help but pick fights with each other after getting tipsy on a few drinks.

But that was almost a different life. Now Grian’s older, he’s smarter, and he can’t remember the last time he laughed. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he smiled. When Ren became king, when it was revealed that he was the heir who had been missing for so long, Grian was adamant against a resistance. He decided that it was best to just… stay in the shadows, in honor of their old friendship.

And he’s been surprisingly good at doing so. But the offer he’s gotten… well. Let’s just say it’s something he can’t refuse. Someone he can’t refuse- or rather, information regarding to their whereabouts from a very reliable source. The only reason Grian is going to be able to pull this off is because if he does, he knows what could be at home waiting for him.

He’s been so lost in his thoughts he’s almost missed his stop, and he tucks his hooks into his belt, making sure his wings are properly bound to his back, their bright colors sure to give him away otherwise. The castle looms in the distance- Grian’s target. He pulls out his spyglass, taking note of the guards patrolling around the castle, Ren’s trademark red banner hanging from their waistbands.

How is he going to go about doing this? He scans the castle walls for an obvious in, but if there’s one thing to be said of Ren, he is not lax in his security. His eyes rove over the towers once again, hoping that maybe he’s just been a little bit mistaken, but no. Every inch of this castle is swarming with guards.

“Fuck,” Grian curses under his breath, putting his spyglass back into the pack and tightening his fists on his hooks, trying to come up with an alternate plan. He could go in by brute force, incapacitate or kill all the guards on the way up to the treasure room, but the problem with that is to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’d be strong enough.

Another option lies in the fact that he can fly- if he wished, it would be as easy as one, two, three to unbind his wings, soar up to where the jewels are kept, and enter through the window. But he’s certain someone would see him coming, maybe even the Hand, and Grian doesn’t want to have to deal with that. In fact, he’d rather he has to exert as little force as possible. His strengths lie in being sneaky, not strong, and though he often wishes he had a little more muscle on his bones, he knows where his forte is.

So, what’s the ploy? Grian slides down the roof a little further, crouching and hoping he won’t be seen. He supposes that if he wants to pull this off without getting caught, his best bet is… going through the trash chute. God damn it. Grian heaves a disappointed sigh, but it’s not like there’s any better option. He jumps nimbly down from the roof and begins to follow the sewers, divots of odorous rushing liquid carved into the ground. 

He’s memorized the floor plan of Dogwarts Castle, to the very point that he knows which pipes lead where and when. He crawls into the ground, soaking his front in the foul mixture of rot and feces. Only a couple years ago, Grian would have found this idea appalling, and though it still freaks him out a bit, he’s resigned now to the things he needs to do if he wants that information.

And he does. He wants it more than everything. So he crawls forwards, breathing shallowly through his mouth to block out the stench, his memory the only thing leading him through the pitch dark maze. Turn right, then left, another left, right again. There should be a ladder here. He blindly runs his fingers against the dead end he’s come across, and sure enough, a cold rod of metal sticks out from the wall. Grian moves his hands upwards to feel another, and another, and another, until he’s standing to his full height.

Then he grabs hold of the rung right above his head and begins to climb. He pulls his whole body upwards with each strong push, going four rungs at a time to save energy. He’s so close, he’s almost there. He can see the light peeking through the end of the tunnel, and he closes his eyes for a second, recalibrating to figure out where he is. That’s North, then East, South, and lastly, West. So he’s in the bathroom across the hall from the jewel room. Good. So long as no one’s taking a poo right now, Grian’s in the perfect position. 

Plus, he’s so covered in human waste that even if someone is to see him, they’ll probably just assume he was cleaning out the sewers. He quickly climbs up the last couple rungs, his head poking out into a decrepit stall. Pulling himself out of the toilet, Grian briefly considers dumping the ubiquitous bucket of water sitting in the corner over his head, but in the end decides against it. It could make too much noise, leave too much of a trace, and his employer for this job has insisted very particularly that Ren or any of the guards cannot know, under any circumstances, that Grian’s the one stealing the crown.

Flipping locked the latch on the door quickly, he peers through the moon-shaped window, waiting for a gap in the constantly rotating circles of guards. Before he leaves, he makes a quick glance to the door of the jewel room across the hall, the horizontal slit in the golden lock telling him all he needs to know.

For whatever miraculous reason, the door is unlocked. Grian takes his chance, opening his door and leaping across the hall in one fluid motion, quickly sliding into the treasure room before the sounds of chatter from the end of the stony, lamp-lit hall get any louder. He slides his hand up one of his hooks, using the pointed end as a sort of skeleton key to lock the door. A quiet clicking sound tells him he’s met his goal, and he slowly turns around, his heart beating haywire in his chest.

He stumbles backwards as he realizes someone else is here as well. He’s a warlock, his blond hair cut off at his shoulders, a black headband pushing it out of his eyes. The man’s robes are a dark green (an unconventional color for a warlock, Grian notes,) a looping sigil imprinted in the center of his chest. His eyes are a light, piercing blue, a staff clutched in his right hand and a sphere of red light dancing in his left.

“Hello, Martyn,” Grian barks out in a laugh, because he should have known, he should have known. There’s no way Ren would make it this easy for him, and the door to the treasure room being unlocked was a big giveaway that he ignored. And why was he so careless? Because he needs this information, he would do anything, he would- he would kill his own mother if it meant he got to know. And because of this, he’s been unspeakably sloppy.

“How’ve you been, buddy?” Martyn smiles darkly, his skin shallower, his eyes more sunken then when Grian saw him last. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, for sure, too long,” Grian agrees, trying to drag out the conversation long enough to gauge his chances of winning this fight, and if that’s not an option, how he can nab the crown and fly out before Martyn can react. He’s already shrugging the bindings off his wings. “How’s Ren doing? Tell him I say hi, yeah?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Martyn grins, his teeth pointed, more animalistic than Grian remembers. “You can tell him yourself, right before you’re sentenced to death for betrayal of the kingdom.” The warlock lunges, lobbing the sphere of red energy at Grian’s now unbound wing. He just barely dodges, feeling the edges of his feathers singe as the wall behind him implodes.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Martyn,” Grian mutters through gritted teeth, clenching his fists even tighter around his hooks and lunging forward, dodging the staff and hitting Martyn square in the stomach. The warlock grunts and flies backward, clutching his midriff and glaring darkly at the rogue who’d caused him pain.

“You’re asking for it,” he growls, assuming a powerful stance and spinning his staff, a whirlwind erupting from its end, tracing its way towards Grian. But Martyn’s underestimated the avian once again, and he leaps above the tornado, jumping nimbly around the room. If he can just lead it towards the glass case that holds the crown, the power of the wind will break the glass, and Grian will be home free.

He’s already gotten a good hit in on Martyn, and to be honest, he feels a little guilty about it. They used to be friends; there was a time before Ren cornered the enchantment market and took over the kingdom. There was a time when it was just Ren, Martyn, him, and Scar at the pub. Oh god. He stumbles, tripping up- and it nearly costs him his life. Focus, Grian. He can’t think of Scar right now. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Glass is imploding all around him, and all of a sudden, his goal is met: the display case for the crown splits open, sharp shards flying all over, grooving scratches into his skin and clothes. Martyn’s eyes widen, realizing his mistake too late. Grian is quicker, grabbing the crown and turning quickly, aiming a swift kick to Martyn’s head. It connects, and he falls to the floor, momentarily dazed.

Grian could kill him, right here and now. It would be as easy as a quick snap of the neck, and for a moment, he considers the possibility.

But he’s a sentimental fool and he’s too soft for this, he still remembers the time when they were all friends. And so he leaves Martyn laying on the floor, growling quietly in his ear before he leaves: “Don’t forget this. I left you alive when it would have been so much simpler to kill you. You could leave, Martyn. Join me and leave. We could use your skills.”

And then Grian’s gone, jumping out the window and letting his wings flare out behind him, the king’s crown clutched securely in his hand, flying out into the stars, out into the sky that has become his home.

[riddle-me-ri]

I’m so sorry my dumbass forgot to send you a request the other day Mk

Could I request smut for Arkhamverse! Hatter? Like, he’s working with another rogue who he falls for and hangs out with her at home one day and things become intimate?

You don’t have to do this is to don’t wanna, so don’t feel pressured <3

A/N: asddfgg okay but no, I do the same thing all the time. So many messages, stories, and comments go unnoticed because I seen it and thought of the reply so surely that equates to me actually doing it?? Nope, nope not at all lmao. You’re all good! Hope you enjoy! My last Arkhamverse Jervis went waaayyy better than expected here’s hoping the same for this one.

Trigger Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (make outs, biting, groping, handjobs, p.i.v. intercourse ), but also an obtuse amount of fluffiness in there (a lot of first times for Jervis happens here, lets gooo), Strong Language, slight mentions of criminal activity

Word Count: 2.9 k (uhh oops…so sorry rip)

Arkhamverse Jervis x F!Reader - Don’t Worry

You wouldn’t call yourself a natural rogue per se. You didn’t want to get your hands dirty unless absolutely necessary. Only ever really leaving your shop for more spare computer parts, every now and then relying on thievery alone to achieve it. 

However, no one showed their appreciation more for your services than Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter himself. You found yourself slightly put off when he first came in, it made sense for him to come in, but you’ve heard stories and rumors. You were always one to give everyone a chance. 

You couldn’t help but feel your heart swell whenever he smiled back at you or giggled his gratitude when you complimented his hat. He seemed genuinely excited to be acknowledged in even the slightest positive light. 

It didn’t surprise you that Jervis ultimately became a regular. Even if he had already come by that week twice, he somehow always found an excuse to come back. 

“Ah yes, to say it suffice, I forgot this for a certain device.” 

“No need to worry! I’ll just grab this and then I’ll scurry.” 

You remember the day you showed one of the ultimate acts of kindness Jervis had ever received. 

“Don’t worry, Jervis, you can take them.”

If it was one thing he could never get enough of, it’s the microchips you had. Which made sense in hindsight to his modus operandi. He came in for another pack of them, but you just handed them back to him. 

“What’s this you tell me? I shouldn’t get away with these for free!”

“Jervis, it’s fine. You need them more than I do, I know that for a fact! Consider it a gift, for being a loyal customer. A token of friendship.” 

“F-Friendship? Without…something in return for it? Some hardship to earn it?” 

Your heart dropped at that. His voice cracked at the revelation of someone genuinely being kind to him. 

You pushed through your sympathetic reverie and nodded. Even reaching up and straighten his hat, if it’d been anyone else touching his hat would have sent Jervis in a panic. Albeit, you were different as Jervis started to see. 

After that exchange, what once was weekly visits turned almost daily. Very rarely did he not come back even for a moment, even just to say hi or recite some cute little rhyme. 

Every now and then he’d come in and ramble about what’s on his mind. Those moments are when you learned how he was treated in Arkham, how he hated the way he was perceived and for how things transpired. You made it a point after that to show him genuine companionship, something he’s mentioned yearning for, for so long. 

It didn’t take long before you looked forward to his visits and had to admit how sad it made you when you didn’t see him for sometime. You knew it wasn’t because of anything you’ve said or done, he was a busy rogue after all, but that didn’t make you miss him any less. 

The next time he visited, you were going to finally ask him to spend some time with you outside your shop and outside of work. 

“Callooh callay! It’s so good to see you, dear Y/N, on such a glorious day!” 

“Hey stranger!” You found yourself giggling. “I thought I’d run you off somehow.”

“Oh, no. That’s not true, I always want to see you. I got busy you see, things compounded into twos and threes and fours and more. I…I couldn’t ignore.” 

“That’s okay, Jervis. I get it, trust me. But hey, do you have time to spend the day with me at my place? Just today, and you can get back to whatever it is you were working on?” You offered. 

Things went silent for a moment, and you feared you may have overstepped until you saw a Cheshire cat-like grin across Jervis’ face.

“That sounds truly delightful, my dear! I’d be honored to unload my troubles and see your humble abode.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

You've never seen a more wholesome image than Jervis as he laid back straight on your sofa and he brought his feet up to dangle off the ground.

Jervis looked around your small apartment living room with such intensity. He felt like he was surrounded and embraced by you, he wanted that more than ever in a literal sense but was afraid to push you away, like he's done all those times before with others.

In hindsight you have no doubt it was the dumbest idea to let a high profile rogue into your home. However, you didn't see Jervis like that, well not anymore it would seem.

It only made sense to make some tea for the both of you. When the man wasn't talking about neurons, electricity, and mock turtles he also talked about his preferences for tea.

You noticed him looking around out of the corner of your eye. For a man constantly getting control over others minds, you don't think you could ever get a grip of his own mind. You wanted to at least try. 

"Are you comfortable, Jervis?" You chortled as he continued dangling his feet off your couch. You noticed his peculiar striped socks and it made you giggle. 

"Indeed." He grinned while looking around more. 

You weren't quite sure what he was looking at or for but he seemed to be enjoying himself nonetheless. 

"Can I inquire about what you've been working on? I can only hope that my…items were beneficial?" 

Jervis pondered for a moment. "Perhaps sometime soon I can show you then. The results of your assistance, my friend." This was the first time he had used the term deliberately back at you, testing the waters. 

You smiled when he called you his friend, alas there was a strange sinking feeling about it. You surely didn't want to be just that…did you? No, you found out, you didn't. 

Your lack of verbal response made Jervis unsure, he began looking down and twiddling his thumbs. 

“Everything okay, Jervis?”

“D-Do you…is it true, that you think I’m a friend to you?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Of course, I do. I love being in your company. I look forward to you visiting my shop every time I open.” 

The way he sat up, his face almost glowing from happiness was way too cute for his own good. 

“Y-You truly mean that don’t you?” He whispered, almost questioning himself if he heard that right more so than asking you. 

“I do mean it, you…you mean a lot to me, Jervis. I-um..er..” It was obvious to yourself you were falling for the eccentric ex-milliner, but didn’t want to send the man into vapor lock. He still couldn’t get over the concept of being friends. 

“Yes?”

Shit. 

“I-um…well…if you don’t mind me saying so…at the risk of making things awkward…But if we’re being honest. I must admit I have grown extremely fond of you…”

“As I have of you, too.” He admitted with a small smile. 

You sighed in exasperation. A slow warmth grew under your cheeks, you didn’t need that right now. You just had to find the best way to say this. 

“I’m glad, because…I foresee us, well maybe possibly…being more than friends?” 

Silence hung in the air, as the rogue sat back and thought about this admission. Do you truly mean it? He may be out of touch with reality most days but he wasn’t entirely foolish, he understood where you were getting at. 

Jervis was trying his damnest not to bounce off the couch in extreme delight. “D-Do you…truly see…a future with you and me?” 

You nodded. “I really do, Jervis. If you want that…”

“My dear, my sweet darling, Y/N. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”    

You felt the sharpest intake of breath from Jervis as your hand came up to cup his cheek, your other hand soon following behind to his other cheek. You glanced again to see any discomfort in his face. 

He did seem terrified, but in a way that spoke of insecurity and uncertainty of the turnout. The way his eyes cut back and forth between your eyes and your lips was the confirmation you needed. 

The moment your lips touched his, Jervis was a goner. Your heart swelled at the smallest sound of his whimpers, as he clumsily but adamantly kissed you back. When you softly and slowly pulled your lips away, you swoon as you noticed Jervis still slightly leaning forwards with his eyes closed hoping the kiss would continue. 

You put your hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling into you. His eyes opened and warmth started tinting his cheeks pink. 

You couldn't resist, you leaned in and kissed him again. After a moment, you attempted to take things further. You slightly nibbled on his bottom lip, when he gasped at the sensation you gently intruded his mouth with your tongue. 

Despite his obvious inexperience, he took your gesture in stride, allowing you more access and actively twirling his tongue with yours. Jervis’ small soft moans caused your lips and mouth to tickle from the vibrations. You pulled away from him giggling sweetly.

“Jervis, was that your first kiss?” You asked, curiously. You never thought to ask until now, you just got caught up in the moment. 

Still rendered speechless from the kisses he nodded. Slowly, but surely coming to the realization himself that was indeed his first kiss. You ask him if he wants to take it further and you’re certain his face flushed a loud pink color, but he still manages somehow to nod, and expectantly waits your next move. 

You give him another reassuring kiss before you sit back on your haunches and began taking off your sweatshirt. To say Jervis’ eyes were locked onto your motions like a hawk is an understatement. He’s committed to keep every last bit of this to memory. Not just to recall later, but to reassure himself this is happening and not some other cruel illusion or dream. 

As you laid out bare as the day you were born, you couldn’t help but blush at the way Jervis was awing you. The fact that he was in awe of you, staring with eyes blown wide like you’re some ethereal being you’ve decided is worthy to be in your presence. 

You lean forward and gently pluck his hat from the top of his head. You whispered softly. “This is usually where you take off your clothes too.” 

You pecked his nose and that seemed to wake him from whatever trance you had him in. You tried so hard not to laugh as he giddily began shucking off his clothes. When he’s done removing his clothes, you’re quick to drag his face back to yours and kiss his lips again. 

You grab his wrists out of the corner of your eye and began leading them over to your body. Always wearing his gloves, you were excited to feel the warmth from his hands. The rough calluses and the small chips in his fingernails. You brought them to your chest and he slowly began rubbing and squeezing your breasts, experimentally. 

It was your turn to moan into his mouth as he gradually got used to kneading and groping your chest. Your hands go up and find purchase in his hair. You could tell he was still unsure, slightly holding back. 

You leaned your forehead onto his. You stared into his eyes, before reassuring him in a hushed tone, “don’t worry, Jervis. It’s okay. You can take me, have all of me.”

If Jervis’ eyes weren’t blown out before they are now. You always told him that, don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry. It’s what made him finally feel comfortable around you, made him believe your friendship was real, that what’s to come after this is real. 

Jervis nodded, as a first step to show initiative he brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss. Before you knew it, you were laying back on the couch cushion and Jervis was hovering over you. He pulled away, looking to gauge your reaction. When he saw your wide, loving smile, it made his heart skip a few beats. 

He took your gleeful reaction as an indicator to keep going, that he was doing it right. He let his instincts slowly take over. All the things he dreamt and fantasized about doing to your skin, your body, your mind. 

Jervis began kissing along your face, down your neck, and down to your shoulders. He kissed back up to the junction of your neck and shoulder. He licked and sucked on the skin there attentively. 

You kept on hand at the back of his head, cradling it, to keep him near you. Your other hand slithered down in between the two of you to a growing bulging member that lied just above your mound. You gently gripped the base, causing Jervis to gasp in your ear, but not say anything. He softly thrusted against your hand, silently asking you to continue. 

You slowly dragged your fist and the skin there, up and down his cock. Grip not too tight, pace not to fast. To let him get used to your touch. As he kept littering your neck, shoulders, and chest with kisses and suckles, you developed a decent pace with him. 

His whimpers, moans, and groans had no right to make you as wet as you were right then and there. You could also tell if you kept this up for much longer, he wouldn’t last. You gently slowed your ministrations and removed your hand from his member. 

Jervis was panting at this point, his normally pale complexion was evenly mixed with a heated flushed pink across his face and upper chest. Almost shaking and quaking and he hasn’t even been inside you yet.

“I-If you want to stop-”

“No! No..no please…” He glanced back into your eyes. He brought one of his hands up to cup your cheek. “I-I want you…this, please…”

You nodded reassuringly, giving him a kiss. You help him line himself up to your entrance, your other hand exposing your damp folds to the chilling air. 

When he fully sheaths himself inside of you, it’s an overwhelming feeling, slightly painful at the force but nothing excruciating. He was a decent thickness, but was longer than you anticipated. Practically hitting your cervix upon the first entry. 

You bit down hard on your lip, almost drawing blood. You could feel Jervis panting into your neck. You wait for him to get used to the pressure, to the sensation. You comb your hand through his hair and occasionally peck his head. 

You were about to suggest to switch positions, but he started moving before you could get the words out. He started out the slow and articulate, still somewhat unsure. Once he found your sweet spots that had you moaning his name, Jervis did everything he could to keep you chanting his name. 

“Ah-ah..Jer-Jervis..f-fuck…” 

His back broke out in tiny red lines along his back as you scratched him. Your skin in turn was being slightly pricked him his unevenly clipped nails, digging into your heated flesh. His teeth sinking and marking your neck and shoulders.

You thanked whatever higher power existed that he was a fast learner. It didn’t take long...Between the growing harbored feelings and missing him the last couple of weeks, you could feel the goosebumps begin bubbling up all over your body. 

Jervis’ shaky pants and trembling limbs, you could tell he was at his end too. One of your hands once again went down between your two bodies. Your index and middle finger began quickly making fast and short circles around your clit, as your walls began choking Jervis’ cock. 

You barely heard him groaning something that sounded like; “t-tight, tight, tight, tight..” into your ear, as he began rutting faster and deeper than before. 

“J-Jervis...Jervis, please…please…so close..so close..” You were almost in tears. The ball of nerves in the pit of your stomach bound so tight, just waiting to burst. 

Before you knew it, everything went white. You could make out Jervis’ whimpering gasps as his load flooded into you, causing the dam of your nerves to finally break free. Bolts of electricity ran through every nerve and vein in your body. You didn’t even recognize the pleasurable howls of ecstasy you let out to be your own. 

Much like yourself, Jervis was reluctant to move. It took a lot to get him to even pull out of you finally, again, you being just as reluctant. You were both shaky, breathless, tingling messes, but ultimately satisfied and delighted in the spectacle of your new found relationship. 

Jervis was slowly able to put on his boxers and the white dress shirt he wore underneath most of his layers. You grabbed your sweatshirt and underwear to change back into. 

He glanced up at the clock and let out a soft chortle. “It would appear I’ve overstayed my welcome.” 

You glanced at the clock, sure enough it was midnight. “You gonna run off like the White Rabbit?” You teased, grabbing a blanket to drape over the two of you as you snuggled into his side. 

Jervis let out one of his giddy chuckles that you grew to adore. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear. There’s no where else I’d rather be than be with you here.”

[fauxkaren]

I Watched All of Doctor Who Series 1/Series 14 Today

I kinda thought it'd be fun to watch the entire series in one day instead of watching weekly AND I WAS RIGHT. IT WAS FUN. I muted lots of words across social media and managed to remain unspoiled so I got to just experience the series without any expectations. Would recommend as a way to experience the show, free of fandom nonsense and having no idea what might happen. OK SO. BRIEF THOUGHTS ON EACH EPISODE BELOW THE CUT. (Also for the record, I dropped off Doctor Who in Peter Capaldi's early episodes and then only tuned back in for David Tennant's specials last year. So I might be missing some stuff that is important? idk.)

Gonna assign each episode a letter grade because why not?

Space Babies (C) - The way things were explained made it SO obvious that they wanted this episode to serve as an introduction to completely new viewers. Which... fair enough. As a whole the episode was meh. I did like the Bogeyman made of literal bogeys, but "Babies Can Talk!" humor is not my cup of tea. Wouldn't choose to rewatch this any time soon.

The Devil's Chord (B) - A solid Monster of the Week type episode. The fashion was ON POINT and I like the idea of the importance of music to humanity. But the musical finale number was cringe and just not a good song so... docking points.

Boom (D) - I swear I tried to not have my pre-conceived Moffat hating influence me, but like this was a bad episode? It just WAS. SORRY. It was boring and SO heavy handed and the episode's pacing felt glacial. Only saving grace was Ncuti's acting, tbh.

73 Yards (A+) - UM WOW. I think the last time I felt this way about an episode of Doctor Who was like... Midnight? And I think the vibes of Midnight and 73 Yards are similar in that it's a simple thing that is VERY creepy. (The repeating voice vs a figure that stays exactly 73 yards away, always.) And the way Ruby used her to end the evil PM. AMAZING. Can I explain the time travel/time loop/time lines of it all? No. Do I care? Also no.

Dot and Bubble (A) - I LOVED the way this episode played against expectations. You expect it to be like: Lindy is a shallow person wrapped up in the virtual world but learns to engage with reality and become a hero. But like, no. She manages to survive, but she sucks, lmao. And all the people in her world suck. It was a twist that didn't feel unearned (I think the whiteness of everyone on the social media platform is a giant neon sign pointing to the ending) and also made the episode memorable.

Rogue (A-) -What a FUN episode. Absolutely CLASSIC episodic monster story. Also a 'single episode romance that ends tragically' for the Doctor isn't new, but the romance being a man was a good change to make it feel fresh. My only complaint is that it felt like Ruby was a bit too sidelined and in such a short season it feels like every moment she's not on screen is wasting the limited time we have to get to know her.

The Legend of Ruby Sunday (B+) - A decent episode and it was fun to see Rose, Kate and Mel again. The S Triad mystery was also pretty intriguing. (I was convinced for a while that Susan was actually a anthromorphized TARDIS who somehow went evil.) However, the episode relied way too much on handwaving technology stuff with the Time Window that I just did not get.

Empire of Death (A-) - Satisfying conclusion to the Sutekh stuff anchored by a really great performance from Ncuti. The reveal of Ruby's mom just being... an ordinary person was great. She was only significant because people imbued her with significance. We create meaning out of things that maybe don't have meaning. Also nice change of pace from characters needing to be The Most Special Being Ever.

Overall thoughts: The shortened season was a major bummer. I think it robbed us of more of the filler type episodes that can do a lot to build the Doctor and Companion characters and also develop the bond between them. So like... only having 8 episodes with them made the final episode feel kinda unearned?? I think we needed more time seeing them being bestie for their goodbye scene to feel believable. In spite of that, Millie was completely charming as Ruby and Ncuti was a powerhouse of an actor. An excellent Doctor!

WELCOME BACK RTD DOCTOR WHO!

[alicesought]

{{ I haven't used the headcanon banner in a while whatever sure this is a headcanon--

Jervis and Joker have an interesting relationship I feel completely off screen, but he must have, right?

My personal Jervis' relationship with any Joker non-withstanding lmao--- In many canon interactions, jervis often can passively stay around Joker, follow his lead, talk to him casually, complain to him about being bored, and most notably... in every single instance, as far as I know but correct me if I'm wrong, where Joker is in some sort of full civil war situation, he sides with Joker. And I just think that's interesting! For one, he's the only one in the Dork Squad to do that lol.

And I thought about it like- why would he do that, why does he not even side with another villain over Joker,, and I guess ultimately, when push comes to shove, when the rogues are pushed to absolute extremes in their perspective, Joker is the only villain with an ideology that allows for the continuation... of Tetch's existence. I mean, even in non-joker war situations he just chooses the side that will quickest lead to him being left alone. Anything opposing Joker is aiming for order, an order of a kind, and Jervis can't exist in any other order except his own or enough chaos that he can slip through the cracks. I could see this realization leading him to making sure the right person kills batman or even keeping batman alive. He needs either the status quo or his very specific Wonderland control. He'll bite any hand that tries to reform him and his natural behavior not only breaks the law but is noticeably disruptive for any attempt at reforming Gotham. You cannot put him back in his colorless day job, you cannot make him use his skills to help people, and you cannot stop him from chasing Alice. There is One(1) specific way he wants to behave and he will not tolerate being told otherwise. Because he has no real political opinion, he's not a misguided extremist, Jervis is simply inherently anti-social, even if he's too insane to really understand why that's so bad.

BASICALLY- Jervis and Joker have a very compatible ideology, if only to an extent. I'll always argue Jervis is a more comprehensive depiction of human madness than Joker, but I'm biased-- but I imagine Jervis has an neutral empathy with Joker and doesn't find his behavior that off putting because of it. Even with mine, and I feel like mine's habit of easily being made to laugh at lame jokes makes for an easy audience for the guy lol.

Even with Harley and Joker, many imagine the reason Harley was friendly toward Jervis is because Jervis never questioned why Harley was in love with Joker, love is mad and all that. ( God-- what if modern Harley is so bitter towards Jervis is actually because he used to accidentally enable her bad relationship, lmao listen he was just trying to be supportive-- but that's another ramble dshkgds-- ) }}

[jyndor]

Oh I love this so much. Maroon, Gold Rush, Labyrinth

labyrinth - this song is for them like it might be the most them song on midnights, but don't hold me to that because bttws, glitch and the great war do exist. at least midnights proper, not the bonus tracks. i mean this might be the most LITERAL interpretation of a song i can do for them, lol like

YOU KNOW HOW SCARED I AM OF ELEVATORS NEVER TRUST IT IF IT RISES FAST?????? lol

I THOUGHT THE PLANE WAS GOING DOWN HOW'D YOU TURN IT RIGHT AROUND??

lol besides the fact that i used those exact lyrics for this gifset, it's of course so easy to see the literal interpretation there - jyn and cass in the elevator on the way down (racing against the clock to climb UP the tower, krennic was in the elevator going up when he shot cassian); cassian getting them out of jedha and crash-landing on eadu, and both times doing the MOST and disregarding his orders to get her ass out.

but also like they're both so used to losing every connection, every person they love, that of course it makes sense for them to be thinking that their connection isn't going to end well for them. in the novel cassian's constantly giving 'oh no oh no oh no i like her oh no oh no' vibes XD

and then of course 'it only hurts this much right now' and 'breathe in/through/deep/out' is definitely applicable to their last moments on scarif, how peaceful it is for them as they wait to be vaporized lol. like... labyrinth is for them.

gold rush - okay lol its also kind of literal given their ending like yes i also don't like a gold rush when it's a damn nuclear bomb on steroids. but there's so much about it that's giving them - falling feels like flying til the bone crush lmao cassian falling from the tower, AND THE COASTAL TOWN WE WANDERED ROUND HAD NEVER SEEN A LOVE AS PURE AS IT AND THEN IT FADES INTO THE GRAY OF MY DAY OLD TEA CAUSE IT COULD WILL NEVER BE kill me i mean sinking ships on waters so inviting i almost jump in? yeah same me too when i think about rogue one

maroon - i mean maroon doesn't work quite as literally as these two but cassian did choose her, and maybe they didn't dance anywhere but jyn does have a dance-like brutal fighting form so like maybe he'd be starry-eyed enough to think of it like dancing in jedha XD

but the part that gets me is that's a real fucking legacy to leave, because they did that by going to scarif and stealing the plans. and also they left a legacy on ME because i'll never be the same lol

[athalantan]

( enable my rambling // always accepting ) @netherill WROTE: hc + schools of magic. ( I know it said one word but like, is el more proficient in some than others? Favorite one? Least favorite one? What is el's stance on the mortality of enchantment and necromancy magic? )

EL HAS HAD A RATHER unconventional magical education, at least by modern standards. Nowadays you can find entire schools dedicated to studying magic. That didn't exist in El's day. In fact, Mys.tra was unknown or rather obscure in many places (including Athalantar) in their early centuries. El, other of My.stra's Chosen, and the Magisters have done a great deal to further study of the Art across Toril. In El's day, you either had to find someone willing to take you on as an apprentice or blunder through on your own. Most masters + apprentices ended up killing each other, and those attempting to study alone often met with a fatal accident.

El's education was further complicated by trauma. Their first experiences with magic were the Mage-Lords of Athalantar who massacred their village, killed their family, subjugated their home, and hunted them tirelessly. They didn't want to wield magic initially. They saw it as a terrible tool of tyranny. They only started down that path because it was their one hope of matching the Mage-Lords. It took them a few years to really settle into using magic — and to not become the Mage-Lords they were fighting against.

Their education continued to be odd from there. They weren't even allowed to become a wizard at first; they had to serve as a priestess for a couple of years. They've never had a single master but have instead been charged with learning many different magics from many different teachers. This included, of course, Myrjala / My.stra but also Braer, the Srinshee, Shalane — all manner of people from all manner of places. Sometimes these apprenticeships were favorable; other times, such as with the Masked Mage, they were literally torturous.

My.stra has further charged them throughout the years not to use magic at all, to use it only when necessary, or to use it in specific ways. Mys.tra was always testing and preparing them for the Time of Troubles, often at cost to El's well-being. She did not want them to become reliant on magic or to become overly proud in it. She also wanted them to be inventive with it — to create and experiment, not just regurgitate one tradition taught by one master. The thought behind the magic has often been more important than the magic itself.

Which is all a very long way of saying that their approach to schools of magic is likewise — you guessed it — unconventional. The vast majority of mages, especially nowadays, specialize in a particular school of magic. Hence the subclass system in DND. El has never specialized, and they've lived long enough and traveled wide enough that that's not a problem. They've studied every school more than many masters. This lack of specialization has aided them over the centuries. It makes them more flexible and less predictable. It's also makes it easier to analyze and thwart opposing magic.

But like all people, they do have their preferences. El is a rogue at heart. That is, in fact, why Mys.tra chose them. They prefer to handle matters without violence and certainly without death. Where a fight is necessary, however, they like to end it quickly, cleverly, avoiding what collateral damage possible. (That doesn't preclude taunts and a little show-boating, of course.) Going based on 5e classifications, their most used schools in descending order are probably: conjuration, transmutation, illusion, abjuration, and evocation. They've a propensity for changing their shape, teleporting themself / other people / objects, thwarting planned actions, and generally being a great pain in the ass lmao Truly they're a rogue in a wizard's hat.

As to the morality of enchantment and necromancy — They have a general distaste for enchantment spells. Their first experience with magic was Undarl the Dragonrider using an enchantment to force them to surrender information on their home + father and then compelling them to flee in such a manner that should've killed them — and nearly did. Subsequent encounters have been no better (i.e. Symrustar who wished to enthrall them, the Masked Mage who did enthrall them for twenty years, fckn Nergal). Thus it's a sore spot to be sure.

On top of that, El is someone who values free will. They believe all people should be free to act and speak and live as they wish. They might do so foolishly or immorally, sure, but they should have the freedom to make that choice. They look darkly on anything that robs a person of that, no matter how "minor".

This might be considered ironic considering how, well, manipulative they can at times be. They never override a person's will, but they will change their appearance or conjure illusions or speak into a person's dreams to influence them. They've also been known to use magic that controls a person's body (i.e. levitating opponents). The line for them is that they're not overtaking someone's mind. They are still free to think their own thoughts, feel their own feelings, make their own choices.

As for necromancy, they haven't known many moral necromancers, but they're not wholesale opposed to it. They're not wholesale opposed to much of anything. Some necromancy spells (i.e. soul cage) are clearly vile. Others are beneficial (i.e. false life) or neutral (i.e. gentle repose). Technically, even revivify and true resurrection are necromancy spells. Ultimately, they view it like any other school. Sure, they generally find it disrespectful to puppet the bodies of the dead, but that's not all necromancy is good for. Whether it works good or ill is in the hands of the caster.

They themself have dabbled in necromancy — or at least considered it. It's not for them, ultimately, but grief does things to a person. And, El has known an inordinate amount of grief. Perhaps that's really why they avoid the school: not for reasons of morality but of sanity. They have to let go of who and what they've lost. They cannot stand before the veil of death crying out for them. They cannot work themself to the bone trying to bring them back or preserve some piece of them. They must move forward, always forward.