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yorsgirl · 5 months

Note

Yan!Heian!Sukuna and with Y/N?

Lately, whenever Darling got pregnant she ended up having countless miscarriages, the longest lasting at least 3 months, Sukuna began to suspect these countless coincidences.

He doesn't care about these losses since he didn't want to share Y/N with some brat, but he found it very strange that every time she got pregnant resulted in a miscarriage, so he started investigating and finally found out why this was happening.

He discovered that Y/N was causing her own miscarriages, as she knew that the last thing the world needed was Sukuna's descendants, so he finally confronts her but with that damn psychological terror that he loves to do to her.

Oh my, I love love love this idea!!

I kinda went out on this one, but I hope I did justice to what you were aiming at. Hope you like it :) Also I am sorry for being so late

Playing God

Yandere!Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It was a gamble, he was willing to make. To keep you with him, forever, as he wanted. Needed. You had to realize that no other heaven except his arms would be comforting. Even if that meant, breaking your very soul.

Tropes: Dark Romance, horror, angst

Warnings: Implied nsfw(forced), mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, abduction, cannibalism and isolation. Trauma, mild stockholm syndrome, yandere themes, minor character death(s), gore, gaslighting, manipulation, misogyny, blood, degradation(non-kinky), patriarchal society, unhealthy relationship, implied child birth.

General warnings: Yandere!True form!Husband!Sukuna, Wife!Reader, Heian Era, both Sukuna and reader are a red flag on their own, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word Count: 9.7k

You were digging your own grave.

So you shouldn't have been surprised that your wish would be granted. Yet, if you could have one wish then you'd wish for freedom but no- freedom was a forfeited dream, far beyond your reach. Consideration of that one would never be fruitful. You are trapped even in your dreams.

Playing with fire only gets you burnt.

For long, you played this game and this- this was your compensation. For everything you had done until now, all you are returned with was abandonment. Not that supposedly, betrayal, yes. More appropriate.

Flames surrounded you, crawling up your skin, the screams piercing your ears, your chest heaved up and down. Gaze, once settled on your hearth, now all you saw was the burning hut, the crackling of embers reached your ears. Attire and hands stained with blood of the insolent. The warning shouldn't have been taken lightly. Should have known, the extent of his power.

Eyes held terror, fright, regret- whatever you could name. The multitude of names you received seemed no more than a distant dream, nowhere to be found. All were running away - expectable.

You expected calamity, but you were calm.

Everything went down in flames. Save for you, you weren't burning. Not an spark touched your skin. Was it the distance or the control? Who knows. But one confirmation which you held was that tonight you won't die. Not so soon either.

Careful, not all Gods are worshipped.

The words rang in your ears and as if on cue, you found him again.

In this reverie of madness, he held your sight when you attempted to turn - the eyes tinted with crimson.

"I am sorry for your loss, m'lady."

You had seen it all.

You had your fair share of encounters, received news and such. Women losing their mind and sanity after delivered with a news this devastating. Notably, no woman would feel any bliss after knowing that they had lost their child. Lost the chance of motherhood before experiencing it. Violent outbursts was the most probable outcome.

"This is a hard time," The midwife spoke softly. "Yet, you shouldn't neglect your health."

You perceived the softness to be fear. She must have had dealt with situations like these, most of them traumatizing as you assumed. Perhaps, she expected the same from you too.

You tore your gaze off her, leaning back on your bedframe, "I'd like to be left alone."

Your declaration was answered with compliance. Offering a humble bow, she bid you farewell, walking out of your chambers. Once her footsteps seized, you finally let your guard down. Breathing out a sigh of relief, you laid back down on your bed.

"Good riddance," You muttered to yourself. Moments of such vulnerability wasn't rare, considering you were served with loneliness, lately. Save for the times you spent in the presence of Sukuna. His decree, one might say. Your attention shouldn't be wasted on anyone but him. You scoffed recalling his words. Involuntarily, you stroked your belly, the corner of your lip curled up.

Once a house to life, given by your husband; now lay vacant from your doing.

A twisted sense of pride swelled up in your chest, a wide grin stretching on your face. You were successful in your quest, again. Mercilessly, you uprooted the seed of your husband's lineage.

Perhaps, you've truly gone sick.

Yet, this revolt of feelings were miles lesser than the repugnant you encountered when you realized your first pregnancy. You were on the brink of clawing out the creature growing in your womb. You'd have torn it apart with while revelling in the joy of watching its blood drip down on the face of Earth. If not for Sukuna's presence in the room, you might've gone through it.

You lost a fragment of yourself, that day.

Throwing up countless times, dizziness, nausea, even losing your consciousness while walking down. No, they weren't pregnancy side effects. More so, the outcome of the stress accumulating in you.

Sickening. His kin you'd have cradled in your body. To be born and grow up into a revolting, merciless creature like his father. To take up place in your womb, your flesh and blood and combining with his – a living proof of your plight. Disgusting.

Never. You'd never let that happen.

You'd never succumb to such monstrosity.

You had already given up your freedom, your dignity, your alight life to Sukuna in exchange of the lives you held dear. The lives back in your ancestral village, home to your kin.

You were affirmed. An heir of Ryomen Sukuna would never be birthed from you.

Speak of the devil, he appears.

An overwhelming familiar aura surrounded your very being, the doors to your chamber slid open, your captor, your husband strolled inside. Even his mere presence held the malevolence in him. You attempted to rise from your position at his arrival.

"Sit." He commanded.

You silently obeyed his order, keeping your gaze settled on your lap, the energy had your stomach churning with trepidation; at times when you didn't do anything either. And this time, you were guilty. Two moments passed in silence until he spoke.

"I heard from the midwife."

You took in a sharp breath, swallowing a lump in your throat. It was the same ordeal, like the first two times. Yet, you were a tad bit calm since the previous encounters. Probably, due to the fact you were getting used to this role. In this past moons, you had developed into the wife, he was carving you out to be. Giving him just the reactions he wanted, for that saved you a lot of anguish and pain. Even if it came at the price of your self-respect. This was the only way.

With your head hung low, you spoke, "Forgive me, my lord. I am incapable of bearing you an heir. I-It must have been my fau-"

"Not another word."

You instantly stiffened up, his deep voice causing chills to run down your spine. Did you make an error? Was he aware of your tumultuous acts? Was the play not convincing enough?

He held your chin, forcing you to look up at him. All of his four, red eyes bore into you. You bit on your inner cheek, blood coursing in your veins - steadfast.

They say, your fear start to vanish once you've remained in the source of their vicinity too long. That statement is false. For even after staying with your captor for almost two years, you still held your fear.

"The one at fault bore consequences."

That's when you were hit with the faint stench of blood from him. Another one perished. You took the wild guess of it being the midwife. However, instead of amplifying fright, it was lessened. You wouldn't be on the receiving end of his wrath.

"You aren't at fault, wife."

Oh, but you were.

Sukuna held your gaze, cupping your cheek; the rough pad of his thumb trailed a line on your skin. His tone and grip were surprisingly gentle. "There's no need to apologize."

The corners of your eyes crinkled down, you lean into his touch. You assume, it's a good move as you noted the flicker of emotion in his eyes. "It's the third time, my lord. Perhaps, I bear some shortcomings."

"What nonsense," He rolled his eyes. "There's none, not in my eyes. Don't fill your head with such fickle thoughts." He paused for a moment before continuing, "Is that understood?"

He wasn't one for affirmations but maybe- just maybe it was his attempt at comfort, you supposed. The previous losses must had him learning, the threads of condolence. Still, for you, they'd never mean anything less than empty words. The last thing you wanted was to be comforted by your tormentor. You'd rather step into hell willingly.

But you were living under his wing. You have to play according to his whims. You nodded. "Yes, my lord."

His hand left your face, dropping to his thigh. He looked at you, as if sizing you up. You had to keep yourself from making any unnecessary movements. Sukuna wanted you composed, whatever the situation. (Except the times when he bedded you, you were allowed to scream, cry and thrash around then. Cause you were trapped under his immense strength, struggles were futile).

After a while, he asked, "Any wishes?"

You chewed on your bottom lip, eyes flickering down then back to him. You let out a breath, before continuing. "May I visit the shrine... this evening?"

Silence.

You were contemplating whether you had offended him, somehow. Previously, he did allow for your little trips, you wondered if his patience was running thin cause of your repeated incapability of bearing him an heir. Maybe, you ran out of luck.

You were about to mutter an apology but then a smug grin spread across his lips, "Why so?" He asked.

"To-" You swallowed a lump, preparing to answer the practiced dialogue. "To offer prayers for–"

"Why grieve for someone who didn't even take form?" He cut you up, raising an eyebrow. For a tad moment, he sounded curious. It broke into a cruel chuckle, "You humans would make a funeral out of anything, yes?"

If you held an ounce of sympathy then you wouldn't question.

You wanted to say but you knew better. Besides, you still have to keep up the act of being his loyal wife. Heaving a out a deep breath, you replied, "I suppose." You paused, running the tip of your tongue over your lip.

"I'd pray that I can bear you an heir the next time, my lord."

Nay, more so: I'd pray that you receive your end soon, my lord.

Sukuna watched you. No, not look. He watched, like a predator. Then, his lips cracked into a sinister grin. "You've a way with your words, wife."

It caught you off guard. You raised an eyebrow, attempting to voice out your confusion. "What do-"

"I will accompany you."

"Sukuna sama, the herbalist you asked for, has arrived."

Sukuna spared a glance at Uraume, who knelt by his feet.

"Bring him."

As on cue, they rose up from their stance, pivoting around towards the door. It parted, two curses had a man in their grasp as he struggled to break free. His eyes widening with terror when it fell on the King, sitting atop his throne.

The man was pushed down to his knees, face meeting the floor in a loud slam. His scuffles were in vain against such power, he knew that. Still, in a situation of life and death, rationality takes it's leave.

Sukuna clicked his tongue in annoyance. All he wanted was some herbalist to answer the flurry of questions in his which had him restless for the past few days. Did this scum think he'd be killed? Maybe he would be, if he deems it necessary or he proves to be useless.

What had him restless was your miscarriages. Counting the most recent would make it a fourth. Where did he go wrong? You were kept in utmost luxury, no toils whatsoever. Still, what was wrong?

—》《—

"Perhaps, there's some faults in her highness."

"Keep your voice down, Mira. Someone may hear you."

"I am a lot quite... but tell me, don't you find it strange? How come she has lost all of her children?"

"I- I suppose. Perhaps, motherhood is not written in her fate."

"Or so, she's simply incapable."

—》《—

Safe to say, those were the last words they uttered before they were turned into a mash of flesh and blood.

Sliced into pieces that even trying to make a proper corpse out of the remnants weren't possible.

At times, Sukuna wished he held the power to bring back someone to life. Then maybe, he'd have given those servants a death, more worthy. Maybe, ripping out their limbs, piece by piece. First the bones would break, ripped from the ligaments, then it'd be the muscles; that was easy to just tear out. And after that happened, he could have just sewn up the blobs of flesh again and repeat the process until they learn their lesson or the life leaves them again.

He deduced the latter would be more probable. Still, it would be fine. They deserved that.

Speaking ill of you in his palace, in his vicinity, in his world was prohibited. A sin, in the words of humans. And a sin never goes unpunished.

You - his consort, his queen, you were heavenly. There isn't a fault in you, it's some external factor, must be. But he can't let go of his growing suspicion either.

Sukuna detested children, it was a known fact. Always ending their lives first, whenever he set foot in a village. They were of no use to him, unless they were served to him on his platter. He couldn't deny, their flesh was flavourful.

Even though, he held great disdain for them, he couldn't help but desire a kinship with you. With the price of letting go of your undivided attention? Hmm, doesn't sound too great. He assumed, he can hire a wet nurse just in case. Still, he desired to see you round with his child, feet swollen as you struggled to walk around. You do not have to worry, he, your husband would joyfully oblige in carrying you in his arms. You were more than perfect, he couldn't even imagine just how beautiful you'll look, during and after carrying your child.

It was destined. You'd extend his lineage or no one else.

You were flawless then why were you causing such errors? Contradicting. It was his question until he started to take a note in your behaviour, and he found–

Sukuna stood up from his throne, walking down the steps of bones, presumably of the ones he killed. They act as a pretty show piece, according to him.

The court resonated with his footsteps, each one carrying a promise of death. The man's struggles seized once he was harshly pulled up by his hair, his eyes met with Sukuna's.

"Yo-your high–ness," The man fumbled with his words, a spine chilling sensation going down his frame.

"Time's wasting," Sukuna said, his glare pointed. The fury evident, though his exterior was calm. "Comply if you don't wish death."

The man nodded frequently, his fingertips trembled with anticipation and horror. "Ye-yes, your highness. It's an honour to s-serve you." The man fell to his feet as he was dropped. Sukuna dismissed the extra company with a wave of his hand.

"Rise," He declared.

The man still on his knees, raises his head. "What can I- I do for you, your highness?"

—》《—

"May I make a request, my lord?"

Sukuna's eyes flickered to you, yours not meeting his. Knelt before him, you gracefully poured the sake in his ochoko.

"Speak."

He marked the squinting in your irises, fingertips trembled when you put the vessel down. Your shoulders rose and fell before you gazed at him, reluctantly. He couldn't help but find your antics inhumanely amusing.

"Would you be kind enough... to bring me this-" You paused for a fleeting moment. "This herb called... aloe vera?"

—》《—

"Aloe vera," Sukuna tilted his head aside, the upper pair of arms crossed over his chest. "What use does it have?"

"We-well, my lord it's used for heal-healing purposes, burns, cuts, rashes... it heals injuries, yes." He answered, taking a gulp. There was other uses too yet his head was alike a blank canvas, before such a formidable strength. He wasn't even aware if it was satisfactory or why the King of Curses needed to know about such a measly plant. But if it meant he could see the sun for another day then he'll just give whatever he could offer. "I-It can also be used to– to make me-medicated food. N-not a delicacy... I might add."

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, "That's it?"

"N-no, my lord. There- it can cure diges-"

"In pregnancy."

The man stiffened, his mouth parting a tad bit. A whisper leaving his lips, "Yo-your highness...?"

Pregnancy, menstruation, considered taboo. A matter regarding women, spoken in the inner chambers, the men should remain ignorant. A topic whispered in ears not spoken aloud in any hall, let alone the royal court. Certainly, Sukuna was aware of this societal construct, yet he didn't care. The society and its idiotic rules could go to hell. He just needed answers.

"Speak," Sukuna's voice was louder, deeper when the man before him fidgeted in his spot due to discomfort - on speaking such a topic.

"It-Its a... your highness, I d-don't think you-"

"Insolent bastard," His fumbling was interrupted by Sukuna. The warning evident in his profanity. His face grew darker, the four irises glowing with impending danger akin Satan himself. "If you so much as want to live, fucking speak."

The man's blood ran cold as on cue, face turning a shade paler as if winter had started to pool in. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes, "Forgive me, your highness! I will speak, I will- yes- aloe vera its-" He heaved out a deep breath, an attempt to slow down his beating heart. "Any fo-form of it is ill-suited during pregnancy... it can cause... cause pe-pelvic haemorrhage leading to... to misc-"

"Miscarriage?"

"Yes, miscarriage... can lead to miscarriage, your highness."

A profound silence prevailed. Not a soul spoke neither was a footstep heard. Not a leaf rustled or the howling winds tapped on the window pane - assumed, mother nature had halted its elements from making any noise.

The stakes were high yet an flicker of courage alighted in the man as he raised his head up to glance at Sukuna, "My lor-"

The man's head tumbled down before he could even complete.

He couldn't scream, he couldn't beg, he couldn't apologize, he couldn't even blink. All he could do was watch. Watch as his beheaded body fell limp before his eyes. Watch as the blood poured out like waterfalls staining the carpet with its hues. The red marred bones protruded out amidst the flesh, globs of blood was gushing out of his severed voice box. His body jerked, the remnants of conscious nerves trying to survive.

It was a neat cut. A heavenly sight.

The world started to blur in. And before he knew it, the light was gone from his eyes.

Sukuna didn't even spare a glance as he marched out of his court.

Uraume approached the body, a few maids accompanying them. They casted a disapproving glare at the corpse.

"Not edible, dispose of it."

You didn't see or hear from Sukuna for a week.

He didn't visit your chambers at night neither was he present when you sat down for your meals. Even his energy was alike a hushed whisper which would remind you of his presence in the residence, but not reveal himself to you. For some reason, it had you in an unease.

No, you certainly did not miss his presence. But his absence just made the surroundings almost suffocating. There was the looming threat that something had happened or something were to happen. One worse than the other.

Silence was never uneventful.

Insinuating the courage, you had once inquired Uraume about his absence. Presenting a polite bow, they answered, "Sukuna sama doesn't want to be disturbed."

Disturbed... as if he wasn't the cause of all disturbances. A natural disaster in himself. You resisted the urge to scoff and uttered a meek line of gratitude before going about your day. (That extended with you strolling down the halls or garden or just be in your chambers and read the few books Sukuna had bought you).

On the very same day the dark commenced. While you were mesmerized by the fall of twilight over the garden, you heard his voice.

"Don't you love playing with poison, wife?"

The sudden question made you halt your steps, you weren't even aware that he was present–shielded his aura, presumably. You turned around, raising an eyebrow with bewilderment.

"Pardon, my lord?"

Sukuna snorted, walking up to you, a smirk played on his lips. You had to make the effort of tilting your head to gaze up at him. His towering figure loomed over you, his lower left hand snaking around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"You love poisons, don't you? Or in your words herbs."

Your shoulders grew rigid, eyes widening with realization, a sharp breath hitting your throat. Your fingertips trembled with anticipation. You were sure to be discreet in your affairs, using the isolation he subjected you to at its best. Yet he knew. It was bad. Very much so. And what were to happen now? What would he do to you?

Another night of horror where your screams would be unheard, your resistance proved to be futile, where you'd be left to suffer alone, where another shard of your remaining soul would be plunged by him. Another night where you'd again play into his whims... Or something more vile, leaving you physically disabled? Perhaps, even death...

The foremost was the most heinous one. You silently prayed that he wouldn't resort to that. If you were to be subjected to his torment then you wished he'd just kill you, liberating you for once and for all. Even so, survival is what the mind wants. Piecing through any tactic just to live another day. The play for now should be denial.

Sukuna's affections for you worked as a double edged sword. You aimed to take advantage of it, in every way possible. You instilled a bit of courage, standing your ground, you spoke "I don't understand what you're trying to instigate, my lord."

He looked down on you, a coy smile uplifting his lips. He threaded his fingers through the knot of your kimono, leaning down next to your ear, he inhaled your scent. His lips brushing over your neck.

"I do not believe so, wife." He murmured, his warm breath hitting your skin, a range of goosebumps rising over your arm. "In fact, I think you clearly know, what I speak about."

Before you could let a word out, he straightened up, turning around, he pushed you to walk with him. His large hand still covering your back.

"Come, let me entertain you."

You were walking to the gallows.

Not literally, but you were sure your end was near.

The wooden floors creaked with footfalls. Each step heavier than the previous. You hesitantly glimpsed at Sukuna, his gaze was far ahead. Not a word left his mouth in this while. Only his hold remained firm. He pushed you forward every moment your step faltered.

Your breath hitched when you turned a corner - the right wing. A rule, you could say. Sukuna made it clear since the day he held you captive brought you home – never step a foot in the right wing. Despair drowned your curiosity that time, you didn't question, least bothered to. Even later, you didn't dare to defy him; courtesy to the pain you were subjected to once.

Still, you could make the wild guess of what happened in there. The muffled screams kept you awake at midnight, it was easy to put the puzzle pieces together. There he revelled with the sick pleasure of tormenting your kind.

He stopped before a pair of oak doors. That's when he glanced at you, for the first time in a long while. For a moment, he stared at you with an emotion you couldn't decipher. The next moment, he pulled out the Kanzashi from your hair, letting your strands tousle down.

You flinched, pushing away the curls which clouded your vision. Sukuna held the pin in his hand, holding your gaze. He was unmoving.

What happened to him?

"My lord," You called. "What are you-"

"Stay quiet," He handed you the kanzashi back, adjusting your hand to hold it as if it were a dagger. Turning to the door, he spared you a glance. "Don't speak a word." With that, the doors opened.

Dark.

It was dark save for the light of the lantern which illuminated the room. He shoved you forward, the door locking behind as he stood aside you.

"One bite."

Huh? Bite? What did he mean? You slightly turned your head towards him but you were stopped in your tracks. It wasn't only you and Sukuna in this room, seems you had a guest. More appropriate word? A Captive.

Your eyes were wide open. On the corner of the room, sat a young boy, not more than a adolescent - blindfolded. Restrained by chains, his wrists and ankles were cuffed with metal. A small whimper left his lips as he registered the presence of both of you.

You were about to speak but then his words rang in your mind.

Don't speak a word.

Sukuna gripped your wrist, leading you to the boy, "One bite, in the arm."

He wasn't talking to you. To the boy, he kept his eyes. You marked how the boy flinched. The metals clanking on contact.

He turned to you then, motioning to the pin in your hand then the boy's arm. Realization hit you. You tried to shake your head, refuse; but one glare of his and you were compelled. Reluctantly, you turned around, trudging to the boy.

Something was wrong.

You could feel it. Why... why would he want you to stab this poor boy? A picture of misery, he was. You noted he didn't have any sign of bruises in his body - peculiar. Yet, his fragile state was enough to give you a hint that he had been here for days. Perhaps, starved too. The tension was high and all you wanted was to leave this room, in an instant.

Fine, if Sukuna wanted you to just stab the boy. You'd do it. Missing the vital points which could end his life. One, he said. You'll miss the point and done. Its not upon you that you'd pierce the wrong place. His instructions weren't specific—that'd be your excuse.

He won't die. Not from your hands.

You gently held the boy's arm, angling the pointers on the muscles. You drove it in.

Miscalculation.

The boy's body instantly stiffened, a gut wrenching scream erupted from his mouth. He thrashed around, swinging his legs and arms, his body twitching violently.

You recoiled back soon, yanking out the pin, stepping away on instinct. You watched with terror.

Foam rose up the boy's mouth, his shrieks pierced your eardrums. The fluid dripped down his jaw, marring his clothes. He clutched the area where you stabbed him. Scratching at it with all his might. The sound of flesh ripping filled your ears as the boy ruthlessly, tore the muscles.

You were stunted. You couldn't speak or move. You weren't chained but you felt as if a thousand shackles bore you down.

The next seconds were a blur. The screams started to die down, his body losing it's color. Sooner than you could grasp, did the room turn silent again.

The boy was dead.

"Enjoyed the show, wife?"

You slapped your hand over your mouth, stumbling a few steps back. You couldn't tear your eyes off the young boy, bile rose up your throat as the room started to spin.

"Wh-what did you-"

No- you couldn't throw up, whatever second thought it was, it refrained you from crumbling to your knees and make a mess. Shivers went down your spine, you struggled to stand straight. The stench of the corpse and the expunging liquids started to fill your nostrils. You were almost on the verge to lose consciousness.

"What... did you do?"

Your eyes flickered to Sukuna. He stood tall, not a sign of emotion on his mien. You regret ever considering mirth to the worst feature on him, cause none was more terrifying.

And he was watching you.

It reminded you of the time, you first saw him - covered with blood of the lives he had taken, down the river bank. Victim of naivety and ignorance, you didn't know any better than to not let him see you. Wandering towards the peculiar beast, even when a gut wrenching terror asked you to run; you were stubborn. You had asked - are you alright?

"What did you do?" You repeated again.

Tilting his head, he kept his unwavering gaze fixed on you. "As a matter of fact, I didn't do anything, wife." He paused, letting the horror shadow your features, "It was all you."

You needed to run.

The kanzashi– which was till then clasped in your hand firmly– fell down. A clank, you heard.

One step.

One step towards the door. He is standing afore you, the fingers of his upper right arm ran through your open hair, tangling in the roots, he yanked your head back.

"I don't remember, giving you the permission to leave."

Tears prickled your eyes as you tried to break free. Sukuna was having none of it. He dragged you by your hair towards the corpse of the boy. Your nails jabbed into his wrist while whimpers of anguish left your mouth.

Sukuna shoved you down to your knees, tugging your hair back - you were sure, they will be ripped off if he yanked with any more pressure - he made you glance at its face. He crouched beside you. With a flick of his finger, he ripped the blindfold out of the boy.

"Dare to shut your eyes."

Compliance had become second nature.

The body was rigid, skin turning blue. The veins on his arms were bulged out, his mouth wide open, filled with foam, trickling down his cheek, drying on it.

The sight caused you to gag.

Horrifying. His bloodshot eyes were wide open, protruding out of the sockets. Irises dilated in shape, which you considered humanly impossible. But what had your heart hammering in your chest wasn't the vivid details you saw on the corpse. It was the fact, that you recognized the boy. Son of that distant elder cousin, you'd seen once or twice in a year.

"Look at that, love." Sukuna cooed in your ear, forcing you to face the corpse.

You shook your head violently, nails dug into his wrist - desperate to escape. Your heart thumped inside your ribcage, you could hear it in your ears, your guts twisted in numerous ways as sweatbeads trailed down your forehead.

"You did that."

No. No, you didn't. You didn't do it. It wasn't you.

"You killed him."

No, you didn't... he didn't die because of you.

"Take a good look. See what you've done."

You vigorously shook your head. Denying all of his claims cause... cause they were... false, yes, false. They were false.

"No," You stated once you found your voice. "N-no, no... I- no."

Sukuna hummed, twisting a knot in your hair, "Yes, you. You did it."

No. You were innocent. You weren't to be blamed. It wasn't you.

It was... him.

"No, no, I didn't," You refused again, standing your ground. Moving your eyes towards him, you gritted your teeth. "No, I didn't do it. I didn't do anything. It was you."

"Really? How so?"

Fire burnt in your eyes. It was enough. He couldn't make you believe which you didn't commit - you didn't kill him.

"Poison," You said with conviction lacing your tone. "He was poisoned, a stab wouldn't procure such a reaction."

"Observant as ever," He mused, quirking up an eyebrow. A faint smile curled up on his lips. "Still, it doesn't gratify the fact that you were the one to end his life."

Blood boiled inside you, surging through your veins like lava. He had no right to accuse you of something. You didn't kill him, he couldn't make you believe it, whatsoever may happen.

"I may have stabbed him with the kanzashi, but that didn't have any trace of poison in it. I am-"

"Sure of it?"

You could only glare at him. He was toying with you. Tugging the strings of your conscience but you won't have any of it. "I am," You confirmed, staring at him without any falters. "I held it... you held it. If it was really drenched with toxicant as lethal as that, we- we both would be dead."

His grip loosened from your hair, hand falling down. The corners of his eyes crinkled, the smile turning into a smirk.

"It was you," You continued. "You did something to him at first and-"

Sukuna broke into a chortle of laughter. Far from jovial, more so sinister, filled with sheer malevolence. He gripped your jaw, pulling you closer to himself. His sharp canines glinted in the dim light.

"You just keep on fascinating me, wife."

Each second with him was revolting. Just his touch alone had your skin crawling. Yet, you couldn't let him know he has the upper hand.

"We had a pact," You stated firmly. His game was disgusting. What was he trying to do? What was his goal? "If I stay with you, you wouldn't lay a finger on my family, then- h-how could-"

"I would still stand on the ground, that I didn't do anything." He replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "It was all you, wife. I can assure you that I didn't go back in my words." His canines glinted while he smiled. "Not a flick of pain. Save for..." He paused, his eyes widening, the carmine irises glowed in the dark. "Save for telling him, he'd be killed by a snake bite."

"There was no venom on my pin."

"Know so," He confirmed, a playful smirk on his visage. You wished you could read minds, if possible only of him, that'd been enough. Then where did poison come from? You wanted to question but he beat you to it.

"His fear turned into poison."

You blinked. Once. Twice. You knew he had an urge to play mind games but this was ridiculous. You questioned, shell-shocked, "What?"

"He let his fear get the better of him, assuming your pin to be a snake. He believed it." He explained while you listened without so much as a word. "His conscience caused his body to give out the exact reactions, he imagined. A shock, you might say. That caused his death."

His game was disgusting. If he thought, he could just give you any excuse as this and let you believe his accusations then he was mad wrong. You gritted your teeth, yanking your face away from his grip. For a second, you saw all of his eyes opening wide with surprise. But that didn't extinguish the fire burning in you.

He reached out, dragging you towards him via the arm. A glare resting on his face. "What did I tell about refusi-"

"I don't believe you," You cut him off, hands clenched into fists. It was the first time in a long time, you lost your composure in front of him. No, you wouldn't play as his doll anymore. He broke his promise, its only fair that you do so. "I don't believe a single word you say. You- you did something, you must have. Fear, belief, whatever the fuck, something as trivial as that-"

"So you think fear is trivial, wife?" He sighed, his clutch in your arm remained firm. The rough callouses of his palm, rubbed over your skin. "And here I thought, you might be different than the rest. But you managed to drop below my expectations."

"Maybe that's what I love about you, darling." He continued.

Disgust arose in you yet again. Love. As if he had any of that. He wasn't capable of love. Not in this lifetime. Never.

He spoke again, "Times you are the smartest I have seen, then you speak such blasphemy which would even embarrass the Gods you worship. Your silence was awarded by him leaning near your ear. He twisted a curl of your hair between his fingers. "Fear, wife..." He whispered to you. "Fear is a mind killer. It makes you believe anything. The small drop of poison which contaminates all the water."

"In the end, belief and fear are sides of the same coin," His top two eyes, flickered to the corpse of the boy. "I made him consume the poison of fear and you-" He turned to you again. "You made him believe it... so, in a way, yes. Yes, I did do something. Save for the part of ending his life. Though I didn't break my part of our pact." A smirk tugged on his lips. "You were the one who killed him. Isn't that great?"

Your breath hitched, throat gone dry. You gazed at him, eyes wide open. Your mind was a blank canvas.

Fear, poison, belief, killing...

He made you kill someone. An innocent boy who didn't even do anything.

Why won't he much rather just end your life?

Sukuna pulled away from you, standing up, he walked over to the lantern placed in the room. The stench of the rotting corpse had long ago started to pool in.

"You made me kill him." You whispered, still knelt, staring at the floor. When greeted with silence, you questioned again, a tone higher, "You made me kill him."

"And?"

His nonchalance had always been infuriating to you.

You could feel him standing a few steps behind you. "If you really wanted to kill my kin, you should've just told me. Getting your herbs was a tiring chore." You didn't miss the emphasis he put on, herbs. The roll of his eyes while speaking floated before your eyes even though you couldn't see him; the expression must had turned to a smirk later. "However, the taste of taking a life– isn't it delicious, wife?"

Guilt gnawed at you, tearing you internally. Your shoulders trembled as you let out ragged breaths, eyes fixed on the bloodied arm of the boy. The same arm where the kanzashi pierced, the muscles torn apart, blood drying on it due to the boy's onslaught. Nausea overrode your senses, bile rose up your throat and the next moment you were throwing up. The wastes ran down your mouth, your nails dug into the wooded boards – bruising your fingertips and chipping the nails. You didn't realize Sukuna stepping up to your side, pulling your hair back while you were caught into the ordeal.

A disapproving grunt left his mouth after you were finished, yanking you up with your wrist. He pulled you towards the door. "Com-"

"No." Your heels remained firm on the ground. You refused him before you could even think. He turned towards you slightly, a scowl resting on his features before he pivoted around. He cast a glare upon you but before he could speak, your mouth opened again.

"You're even lower than scum." Your jaw ticked, hands clenching into fists. "You made me kill an innocent boy. Someone who might have done nothing to you, You– You disgust me, Sukuna."

Done you were with the respect, he demanded. If that angered him, made him want to rip out your heart and watch the life drain from your eyes. He was most welcome.

But it looks like, he wasn't resorting to any of that.

"You made me a murderer." You urged, staying strong in your stance. "You turned me into you."

His eyebrow twitched, a wave of mirth washed over him. "You were always like me, wife."

"I am nothing-"

"You are. You are like me. You are no saint, as you think so of yourself. " He said, leaving no room for argument. His lips pressed tight into a thin line.

Yet, you refused to believe that. You were nothing like him. Couldn't even dream so. You were not him.

"You kill children in your womb, I kill them after they're born. How is it so different?"

"It is different." You yelled, your jaw clenched, teeth baring out. "This world needs no more of your lineage, it needs no more of you." You jabbed your pointer finger on his chest, tears pooling into your eyes. You refused to shed them. "You kill for your own sake, I do not."

"Then who do you kill for?"

"For everyone." The faint snort of his reached your ears. You couldn't decipher what he found so delightful in this.

"Playing God, are we?" He mocked causing your vexation to rise.

"Maybe I am. For the least, I am not killing innocent people like you."

From where such defiance arose, you weren't sure of. Perhaps, all the frustration, fright, terror which accumulated till now had reached its limit. Moreover, Sukuna's provocation must be the fuel to the fire.

You might be left bleeding– No, you would be left bleeding. You welcomed it with open arms.

"Careful," Sukuna pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. "All Gods aren't worshipped."

He was enjoying himself. In all honesty, your obedience was getting too monotonous. This was better. Your defiance was amusing. Arousing, if there's to add. If he knew, letting you end a few lives would have this effect then he would have resorted to this long ago.

"Better than you." You shoved his hand away, "You are nothing more than a wretched, two-faced curse destroying all of our lives."

He noted your scowl, the way your lips were shut tight, your eyebrows crinkled together. Reasons evident, all he desired was to pull you into his arms smash his lips against yours. Taste the very essence of your being. Consume you wholly, just the way you are. So that in the end, your name, your taste, your scent would be engraved in his very soul. Without your mention, he wouldn't be complete.

But he refrained from giving in now. His desire extended to a far more sinister route. "I wonder..."

What would it be like to break your conviction? What would it be like to break you?

Oh, he knew.

Would it be right moment to let you know? Maybe he should wait for another, more appropriate time.

Hmm, perhaps he should. But no.

He let you play these games for too long. Tired of this game plan, he was. Maybe, you would just come to your senses if he let you know. So he let the words, flow out:

"I wonder, why this curse keeps protecting your pathetic life from people who would cross rivers to lay siege to your life?"

Worth everything.

Sukuna watched as your face lost its color. The previous boldness you presented him with was replaced by a mask of confusion and. Such a pretty sight, it was. To see you, falter from your stand. Second guess, yourself, be in denial then rage consumes you. And you look at him, like he was the forbearer of your misery. (He is).

Oh, how good he has you memorized.

Even the littlest of reactions you contort on your mien, on your mannerisms; everything has him intrigued. You have him intoxicated.

"You know the ones, the people... your people, for whom you play this God."

Sukuna wished he could capture this moment. He'd have the chance to take a glimpse of it again, whenever he wished to. The horrified look on your face as the weight of his words started to sink in.

Would you still look like this if he tells you the terror he bestowed on them who tried to steal you away from him? What would you say if he vividly describes each imagery of how he slowly, agonizingly burnt them, severed them and tormented them? Leaving them nothing but fragments beyond recognition.

You were his. All of you belonged to him. Without his sanction, no one could even see you, let alone touch you. Ah- just how many sorcerers perished from his hands, the number of villages, bathed in blood; save for yours. (Courtesy to that stupid pact, he forged with you)

Something had told him, that there'd be a better time to put an end to the pitiful lives of your kin.

"Can't speak? What caused so, darling?" His tone was laced with smugness, a twisted joy elicited in him. "Fearful that your play amounted to nothing?"

Your jaw ticked with anger. You were furious. "I don't believe you. You are lying."

Your trust on humans was commendable, he'd give you that. However, there's stark contrast between faith and blind belief. You were inclining towards the latter.

So, what do they do when words fail to convey message? Oh right, you give them a prime example.

"Let me just show it to you then, wife."

It was a gamble, he was willing to make. To keep you with him, forever, as he wanted - he needed you to know that no place other than his arms would be as comforting. Even if that meant breaking your very soul, so be it.

You were home.

One moment, Sukuna held your gaze. The next, you are standing before your hearth.

Toes dipping into the familiar black soil, the land where you ran and played during your childhood. Your familial home stood steps away from you. Still looked the same except the visible cracks on the wall, a layer of dust on top of the door and the woods looked worn out. However, what caught your eyes weren't the flaws of your home but the familiar older woman walking into your home.

"Mother…"

She stilled all of a sudden, rotating on her heels, her eyes landed on you. Shell shocked, that's what she was with the widened eyes and parted lips. A small smile curved up on your lips, she still looked the same except the few grey hairs and wrinkles aside her eyes.

"Mother," You called again, taking a step towards her. "I am back."

Sooner than you expected, her eyebrows scrunched up, mouth curving down when she finally registered your presence. You weren't some illusion or her mind playing tricks. "What are you here for?"

The disdainful tone caused you to flinch. You didn't expect this. Returning home, you dreamt of it to be filled with tears of joy and warm embraces. Not this… whatever, she was presenting you with. But- But its fine, you have returned after a two whole years. She must have been worried. The reason of her apprehension. God, you had a lot making up to do.

"Well, you know," You chuckled lightly, scratching the back of your neck. "Back… just back. I have returned."

"Found your way after two years?" She crossed her arms over her chest, staring at you with a look you didn't want to recognize.

You nodded, "Yes. How could I forget my way? Our address, its-"

You were interrupted when your name was spit out from her mouth. Her glare on you was palpable, "I know what it is. What are you here for?"

Her fury even made your skin crawl with fear. You were often on the receiving end of her glare when you were a child, given by your tendencies to run around and cause trouble for others. Yet, those glares, were none like this. This- this- you didn't want to name what it was.

"You are angry," You don't know if its directed towards your mother or yourself as you hold onto the last bit of fragments that not all is lost. "I get it, I really do." You stood on your toes, attempting to look behind her, into your house. "Where's father? Tell him, I am-"

"No more."

As if the air was knocked out of your lungs.

"What?" Your neck craned towards her so fast, it might have left a sprain. Yet, that was the least of your concern. "What do you mean by no more?"

"No more means no more." Your mother's sigh fell heavy on the air, words carried the weight of the world. Laid with pain underneath.

"How- when? Wha-what happened?" You couldn't wrap your mind around the new discovery. No one told you such. Who could've guessed? Such an ordeal to occur in your absence. And what might she be going through, without you. You didn't even get the chance to talk to him, one last time.

"A year ago," She confessed, her voice conveyed her lament and sorrow. Her words felt like a hammered blow on the fragile façade of hope, you had intricately crafted for yourself. However, she wasn't done. Her eyes held scorn, lips curled up to a sneer. "Aren't you satisfied? You finally made your mark. Must tell you," Her voice, once filled with love held nothing save for contempt, directed at you. "Good game, you played, dear." She spit the endearment as if, it were poison.

"No, I- I never wanted any of this. What are you even talking about?" A trembling footfall towards her, you whispered, "M-mother-"

"Don't you dare call me that."

The weight of her judgement felt heavy on you, pressing down, suffocating you alike chains.

"You are no daughter of mine."

You weren't aware since when the tears had sprang up your eyes, breaking the barricades, they shed down. Your throat burnt as you struggled to even breathe, clutching your chest - a searing pain shooting in your heart. Your heart was shattering from the ultimate rejection from your own flesh and blood.

"While you're at it, know this." Your mother continued.

The next words were like a blow to the gut, each syllable lined with the weight of revelations. Ones that hung in the air like a funeral shroud.

"In his last moments, his only regret was bringing a daughter like you in this world."

This night just doesn't seem to end, does it?

You were left as a hollow shell. Tethering the steps away from the home you were no more welcomed. Exhaustion reigned heavy on you. Physically and mentally.

Where were you going? You didn't know. Just where your feet would take you, there would you go. Perhaps, you can return to Sukuna. Would he take you back? Most probably not. Considering, your earlier outburst, adding to the fact that you refused to give him what you want; he might just discard you as you proved to be useless.

Funny. It was so damn funny. Once, you wished to escape from his hands whatsoever the price yet now… now you considered returning to him.

You could hear him calling you pathetic. Disgusting. More disgusting, that you agreed with him.

You were truly pathetic.

But before you could spiral down the void of self-hatred, a voice- nah, multiple voices startled you.

"There she is, parading around some meek, innocent girl." A scoff is added. "You are far from it."

"The nerve of you to just walk back into our lives after you betrayed us."

Your neck cranes to your left, an old man - the village elder with a few other men and women following behind; they approached you. "Excuse me?"

"Who do you think you are?" A woman's cry reached your ears. "Returning after you turned your back on us."

You flinched at the accusation thrown. What could be possibly be instigating? To all your knowledge, you were walking in this- in your village after two long years. Anger, disdain and accusatory glares clouded their features. If your mother's insults weren't enough to pierce through your heart then it certainly did now, with all the people, you once called your own to look at you like you were the monster.

You summoned the least bit of courage you had, squared your shoulders and started, "I'd have you know-"

"Traitors don't get to speak." At the center of the crowd was the village elder. He was the pillars of your hamlet, revered for his wisdom and guidance, but now he looked akin a judge ready to deliver his sentence upon you. A sentence which would push you more into this conundrum. "You've been cavorting to that monster. Disgusting."

"I am no traitor." You retorted soon. "You can't accuse me of such when you don't ev-"

"Save it for someone who would care, whore."

The curse had your mouth parted in disbelief, horror etched upon your mien. Sooner than you could compose yourself, did whispers of agreement rippled through the crowd which branded you as a traitor.

"You are just as twisted as him."

"Get out of here if you so much as hold your life dear."

"Don't play as the innocent bitch, now."

The accusation hung in the air like a dark cloud, poisoning the atmosphere with its venomous hatred. Your breath was caught in your throat as you searched desperately for words to defend yourself; the crowd's hostility rendered you speechless. But amidst the cacophony of condemnation, one voice stood out above the rest.

I wonder, why this curse keeps protecting your pathetic life from people who would cross rivers to lay down yours?

Really? Were you really recalling his words now? Now of all times… You truly were pathetic.

For one moment, You just stayed silent - letting their accusations bore you down. Somewhere you wished all of it were just a nightmare. You'll soon wake up on your bed beside Sukun- fuck! Since when did you start to expect to wake up with him? He- He was toying with your mind. This was the only result. But the fact that this was your thought process had you recoil back.

The next moment, everything made sense.

These accusations were stemmed from the fact that you- you were proclaimed to be the wife of the King of curses. Your unwillingness to return, given for the pact you forged with Sukuna, was taken as your cue that you betrayed your family, your home, your people.

Your family despised you. Your people despised you. The very same people you chose to protect were turning their back on you.

Did they truly try to lay down your life?

Amidst your plight, you didn't register when the village elder marched up to you. "Didn't you hea-" His trial at speech was cut off. Nay, his lifeline was cut off. (Humorous, isn't it?)

Numerous red lines appeared on his body before it burst off into a globs of flesh and blood. Blood which splashed onto you, marring your visage and attire with its hues.

He was here. You knew it. You could feel it.

For some reason, it filled you with a sense of relief.

However, your people were on the other end of the rope. The eyes which afore held hatred and disgust, they were now filled with horror and fright. In this reverie as the villagers started to flee, a torch tumbled on the ground - lighting the grass on fire. The winds showed no mercy, as the howls increased, so did the flames.

Provoking him was never the right move.

You were digging your own grave.

Playing with fire only gets you burnt.

Flames surrounded you, crawling up your skin, the screams piercing your ears, your chest heaved up and down. Gaze, once settled on your hearth, now all you saw were the burning huts, the crackling of embers reached your ears. Attire and hands stained with blood of the insolent.

No one touches what's mine.

The warning shouldn't have been taken lightly. Should have known, the extent of his power.

Eyes held terror, fright, regret- whatever you could name. The multitude of names you received seemed no more than a distant dream, nowhere to be found. All were running away - expectable.

You expected calamity, but you were calm.

The sparks danced over your irises as everything went down in the crimson hues. Save for you, you weren't burning. Not an spark touched your skin. Was it the distance or the control? Who knows. But one confirmation which you held was that - tonight you won't die. Not so soon either.

Careful, not all Gods are worshipped.

The words rang in your ears and as if on cue, you found him again. In this trance of insanity, only one thing held your sight when you attempted to turn - The eyes tinted with crimson.

All of a sudden, something burnt inside you too.

Unbridled rage consumed you. Your chest heaved up and down as ragged breath left your mouth. Their words came back to you, ringing in your ears as if you were pushed into a void.

Who do you think you are? Returning after you turned your back on us.

Would this bitch even be alive if you prioritized yourself?

Don't play as the innocent bitch, now.

Is that the thanks you get for trying to protect them?

Traitors don't get to talk.

Traitor… fine, you'd be the traitor.

With caution you took one step towards him. No reaction. Your chance - you took another. Then another and another. You stood before him, with nothing save for a void etching your features. Amusement flickered over him, the corner of his lip curled up.

"Saw it for yourself wife?"

Seemed like silence was your go-to response lately. From your peripheral, you saw the burning houses, the distant screams reached you. For some reason, the screams were almost soothing. You revelled in this. Their gut wrenching shrieks were like a balm to your essence.

Their predicament was your solace.

Sounded like someone you knew. Someone who had warned you about them but you chose to remain ignorant. Sickening… were you becoming like him?

You were always like me, wife.

You could laugh. Maybe you were like him.

"Let's forge another pact?" You offered, keeping your eyes pinned on him.

"A pact?"

"A pact."

A smirk curved up his lips, the upper pair of arms crossed over his chest, "Humour me, love."

The smirk wasn't directly for you. But he did. So you returned it back. One with an equal malicious intent. Cause in that moment, no second thoughts, no doubts clouded your mind. And so, you uttered the blasphemy:

"You kill them all, each and everyone. In return, I will stay with you, give you an heir. Whatever you want from me."

A year later

Screams died down after a gruelling ten hours.

"Good news, Sukuna sama. It's a boy."

A/N: Honestly, I was almost done with this fic, long ago but while writing the climax, I kept chickening out with all the self-doubts but then I just wrote what I wanted. I do understand if the ending is not up to your liking and I sincerely apologize for it.

However, thanks for reading up till the end. I enjoyed writing this a lot. Some feedback is appreciated <3

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darlingofvalyria · 1 year

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❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #dark!reader #jacaerys smut #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys fanfic #jacaerys fanfiction #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#₊˚ପ⊹ hightower green 🕷

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solspina · 13 days

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Where is a Line for Justice Drawn?

magnus the red ⋆˙⟡

a short little blurb i threw together while i was trying to lull myself to sleep last night! not heavily edited, so i apologize for any mistakes!

heresy is unforgivable, and magnus knows this better than anyone. psykers are heretics, and leman russ knows this better than anyone. the blood of the crimson lady and a young red skinned girl is the only way to pay the price.

warnings: major character death, child death, mentions of burning/heavy injury, angst and more angst, leman is very cruel

Pride will be the death of you.

Among his brothers, it was a common misconception that the pride of Magnus the Red lay solely in his power and knowledge of the unseen universe. They believed that he took the most pleasure from understanding things even the emperor didn’t, or took great joy in knowing more than the rest of them.

Their judgements were far from the truth, for it lay instead in the things they failed to see. His pride was a perfect two sided coin, one in which the sides belonged to different women respectively, none other than his wife and daughter. His brothers knew not of this, all of them besides Leman Russ.

Leman knew the truth. He knew where the sorcerer buried his deepest weakness, it was within that pathetic psyker of a wife and the vibrant red skin of his half divine daughter. He knew of the heresy that had been committed by Magnus upon prospero. He knew how to bring Magnus to his knees. He knew that Magnus feared him.

Perhaps that was how Magnus had gotten into the position he was in today.

His wife lay motionless on the floor, her pure white robes were bloodstained and dirty, an indication that she had tried to run away. An arrow was nestled carefully between her shoulder blades, penetrating her heart and pulling her away from life incredibly slowly.

Magnus knelt by his wife’s side, weeping ever so slightly as his heart shattered further with every passing second. He avoided the gaze of Leman who stood across the room. The crimson king’s infant daughter was still in the arms of the wolf, but her voice no longer cooed sweet nothings into her father’s ears or babbled at absolutely anything. Her skin, the same color as his, now paled in comparison to its once vibrant beauty. His child was lost, gone before she could ever say her first word or experience premonition.

Aside from the great king’s gentle sobs, the crackling of flames and the screaming of entire families could be heard outside. The noises, along with the suffocating smoke in the air, came from the streets of Prospero as it burned.

“One of them felt no pain, Magnus” Leman’s voice echoed across the room as he looked down upon the crimson skinned child, not a wound on her body. He didn’t want to know how she died. He wanted no knowledge of what the wolf did to his daughter. “The other, though…”

Bruises and small cuts had completely littered every inch of his wife’s perfect skin, a surface that Magnus used to caress with such gentleness and care. It was undeniable that she would put up a fight. Inevitable that she would try to run, only to be shot through her most vital organ of life the moment she made it into Magnus’ arms. Unavoidable that Leman would walk into the room immediately after the shot was fired, their daughter lifeless in his arms.

Even now, she clung to him with the last few moments of life she had within her. Her hands were placed upon the primarch’s shoulders as she shook in terror against him.

“Please” her voice trembled as tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t want to die… I’m scared, Magnus…” Her expression was full of fear and her voice was barely above a whisper. He could tell from the way she looked at him that she was desperately seeking comfort, but he failed to grant her that wish. He wanted to reassure her, to tell that everything would be okay, but his words caught in his throat.

He was frozen, unable to process the gravity of the situation. He could not bear seeing her afraid like this, nor could he bring himself to lie to her. Helplessness washed over him like crashing waves, pulling him in and out of reality as he cradled her in his arms, one last time. “Magnus,” she spoke once more, her words weakened as she became tired, his own voice still failing him to speak. “I love you…”

In the blink of an eye, she was gone. An incredibly broken “I love you too” finally made it’s way out of his throat, but far too late for her to hear.

Leman laughed maniacally, sickeningly. “A death fit for a psyker.” He spat, venom and contempt dripped from his voice. He walked across the room with a chilling calmness, Magnus’ daughter cradled in his arms. With a grotesque mockery of calmness, Leman placed the lifeless baby gently in her cradle. He had covered the young girl with her blanket, creating a display as if she had merely been asleep. He was teasing the weeping crimson king with every action, the cruelty of the executioner in its most pure form.

“My work for father is done here” claimed the wolf, his teeth beared in a smile as he looked down upon the pathetic excuse for a sorcerer cradling his wife. “Heretics are to be executed, brother” Leman declared, his voice cold and unyielding. He before turned on his heels as he prepared to exit Magnus’ tower, his tattered cloak billowed behind him. “You should know better.” were his final, cutting words to the crimson king as he left him to drown in his grief. His beloved tower, once home to both his family and infinite pillars of knowledge, had come to feel like more of a tomb.

Magnus carefully removed his wife from the ground and placed her down on their bed, one they shared while she was alive, before making his way to the cradle his daughter lay in. He lifted her from her bed and away from the blankets that Leman had tainted with blood, the face of the babe was peaceful and serene despite all that had happened, despite her lack of life. He opted to lay the baby in the arms of his wife, allowing the only two things that mattered more than knowledge to appear together one final time. He looked upon them with sorrow, trying desperately to convince himself that the two of them were simply sleeping. It had just been a long day and they were tired, that’s all this was.

His hands trembled as he caressed the baby’s cheek, her face illuminated by the bright orange flames that raged outside. He lay his own body next to the two women, one arm over the both of them. He spoke to them, sharing with them stories and knowledge that even humanity had not yet touched, they never would. Prospero burned, and the unrelenting flames would not cease.

Perhaps it was not selfish for the primarch to allow himself the liberty of dying next to his wife and daughter. The flames that burned his skin could never match the warmth the girls used to provide when they lived, and he’d take every ounce of the fading heat until he emitted none of his own.

Would it be selfish to become the monster that Leman had suspected? Would it be selfish to wish for change?

#warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #warhammer 30000 #warhammer headcanon #magnus the red #magnus the red x reader #leman russ x reader #leman russ #primarch #primarch x reader

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 8 months

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I Can Fix That... Pt. 2 | Jonathan Crane x fem!reader

author's note: I decided to make a pt. 2 purely for my own enjoyment, though I hope there are others out there as sadistic as myself. I finally watched the Batman trilogy and did research on DC fan pages to write this. It follows the plot of Nolan's DC adaptation so all characters mentioned (like Ra's Al Ghul) are from the comics and movies.

Summary| She gave into Crane because she needed to survive, at least that's what she's tried to tell herself, but there was something about this man that just felt so painfully... right. Now Crane has a proposition and he doesn't intend to take no for an answer because he's starting to like her -- uh oh-- too much. Where will their new agreement lead them when Gotham devolves into chaos?

Warnings| Based on an DC action movie- drugging, slut shaming, fear and terror, dubious kidnapping, restraints, drugs, physical violence, spitting, toxic relationship, mentions of a gun, chaos, and needles. I know- it's a lot.

word count: 8596k (lol oopsies?)

Wires- The Neighborhood 🎶

Where did you sleep last night- Iridium, Salazar, Liam Marks 🎵

Caesar on a TV Screen- The Last Dinner Party 🎶

The detective nodded her head, surprised that she’d so easily forgotten her plan. Dr. Crane sniffed and spun his set of keys around his finger casually.

“Now the best thing about being the creator of my fear serum,” he started, moving to the shelf of vials he had previously sorted, “is that I have an endless supply and every opportunity to use it whenever I want.” She could hear him smile but she could no longer see him. Crane admittedly liked the girl and he’d fucked her as a minor pivot in his original plan for the night. Now, it was time for business. He pulled a dish of powder from a locked drawer and hid it away from sight as he crossed back into the girl’s view. “You may think you understand what my serum can do, but you’ll never truly know until you try it.” She furrowed her brow and shook her head, wishing that she could back away from him but she couldn’t move. He changed the subject swiftly, not giving her a moment.

“I applaud you for your performance tonight. I was more than willing to humor you and of course, your present state did you many favors. I like my women tied down…” he joked and chuckled darkly. “But now, we need to get practical.” He removed his glasses and folded them slowly. He slipped them into his breast pocket. “You know too much, Miss —, and we both know that your current allegiance to your job would prioritize a crude sense of justice over your affection for me. We can’t have that, can we? So, I’d like to propose a solution or a treatment of sorts.” He clenched his jaw, angling his head down so that he was looking up at her through his eyelashes. “You’ve already proven to yourself tonight that the mind has complete control over the body. Desire rules judgment… and I want to rule you.” He smiled darkly. Before she could speak, powder was thrown into her face, blocking every orifice with a sickening gas.

The anxiety was immediate. She saw strange creatures approach her from all sides, poking and prodding her with dirty nails. She saw the walls leak a disgusting fluid, like blood and fecal matter and it spilled over the floor. People sorted through the liquid for scraps, children screamed and cried around her. She’d been one of those children, raised in an orphanage because her parents couldn’t afford to keep her. Strange men swarmed the children, offering toxic treats and money for favors which the children shied away from. She screamed, pulling at her restraints as she tried to fight off the assailants. She shook her head violently side to side, and she screamed involuntarily with raw terror at what she saw. In the midst of a nightmare of Gotham’s poverty and dark underbelly, Dr. Jonathan Crane stood calmly before her. He watched her, his arms crossed against his chest. He cocked his head to the side.

“What do you see,” he asked calmly. She turned her attention to him like he was a beacon of light in a horrible storm.

“Jonathan, help me!” She cried.

“Tell me what you see,” he said again and clucked his tongue to calm her. She looked around again at the people she saw, rummaging through mountains of trash.

“Horrible… horrible poverty. The things… the things I saw as a child. People starving, children crying…” she whimpered. Rats scrambled across her body and she screamed again, shaking against the table. “Jonathan, please!” She called for him and he waded towards her, oblivious to the horror around him. He stood above her and stroked her face. He removed the restraints from her waist and her wrists and helped her sit up. The things she saw darted out of her peripheral vision, distorted now and hard to understand. She couldn’t run because she couldn’t tell where she was anymore, where her body was in relation to her perspective. Did she even still have a body?

Dr. Crane grunted as he helped her off the table and held her up beside him. She fainted in his arms and he carried her out of the secondary lab into the corridor. He punched the elevator’s call button with his free hand and dragged her inside. As the large steel doors closed, he fished for his cellphone in his pocket and called his driver, telling him to meet him outside the hospital immediately. Crane hushed her, gently patting her head though she was still unconscious. The elevator dropped them at the floor she’d entered on originally and Crane carried her to the side door, ignoring the looks the night attendants gave the strange couple. A sleek black car waited outside in the alley, the engine running and dispelling smoky exhaust into the air around them. Crane opened the car door and helped her inside, smirking at the security guard at the door.

“Our meeting was successful, thank you officer.” He waved goodnight to the security guard who shifted awkwardly in his seat at the side door. Climbing in after her, Crane leaned over the console to speak with his driver.

“My apartment, please.” He gave the order sternly, even with the addition of the ‘please,’ and the driver nodded, speeding off into Gotham’s dark streets. His hand rested comfortably on her thigh as he watched her. She started to come to in the backseat, though the effects of the drug had still not worn off. Her breath was fast and she leaned deliriously into Crane’s shoulder, seeking protection from what she saw outside the tinted windows. She was so afraid that she felt safer in the arms of the man that had drugged her, and it would take hours to realize that, but by the time she did, the psychological effects would have already taken root.

The car stopped outside of a dark apartment building in one of the only nice parts of town in Gotham city. It was raining as he helped her back out of the car and into the large lobby of his apartment building. She clung to his arm as he led her into an elevator, playing a soft melody that sounded like shrill screams to her intoxicated mind. As the elevator doors opened, effects of the drug began to wane though her heartbeat was still racing. She looked up at Crane’s sharp jaw and how he clenched it as he opened the door to his apartment and pushed her gently inside.

“I pay my people extra to turn a blind eye to everything that I do. I understand these circumstances appear even more nefarious, being that I have admittedly drugged you and brought you to my apartment. What can I say, I’m a bad feminist.” He smiled darkly and locked the door.

“When do I stop seeing… these things?” She collapsed into a chair behind her and cradled her head in her hands.

“The effects will be gone in an hour,” he responded coolly and switched on some of the lights in his modern apartment. The apartment was two stories with a spiral staircase and an elevator that led to the upstairs. She looked around, trying her best to ignore the hallucinations and study the actual apartment itself.

“You’ll be disappointed to know that I don’t have a lab here, it’s against the building’s codes. I spend very little time here actually, I’m always at Arkham or dealing with detectives… like you. I’m a busy man. Like I already told you, I have plans to ‘treat’ Falcone tomorrow so I’ll need that room free. This is the next best option and I think you’ll find it more comfortable in comparison.” He smirked and flicked a switch, immediately two restraints looped tightly around her wrists, emerging from a panel in the arms of the chair that she hadn’t noticed. Second restraints looped around her ankles, reminding her as her ankles were spread apart that he had removed her underwear. She turned her knees inward, hiding her crotch and scoffing with frustration.

“Again?” She groaned and pulled at the strong leather material holding her to the chair.

“You sound disappointed,” Crane observed with a small smirk. “It’s only temporary. I didn’t get a chance to question you back at the lab, so we’ll do that here.” He gestured to his empty apartment and started to walk toward her slowly. His lips curled cruelly as he looked her up and down, strapped to the chair. “So tell me, what do you know?” He whispered and she stopped struggling for a moment. She still felt jumpy and nervous but having him so close relieved some of those feelings. The effects of the drug wore off more but the underlying sense of anxiety and loss of control prompted her to answer honestly.

I know that you are trying to make a powerful drug that mimics fear and so far, you’ve put it in a powder form. It works when ingested in some ways and immediately elicits a response that incapacitates the victim. You want to use it widely, to control Gotham…”

“Right, what else.” He leaned on the arms of the chair, his hands grasped around her wrists.

“You don’t work for Falcone but you work with someone else. You’ve just been using Falcone’s drug operation to move your own prototypes of the fear serum. You want to be in charge and you know that fear can do whatever you want it to. The mind controls the body,” she recalled a sentence that he had used before he had thrown the powder in her face. “You’re also somehow connected to the missing micro-wave emmitter. I don’t know why but it may help you in some way, how?” She was breathing heavily like she was going to fall asleep.

“Good work, detective.”

“What are you using the micro-wave emitter for?” She asked. He chuckled and removed his hands from her wrists, backing up. He approached a small liquor cart and poured himself a drink, straight gin. She continued as he drank.

“Who are you working with and how do you expect to control Gotham when everyone loses their minds?” She could barely contain her voice, anger and confusion rose into her throat like bile.

“So many questions…” he swallowed and set down his glass, turning back to her slowly. “Aren’t you supposed to figure that out for yourself?” He raised his eyebrow.

“The mirco-wave emitter would dry out any water supply that it comes into contact with. Wouldn’t it be easier to poison the water supply, you would reach more people… unless it doesn’t have the same effect when administered in water.” She looked up at him but his face was hard. “That’s why you’ve been using it in a powder, it only works in a powder form. If you dry up the water supply and release the powder into the air, there isn’t a way to combat the effects, is there?”

Crane smiled and nodded slowly, “right again.”

“How can you control people who have lost their minds on the serum? You can’t control chaos.” She furrowed her brow and leaned forward, questioning him. Crane cocked his head and studied her for a moment, noticing the last traces of the fear serum leaving her body.

“Control has many forms, Y/N. The chaos that will come from my serum is planned, its existence is strategically executed.”

“But why are you doing this?”

“I love it when you get flustered,” he chuckled darkly at her and licked his lips, his eyes rolling before returning to her face. “It’s not just me, I work for a large organization that has been responsible for all historical catastrophes throughout history. We deal in balance, balanced chaos. They hired me because I can control fear, I know how to use it and weaponize it. Gotham needs to be balanced and it cannot be balanced without it first destroying itself. Create a closed environment with the population’s problems and confront them with chaos, the balance will soon be restored.”

“Who do you work for?” She whispered, her eyes wide.

“Don’t you mean, who do we work for?” He crouched at her feet and placed his hands on her thighs. He smiled crazily up at her and she leaned away from him.

“What?” She whispered.

“I work for the League of Shadows, and now, so do you.” He dug his finger into the soft bottom of her chin and pushed her head up so that she could see the second floor more clearly.

Standing at the rail were men clad in dark armor. One man stood out from the rest. He wore a black suit and carried a gold-tipped cane. He had long whiskers of gray hair like a mustache and steady cool eyes, deadlier than Crane’s.

“Good work, Dr. Crane.” The man kept his focus on her and her blood went cold. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Miss —. We’ve heard so much about you and of course, you’re the one that has caused us so much trouble!” He laughed sarcastically and descended the spiral staircase.

“Who are you?” She growled.

“Ra’s Al Ghul,” he smiled and the wrinkles on his face creased, pulling against his eyes. “I see you’ve already become acquainted with Dr. Crane, our very own criminal mastermind.”

“You’re too kind,” Crane smarted back, watching the girl’s face as she tried to take in all of the new information.

“Now, I have a job proposition to offer you, Miss —. You seem to have figured most of our plan out but I don’t think you understand the complexity of our organization. You see, the League of Shadows is an ancient organization that has balanced the harmony of every major city in the world since the beginning of time. Gotham has gone bad, to the point of no return. Your ‘Batman’ as you call him can’t reverse what has been brewing for years. He never saw what you did, how the people of Gotham live in filth and poverty while the elite few enjoy the spoils. This city needs to be reborn, it needs chaos to restore the balance.”

“But wouldn’t you be killing thousands of innocent people?” She interjected and Al Ghul shrugged slightly.

“Nobody’s innocent,” he answered quickly and then inhaled, clarifying, “Anyway, that’s not what we want to do here. If we take control of the city and hold it for ransom, we can work out a deal to replace the crooked government with some of our people. I’m offering you a role alongside my people. You’re smart, all that evidence you collected against Crane- none of the senior officers could have held a match to it. We destroyed it of course, as soon as Crane told us about your little visit.” She looked past Al Ghul to Crane who leaned against the wall calmly. Had they destroyed the copies? How could she be sure that they were telling the truth? “The box of evidence you had put aside for Sgt. Gordon was the hardest to find but we found it. What made you suspect Dr. Crane? Was it a gut instinct?” He drew on before she interrupted him.

“You want me to help you kill people?” She furrowed her brow and nearly laughed in disbelief.

“We want your help to save Gotham from itself and establish a new and better government.” He corrected, fixing his posture. Crane watched her closely and spoke up from the back of the room.

“She’ll do it,” he answered and she opened her mouth to interject but his smirk silenced her. “She’ll do it because whether or not she wants to admit it, Miss —, is like us.” Crane reached into his breast pocket and removed his glasses. He cleaned the panels with a dish towel and pushed them onto his nose. She looked between Crane and Al Ghul, her heart beating quickly in her chest.

“Will you join us, will you help us save Gotham?” Ra’s Al Ghul placed both of his hands on top of his walking stick and shifted his weight evenly between his feet. Crane folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side, a knowing smile played on his wide pink lips. Her decision surprised her but the serum had already changed her chemistry, Crane had revealed her true self to herself and there was only one choice left.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Crane nodded, “good girl.”

iii

She was released from her restraints and she rubbed her wrists where the leather marked them. Ra’s Al Ghul snapped his fingers and a map was rolled out on Crane’s dining room table. The map was of the entire city of Gotham, showing the sewer and water lines. They explained the plan, showing her where the micro-wave emitter would be placed in the city and how it would be moved through each neighborhood.

“What about the police?” She asked and gestured to the map of the city. Crane laughed and shook his head.

“You were the only cop that suspected this, the rest will have no idea until it's already started. The person we really need to worry about is Batman,” he ran his fingers through his hair and glanced up at Al Ghul, “luckily for him, an old friend is coming by to visit.” Al Ghul nodded and smiled kindly at her.

“Batman and I go way back. I’ll take care of him.”

“What am I supposed to do?” She asked, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Crane caught himself staring and cleared his throat.

“You’ll help me with the production of the powder, ensuring that your cop friends don’t figure out too much and keeping Sgt. Gordon away from Arkham or leading him astray… anything,” Crane answered, setting his face as he spoke. She nodded.

Though they had asked her to join their efforts, they also obviously didn’t trust her completely. They wouldn’t tell her everything, she knew. Her night had gone in a completely different direction than how she had imagined it. Everything had changed after the fear serum, it had shown her that what she feared most had already happened. The police were corrupt, run by small-time gangsters and criminals and crime continued to run rampant as the state lost more and more money, forcing social service organizations to close and more families out on the streets. This whole time she thought that the police could solve the problem but they only caused it. Crane was right, she was like him and she would do anything she could to change the city. After the meeting, Crane poured her a drink and dissolved a packet of powder into the liquor. He stirred it in front of her and Al Ghul before sliding it across the table’s surface.

“This will put you to sleep for a few hours, twelve at most. It’s only a precaution to make sure that you have truly promised your allegiance to us. Everything that you say will be monitored from this point on.”

“Everything?” She looked at Crane who clenched his jaw, a faint tease of blush spread on his cheeks.

“Everything. Do as we say and follow our rules and you stay alive,” Crane finished and tapped the rim of the glass. “Now drink.”

“How do I know that you aren’t just poisoning me?” She asked the men around her.

“We’re learning to trust each other, but you have to go first.” He smiled and when Al Ghul said nothing, she took the glass and drank it slowly. The last thing she saw were Crane’s eyes, set perfectly on her.

She was conscious enough to set her glass down before falling back onto the couch. Crane approached her quickly and checked her pulse, monitoring her reaction to the drug.

“Did it work?” Ra’s Al Ghul asked behind him and he nodded.

“Yes, she’s out. Because of all the drugs in her system already, this one may take longer to wear off.”

“All the other drugs?” Al Ghul raised his eyebrow and Crane chuckled.

“I couldn’t help myself and besides,” he turned to Al Ghul, “you wanted her alive.”

“I’m not convinced that we can trust her,” Al Ghul shook his head and pointed at the map for his men to clean up.

“Oh, I’ll make sure we can.”

“With your mind tricks?” Al Ghul teased and Crane sighed, rolling his beautiful eyes.

“Don’t insult me, Ra’s. I know what I’m doing.” He warned the man calmly and nodded to the men. Two men helped carry her body as Crane led them back down the elevator into the lobby which was deserted at that time in the early morning. They climbed into Crane’s waiting car and pulled away from the curb. The girl’s body was limp against the seat and Crane resisted the urge to stare at her, fascinated by her sleeping body. The men carried her up to her apartment on the third floor of a small walkup. Crane rummaged through her coat pockets for the key into her apartment and unlocked the door.

Her apartment was small and cozy, furnished with minimal couches and chairs. Books and art decorated the walls. Crane pushed through the door and directed the men to lie her down in her bedroom, the small room off of the main living area. They men looked back at him expectantly as he stood by the doorway, watching her sleep. He rolled his eyes and shooed them away. What did they think he was going to do? He’d already fucked her. Alone in her apartment, he stood by her bed and stroked her cheek. She slept on, engulfed by unconscious darkness. He leaned over her slowly and grasped her throat gently, exhaling across her face. He said nothing but looked her up and down and smirked, pleased at the sight of her. He’d won another spoil: her.

She woke up in her bed, twisted in the sheets as if she had been restless all night. She was sweaty and hot, the air stuffy around her. Crane and Al Ghul were nowhere to be seen. She checked her watch and hurried out of bed, stripping off her clothes from the night before and into black trousers and a dark blue sweater. She stumbled into the living room and wound her hair up into a claw clip, moving towards the door when a voice startled her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dr. Crane spoke from the couch. He was in a fresh suit and looked well-rested. He was taking notes in a file on Falcone, his briefcase sat on the coffee table in front of him. She jumped, gasping from shock.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you to wake up. We have work to do today. That bitch at the DA’s office wants to speak with me. I'm supposed to meet with her this afternoon. She’s questioning Falcone’s transfer.”

“I ordered the transfer after you did Falcone’s interview, maybe I could meet with her instead.”

“No, I need you to take this file to the judge on Falcone’s case. I can handle her questions.” He stood and held out Falcone’s file. “I already gave my statement at the hearing but this file will confirm my medical opinion, hopefully that will get her off my back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Do you think Falcone will talk if she speaks with him?”

“Possibly,” he bent his head side to side and shrugged, “but we aren’t going to find out. Let’s go,” he snapped his briefcase closed and made for the front door. She glanced from the couch to her bedroom.

“Were you watching me all night?” She flushed angrily and followed him. He closed the door suddenly and spun her around, forcing her back against the front door.

“I can only say this once because they aren’t listening now but as soon as we get in the car, they’ll be monitoring you. I am keeping you alive, Miss —. I will do everything in my power to keep you alive but the second you step away from me, you’re on your own. I know we have an understanding so believe me when I say that I would prefer very much if you didn’t die. Follow my directions because they’re following you.” He said in a harsh whisper, a strand of hair falling into his face. They stared at each other in silence, exchanging breath when he kissed her harshly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moaned softly against his lips. He bucked into her hips and she gasped softly against his jaw. And just as quickly, he pulled away, breathing heavily and led her out the door and down the stairs into the waiting car.

“I’ll need my gun back,” she pointed out as they settled on the backseat. Crane sighed, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He opened a small compartment in the car door and retrieved her gun. As he held it out, he took her jaw in his other hand, his thumb pressing into her fleshy cheek.

“This is where that trust would come in handy, detective.” He whispered darkly. She looked at his lips and then up to his eyes, speechless around him. He watched her struggle for words and chuckled, handing her the gun. “Be careful, Y/N, and remember Ra’s plan.” He looked at her lips and sniffed, slapping the roof of the car. “This is her stop.”

She met with the judge who oversaw Falcone’s case and gave him the thick folder. He looked at it briefly before recognizing the information.

“I appreciate you coming out to speak to me about Falcone’s transfer to Arkham but I cleared everything with Ms. Dawes yesterday. She’s already scheduled a second psychiatrist to meet with Falcone first thing tomorrow morning. She mentioned that she’s also requested Dr. Crane’s case file. Has she seen this?” He waved the folder and she clicked her tongue, shocked that she had scheduled a second opinion and that Crane didn’t know about it.

“I’m not sure, sir. I was the detective working with the prosecution and I was the one who oversaw Dr. Crane’s examination and request for transfer. I can attest to Falcone's mood at the time as well. He screamed nonstop as Crane was trying to conduct a test of sanity. Anyway, I wanted to make sure that you saw Dr. Crane’s diagnosis in the aftermath of his transfer. This has updated notes that Dr. Crane shared with me. It might be useful in your deliberation.” She smiled and the judge looked down his nose at the folder.

“Good point. Thank you, detective. This is helpful.” He opened the folder on his desk and put on his rounded spectacles.

“Well now that we’ve spoken, I’ll try to catch Dawes and save her the trouble.” She pushed back her chair and brushed off her trousers.

“Miss —?” The judge called from his desk.

“Yes, sir?” She looked back.

“Dr. Crane has committed many of Falcone’s men to Arkham in the past few months, is that correct?”

“Yes,” she nodded and her heart raced.

“That must be a pretty crazy group.” The judge laughed and went back to the folder, completely missing the pattern. She sighed in relief and left quickly. She started to walk to Arkham, moving so quickly she felt like she may have been running. Dawes had already scheduled a second opinion, meaning that she was probably at Arkham pressuring Crane for his detailed diagnosis. It would take Dawes one second to figure it out so she hoped she could get there quickly enough to do something. She had no plan which she knew was stupid but whatever was bound to happen in the next few hours would be bad and she needed to help Crane. Her phone began to ring and she put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Y/N.”

“Ra’s?”

“Are you on your way to Arkham?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Turn around and go back to your precinct. I want you to stick close to Sgt. Gordon, go where he goes. You’re his top detective so run with it. If anything happens at Arkham, he’ll be there and I want you there with him. Crane will be fine.”

She slowed to a stop, skeptical but wanting to believe what her new boss was telling her, “ok, sir.”

After a second of silence, Ra’s added, “It’s Batman’s birthday and what better way to celebrate a playboy than with chaos?” The call ended before she could respond.

She spun around and headed straight for the precinct. She spotted Gordon at his desk, working on paperwork. She hurried over and knocked on the door, letting herself in when he waved.

“Good, I’m glad to see you. I need to run some ideas by you for the Falcone case.”

“I just dropped off Crane's diagnosis for the judge but he said that Dawes may be seeking a second opinion.”

“About that -” The intercom went off with a loud screech.

“Attention all units! Attention all units! Batman was spotted at Arkham Asylum. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Backup is requested at this time.” The voice repeated with a robotic drone. Sgt. Gordon looked from the speaker to her and grabbed his coat from his chair.

“We need to get to the asylum right now.” Gordon yelled and she followed him closely, checking that her gun was still secured to her hip. She clipped her badge to her front pocket and pretended to sound confused.

“Why are we going, Sgt? Do you think this is about Falcone?”

“It might, I’d feel better if I was there to find out; and if Batman is there, someone’s in trouble.” They hurried down the stairs and climbed into a car. Gordon sped away from the precinct and ran red lights. The tires bled across the roads as they came to a screeching halt behind a row of police cars parked outside the Asylum.

“Why is everyone waiting outside?” She yelled over the noise. An officer standing with his gun aimed at the building yelled back.

“We’re waiting for backup!”

“They’ll be here soon, sir. We should wait!” She yelled over the noise at the Sgt.

Gordon looked up at the building and pulled his gun from his holster. He started moving towards the building, looking back to wave her on.

“I’m going in. You coming?” He called.

She groaned anxiously beneath her breath before responding, “yes, sir!” They raced up the stairs into the lobby which was left completely vacant. Gordon held up his gun and she followed suit, staying close behind him. She felt the urge to kill him now and find Crane but her gut warned her that someone else was in the room, watching. They walked slowly through the main corridor, past the abandoned security checkpoint, creeping closer to the wide atrium. When they stepped beneath the enormous domed ceiling a loud noise broke through the top of the building. She looked up and covered her face with her forearm to protect her eyes from large shards of falling glass. She saw a large dark blur surround Sgt. Gordon and pull him up to the roof.

“Sgt. Gordon!” She yelled after him. She knew immediately that the blur was that bastard Batman. A small laugh escaped her mouth as she shook her head and lowered her gun. A group of SWAT ran in seconds later. She pointed at the ceiling with her gun and called them over.

“He came down and took Sgt. Gordon!”

“Who?” Someone yelled at her and she shook her head, pretending to be unsure.

“I don’t know! I think it was Batman.” She yelled, adding to their panic.

“Batman!” Someone shouted and in the moment of distraction, she slipped away into a side corridor. She bolted towards a staircase and stopped at every floor, looking for signs of activity. Her body burned with soreness as she sprinted down each corridor. She wanted to scream his name but her lungs wouldn’t allow her the extra air to do so. She rounded a corner and ran into a group of police. They all started shouting at her until she showed them her badge.

“I’m a detective- What the hell is going on here?” She yelled.

“We’re looking for Dr. Crane!”

“Have you seen Sgt. Gordon?” She asked, panting and trying not to panic when they mentioned Crane’s name. “He disappeared and I've been looking for him.”

“No, we haven’t. We got a call that they found drugs in the building and then Batman showed up. Crane was running the operation.” One police officer responded and jerked their head to the side where they were going to run next. “It's down this corridor!”

“I’ll come with you,” she shouted and led the unit, her gun pointed at the ground. Two large doors were falling off their hinges further down the hallway. The room itself was smokey and gaseous. She looked down from the doorway where there were stairs leading into a cement lined room like an empty indoor pool. Tables were littered with Crane’s fear serum and men that she assumed were dead. Huge vats of liquid marked with a toxic symbol sat on their sides by an open waterline.

“This is it,” she said to the officer beside her and started to descend the staircase. The smoke made it hard to see so she moved slowly, looking around the floor for Crane’s familiar face. The men she saw were all part of Falcone’s posse who had been hired to help the drug operation run. Something snapped beneath her food and she looked down, seeing Crane’s scarecrow mask which she recognized from his drawing. She picked it up and looked around anxiously, her fingers around the gun shook. Then she saw him. Crane was propped up against a wall and bleeding slightly from the head, a thin trail of blood oozed on the wall behind his head. He was panting and flailing around, his pupils were mere penpoints. He’d been attacked with his own fear powder. She looked around before dropping into a crouch beside him. He recognized her but continued to shake, his eyes darting around her head.

“Jonathan,” she whispered, “it's me.”

“Did you find him?” Someone shouted and she yelled back that she had. He raised a judgemental eyebrow, his mouth forming a cuss word. His glasses were gone.

“Trust me, Crane.” She whispered against his ear and held his wrists together. She took her handcuffs from her belt and handcuffed him.

She leaned against the wall and tapped her foot anxiously as they strapped him into a white straightjacket. She crossed the room and helped the officer secure the last belt, thankful for any excuse to touch him and remind him that she was still there. Looking up at her, he spat and she flinched slightly. His light eyes were ringed with red swollen skin and she wondered if he really felt betrayed by her. She wiped his spit from her cheek and returned to her place by the wall.

“So this is the scarecrow,” Sgt. Gordon entered the room and let the door slam shut. Crane jumped from the noise and closed his eyes, taking a deep shaky breath.

“Scarecrow… scarecrow.” Crane whispered with his eyes closed and shifted within the straightjacket. Sgt. Gordon pulled up a chair, the metal scraping against the floor, bristling Crane into opening his eyes.

“What was the plan, Crane? How were you going to get the toxin into the air?” Gordon asked calmly and fingered the scarecrow mask. Her stomach turned watching Crane struggle to regain control over his mind. He shook and his eyes darted around the room, landing once or twice on her. She kept a straight face, giving no sign that she was terrified that something would happen to him or she would accidentally reveal something about him that they didn’t already know. When Crane didn’t respond, Gordon continued, his voice rising.

“Who were you working for?” Gordon pressed and Crane’s eyes snapped to his, a crazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Oh, it’s too late. You can’t stop it now.” He spoke through shivers, cutting up his words. He smiled at the end and Gordon shook his head. He stood and shoved the mask into her hands.

“Here. Stay with Crane.” He growled and left the room, his footsteps echoing through the heavy steel door. She looked down at the mask in her hands and hid her smile. There was only one officer left in the room with them and she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to come up with a quick plan.

“Are there any officers outside?” She asked the cop by the door who peeked his head outside the door.

“No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she smiled and raised her gun when the door snapped behind him. “Then this should be easy.” She cocked the gun and cornered the officer. “Face the wall,” she ordered and when he turned, she hit him over the head with the butt of her pistol, knocking him unconscious. She quickly handcuffed him and checked outside one last time before running over to Crane. He was still recovering from the toxin, his face set in a deep frown. She began to free him from his restraints, glancing at the door every few seconds. His eyes stayed on her face and he kept muttering things below his breath. When she undid the last restraint he jumped up and it fell from around his shoulders to the floor. She started to smile when he lunged at her and pushed her up against the tiled wall. Her hair clip cracked against the tile and clattered to the floor in pieces. She gasped beneath his hands, one holding her throat and the other grabbing the slack in her sweater, exposing her navel.

“You betrayed me,” he growled, “you told Gordon... I saw you.” His eyes were wild and glazed, he looked right through her.

“What?” she gasped out though his hand was crushing her windpipe.

“I saw you two! You fucked him. You fucked him!” He yelled, his body shook with anger like he was coming down from an adrenaline high.

“No, I didn’t!” She struggled beneath his hands, “this is the toxin talking, Jonathan! I didn’t betray you-”

“But you fucked him,” his voice twisted into a heatbreaking whine, an image flicked before his eyes and he closed them quickly, shaking it from his head.

“No!” She coughed and she could feel herself getting light-headed.

“You love him,” his voice was breaking beneath him and his eyes darted between hers as the toxin showed him more and more; everything of which included her.

“Jonathan!” she screamed and hit his chest hard with closed fists, “I can’t fucking breathe!”

His eyes snapped open wider and he released his grip around her throat. Her feet landed on the ground and she coughed, sinking into a crouch against the wall. Crane stepped back and watched her silently. He was still shaking as he ran a hand anxiously through his hair.

“Why would I save you if I loved him?” She cried in frustration, rubbing her bruised throat. “It’s the toxin, Jonathan… I didn’t do the things you think I did,” her voice softened. She looked up at him and stood slowly, grabbing onto the wall for support. Crane cradled his head in his hands and whimpered.

“What do you see?” she asked quietly and stepped closer. He shook his head and created more distance between them. “Jonathan, tell me.” She pressed and he exhaled with a soft shutter.

“You… fuck,” he started through heavy breaths, working himself up again. “I see you and Gordon…” He rubbed his eyes and looked back up at her. “It’s been so long since…”

“Since what?” She furrowed her brow, questioning. His eyes darted away into the corner and he shook.

“Since my father last used it…” he took a deep breath and finished his sentence with a lengthy exhale, “on me.”

“The fear toxin?” She whispered, slowly starting to understand what he was suggesting. He nodded and flinched as if something had attacked him. Was he saying that his father used a prototype of the fear toxin on him? She grabbed onto the sleeve of his suit jacket and tugged his attention away.

“It’s just me. There’s no one else- nothing else in here except for me,” she gestured to the nearly empty room (the officer was still unconscious in the corner). “And I’m here for you,” she whispered and closed the distance between them, her hands slipped around his small waist beneath his suit jacket. She felt his body tense beneath her embrace before slowly (very slowly) releasing its tension. He didn’t hug her back but rested his forehead on her shoulder. She stroked his hair, and found the shallow wound on the back of his head. She ducked her head as she pulled away, finding his mouth and kissing him gently. The toxin was slowly wearing off and she could tell he was only beginning to return to his normal self.

“We need to get up to my office,” he muttered and looked at the door. “They’re releasing the patients.”

“What?” She furrowed her brow. Crane sighed and shook his head.

“Ra’s gave orders to open all of the cells. The patients will be let loose into the city.” He licked his lips and looked down at her. “We need to get upstairs.” His expression was tense as she could tell he was trying to fight the lingering effects of the toxin. She nodded.

“Show me where to go.”

He pulled her through the door and they ran down the corridor to an elevator. When the doors opened, Crane used his key to override the system, preventing anyone else from calling the elevator. He pressed the button for the floor with his office, not realizing that his other hand was squeezing tightly around hers. When the doors opened again, they rushed down the hallway and into Crane’s office. He sighed when the door was locked and the blinds closed.

“What are we going to do?” She asked him quietly and he inhaled slowly.

“I need to inject you with the antidote so the toxin doesn’t affect you when we leave the building.” He murmured, more to himself.

“We’re going out there?” She tried to keep the fear from her voice but he detected it instantly, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you scared?” He asked automatically.

“Of both of us dying out there at the hands of one of your old patients, yes, yes I am.” She nearly laughed.

“Don’t you want to be part of the fun?” The Jonathan Crane she knew was definitely coming back.

“I’d rather not become the ‘fun’,” she quipped and he smirked.

“As you wish.”

She followed him into his lab and he rummaged through a collection of vials arranged on one of the counters. Finding the right one, he slipped it inside a cartridge of what looked like an epipen.

“Pull down your pants,” he ordered and then it was her turn to raise her eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that and do what I tell you,” he said sternly and she did as he asked, pulling down her trousers where he had access to her thigh. “This will hurt,” he warned her before immediately plunging the needle into the fat around her thigh. She hissed in pain and heaved out a breath.

“The good news is that you don’t have to ever do this again,” he patted her leg and buttoned her pants for her. “Now me,” he changed the vial and unbuckled his pants. He raised the hem of his boxers and punctured the needle into his upper thigh. He grunted in pain and closed his eyes for a moment and whistled out a tight breath. A large explosion shook the ground below their feet. She jumped and winced as she landed on her sore leg. Without opening his eyes, Crane nodded.

“And that would be the patients leaving the building now.” He withdrew the needle and tossed it to the side, buckling his pants.

“Let me see your head,” she touched his arm and he leaned forward slightly, turning his head where she could see it clearly. She carded her fingers through his dark hair and parted the dark roots away from the shallow wound. “It's a small cut, you’ll live.”

“Thanks, doctor.” He smirked. Her fingers shifted through his hair as he straightened and she tried not to look disappointed when they were no longer twirled around his black locks.

“Are you back now?” She looked up into his eyes, looking for trances of fear.

“I think so,” he responded and traced his index finger around the collar of her sweater. There were small bruises where his fingers had been when he forced her against the wall in his state of panic. “Was I terrible?” He whispered.

“Not more than usual,” she laughed lightly and covered his hand with hers. “I’m ok.” She insisted and he furrowed his eyebrows and licked his lips.

He was going to apologize, he was going to tell her how much he loved her and that was why he had reacted so strongly to the toxin, but the words died on his lips so instead he said, “We should leave before the city goes all the way under.”

“They’ll raise the bridges so no one can leave, it’s too late.”

Crane chuckled and leaned against the lab table behind him, his fingers grasping around the edge. “And once again, you severely underestimate me. Come on.”

“Get on,” Crane held the bridle and gestured for her to mount the large black steed.

“You’re kidding right?” She looked around at the burning city and then back to the police horse who’d lost its rider.

“I wish I was,” he sighed and tugged her closer by her waistband, “now giddy-up, Miss —.” He joked flatley and pushed her up onto the saddle. He hoisted himself up after her and sat in front, taking the reins in his hands. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed her thighs around the horse's stomach, holding on for dear life.

“Where the hell did you learn to ride a horse?” She yelled over the panic and she felt him chuckle.

“Oh, there are a lot of things that you don’t know about me, detective.” He smirked and kicked the horse into action. She gasped and held him tighter as they flew through the violence-strewn streets. She couldn’t imagine how ridiculous they looked to the people of Gotham but under the influence of the fear toxin, she hoped people were more afraid than amused seeing a man in a full suit riding a horse. Crane focused on the route ahead, navigating them through the broken city.

“Where’s Ra’s?” She yelled into his ear.

“Forget about him.” He growled and urged the horse faster.

“Why? What happened?”

“He tricked me. He didn't just want to impose an arguably better government, he wanted to kill everyone and to kill us too. He tipped off Batman and that’s how Batman found me. He didn't need me after the toxin had been released. He kept you away from me, didn’t he?” He called over his shoulder, leaping over a crashed car.

“Yes, he told me to go to the precinct instead when I tried to warn you about the DA.”

“He wanted Batman to find me and he assumed that you’d get stuck here after you followed Gordon. Two birds with one stone. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” He growled and turned the horse onto a side-street and into an alley.

“Where are we going?” She asked, her grip tightening around Crane as she saw people screaming in the streets.

“To my father’s house.”

“How?” His father’s house? After his father had probably done something horrible to him?

“Just hold on,” he warned and flicked the reins again. She closed her eyes, wanting to block out the terror in the streets. While some of it gave her pleasure to see the raw side of humanity express itself, it reminded her of what she had seen as a child- the side of people that came out when they needed to survive.

They rode to the edge of the city and Crane slowed the horse to a stop beside a tall building that looked abandoned. He hopped off of the horse and helped her down, catching her as she forced herself to slip over the saddle. The building was far enough away from the inner-city that it looked like it hadn’t been touched yet by the chaos, though the toxins had definitely reached it.

“We need to get to the roof,” he informed her calmly and pointed her to the elevator.

“Another elevator…” she whispered beneath her breath, knowing it wasn’t the right time to mention how much she hated the idea of going into one when the world around them was ending. Crane pressed the button labeled “20R,” and the elevator began to soar up. The elevator had windows that opened into the city. As the elevator climbed, they could see the destruction of Gotham and right across the bridge, normalcy.

“Ra’s is moving the micro-wave emitter by the high speed rail. If his plan goes accordingly, the emitter will poison the other side of the city beneath Wayne tower.” He pointed out the tall Wayne building from their vantage point. “I hate Gotham and I hate Batman, but I think I hate Ra’s Al Ghul more.” He sneered distastefully. “We could have run Gotham…” he sighed and shrugged, “maybe another day.”

She couldn’t help herself but laugh. Being with Crane had opened her eyes to a new side of herself, one that was dark and masochistic. She liked this side better, way better. She liked thinking that one day she could be in charge, force out all of the government officials that were too dumb or sexist to listen to her. She could lead beside Crane…

When the elevator doors opened a gust of wind met them. The doors opened onto the roof of the huge building. A helicopter stood in the center of a large bull’s eye, its blades running in circles above their heads. Crane’s hair ruffled in the wind and he squinted his eyes against it. Her mouth fell open in shock and Crane chuckled at her reaction.

“That’s the funny thing about, trust, detective. I don’t believe in it,” he smirked and beckoned her to the helicopter’s doors.

“You planned this?” She yelled as he gestured her to climb onto the landing gear.

“Of course,” he smiled, "I always have a backup plan." Her mary janes slipped across the bars as she climbed and Crane supported her back, guiding her back into the body of the machine. He pulled himself inside after her and collapsed in one of the seats. She tried to orient herself, looking around the small helicopter, landing on the pilot. The pilot nodded at Crane, he was wearing a thick mask and goggles to keep the toxin away.

“Ready doctor?” The pilot called from the front and Crane nodded breathlessly. He looked at her and clenched his jaw, returning to the version of Crane she knew so well.

“Yes.”

#cillian murphy #fanfiction #cillian fanfic #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane fanfic #jonathan crane #dc scarecrow #hot scarecrow #young cillian murphy #cillian fluff #robert fischer #batman begins #long reads #multi chap fic #cillian x fem!reader

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mysterycitrus · 9 months

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would you please elaborate on your comment "renowned hack frank miller" ? i haven't read much from him yet but i like to listen to informed people tell me why [thing] sucks because it's funnier than dc wiki

when someone tells me their favourite comic writer is frank miller my response is the same as when someone tells me their favourite films are american psycho and fight club — i immediately prepare for an irish exit from the convo.

both (some of) miller’s work and those films are influential pieces of art with explicit political ideology, but while american psycho and fight club are (frequently) misinterpreted satire, miller is genuine to the point of hilarity.

if u consume batman as a character in any capacity u cannot escape miller’s influence — batman: year one is the pretty definitive starting point for most fans (and filmmakers, like matt reeves with the batman 2022), and miller’s visual style is a cornerstone for modern comics. the dark knight returns effectively changed how comics were viewed by readers, and is credited with kickstarting the modern age of comic books. i cannot emphasise that even if u haven’t read a miller book u have certainly encountered someone else inspired by his work.

with that said — miller writes like how a racist libertarian who believes his own hype would write about superheroes. greta, u must be wondering, that seems like an awfully specific descriptor to assign to someone. and normally u would be right!

the because im batman schtick that every sixteen year old nolan stan with a twitter account ran into the ground circa 2014 started because of miller, and his success in the 80s led to a number of ill advised projects fueled by his own hype. all star batman and robin was an uncritical interpretation of bruce that embodies all the worst misinterpretations of dc characters, including the justice league, that miller then tried to espouse was satire. unfortunately, he is not smart enough to punch up instead of down — the absurd hypersexualisation of women doesn’t become satire just because you’re laughing at readers in the script, frank.

this, in turn, led to one of the most virulently racist comics ever published — 2011’s islamophic nightmare fuel holy terror. he should not be taken seriously as a creative force, and he should not be the foundation of what comics should be. at least alan moore is marginally less obnoxious and fully admits that the killing joke was a bad idea.

#it’s also worth saying that his art is so fucking ugly #batman #dc comics #the ask and the answer #all my homies hate frank miller #i think about the linkara review of all star batman and robin whenever i need to see a man have a full mental breakdown on camera

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breakandbuildfiction · 12 days

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Another Rant About DPxDC Tropes

I didn’t write out all my thoughts on everything in the DPxDC fandom last time, so I decided to write this follow up with some more of them. This time I will primarily be focusing on how people go about using specific characters and their inter-character relationships.

Watering Down and Glorifying Female Characters:

I’ve noticed that this is a theme across a LOT of not only DPxDC fics and prompts, but across a lot of the fanworks for the individual franchises. People will ignore the flaws and shortcomings of female characters and overblow their positive traits purely to make them look more badass or scary compared to the male characters or to make other characters relient on them. Here are some examples:

Poison Ivy: People like to write Poison Ivy as some cool bad girl bent on environmentalism, that she’s pricily but full of ‘cool aunt’ energy. But they ignore the fact that her entire thing is drugging, mind controlling, sexually assulting, and murdering people in the name of environmental terrorism and in some itterations global genocide. She is not by any means someone a hero should be chill with outside of absolutly desperate situations, and even then she should be the second choice after Swamp Thing.

Harley Quinn: She is literally a psycopath suffering from an obsessive love disorder– that she has done a great deal to overcome– who has no problems maiming, crippling, and killing anyone who gets between her and whatever it is she wants at the moment. At her most ‘restrained’ she is working with Batman to hunt down the Joker– with her intent being to kill him– or is on the Suicide Squad taking some weird comfort in being around equally fucked up people and being assured in the knowledge that her murderous tendencies are being used for some level of ‘good’. She was also a very shitty psyciatrist who in many itterations slept her way into passing college and didn’t even last a full year as a lisenced practitioner before joining the Joker. Yes she is trying to be a better person, but she is NOT by any means a good person.

Black Canary: I think the thing I dislike most about how people treat Black Canary is that they hyperfixate on the pseudo-mom characteristics and emergency therapist role she was given in the Young Justice cartoon. I’ll admit that I haven’t read a ton of her comics, but I HAVE read some and I have watched the Justice League Unlimited cartoon as well. With that in mind I feel like people are tragically focusing on the wrong parts of her personality. She is shown to be stand offish, headstrong, confrontational, brash, and manipulative. She isn’t hero-mom coded, she is a femm fatal back street brawler who is fully open to playing off her allies ego to make them do what she wants if she can and leveraging her power and skill at violence to get what she wants. Yes she is a hero and yes she has a softer side, but god damn!

Wonder Woman: This actually goes for all Amazons of Themyscira but here it goes. Wonder Woman grew up in an extremely isolationist, xenophobic, and misandrist (Even if you ignore the run that said the island’s inhabitants are all literal murdering rapists who drown babies. I don’t think that run has been canon for a while anyways.) island nation that was literally blessed by the gods to never have to deal with things like political upheavals, drought, famine, foreign relations, or any other complexaties that real countries have to deal with. Now, to her credit, Wonder Woman isn’t NEARLY as bad as some of her countrywomen, but that doesn’t mean her upbrining hasn’t influenced her worldview and she certainly has never condemned the policies of her nation. She doesn’t treat men as scum outright by any means, but she DOES ignore the shortcomings of women and sees most if not all the troubles of the world as being the fault of the male sex. Just because the woman is empathic does not mean she isn’t a bitch. Also, base Wonder Woman would and has been dogged by base Superman many times. She is maybe the fourth or fifth most powerful JL member goes by base state abilities behind Superman, Martian Manhunter, Shazam, and maybe the Flash. That said, there are forms of Wonder Woman who would make all other base state JL members look like preschoolers pretending to be tough.

Jazz Fenton: Jazz is not a good psychologist or therapist in her teenage years. If you want to age her into her mid-twenties or later after she goes through a proper program, then by all means make her better at helping people with mental and emotional issues. But as a teen she is god aweful at those things. There is a grand total of ONE instance where she showcases actual skill at being able to pin down and identify someone’s issues and that was with Freakshow, whom in that very conversation she admits to having grown up with many of the same feelings he did regarding envy of ghosts and the attention people in her life give them. She never figured out Danny was a hero due to her skill at psychology or determining the cause of his stress, she stumbled onto him transforming after days or even weeks of forcing herself into his business and him asking and then demanding her to leave him alone. Not only this but, and I feel like this should be a very big thing with how much people love to shoehorn in trans-Danny stuff, she routinely calls people by the wrong name even when corrected by others and is told to her face by the people she is misnaming that she is wrong. Some of her names are even dehumanizing like calling Skulker ‘Ghost X’ like he’s nothing but a test subject!

Also, while I’m pretty sure she would qualify as a skilled CQC fighter, I don’t think she ever improved her aim. So while having her judo throw someone or deck them in the schnoz is good, she would probably miss if she had to shoot anyone with a Fenton Blaster at anything further than point blank range. And no, the Peeler doesn’t count, that shit was a full on mechsuit and shots that had a margin of error bigger than a car.

Valerie Grey: This one is a big one for me and probably the big reason I wanted to write this entire section so here it goes:

Valerie Grey ain’t SHIT as a hero.

Now, as a character, she is perfectly fine. She has a full arc with reasonable and understandable reactions to various events that shape her growth as a character. Granted these events make her into a shoot-first, speciesist, possibly slur-throwing, self-righteous, asshole for a while (you know how the ACAB movement sees cops? That was Valerie for a long time, just without government backing and with an oligarch sponsor instead.) but she did eventually get better after the whole thing with Dani and finding out that Vlad is Plasmious. So again, as a character she is good.

As a HERO however, she is really freaking bad. We never really see her do anything major after her revelation with Dani and before that she never actually wins any fights. Danny is always so far out of her league in fights that the only reason she isn’t dead is because he knows who she is under the mask and holds back because he doesn’t want to hurt her. He was capable of blowing up her original suit in a single blast for crying out loud! And even in her second suit he barely had any trouble keeping pace with her WHEN HE WAS ACTIVLY TRYING NOT TO HURT HER! We also never see her defeat any named ghost, I barely remember her even fighting anyone other than Danny, and she is overall just fodder as far as combat goes.

She isn’t scary, she isn’t intimidating, she isn’t the type of girl who could ‘kick Danny’s ass’, she is at best a pissed off woman with a lot of guns and fancy gadgets who thinks she's hot shit despite never winning a significant fight.

Heroes are friends with all the Rogues… Except Joker:

Just… why? Why do people want the heroes to be friends with mass-murdering nutjobs? Be it Danny with Ivy who is basically Undergrowth with tits and a pulse, or Tucker with Technus, or Tim Drake with Harley Quinn it doesn’t make any sense! This isn’t a case of ‘Oh, when they aren’t on the job they are cool people’ like with Flash’s rogues. Nor do they have admirable moral codes or anything else. That kind of stuff is exclusive to Flash’s gallery. Why does everyone write hero or retired Danny as being friendly with villains and thinking they are cool people?! Killer Crock has a tragic backstory but he EATS PEOPLE. Scarecrow makes stuff you could call ghost drugs but he conducts routine chemical weapon attacks on civilian populations! Deathstroke is a pedo or groomer in at least two major timelines! Ra’s runs a cult that kills its OWN MEMBERS whenever they fail near-impossible tasks! Just because they aren’t as full on 24/7 creepy fucker murderers doesn’t mean they are any better than him!

On that note, why do people insist on having Sam idolize Poison Ivy or Jazz admire Harley Quinn? I don’t have a high opinion of Sam and how she goes about her activism and forcing her lifestyle and beliefs on others, but she doesn’t go around drugging people, stealing their money, forcing them to ruin their families, and then killing them! And I like to think that even if Jazz isn’t a good psychologist she would have better taste than to idolize someone who broke a very basic tenant of mental health professionals by getting too attached to her patient and went on to COMMIT MASS MURDER and help TORTURE PEOPLE in an effort of turning on her psychotic boyfriend!

Hating Superman on Kon-El’s behalf:

I get that this trope stems from season 1 of Young Justice, which I will freely admit is an amazing season of a very good show, but I think people forget a few things: 1, Superman’s hatred/distrust of Conner manifests in avoiding him at all costs, not being rude or badmouthing him or anything of the sort, he just doesn’t want to deal with him and what Conner represents. 2, Superman grows out of his hatred/distrust of Conner in like, a year. It was an initial kneejerk reaction paired with extreme awkwardness and distress, but his stance on his clone-son with Lex does get better. And 3, the one who actually hates clones is Supergirl, Kara Zor-El. She straight up gave Conner his Kryptonian name and told him TO HIS FACE that it meant ‘Abomination in the House of El’. She basically named him a slur and said that was all he was. And as far as I am aware, she never apologizes for this nor does their relationship ever really improve beyond ‘we will work together if we absolutely have to’.

Dani and Dan call Danny ‘mom’ ((CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of SA!!!)):

Okay this one is a bit weird for this rant because I will freely admit that depending on if certain other tropes are used concurrently to this one, it makes sense, but by default I say it doesn’t. Ignoring how Danny is by default and in most cases male, his contribution to the ‘conception’ and gestation of Dani or Dan’s clone body (if you ignore A Glitch In Time and have Dan in his original body, Danny still didn’t do any gestation or anything, but things are admittingly different) only went so far as providing some DNA. Vlad did the whole cultivation thing and making sure the decanting happened safely and all that good, very important, stuff. So wouldn’t Danny be the dad in this scenario? Since the equivalent to a regular birth here would be Danny hitting and quitting with Vlad (que barfing reflex at the thought of Danny/Vlad stuff) purposely getting a baby made without Danny’s knowledge for his own benefit and desire for a child? Even if you go by the more accurate real life correlation to SA, Danny still played a male role here because he didn’t carry/grow the baby/clone.

The only reasons I can see for Danny to be labled the ‘mom’ in this situation are; Danny is more nurturing than Vlad– which by a sexist standard means he’s the maternal one–, Danny was the victim in the unauthorized baby making and is thus in the female role– again, a sexist standard–, or because people think ‘single parent’ and immediately assume ‘single mother’. (To be clear, I know that statistically women suffer all forms of SA far more often than men, which is beyond terrible, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen the other way around as well.)

Now, to be fair, if you are also doing trans-man Danny, none of this holds weight and them calling Danny ‘mom’ could stem from that, or because saying Vlad had a kid with a teenaged trans-man makes Vlad look SO much worse and by calling Danny ‘mom’ they are trying to imply that kind of narrative. Which is not a terrible way of writing a story where Danny, Dani, and Dan all hate Vlad, go for the throat and make him look as bad as possible if that’s your goal. I’m just saying that in the default state of Danny being male and Vlad being the one who looked over the cloning pods, Danny is the dad and Vlad is the mom.

#dpxdc #opinion #rant #trope talk #content warning #Mentions of SA #I don't know how to tag

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couldtransitionsaveher · 9 months

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JOSUKE HIGASHIKATA from JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE

JUSTIFICATION:

"i think she marks the transition from jjba's traditionally masculine protagonists (who's masculinity is emphasized) to its more androgynous characterization and aesthetic appeal protagonists. she showcases the transition from 80s bancho/yankii-esque herculean/masculine art at the start to araki's more defining androgynous/unisex art as the part went on, where he emphasized beauty and style inspired by fashion models.

part 4 also has an unintentional habit of emphasizing male figures' destructive tendencies, with multiple older male figures—especially the main villain of the part—indulging in the negative aspects of masculinity in brutal, often sadistic ways and male figures closer to josuke's age either being taken advantage of by older male figures or resorting to violent masculinity themselves. josuke, on the other hand, opposes these ideals by generally being kind, emotional; only resorting to violence at the insulting of her hair, which we learn is because of when she was saved by an unknown male delinquent who, despite what he appeared to be (and by all accounts, should've been), showed her and her mother kindness by saving her. (in contrast to many male characters in the part)

i think her being a girl would make the part a lot more interesting on a grander scale, considering the focus on masculinity being a sort of "perpetrator" image, and how'd she fight against that by being the exact opposite. whereas stands and powers up to this point focused on destroying, her stand focuses on restoring. instead of using her stand to hurt, her stand manifested as a response to her empathy and wish to heal.

and my final case: the main villain of part 4, who's first victim was a 16-year-old (school)girl out of his impulse, ultimately being defeated by a 16-year-old schoolgirl /due/ to his impulsivity (in revealing himself) after so many years of targeting and terrorizing countless and helpless women is not only poetic, but a facetious and satisfying sentiment of justice prevalent in jjba." - Anonymous

Reminder: Submissions are always open! Submit Here!

#could transition have saved her #josuke higashikata #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #diamond is unbreakable #diamond is not crash #transgender #trans hc #anonymous submission

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homosexuhauls · 1 year

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By Vidya Krishnan

GOA, India — My niece was just 4 years old when she turned to my sister-in-law in a packed movie theater in Mumbai and asked about gang rape for the first time.

We were watching the latest Bollywood blockbuster about vigilante justice, nationalistic fervor and, of course, gang rape. Four male characters seized the hero’s sister and dragged her away. “Where are they taking Didi?” my niece asked, using the Hindi word for “elder sister.” It was dark, but I could still make out her tiny forehead, furrowed with concern.

Didi’s gang rape took place offscreen, but it didn’t need to be shown. As instinctively as a newborn fawn senses the mortal danger posed by a fox, little girls in India sense what men are capable of.

You may wonder, “Why take a 4-year-old to such a movie?” But there is no escaping India’s rape culture; sexual terrorism is treated as the norm. Society and government institutions often excuse and protect men from the consequences of their sexual violence. Women are blamed for being assaulted and are expected to sacrifice freedom and opportunity in exchange for personal safety. This culture contaminates public life — in movies and television; in bedrooms, where female sexual consent is unknown; in the locker room talk from which young boys learn the language of rape. India’s favorite profanities are about having sex with women without their consent.

It is the specific horror of gang rape that weighs most heavily on Indian women that I know. You may have heard of the many gruesome cases of women being gang-raped, disemboweled and left for dead. When an incident rises to national attention, the kettle of outrage boils over, and women sometimes stage protests, but it passes quickly. All Indian women are victims, each one traumatized, angry, betrayed, exhausted. Many of us think about gang rape more than we care to admit.

In 2011 a woman was raped every 20 minutes in India, according to government data. The pace quickened to about every 16 minutes by 2021, when more than 31,000 rapes were reported, a 20 percent increase from the previous year. In 2021, 2,200 gang rapes were reported to authorities.

But those grotesque numbers tell only part of the story: 77 percent of Indian women who have experienced physical or sexual violence never tell anyone, according to one study. Prosecutions are rare.

Indian men may face persecution because they are Muslims, Dalits (untouchables) or ethnic minorities or for daring to challenge the corrupt powers that be. Indian women suffer because they are women. Soldiers need to believe that war won’t kill them, that only bad luck will; Indian women need to believe the same about rape, to trust that we will come back to the barracks safe each night, to be able to function at all.

Reports of violence against women in India have risen steadily over the decades, with some researchers citing a growing willingness by victims to come forward. Each rape desensitizes and prepares society to accept the next one, the evil becoming banal.

Gang rape is used as a weapon, particularly against lower castes and Muslims. The first instance that women my age remember was in 1980, when Phoolan Devi, a lower-caste teenager who had fallen in with a criminal gang, said she was abducted and repeatedly raped by a group of upper-caste attackers. She later came back with members of her gang and they killed 22 mostly upper-caste men. It was a rare instance of a brutalized woman extracting revenge. Her rape might never have made headlines without that bloody retribution.

Ms. Devi threw a spotlight on caste apartheid. The suffering of Bilkis Bano — the defining gang rape survivor of my generation — highlighted the boiling hatred that Indian institutions under Prime Minister Narendra Modi, a Hindu nationalist, have for Muslim women.

In 2002 brutal violence between Hindus and Muslims swept through Gujarat State. Ms. Bano, then 19 and pregnant, was gang raped by an angry Hindu mob, which also killed 14 of her relatives, including her 3-year-old daughter. Critics accuse Mr. Modi — Gujarat’s top official at the time — of turning a blind eye to the riots. He has not lost an election since.

Ms. Bano’s life took a different trajectory. She repeatedly moved houses after the assault, for her family’s safety. Last August, 11 men who were sentenced to life in prison for raping her were released — on the recommendation of a review committee stacked with members of Mr. Modi’s ruling party. After they were freed, they were greeted with flower garlands by Hindu right-wingers.

The timing was suspicious: Gujarat was to hold important elections a few months later, and Mr. Modi’s party needed votes. A member of his party explained that the accused, as upper-caste Brahmins, had “good” values and did not belong in prison. Men know these rules. They wrote the rule book. What’s most terrifying is that releasing rapists could very well be a vote-getter.

After Ms. Bano, there was the young physiotherapy student who in 2012 was beaten and raped on a moving bus and penetrated with a metal rod that perforated her colon before her naked body was dumped on a busy road in New Delhi. She died of her injuries. Women protested for days, and even men took part, facing water cannons and tear gas. New anti-rape laws were framed. This time was different, we naïvely believed.

It wasn’t. In 2018 an 8-year-old Muslim girl was drugged and gang raped in a Hindu temple for days and then murdered. In 2020 a 19-year-old Dalit girl was gang-raped and later died of her injuries, her spinal cord broken.

The fear, particularly of gang rape, never fully leaves us. We go out in groups, cover ourselves, carry pepper spray and GPS tracking devices, avoid public spaces after sunset and remind ourselves to yell “fire,” not “help” if attacked. But we know that no amount of precaution will guarantee our safety.

I don’t understand gang rape. Is it some medieval desire to dominate and humiliate? Do these men, with little power over others, feeling inadequate and ordinary, need a rush of power for a few minutes?

What I do know is that other men share the blame, the countless brothers, fathers, sons, friends, neighbors and colleagues who have collectively created and sustain a system that exploits women. If women are afraid, it is because of these men. It is a protection racket of epic proportions.

I’m not asking merely for equality. I want retribution. Recompense. I want young girls to be taught about Ms. Bano and Ms. Devi. I want monuments built for them. But men just want us to forget. The release of Ms. Bano’s rapists was about male refusal to commemorate our trauma.

So we build monuments with words and our memories. We talk to one another about gang rape, keeping it at the center of our lives. We try to explain to our youngest, to start protecting them.

This is how the history of the defeated is recorded. That’s what it all boils down to: a fight between forgetting and remembering.

#rape culture #radical feminism #indian feminism #vidya krishnan #misogyny

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armandsfangs · 23 days

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Lestat's situation with class in Paris must be very interesting in general and not just with Nicki. It was during the Reign of Terror in French Revolution. I'd be very surpirsed if this doesn't become relevant to his story.

Yes absolutely! Part of what made me enamoured with AMC's adaptation is how they weave the historical settings into the story, considering that they changed the time periods when events happened in the books. The easy way out would be to throw their hands up and leave it as a purely aesthetic change – like hey look there are some cute flapper women in the background! But integrating the effects of 1910s socio-economic struggles into Louis' character and then ww2 in the European arc helps create such a rich world and richer characters. That's why I'm confident they'll do justice to Lestat's story in the context of the French Revolution.

#lestat de lioncourt #iwtv

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iruthomlogs · 1 month

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World of Warcraft Yeehawgust undead cowboy

A World of Warcraft fanfiction for @yeehawgust event Yeehawgust 2024 day 10 undead featuring my forsaken characters Ansgar, Thorsten, Raphael, Hulbard, Amelia, and Celene.

A group of four cowboys and a pair of cowgirls arrived at a town in noon and a lot of town folks turn heads at these new arrivals as they smell bad. They soon saw that these folks are undead as their leader, a man wearing all black, said to his gang, "Let head to the saloon for a few drinks." and one of the men said, "Okay, Hulbard." The six undead cowboys then walk to the saloon as the scared town folks run to their homes.

As the undead cowboys take a seat in the bar and the people in the saloon look at the six undead folks, one of the undead men turn to a man sitting next to him at the bar and said to the human, "Hello, Robert." and Robert said in shock, "Thorsten? Is that you?" which Thorsten reply with a smile, "Yeah, I'm back from the dead." Thorsten then shoot Robert in the leg and one of the girls said, "Thorsten couldn't wait a little longer for his revenge." and the other girl reply, "I understand his thinking, Celene." Thorsten got up from his seat and said to the bleeding Robert, "You shoot me and left me for dead, Roobert. Now, I've come to get my revenge with my new friends. Each one of us has been killed by a friend of your ghost gang." and then shoot Robert in the face.

Sheriff Hatwing arrived to arrest the undead gang in order to bring justice only for the two women to walk up to him and said to him as they show their faces to the sheriff, "Hello, Sheriff Hatwing." and the sheriff's face turn grim as he said to the women, "It cannot be... Amelia... Celene..." and Amelia said to her lover, "Look at that, Celene. He remember the women that he has hung due to our live and our rejected of him." Celene ask her lesbian lover, "How can we killed him? Should we hang him?" and Amelia said, "That is a great idea, Celene." and then ask the others, "Boys, can you help poor undead ladies carry the sheriff to the hanging stand?" and the four undead men grab Sheriff Hatwing by his limbs and carry him to the hanging stand.

After the sheriff was hanged, the town was in a panic and both men and women start arming themselves and get ready to fight the undead six. As the six undead come onto the street, the adults start firing at them, but many of the bullets didn't hurt or even kill the undead gang and Hulbard wait until the living adults stop firing and he then said to the town people, "We don't want any trouble here. I understand that we bring terror to you, which we didn't mean to. Just hand us the men that we are going to named and we will leave town." and he start naming the men, "Thomas Lylodfuse, for the crime of killing his hunting partner Raphel for a woman. Edward Ragowl, for the crime of killing a mix wagon train overseen by Ansgar, when he was a man of God. Finally, Dean Kingsten, for the crime of killing me for silver." Once the three men are named, they are forced by the scared town people to face the men they killed, as the town people are willing to hand off these wicked men in return for their lives. Soon, the undead gang unload their bullets onto Thomas, Edward, and Dean, killing all three men. After the six undead got their revenge, they leave town and walk far from the settlement as the town people were shocked over what they just saw on this day.

Miles from the town wait a African American man whose lost his family to the infamous Ku Klux Klan and he use the power of Voodoo to bring back those whose were killed by the same Klan members whose murder his family. Soon, the undead six arrived to him and the African American man ask them, "Are those men dead?" and Hulbard reply, "Yes, they are dead. Old Nick will deal with them in Hell now." The master of the undead nod that revenge has come to them and he told them, "I have dug graves for you six. Go to these graves and I will return your souls." and the undead did as they are told before the African American man break the jars that hold their souls, allowing the undead gang to finally rest in peace and then burry their bodies.

#yeehawgust 2024 #yeehawgust #yeehawgust2024 #forsaken #world of warcraft #world of warcraft oc #undead cowboy #undead #undead oc

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godsofhumanity · 3 months

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I require sustinance (themis headcanons)

i gotchu fam:

ok tbh Themis' lore is a bit sparse,, when she's in myth, it's usually just as a supporting character.

now, personally, i've always hc'd her to be headstrong and very loud.

she's the personification of justice and law, so i think she's very sure of herself and she always believes what she is doing is right.

i've said this a lot, but i'll say it again; i think that, growing up, she and Iapetus (remembering that Themis is a Titan) got along the worst... because Iapetus, to me, is a prankster with somewhat loose morals, and Themis is more rigid.

i love the idea of Themis becoming the victim of most of Iapetus and Kronos' tomfoolery because she gave the biggest reactions haha

as she grows up, i think Themis never loses any of her hot-headedness. i do think that in Kronos' court, she keeps a seat as a counsellor and gives her little brother a lot of advice-- no one's ever really been officially king before Kronos (Ouranos hardly counts), so it's a big role and i think it's important that there is someone to give Kronos advice.

of course, as time passes, Kronos becomes more paranoid and trusts in Themis all the less. i think this is because he knows, in his heart, that if Themis knew what he had done to his children, she'd have kicked him off his throne immediately.

and i do believe that the only reason why Kronos gets away with eating 6 children and none of the other titans stage a coup before that time is because Kronos was just so sneaky about it,, no one really had a reason to suspect anything was wrong.

now i think it's possible that after Zeus was born and it became clear that he would rescue everyone from Kronos' terror, that Themis would have been one of Zeus' teachers.

Hyginus suggests that Themis and Amalthea both nursed Zeus and she was like a foster-mother to him, but i personally like the idea that NONE of the other titans knew about Zeus before he defeated Kronos-- it was so imperative that Rhea keep his birth a secret,, she didn't know who she could trust. so, no, i don't think Themis raised Zeus in that sense.

i think she would taken the young Zeus under her wing and been sure to teach him what it is to be king and how to rule and the role of the law.

this is also where, Zeus, ever charming, i think manages to sway Themis romantically.

it's funny because, most of the Titans end up marrying their siblings, which makes sense myth-wise, but the only ones who don't are: Iapetus (who marries an Oceanid), Crius (who married Pontus' daughter Eurybia), Themis and Mnemosyne,, and the latter two don't really get "officially married" (i guess, or at least, no one today really considers them married), but they do end up being consorts of Zeus. which is hilarious to me. he had a thing for older women for sure.

also, given that Themis isn't one to love pranks and "smooth-talkers" like Iapetus, it's even more hilarious that she ends up falling for Zeus of all people, who to me, is definitely a prankster and smooth-talker.

i think this is a testament to Zeus' charisma, and also his good-naturedness. i know that's a strange word to put in the same sentence as "Zeus", but i do think, especially in his youth, he was very much a hero. a good guy, sweet and kind.

in a world where there has been so much of terror, first with Ouranos and then with Kronos, i think Themis recognises Zeus' goodwill and being an oracle herself, may have known that things would be better with Zeus.

timeline wise, i think Zeus and Themis get together after Metis (she is usually considered the 2nd wife),, and most likely, while she was a teacher to Zeus before he even got with Metis, i think she may have later acted in the role of a comforter to Zeus after he inadvertently kills her (by swallowing her) and that's how they became closer.

in the Iliad, it is written that Themis was the first to "offer her cup" to Hera after she fights with Zeus, and i think this is very sweet of Themis. i don't think Hera has any beef with Themis because her relationship with Zeus happened much before Hera's own, and Themis' children (the Horae) do not interfere with Hera and her children.

i hc that Hera has a lot of respect for Themis. she is an aunt to her, and is very dear.

i imagine that Oceanus and Themis remain close, so that may also be where Hera and Themis have spent a lot of time together (the lore says that Hera was raised in Oceanus' house).

in Olympus, it's said that Themis nursed Apollo when he was born, and later, she also advised Aphrodite on how to raise Eros (because apparently he was growing lol), so i like the idea that Themis is very motherly. i think she sorta just takes care of everyone on Olympus,, a bit like a Hestia-type character perhaps.

#and that's a wrap i think. sorry it's a bit all over the place #it's hard to make hc's when the myths aren't solid #themis #hc #anon #anonymous #asks

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batmannotes · 6 months

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Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom 4K Ultra HD Review

Jason Momoa reprises his role as the King of the Seven Seas in Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom, which comes 5 years after the original film was released. Once again Aquaman’s most notable rogue, Black Manta, is back seeking revenge for his deceased father. This time, Manta wields the power of the mythic Black Trident to unleash an ancient and sinister force. Hoping to end his reign of terror, Aquaman makes an unlikely alliance with his brother, Orm, the former king of Atlantis. Setting aside their differences, they join forces to protect their kingdom and save the world from irreversible destruction.

I must admit, even though I consider myself a superhero aficionado, it has been 5 years since the first solo Aquaman flick hit the theaters and remembering certain details regarding the movie were hazy for me at best. Fortunately, there are flashbacks to some of the pertinent moments from the first outing. As in the original movie, there is a healthy dose of action and adventure sprinkled with some hit and miss humor. I enjoyed the unlikely bond between the brothers, and it is hard to argue that Black Manta is one of the most iconic super villains to hit the silver screen in a comic book flick in recent memory. Unfortunately, Manta is paired with a far less interesting character named Dr. Shin (Randall Park) and a collection of henchmen and women with little to no depth in this underwater adventure.

The visuals of this film are the real treat, and with the 4K format they really shine. The underwater computer-generated sequences are particularly aesthetically pleasing, but I really wish this movie stuck to scenes beneath the sea. There are tons of incredibly interesting creatures in the ocean that an Aquaman movie has yet to tap into. A number of times the movie gets caught trying to copy other films, particularly Star Wars, however, this movie lacks the interesting intertwining plot points and character development of the sci-fi classic. Even with the beautiful 4K eye candy most of its visuals project, there are the occasional, (Joss Whedon) Justice League-esque CGI that leaves you wondering, “where did that come from?”. I also did not care for Aquaman being out of his classic orange and green costume for most of the movie, as I felt that it robbed me of that superhero feel.

VIDEO QUALITY 📽️ : A

The 2160p transfer looks glorious, even with the aforementioned lackluster CGI in a few limited sequences. This liquid beauty really carry the visual end of this film.

AUDIO QUALITY 🔈 : A

The Dolby Atmos English: Dolby TrueHD 7.1 (48kHz, 24-bit) really is a treat for the listener at home. The dialogue is clear, and the action sequences are bombastic as you are immersed deep into the sea of this film.

EXTRAS 📀 : B

Included with this single disc release is a Digital Copy and several video extras listed below:

Finding the Lost Kingdom (21:22) - Jason Momoa, director James Wan, DC honcho Jim Lee, production design Bill Brzeski, and other key members of the cast and crew are your guides at this usually scenic behind-the-scenes featurette, which includes bits and pieces of on-set footage and others supportive clips.

Aquaman: Worlds Above and Below (9:39) - A like-minded look at various locales on both sides of the surface that covers special effects, location shoots, and Aquaman lore by way of a few vintage comics.

Atlantean Blood is Thicker than Water (4:17) - A short but sweet look at the history of Arthur and his half-brother Orm, again with some comics history and short interviews with Momoa and Patrick Wilson.

It's a Manta World (10:08) - Another character-focused featurette, this short piece sits down with Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and others to speak about David Kane, Black Manta, the power suit, and more.

Necrus, the Lost Black City (5:51) - James Wan, producer Peter Safran, Bill Brzeski, and others chat briefly about the titular lost kingdom, its visual creation, and its history in the franchise.

Escape from the Deserter World (8:05) - Another like-minded featurette about the location -- or in this case, sequence -- featured in the film, a handful of familiar faces share about its creation and execution while being supported by behind-the-scenes footage, concept art, rehearsals, costume and set design, and more.

Brawling at Kingfish's Lair (4:07) - A quick look at one of the film's many visually overloaded action scenes and some of the goofier details and supporting characters featured in it.

Oh, Topo! (2:12) - And speaking of goofy supporting characters, this short and light-hearted tribute acts as an appreciation and highlight reel for everyone's favorite comedy relief cephalopod.

FINAL GRADE: C-

The only real emotions drawn from this bloated outing are the reconciliation between two brothers and the love for their mother. Aquaman should have submerged deeper into the sea, instead of trying to mimic the tales of old from the land above.

Order now from Amazon.

#aquaman #movie #review

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jackoshadows · 1 year

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Rosamund Pike on Moiraine, season 2. (Google Translated from French)

PREMIERE: At the end of season 1, Moiraine loses all of her powers... In what state do we find her? ROSAMUND PIKE: Moraine is no longer the same woman. She is traumatized and lonely, like a wounded animal that pushes away everyone close to her. In this world, being cut off from the One Power for a woman is one of the most painful traumas, equivalent to the loss of a child. You will therefore see how a hitherto incredibly powerful character will attempt to face her enemy without her greatest weapon. What new aspects of his temperament have you discovered? PIKE: She seems much more vulnerable. She feels like she's missing a fundamental part of her identity. And that doesn't happen in the books, it's an exploration by our writers. I was a bit appalled: I liked Moraine for who she was and I didn't want to see her suffer. So it was a challenge, not entirely pleasant, but very interesting. Losing the Unique Power means losing the link with his Champion. How is Moraine and Lan's relationship impacted? PIKE: Their dynamic takes a hit! In this world, the Aes Sedai and their champions are linked psychically but also physically: this link allows them to stay longer without sleep, without food, but above all to feel what the other feels. Suddenly, Moraine and Lan find themselves in a deafening silence, cut off from each other. They never needed to communicate because they always had this intense connection that did it for them. So Moraine starts to establish a distance, she doesn't feel worthy of him, she pushes him away and becomes very cruel. Daniel and I were apart for a lot of Season 2 and we missed working together... Are we going to delve deeper into the mythology of this universe? PIKE: Oh yes, and it's amazing! The first season allowed to establish the rules, and season 2 deepens them. We go further in the exploration of the characters: there is a new enemy of size, the Seanchan, a people who come from the other side of the sea. They enslave the women who can channel magic, and the use as weapons of war. Their aim is to dominate the world: we see them seizing cities, terrorizing the inhabitants. But there are also some very interesting new female characters like Elayne Trakand, a new novice to the White Tower and future Queen of Andor. She meets Egwene, and their personalities collide. Finally, wouldn't the main theme of this series be sisterhood? PIKE: 100%. This is one of the great attractions of The Wheel of Time. And that female power is portrayed in an eclectic way, there's not just one example of what it should look like: in Season 3 that we're shooting right now, there are two incredibly powerful roles played by women from 70 years. And then we celebrate women, but not only! We also play with genres, creating fluid characters. Our casting director is always on the lookout for bright and unusual faces that are unrecognized by the public. I won't be very interesting when you get to season 3 because there are so many exciting new characters! (Laughs.) What can you already tell us about season 3 of The Wheel of Time? PIKE: With the third season, we open the field of possibilities. We're currently doing an episode that's really avant-garde, almost psychedelic. We have the possibility to push things this far thanks to the support of the studio. I think we're making a series that I hope will be watched in 20 years. The goal is not to just reach our time, but to do something timeless.

Very possible they were filming Rhuidean for season 3 before the SAG-AFTRA strike.... One of the best parts of the books IMO, so I hope they do it justice!!

#Rosamund Pike #Moiraine #Moiraine Damodred #The Wheel of Time #season 2 #WOT cast #season 3 filming... were they filming Rhuidean before shutting down?

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voraciousvore · 11 months

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In the Belly of the Giant (1/39)

Sequel to my story "Boarding School for Giants" which can be read here. This story follows Eren and Joey in their lives as adults, as well as other recurring characters. When Eren gets kidnapped, it's up to Joey to save her.

Total Word Count: 84,994

Content Warning: This story is very dark and nasty, with lots of vore and sex (both romantic and non-consensual). I don't spare details. Strictly 18+ only. I will flag the most offensive chapters as "mature."

Chapter 1

Joey woke up early, staring up at the ceiling tinged blue by the morning light. The ceiling fan above rotated in slow, lazy circles, producing a soothing hum and a cool breeze. His eyes drifted to the alarm clock on his bedside table; he had a solid twenty minutes before he had to get up for work. He almost lifted his arms up to stretch but then recalled the tiny woman soundly sleeping on his bare chest and refrained. She hadn’t stirred, although he could feel the lightest movement from her breathing.

It was the middle of summer, and the couple couldn’t afford the luxury of running the air conditioning in their new apartment, so neither of them needed to sleep with bedsheets. Fortunately, the heat wasn’t sweltering, but rather a warm, pleasing temperature. Joey was grateful for this fact: He doubted Eren would want to curl up on his giant body when he was sticky with sweat.

Even after several years, Joey still could scarcely believe his good fortune, to have a lovely, petite little women like Eren to call his own. If she hadn’t crashed her bike into his shoe that one fateful day, he might have never met her. Of course, since she became well-known at their high school for the novelty of being the only human, he may have still known of her existence, but he probably would have been too shy to approach her—too shy, despite being large enough to hold her in the palm of his hand. She wasn’t even as tall as his pinky finger, after all. Regardless, he loved how tiny and cute and precious she was; she made him feel big and strong by comparison. She had a fire inside her too, a vivaciousness and bravery that he admired deeply.

Eren shifted and mumbled incoherently in her sleep, then rolled over on her side. Joey felt her movements on his chest and listened with concern. After all the horrible things Eren had gone through when she was first introduced to the giant side of the wall, she was prone to occasional nightmares. Thankfully, Joey had successfully kept her safe in the time since. Her night terrors had subsided in the subsequent years, but Joey stayed vigilant nonetheless.

His protective instinct for his girl was a large part of his motivation to pursue a career in law enforcement. With his natural intellect and discipline, Joey had the option to choose from a wide variety of careers, if he had been so inclined. However, Joey hated bullies and criminals and anyone who would dare to hurt somebody as small and vulnerable as Eren. He had a strong sense of justice, and wanted to be the hero, the good guy to make the world a safer place for her so she didn’t have to be scared of giants hurting her. So, he had enrolled in the police academy and earned his badge.

Eren had followed a different path. Being as small as she was, her options for a career were more limited. Even so, she had been inspired by the human doctor she met in the hospital to become involved in the medical field. Rather than work in a hospital, though, she found her niche in dentistry. She was the only dental hygienist around small enough to fit inside a giant’s mouth, and she could do a very thorough and methodical job cleaning teeth.

Joey, feeling very relaxed and comfortable, soon slipped back into slumber, until the blaring alarm woke him up. He grunted and silenced the clock with a massive hand. Now that they both needed to get up, Joey stretched to get his blood flowing, raising his arms above his head with a satisfied groan.

Eren, feeling the landscape of warm flesh underneath her move, opened her eyes and raised herself into a sitting position with a yawn. Once Joey’s giant pectoral muscles flexing beneath his skin relaxed, she stood up and stretched her own limbs, getting all the kinks out of her joints. Joey put on his glasses and raised his head off the pillow to admire her miniscule form, ignoring the strain this motion caused in his neck. Living for several years in a world made for giants had made Eren very slim and fit due to all the exercise. Right now, because of the temperature, she was wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, exposing her sleek feminine curves, narrow waist, and perky breasts. Joey liked what he saw.

“Good morning, love,” he greeted her in a dulcet tone. Eren slid down the side of his chest, over the solid lump of his bicep and onto the bed so that he could raise himself up without knocking her over.

“Morning, handsome,” she yawned back. Joey sat up on the side of the gigantic mattress. They hadn’t bothered with buying a bedframe when furnishing their shared living space, since it would only make it harder for Eren to climb up, so the mattress lay on the floor, with a human-sized ladder propped up in a discreet corner. Eren gazed up at the handsome colossus towering over her. Now it was her turn to admire him.

Joey was no longer the gangly, awkward teenager with pimples she had first met in high school. He had physically matured, his lanky body sprouting and filling out into the body of a healthy young man. His workouts at the police academy had toned his physique with lean muscle. Without the pesky hormones of his teenage years, his skin was no longer plagued by acne. Eren, being a dental hygienist, had pressured him to be conscientious of his dental health, so he maintained his pearly white teeth and charming smile. He had developed just as much in mind as in body, becoming more confident and comfortable in his own skin.

Joey stood up to his full height, which Eren estimated was about two hundred feet tall, although she wasn’t certain, since obviously she couldn’t measure him with anything except her eyes. He started to put on his uniform, while Eren dressed in her first layer of work clothes. Due to her unique situation, she didn’t wear the typical clothing for a dentist: When she got to work, she would be adding an additional coat of rubbery, saliva-proof shielding.

Eren loved how sexy Joey always looked in uniform. Of course, she found him attractive no matter what he was wearing, but he looked especially crisp and professional when dressed up. The giant bent down to pick her up and she wanted to swoon into his expansive, soft hand. He lifted her up the great distance to his eye level.

“Would you like me to make you breakfast, sweetie?” Joey asked her, giving her a tender look with his chocolate eyes. By default, Joey was usually the one to cook, since Eren’s human portions would hardly be a crumb in his capacious belly. Really, he only needed to cook one plate of food for himself, and share the tiniest amount with Eren, with her whole body being barely the size of a bite of food to him. Nevertheless, Eren still appreciated the gesture.

“That would be wonderful,” she replied with honeyed words, rubbing his cheek with her hand. He brought her down to his giant lips and pressed them gently to her in a soft kiss, which she was more than happy to reciprocate. The feathery lightness of her touch made his heart flutter. He carried his girlfriend into the kitchen and set her on the counter to spend some time with her while he made breakfast.

The morning passed quickly. Joey whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast to share with his beloved. After they both ate, Joey placed Eren back on the floor where her human-sized bathroom was located, which basically consisted of a portable box with the necessary amenities and a built-in water tank that Joey could easily refill from the giant sink of his own bathroom. Their apartment was only made for giants, but clever designs like the box rooms could be easily added in for Eren’s comfort. They were expensive additions, as specialty products, but Eren’s magnanimous father had been generous in helping out.

Eren, as a dental hygienist, always made sure that Joey brushed and flossed his teeth every morning. Joey made a show of grumbling about it but in reality he didn’t mind. He thought it was cute when Eren became so insistent, as if she could force him with how small she was. He dutifully complied and cleaned his teeth to her satisfaction while she did the same with hers.

Eren had outgrown her moody gothic phase, so she no longer wore the heavy makeup, piercings, or edgy black clothes from her teens. She embraced a more natural look instead, particularly when she went to work since makeup wasn’t very practical or sanitary when she was inside a giant mouth cleaning teeth. She regretted her tattoo, but never bothered to mention it to anyone. Joey probably couldn’t even see the details on it anyways, since he was so enormous compared to her, so it didn’t really matter.

Just like how Joey would carry Eren to school in their younger days, now as adults he took her to work. The dental clinic that employed her wasn’t far from their apartment, and was on the way to the police station, so it was a convenient arrangement. Even if she worked far away, Joey would still be willing to take her. He did not like the idea of her walking or biking outside, on the giant sidewalks, by herself. Some oblivious giant could stomp by and unwittingly smash her, or a giant with malicious intent could take the opportunity to seize her up in his fist. Joey recalled with pain the sort of tortures she had been subjected to in the past. He remembered the time he had been shamefully unable to protect her, when he was beaten up by another student. He promised himself he would never let anything like that happen again, and had strengthened his body and sharpened his instincts accordingly. He was her protector.

Joey marched into the clinic, quickly sweeping the inside with his eyes to make sure no threats were present before relaxing his guard. He went to the front desk, where the secretary was waiting for him with a sparkling white smile. She was a tall and attractive giantess, with long auburn hair and stylish glasses with purple rims. Joey was a familiar sight at the clinic, since he was reliably there to escort Eren to and from work on a regular basis. After passing Eren safely off to the secretary, Joey reluctantly left for work, glancing back over his shoulder as he opened the door to leave. Eren waved goodbye with a cute smile that made his heart melt.

As Joey strolled along the sidewalk to his job, his cellphone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and answered, “Hello?”

“Joey! Is Eren around? Are you free to talk?” It was Mr. Henderson, Eren’s dad. He sounded excited.

“I just dropped her off at the clinic, and I’m headed to the police station now. Why?”

“Perfect! I have good news.” A dramatic pause. Joey could almost hear Mr. Henderson grinning on the other end of the line. “I got it.”

Joey perked up. “Really?! That soon? Have you looked at it yet?”

“Nope. I figured I’d wait until you get here. I’ll be at the school all morning.”

“Great! I’ll try to stop by during my patrol route, as soon as possible. Or at lunchtime, if I can’t make it earlier.”

“See you soon.” Mr. Henderson hung up. Joey was grinning ear to ear. It was shaping up to be a great day.

Chapter 2

Table of Contents:

Ch. 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39

Writing Masterpost

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