#and so the rogue has spoken (asks)

[iznsfw]

Manic Robotic Dream Girl

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 4 - Choi Yena

IZ*ONE's Choi Yena x Male Reader Smut

8,311 words

Neon lights dance like flames around you. There’s no need to touch them when you’re already burning. Burning with something that’s not a fever but a kind of pain that never goes away. 

Sweat pricks the sides of your face and you’re aware of the blots of perspiration running down your jawline. Nights at the Rogue are often hot, but then they surprise you with a sudden burst of windiness, so you never bother to take your coat off. Whatever and wherever, you’ll always be here yet you’ve not once been able to predict the temperature.

That’s what happened when WAKE12 took over. 

Apparently, they decide if people are under the weather by controlling it by them-fucking-selves. Kwon feeling shitty? Looks like rain then. Maybe she’s feeling happy? Alright, let the clouds find balance. Angry? Take a fucking hailstorm. What a privilege, one bigger than the lives of the rich men in the North. But everyone forgets about that fact after she sends out minimal alms—canned goods, a Bible, something. Then it’s back to President Kwon is the best! President Kwon can never fail us! President—

“Vodka.”

“Same as yesterday?” asks Yuri, smiling a little bit. 

“Same as yesterday.” For a hologram, Yuri can be quite the social butterfly. 

Online wallets are all the rage nowadays. The AI voice in your head offers you said option to pay, and you can hear your balance privately spoken. Somehow your brow prevents from creasing as you hear it. You lack funds but somehow have a few extra bucks to drink. 

Choose that. You want to save your Wizes for other things. Lock eyes with Yuri and your balance goes down. You’ve paid. 

Online and digital wallets modified with embedded signals and readers were in use before you were even born. Of course, there were already such payment options in the twenty-first century, but how WAKE12 changed everything, not just ordering options with telepathic payment, can easily be read in a sixth grade history textbook. 

In October of the year 2918, Kwon Eunbi rose in the ranks as a scientist and soldier for Kang Hyewon, former president, and ended up working her way into dictatorship. The textbooks and classrooms teach that she proposed a law to the court and got herself a position for her wit and intelligence. But early first accounts challenge that, saying that she caught the eye of Kang and had a sexual relationship with her. WAKE12 branded this as propaganda that sullies the name of not only the dictator but the one of the late president, who died mysteriously before Kwon rose to power.

Massive backstory for cashless payment, but you know there’s more to it than the government would like to let on. What happened to Kang? What made Kwon so evil the moment she sat in her presidential throne?

“Thank you, sir.” Holograms all have different voices; Yuri’s sounds like she’s singing. At least the bartender slash boss hired her instead of those with monotone, emotionless ones. It’s cheaper to have hologram workers than humans anyway. Less money, less emotional labor, less of feeling like a normal person.

A beggar curled up below the counter holds his hand out. Not an uncommon sight in the Auster, but it’s a pity to see. The world has advanced with its telepathic wallets and 3D holograms yet there will always be individuals who haven’t caught up with time. While the North Rogue leads worldly lifetimes, the Auster is a home for the rejects. The poorest of the poor. The somewhere-in-the-middles. It can never be truly a perfect world if advancement doesn’t include everyone.

Give him a Wize. Back then, that would have been worth a hundred or so dollars, a currency long gone. Not that you’d know of it; WAKE12 claimed leadership way before you were born so the cheap value of the coin studded with the bust of Kwon Eunbi is all you’re accustomed to. 

Take your drink and thank Yuri. 

The cobblestone is rough beneath your feet. You take your seat at your usual table. Float your fingers around your shotglass. Pour the contents down your chapped mouth almost all in one go. Anything to feel something. Anything to feel anything. 

You’re not an alcoholic by any means, though that’s certainly up for debate. But there’s a need for the liquid that rages more than the need for oxygen (the fucking shortage of it) or food (the fucking expense of it). How else could you be less numb? You’re welcome to every feeling at this stage, just not this empty neutrality that slumbers your senses.

Pain? Your throat seizes up when you drink and brings tears to your eyes, so there's that. 

Happiness? Hm, none. You’re barely smiling. You’ve no family, little friends, and no partner for the last few years. There’s nothing to be happy about.

Anger? The displays of people fined harshly for their crimes on the big as life advertising screens stir some defiance in you. WAKE12 doesn’t take kindly to hacktivists and young coders dabbling in creating their own AIs. You have your own anti-government opinions, but what’s a human mind against an artificial one? Plus, and probably a less serious reason (tell that to the thousands who flock to the hospitals because of asthma), the air is almost always polluted here in the Rogue. It’s dirtied by car smoke and factory remains. You’d think that robots taking over the labs would improve it. Perhaps they weren’t programmed that way. 

Loneliness?

You look around. See the glitching phantoms of new world technology make the drinks breezily. Watch the light-studded train filled with commuters from the Auster. Kwon Eunbi managed to build an underside track for additional trains to run and still the commuters—young students, old grandparents, not young but not old workers whose jobs belong to WAKE12—wear the same tired look you saw yesterday. All you could hear are buzzes and uncanny valley voices from holograms.

The second chair paired with your table is empty. You’re suddenly lucid to the fact that it’ll always be like this. These nights of drinking and walking in the Auster Rogue will be endless, and just the same, you’ll be endlessly alone.

Sometimes mortality could be so depressing.

So depressing that it makes it all so meaningless.

A man stumbles over to the outside bar, breaking your thoughtless reverie. His clothes are as black as the night you spend but you can see blood on the fabric. The skyscrapers provide enough light for you to see his red face from anxious internal and worrying external blood. The pleading look grips his expression like a malfunctioning robot’s limb. 

He’s looking back as if afraid of what might be there. The rain-soaked road is tread on roughly by his shaking knees as he crawls his way to the bar. “Please, help me!”

“Warning,” comes the voice in your head, and you know the other visitors hear it, too, “a criminal of the state is in your proximity. Proceed with caution.”

WAKE12 always keeps an eye on those who threaten them. They have goons everywhere. The kindly grandfather down the street could be a veteran waiting for the chance of a medal. They have ears everywhere as well. Undercover cops stay in both crowded and clear spaces to identify possible threats. When it all comes down to it, you’re not safe in your own head at all. The implants can detect when you dream up something terrible. That’s how millions lose their reputation. Their jobs. Their families.

Their lives.

He staggers to the counter, crashing glass that shards his palms, and lets out this wail you’d hear from an abused pup. “Please,” he croaks. “Don’t listen to them. I just need somewhere to hide. I did nothing wrong, nothing!”

The implanted voice in your brain says otherwise. Everyone was given one when the Cyber Age came. That’s what makes a tiny difference in seeing who’s human and who’s not: the tiny, diamond scar below their hairline from the operation. Close inspection can’t always be done, however. Nowadays, too many of these robots and holograms pass the Turing test. You can never truly trust someone.

“Offenses include: playing the role of an accomplice in theft of government data, distribution of terrorist propaganda—”

“Get the fuck out!” says the bartender, having burst out from the back. As a longtime visitor, you haven’t seen him this angry, but you know it stems from fear. No one wants to associate with a criminal. No one wants the association to lead to arrest and the arrest lead to god knows what. Hundreds of people go missing after they’re taken under custody. What Kwon does to them, you don’t know. “Leave or I’ll call the cops!”

Like you said, they lurk everywhere. You’re surprised they haven’t caught up to him.

The bloodied man shakes his head, like please, please, someone believe me. “No, I’m not a criminal! Listen to me, please, I don’t have enough time! They just wanna—cut down” 

Rapid footsteps. Sigh and put your glass down. There they are.

The man reaches for him, but the bartender shoves the whole table into his face. He falls back on the ground and cries out for help that never comes. Men and women wearing tight black uniforms and vests pull him up. Their lit helmets that opposingly disallow a view of their faces make them look emotionless. Like robots.

Huh.

While resting your head against the metal chair, you listen to the struggling shuffles of the police and criminal, and see the glitching robots walking down the road. No real emotion, no real living.

He scratches and screams and sobs, but that doesn’t matter to them. They pull him along the rocky cement and recite his nonexistent rights to him. There’s the right to remain silent (he’s screaming), the right to an attorney (nobody in the Auster can afford a good lawyer much less an honest one), and the right to live freely if found innocent of the crime (someone getting convicted happens more often than being released).

Besides, it can’t be called living when it’s in a place so completely devoid of any humanity.

“In more ways than one,” you say. Fuck it, you’ll drink to that.

-

Like always, you take more than you should. You believe by now you’ve built some kind of immunity. That’s what they all think, you remind yourself, before an inevitable death that buries them in the ground one bricked shot at a time. You swear you’re not dizzy at all or feeling the acid build to your throat, so the sight gathering just a little away from you is real. 

Stare at your glass. Space out if not for what you see: behind it, a shapely form of a woman in purple. The blue and violet lights make it difficult for you to distinguish it from her clothes so she actually looks naked. That shocks you more than the arrest. You’re sure she’s got a little modesty in her because why else is she making her way to a table?

Your table?

It’s like she teleported when she’s suddenly seated before you, filling the chair that’s been empty for the last more or so years. You don’t even get the chance to look up at the right time, but the moment you do, you think keeping your eyes on your glass would’ve been better for the sake of your heart.

YENA.

Her name appears in your mind and she hasn’t even introduced herself. But it’s right there, emblazoned in lights in all capitalized four letters: YENA. This girl is Yena. And this girl—this fucking guilty pleasure of a girl—is gorgeous.

The ends of her hair are tinged with blonde, and it’s hard not to give attention to that with how her locks are gathered into twin tails. She smoothes them before looking at you quite seriously, like she’s about to propose a challenge you’d lose.

Blue shining eyes. There’s something odd about the way they twinkle below her bangs—almost like something not human. 

Yena dances her fingers around her jawline, elbow resting on the table, and tilts her pretty face. Lets her fingers play with her lips that are made for things the Auster’s known for providing (she can’t be from here though; those crocheted coordinates look costly). That’s how you notice that fine feature. Naturally thick and casually jutted out in a distinctive pout, your eyes are glued to them. Can’t take your prolonged stare away if someone helped you. 

“Are you waiting for me to start talking?” Yena asks. She’s not angry, just amused—her voice is smooth and clear, with a tiny pitch that makes her all the more cute. 

You shake your head. “Was just trying to figure something out.” 

“And that is?”

“A lot of things,” you state. Things you’d keep a secret forever, lest you spill them out to a girl all for the payment of being beautiful. “But I’m not sure pretty girls like you would want to know.”

You try to keep your curious peering at her normal, but it’s difficult when she just attracts attention. She’s a glowing lightbulb in a flutter of moths. Yena doesn’t flicker weakly; she shines, and it’s honestly why everyone else is “subtly” looking at her, this gorgeous stranger who came in and somehow chose the alcoholic who came from places more rock bottom than the Auster.

She laughs. It’s sobering—you think you’ll get drunk on her rather than the cheap alcohol. “Is that what you think of me? Too beautiful to think too much?” 

Look her up and down. Yeah, you want to say, that’s about it. It’s not out of offense but rather the instinct in you that wants to tell her you don’t want to put her in a worried state. She’s too… ah, she doesn’t know what you’d do for a girl like her—someone too unreal to be human but too genuine to be the “living” dolls lonely men purchase. Someone who can keep a conversation going without fearing a low blow. Someone who’s out of your league in the Rogue’s mixed pool but chooses you anyway.

“I’m just saying you might not want to hear a stranger boring you with his hard problems.”

“Oh please,” she says, waving it off with a flick of a pointed wrist. “You know my name. I know yours. We’re not strangers anymore.”

How did you—how did she—

Her eyes twinkle again. They’re… violet? You could have bet they were blue. But then you see the suspiciously smooth and clear skin, with the perfect lines of her eyelids, which curve as if manufactured in. She’s definitely not human. 

“Besides,” adds Yena sweetly, “you’re really underestimating how good I can take certain hard things.”

Swallow. You opened the door, now you’re locked in. 

Yena catches the bob of your Adam’s apple and smirks. Traces her fingers over yours. She can’t be human for sure yet you feel the softness of her hand, the only thing giving you doubt being how chilled her touch is. It's humid here, so where did that come from? Goosebumps pop up in masses across your skin—note how nothing shows up on hers.

Maybe she’s just a confident woman.

“Come on, I dare you.” 

“Only if you go first.” 

“Yes, sir,” she says. A cutesy saluted hand positions itself before her temple. Her hands are tiny, could be dainty, while her cheeks lift to support an adorable smile. 

Your knees tremble. You don’t know where that came from either. Yena just knows what to say to get to a guy. Almost like she was made for it. There’s that question again, resurfacing in your altered brain: is she human or not?

You lean back. Cross your arms. Here you go, on your way to find out. “What’s your story?” 

Yena shrugs, her shoulders bare and smooth. And you’re thinking of how you’d like to see the rest of them, the rest of her body naked by pulling down the crocheted strap of the purple coordinates. How you’d like to touch those puffed up cheeks and not care if they’re real or not when you pull her close to kiss her. How those lips—

“Don’t have one.”

“Sorry?”

She laughs. Even the way she giggles is attractive.  “No, seriously,” she replies, licking her lips. “There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m the most normal girl there is.”

There is nothing normal about her. Everything she says is too prepared. The largeness of her eyes gives everything away. Her hair is combed too finely that you’re not unconvinced that it isn't human hair at all, though you can see them connect at the roots. It’s like someone drew a cute animated girl on a notepad one lonely night, sent the idea to a rich bastard, and brought her to life.

So no, you’re not buying it.

“So you’re saying you’re just a blank canvas.”

“If you put it like that, I guess.” Yena rolls her eyes. You’re a bit obsessed. “Guys want that, right? A blank piece of a girl they could shoot more than a shot at? Maybe paint her white?”

You’re thankful you didn’t continue drinking. Otherwise, your surprise would be visible and audible with the lodge of your throat as you wineboard yourself.

The side of her mouth raises. A soft dimple exceeding cuteness—it’s deeper, brighter, shinier. You imagine her as a college student, charming boys into submission just with a wink and a smile that can melt hearts and bring guilt to lust-addled minds. 

That’s what she’s doing: Yena is melting you because of how adorable she is, but then you take a look at her body, note the fine curves it boasts, and feel the need to go to a confessional pastor. You’re not supposed to repeats in your mind, but you’re you—if you aren’t supposed to do it, then of course you’ll do it anyway.

“Woah,” you say with a nervous laugh. “Woah.”

“Look.” She rests her forearm on the table and talks so casually one would think she weren’t just talking about getting cumshots. “I‘m not taking that back, so do with that what you will.”

Under the table, behind the scenes, her leg is curled around one of yours. Her ankle glides along your skin teasingly. Not a speck of hair on all of those flawless legs, but you’re shivering anyway from the contact. Hence, make a show of closing your coat around yourself. You can’t fool her when it’s not even chilly.

Recover, piecing together the brokenness of your confidence she tore apart.

“My story is, uh, weird.”

“Tell me.”

“This might be too personal but—” You lift your shoulders awkwardly. “I used to date a girl who looks exactly like you.”

Kim Chaewon—short auburn hair, soft cheeks, and a tiny figure. She’s a memory you didn’t think of returning to today, but then Yena came here, and now you’re back to your youth.

“She was a cop. Cutest officer I’ve ever seen, but a real bitch, for the lack of a better word. Then she left me.”

“You broke her heart, didn’t you?” 

Sputter. “No!” you immediately deny, shaking your head. “I—I didn’t hurt her, she was—”

A filthy lie. You became nonchalant, undeserving of a sweet woman who’d do anything for you, even give up her well-paying job. Again and again, Chaewon expressed her concerns: why were you talking to Minju? Where have you been? Why are you so mean? You disregarded them all the same. She deserved the ignorance; she was too fucking controlling, too fucking jealous.

Yena knows you’re lying. It’s like you’re a wound she can peel back to see all the ugliness, all the damage underneath. Her smile tells you everything.

“Oh, come on. I don’t care. Except for this.” Yena intertwines her fingers. Rests her chin on top of the formed platform. “Was she a good fuck?”

Your laugh is forced, trying to make a good deal out of this situation. A girl is flirting with you right after you saw someone disappear. Now you’re wondering if she’s a robot. Now, through some way, she knows you’re lying about your ex. Coincidences meet yet you refuse to connect them—parallel lines they shall stay, forever. 

“Yena, what exactly is up with you?” you ask. “You just met me. And come on now, why me?”

It’s begun to be hotter in this space. Loosen your coat. Perspiration isn’t because of the atmosphere, so you find out (and what a surprise). It’s because of the woman across you, a midnight sun. If the painful sun was actually a symbol of good in the Rogue, Yena would play its role perfectly. She’d scorch through you and you’ll enjoy every second. Yeah, you’d get all sorts of tans and burns and cancers if you bask in her without protection, but my god, are you willing to take the risk.

“I just don’t like seeing pretty boys have problems,” she replies easily. “If they want, (and I know they do), I’ll take them all away. Soon, all you'll think of is me. Like I’m the sun peeking in your room and you just can’t get enough sleep because of it.”

You tense up. Millions of questions, a void empty of answers. Once again, how was she so spot on? You’re not breathing quite well, and your clothes are tighter tonight. “Yena, look, I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Don’t be, not because you aren't, but because she said so.

She pouts. “You’re not gonna buy me a drink?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nope. Remember what I said? I’m a blank canvas. So do whatever you want with me. Buy me a drink. Or not. Tell me to fuck off. Or not. Force me on my knees.”

Yena kneels.

There’s no mantle on the table to cover up what she’s about to do. You gasp, then try to mask it as a poor cough, but you’re distracted by how she pulls your pants down effortlessly. The button sealing your coat is busted open and gone.

So is your dignity.

Yena’s tongue sticks out at the side of her mouth as she looks up at you with excitement and mischief in her eyes. 

“Or let me do the job. I’m a big girl after all.”

She seals her teeth around your zipper and tugs down. It’s embarrassing how hard you are for her. But Yena doesn’t care. Adoration is clear on her face as she stares at your shaft, the worshipful energy in her eyes so overwhelming that she has to do something about it.

“Yena—” What a way to go out: screaming a stranger’s name.

You knew those lips were up to no good the moment you saw them. She’s provided evidence, too. Her soft lips embrace your boner and suckle fervently while dragging themselves upwards. It’s a caress that tenses you up rather than comforts you. It works you up, tying you down with the little weight Yena has. You could kick her away right now and tell her to go away. File a case against her. 

You don’t.

The joined duo of careful teeth and wild tongue gets you whimpering. Shivering. Begging. How is she so good at this?

Her mouth is perfectly wet. It’s not copiously soaked to have you cringing but the perfect balance of wet and ready, coating your rod again and again. She gives you too much and just right. It would be a cruel violation if you were asked to choose one and only one.

“Baby, what the fuck—” you stammer. 

Her throat’s an expert in taking you because one push of her lips to your base welcomes you in its tight hole. Your knees shake; Yena places her hands on it, not to stop their trembles but for leverage during the dip of her head. 

Close your eyes, look up, and stare at skies that provide no reprieving stars. Think of how she’s infinitely bett—

“Better than any pussy, huh?” Yena asks. The third time is no coincidence, so you’ve heard. “And it’s just my throat.”

At this stage, you don’t care if she’s a robot or not, because either way, that mouth is a fucking treasure.

You lift your hips and start slowly working yourself in Yena’s face. Her lips pucker and pout to allow you inside with pleasurable friction. Those eyes—there aren’t any planets in the sky because of the pollution but you think you can see their sparkle in them. 

The amazing part is that Yena doesn’t choke. She endlessly takes you in, receiving every inch like a blessed gift, but you don’t hear her wheeze. No sounds of complaints escape her. You have a feeling it’s not because of your cock sliding in and out of it. She only gags on occasion, and those already sound fake. It’s like she’s doing it just so you can get worked up hearing her moans.

While others might be impressed, you’re dumbfounded. She tightens and loosens and pushes and pulls just for your pleasure. 

“Yena, I– you’re doing so good,” you compliment her in gasped breaths.

Her cheeks hollow. The suction strengthens and it now feels like your soul’s being swallowed down her neck. She knows how to tease you with light pandering from her teeth, generous licking, and strengthened swallowing. Her mouth is warm but you are more so. She’s making you feel hot in all these layers, an additional one played by her perfect lips.

Perfect hair, too, you note.

Hungry impulses take over your body and now you’re pumping your core into the girl’s face with the help of her pigtails. Yena’s hair is thick and silky, and it’s another enjoyable factor: feeling how it slips between your fingers and how each pull directs her lips to press firmly to your crotch.

She doesn’t gag with that either. She must have had a lot of experience; she did say she can take hard things fine. That is, if she were human. If not, whoever built her had dirty ideas: the lack of gag reflex surely brings in the five star ratings.

Bright star-like eyes, cute ruinable face, mouth that can take the largest.

Yep, perfect.

“Good—fucking—girl.”

Your cock weeps white. Yena feels the first drop and immediately pulls away. She pumps your shaft with a strong, urgent fist. As she hinted, you blast all over her face. Your orgasm grips you and shakes you like never before, and of course, the little brat enjoys it. She’s nearly laughing.

“There,” says Yena after she drains you. Her duck-like lips are sticky with cum. “Canvas painted.”

What a pretty painting you’ve made. Here, shown to the public, is the manic pixie dream girl, semen on her chin to symbolize how each word she utters has you climaxing; hair disheveled to show your subtle but messy rule over her, because you own her although you weren’t there when her mechanical limbs were assembled and her face drawn; and a smile on her face to show that despite all this: she likes it.

You laugh, short blunt breaths wisping in the air. “There really is something wrong with you, Yena,” you say.

She’s a girl who’s extremely pretty, good at blowjobs, and likes public sex and oral. She can also read minds. Oh, and she might not be real. 

“You could say that again.” She wipes her mouth. “Though I do think I could use a little fixing from you.”

-

You take her home. Your mother would have been disappointed in you if she knew you violated the first law you were ever taught: don’t talk to strangers. Most of all, don’t ever let them in. But Yena is no stranger—like she said, she knows your name and for some reason, you know her own. You’re not strangers. And your mother isn’t around to command you not to kneel for a pretty girl.

This home of yours isn’t fancy, but if people from 2024 saw it, they’d be mesmerized. You’re not rich enough to afford the penthouses the North offers; this one is alright for you. The stories of the building aren’t aligned with each other, separating a few yards with floating floors that defy gravity. That’s right; WAKE12 somehow found a way to disobey the rules of physics. The ends are lit up with bright lights that blind you from miles away. Wide windows encircle the areas along with al frescos and convenient malls. Back then, this would have been classified as the house of the wealthy—you can’t say you agree with the sentiment when you’re not at all rich.

“Hi,” says Yena brightly at the front desk. She’s so smiley, always grinning like she’s just told a really clever joke. “Where’s the elevator?”

“I, uh…” 

The manager looks at her oddly. Your ears redden; she still hasn’t cleaned her face up. Evidence of your deed lies there on her nose and chin and cheeks, even in her perfect hair. 

“Well?”

The manager lifts the phone immediately. Before he could dial a number, Yena sighs loudly. 

“Look.” She silences the telephone with a slam of the device down on the keypad. The man’s hand cringes. “I’m about to fuck this guy’s brains out and I promise your little backup bosses can’t do anything about it.”

He stares at her. 

“I’m gonna use his dick until it’s limp as a balloon, then ride him in bed, then bend over on the kitchen table so he could breed me like a common whore.”

You lift an index finger to apologize, but put it back down. Did she just say you can breed her?

His jaw tenses. The teeth behind those unsmiling thin lips grit, not in annoyance but in fear. Yena’s bouncy and sweet, but apparently she’s excluding people who cockblock from her cute attitude.

“So,” finishes Yena, lowering her gaze, “where is the fucking elevator?”

The elevator has no pulley or doors. It sits at the side of the uneven floors and rises with nothing but a sizable pod. You’ve had to watch your weight to be able to enjoy the freedom from staircases. 

Yena steps on it with no worry. As you look at her, you realize how positively tiny she is. That’s why she isn’t doubtful about fitting in the claustrophobic space. Her violet clothes can slip off at any time at her pull of a waist and slim thighs. All the fullness goes to her cheeks, painted with fake tattooed stars and minimal doodles. 

She’s the kind of girl you could just pick up and do whatever to. You’re the kind of guy who really, really likes the idea.

Holding your hand is a thing of the past. Yena clutches your cock over your jeans as the elevator lifts the two of you up. 

The first thing she does the moment you enter your home is not kiss you, or slam you to the door, or whisper dirty nothings in the hollow of your ear. Yena looks around and says, simply, “Doable.”

You chuckle. You’re not offended. It’s a tidy, minimal apartment with glass that spans a viewing pleasure of the artificial forest and the hills. Glass lost its value but skyrocketed in purchases when Jo Yuri, first activist recorded in the history of WAKE12’s domination, was imprisoned. People compared her name to glass (yuri was 유리 and 유리 meant glass) and since then, it has been used everywhere. High demand, low price. Her symbol and namesake is used the way the public wants her to be used: cheap thing convenient only to the eye. They always said she was too pretty to talk too much.

“Here, doable is the best compliment,” you reply. You go to your bedroom to clean the place. If you want to fuck a rich girl, make sure the bedroom is at least up to her standards. “You have personal maids there in the North?”

Yena continues looking around. She’s mildly fascinated by everything, especially in the big window placed on the ceiling that lets stars peer down at you. For some reason, all the ejaculation on her face is gone. You don’t remember her bringing a washcloth.

“I’m not from the North, you know.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. I don’t come from anywhere.”

You come out, having cleared your bed from clothes and the floors of trash. You fed the trash to the connected chute that all apartments have, which leads down to the Southern Auster. The word may be Latin and is already defined as south, but there’s places poorer than the part you live in. You’re lucky to be here. The Southern Auster’s where it’s much more dangerous. The people there scavenge for food and money, and their cries go unheard in the night. It’s the biggest criminal capital of the Rogue.

You come out and Yena’s sitting on the kitchen table with a knife.

Stop in your tracks. 

See the blood running down her arm. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says dismissively. “It doesn’t hurt.”

You still don’t know what to say. The wound on her skin’s dissolved to a scar that looks more like a scratch on metal. Why would she do that? Why would that do that?

“In fact, I think it’s kind of cool.” Yena slides the blade on the strap of her top. It falls apart, right down to her braless chest. A pink, perky nipple is clear in the moonlight shining from above. “When people see me, they usually want to hurt me, so I might as well do it myself, right? They want to slap me, pull my hair, choke me. They say that and figure I’m totally flattered.”

You want to say that you couldn’t blame them. Yena’s got this innocent but naughty aura about her that you want to completely ruin. There’s her hair, all dolled up and her quirky makeup that brings attention that eventually switches down to the body she doesn’t bother hiding. 

But it looks like she’s doing the ruining. Aren’t those the best stories? Boy corrupts girl when it’s the other way around in reality? 

To use the word “reality” when you’re with Yena is laughable. She can read your mind like a Rogue Times newspaper. You get that things you thought were impossible have a chance of happening in these days, but you don’t remember wounds healing that fast. The knife slices right through the fabric, revealing swoon-worthy curves of her waist and hips, making her bleed only not for too long. Who would want a scar-ridden skinny girl anyway?

“Well,” you say after a dutiful swallow, “are you?”

Yena examines the knife. Her crimson blood dripping from its edge is a worthwhile watch while she considers this. 

She finally puts down the knife, much to your relief. “I don’t know. What about you, handsome? Do you want to hurt me or fuck me?”

“I… I’m not like them. I don’t wanna hit you or make you cry or anything. I want to fuck you, that’s completely different.”

First confession of the night that didn’t need saying when it’s clear. You let her blow you in public. You took her home. The intention is staring you in the face: you want to have sex with a girl you just met. 

Yena smiles. “You’d be surprised how blurred the lines are.”

Yena‘s hands fall on your shoulders and make you  fall to the kitchen chair and make your pants fall on the floor. Falling, falling, falling for her—it’s all you’re able to do provided that she’s stunning. She’s tiny with her thin arms and legs but her breasts are surprisingly supple. The cleavage her top subtly shows off hinted to that and you’re still shocked.

She’s a hot desert, and the only source you can drink of is her core. Her pussy is slick, making her thighs glue together only for them to part as she sits on your lap. 

The first grind has you both breathless. The second renders a duet of moans. She’s so wet that it’s excessive enough for her to drip down your cock and completely cover it with her. Yena’s pussy lips splay and clasp your shaft with slippery friction.

She curses. “You’re so hard. Big, t-too.” She aims your cockhead at her clit and sighs at the toe-curling pleasure. “You think you can fit in me?”

“I guess we’ll have to see.”

Yena smirks. She continues soaking you with her wetness. Her juices pour from your head to your balls. Then, without warning, she sheathes your rod inside her. 

You gasp. It’s so easy to slip yourself in and all too difficult to cope with how tight she is. Her walls, perfectly textured and sloppy, trap you and let you out, giving you false hope of escaping, only to imprison you again. It’s the best punishment you ever had. 

Her throat was already better than the other cunts you’ve spent yourself in, so what does that make her pussy?

The best. Her overflowing waterfall lets her ride you easily. It seems like there’s a million spots inside her you can target for she quivers and cries with each bounce. Her hair flows photogenically while her chest does the same erotic motion. 

“So fucking good, fuck,” Yena groans. Her round butt lands on your lap and you think you’d like it to stay there forever. Curl your hands around her cheeks. Draw a healthy moan from the throat you used.

Yena’s pussy curves and opens in every best way. She makes it so easy to mold her into the shape of your cock, to rearrange her insides. Was she made for dick? She’s so wet that you’d think she’s a nymphomaniac who won’t let you go, the same way her vagina won’t let you go as its grip curls around you and threatens to milk you to your wits’ end.

You wouldn’t mind that.

Her riding accelerates to an unbearable point the moment you start to spank her. She’s right about hurting and having sex being almost the same—you want to leave red handprints all over her jiggling ass. You want to pull her hair until she screams. You want to fuck this perfect cunt of hers right up to when she’s creaming all over you, flooding your sexes with her naturla nectar.

And the crazy thing is: she’ll actually let you.

“Fucking brat,” you say, hitting her butt again. She yelps coquettishly. “Are you really this thirsty for cock?”

“God, yes…” Her head throws back. Yena’s eyes shut and although her vision is blocked she sees stars. “Wanted to know how your dick would split me open. Fuck, keep doing that!”

Her core tightens with each blow you expel on her bouncing ass. Her hole’s already so enclosed so when she squeezes more, it’s close to having your cock tortured. You’re suffocating inside her.  You’re waterboarded again and again with her waterfall of wetness. 

You guide Yena’s motions with your hands on her behind. She’s so light that you’re practically using her as a doll, fucking her on your erection and letting yourself enjoy how her tits recoil. Her moans turn on a part of your brain that you don’t know, but it transmits to you these thoughts: fuck her senseless.

You raise her as high as you can, her weight nothing even to your long-untrained muscles, then slam her down. She sinks deeper into your lap and takes longer inches. Yena’s screams bounce off the soundproof walls that ensure only you can hear them. Those walls were fucking expensive, so of course you gotta let them have purpose. Slap Yena’s thighs down on yours and let her pussy envelop you right up to the point of bruises appearing on your skin.

How does she not sweat? Your hands wander all over her tight body and still you don’t find a drop of sweat. Her pigtails are still secured. You guess she was just made to be eternally pretty. 

She is pretty, under any circumstance—her smooth skin possesses zero blemishes and her winged eyes remain lamp-bright. She’s pretty, even when she lets out the pitchiest sounds, even when Yena’s lips rise into a devilish smile before sealing on your neck. She nibbles on your skin and rakes up your sensitivity. 

“Holy shit, Yena…”

“Yeah, that’s right.” She licks behind your ear and you nearly lose it. Maybe you already did. “Say my name. Because I’m all yours. This pussy is yours to use and abuse, so do it.”

Rub her tiny pulsing clit. Yena’s cries deafen you. If that’s not enough, she drowns you with her cum. There’s no raft to save you. You’re all alone. You’ll drown here and never see the light of day again.

Electricity runs through her body as the pleasure ramps up. Her fingers weaken on your shoulders. Her gasps are split off by larger, more surprised evolutions. Yena’s close.

“Fuck, no, I can’t!” Yena’s riding is furious and borderline abusive. The noises between your two crotches are louder than before. 

“You can,” you insist. You throb inside her while her pussy becomes smaller despite the many thrusts you perform. “Take it like a good girl, Yena.”

“Fuck me, use me, I’m just your cute little helpless girl, fuck me!”

She couldn’t be more correct. She’s just a useless doll, thin and adorable and tight—so why not use her like one?

You’re surprised your limbs have any power in them, but they impress as you lift Yena up. During your walk to the counter, you don’t stop thrusting in her. She’s wet and ready, just waiting and begging for it to happen. Her pretty face is smudged with tears. There’s sick satisfaction in you from seeing how the confident girl at the bar is now just a fuckhole to use. 

“Oh, oh, ah!” Cute little whines come out from those lips. Her mouth used its power to pick you up, make you cum, make you scared. In this second, all that is gone: she’ll only ever use it to wail in pleasure.

Knock her against the kitchen counter. Her thighs press to the curve. You spread them open and continue spending yourself to death in her. Her sides that slant to make the physique you love are perfect handles to thrust. 

You’re completely soaked, but she’s completely defiled. The dream girl is not just any dream but a wet dream. She’s the fantasy you never had but will constantly think of now. And you don’t care if WAKE12 knows you’re fucking her. They can read all the thoughts you have about Yena as much as they like, and you wouldn’t care.

Instead of giving a fuck, you twist her around, her smooth back in front of you, and fuck her harder while you’re at it. Admire the way your hips slap her ass and give her the spanking she deserves. One spank, that’s for being so tempting. Another for the price of her promiscuity. Three one-after-the-other’s because she’s too wild, too free for a girl with that face.

“God, please, harder!” Yena cries. “Make me your little cocksleeve cumslut!”

She does not take pain to heart, physically and mentally. In spite of your rapid pumps and the slap of your stomach to her bent and ready ass, no bruises or scratches appear on her skin. You say all these degrading words and rather than mope about it, she gets more turned on. She forces you to give all your might in railing her in this apartment where the open windows give you away rather than the sounds. And you’re nodding along, saying:

“Of course.”

Of course you’ll grab her tits and pinch their nipples as hard as you can. Yena’s skin might not be humanly warm but these boobs are real. They’re soft in your palms and plentiful. Is she a masochist? You tweak and slap and squeeze; in response, she’s… smiling?

Of course you’ll slip your touch all over her body. Appreciate every perfect curve, every fine fullness. After fondling her tits, you slide your hands over her smooth pits, then to her arms that struggle to remain stable. She’s sensitive all over; it’s evident in the way she babbles each time you caress her. 

Of course you’ll take her hair and pull as hard as you can. She won’t get mad. Nothing ever gets to the cool girl.

“Oh my god!” Yena shouts. 

Those pigtails are there for a reason. Thrusts become easier to do with her hair curled in between your digits. Her ass meets your crotch easily and you find yourself excavating her cavern, hitting her in all the good places. Yena hums and screeches and sobs. 

“Bad girl.” Her hair plays the role of your reins. They’re convenient in spreading Yena apart with your shaft, tearing at her tightness. “You’re nothing but a filthy cocksucking slut.”

“M-mhm, yes, just for you, just for this perfect dick, ahh! I’m cumming!” 

Yena’s core flexes and contracts. It holds you like it never wants you to go but you let go anyway. You can do nothing besides that especially if it’s her, someone who’s so cute but so seductive, so challenging but submissive. Each part of her—those blowjob lips, her blooming face, her cockiness—makes you wish this could never end.

The first sign of the end of this pornographic one-reeler is your semen raining inside her, setting a storm in her guts. You pant, legs weak, while Yena’s seem to go on forever although she’s smaller than you.

The second sign is the mess she made. Those aforementioned desirable legs are painted by obscenity. She squirted all over your floor and herself. Your cum coats her vulva plus spills down freely.

Yena looking back at you with a tired smile is the last one, along with her asking, through shattered breaths, “Better than your whore ex?”

Because that’s the thing about girls like Yena. They’ll do everything to please you. Perhaps she’s a good dresser, but really, this is your style, not hers. This type of fashion is what you like on women: modestly revealing. Girls like Yena will give you everything, make you discover yourself, and when all this happens, she’ll remain the thoughtless, forgiving girl. She won’t complain about things that will set you off and say coy, clever things, the kind men like to hear.

All just to be better.

She is.

“Yeah.”

Yena chuckles. For a moment, she looks like the sweetest girl in the world. The happiness overtakes her face and makes her smile reach her ears. 

It disappears as fast as it arrived.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

Alarm sounds of every kind—natural disaster, fire, robbery, whistles—blare in your head. You can’t hear anything except the thin screeches of emergency. But for what?

Yena loses her brightness. Everything that made her shine shuts down. She smiles, that same one full of mischief, before she breaks, too. Her eyes turn pitch black, the ones you see in crows, the sign of bad luck. She disassembles part by part before you. The light girl is suddenly so heavy that she forces you down. Suddenly, her torso above yours feels colder than before. 

What the fuck? 

Escape is your first instinct. You push the remains of the girl away. Your feet kick the broken parts as if you’d break, too. You brush past the fringe of her bangs. Below it, no diamond scar rests on her forehead.

Stare down at her. Yena truly is not real. Your manic robotic dream girl is dead. She was never alive. 

“You have been found guilty,” says the implant. You used to hear it when WAKE12 arrested people and now it talks to arrest you. The alarms are loud but you understand every fragment. 

The implant’s emotionless voice now sounds a lot like—

“Chaewon?” 

Bad luck comes just like the consequences of the law, personified by stilettos clicking on your floor, a shadow in the moonlight, and the face of the woman you swear you never wanted to see again.

And yet here she is.

Chaewon looks so much like Yena. Yena looks so much like Chaewon. Their chins, their eyes, their bangs—who is who? Their faces mingle and mix in your vision. You think you’re going crazy.

She puts away a remote control and places her hands on her hips. Her black bodysuit is all you see as she approaches. Her smiling lips don’t utter a word. You hear her voice, all in your head.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything you do shall be punished by WAKE12 accordingly. This is the price you pay for your crime.”

There’s a gun in front of you. It’s aimed at your chest, determined to crush what keeps it beating. Raise your hands, but not in surrender. You’ll die before you try to be Chaewon’s toy again.

“What crime? Being your ex-boyfriend?” you spit. This has got to be a joke. “Chaewon, I said, what crime?”

She can’t abuse her authority. She couldn’t have done all that just to get back at you. And for what? Being a bad boyfriend when you were younger and dumber?

You hear her speak. That striking smile looks more terrifying than beautiful. It dissolves into darkness to pronounce your wrongdoing. 

“For the crime of fucking existing,” she snarls.

You hate Chaewon. You swore you never did yet now you do wholeheartedly. You tried to love her and reciprocate her efforts. She’s a busy woman so she should have understood you had other commitments.

This is the last time you ever want to hear from her. 

A bullet you don’t see coming. It soars in the wind and finds its home sweet home in your skull.

She’s the last thing you ever heard.

#kpop smut #smut #kpop fanfic #fanfic #kpop fanfiction #fanfiction #girl group smut #female idol smut #izone smut #soloist smut #choi yena smut #yena smut #izone yena smut #male reader #x reader #reader insert #idol x reader #idol x male reader #kpop x reader #kpop x male reader #pov smut #kofimission #commission #iz days of christmas #iz days of christmas 2023 #iz days of christmas 2023 day 4

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

omg i really really love your blog<3 you are such a sweet person and so kind to all your followers and others on here and your writing is absolutely amazing!

i saw ur requests were open and i was wondering if you could write something for poe dameron? a hurt comfort because in your rules you said you wouldn't accept full angst which honestly is so real of you and i completely agree :D its just, ive read so many fics where poe's best friend or squadron member is either in love with him or fwb with him and he starts dating someone and they look rlly in love but then he leaves the person for the best friend and i cant help but always wonder how the person he left is feeling! and i was wondering if you could write something along the lines of this but he doesnt leave the reader and hes not really in love with his best friend or anything im so sorry this became really long but you can totally ignore this or say you cant do it its absolutely alright!<33

thank you sm though and i hope you have a good day!

Anon, thank you so much for such lovely and kind words! You are AMAZING! (Seriously, they have absolutely made my day/week/year!)

This ask has killed me (positive), my subconsciousness had a lot to say, it seems.

Tangerine, Tangerine

Poe Dameron x GN!Reader Rating: M Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?

Warnings: angst (but with a happy ending), thoughts that a partner is cheating, blood, x-wing fight, swearing (not star wars swearing, because even though Kriff is great, I need to say fuck), Moonbeam as a nickname, typos, rail road sentences, please let me know if I’ve missed a warning!

Word Count: 4494

_______________________________________

It was just a kiss. It was just a kiss. It was just a kiss. 

You’d misunderstood, you’d read the situation wrong, you’d seen incorrectly. It was just a kiss. It was just a kiss. It was just a kiss. 

Your radio crackled, “Green Leader, checking in. We’re manoeuvring in 5. Call out.”

“Green Two check.”

“Green Three check.” 

 It was just a kiss. 

“Green Four check.” 

 It was just a-

“Green Five check.” 

Just a-

“Green Six check.” 

Just-

“Green Seven,” you swallow. “Check.” 

It wasn’t just a kiss. 

You patted your helmet twice and rolled your neck, breathing deeply as you settled in. On your left, you could see some of Blue Squadron. 

This mission was straightforward - on a holopad. 

Two teams to escort The Harbringer, the resistance supply ship. It had been damaged by a rogue blast from a tie fighter just as it jumped to hyperspace and had had to make an emergency landing on one of Tre’Ral’s desert moons. 

The crew on board had managed to fix all they could. But without proper materials, there was little chance of the ship making it out of the moon’s thick atmosphere and entering hyperspace. So Blue and Green Squadrons had been dispatched. Blue 1-4 had already made contact, jump-starting The Harbringer enough to get it airborne. 

Due to Tre’Ral’s sun and planet density, the gravity on the moons was a little stronger than most world’s atmospheric pressure. 

Green Leader, Sena, had repeated through briefing at how this would affect flying. How to be ready for it. And she hadn’t been wrong, it was different flying here. Tougher. And you loved it.

You’d grown up on Para, a planet with a high gravity density. You’d learnt to fly there well before you’d flown in space. Being here on this desolate moon almost felt like home. Your movements seemed smoother, precise. No longer needing to overcorrect for your naturally ingrained harsh movements. No longer spinning out and fighting low gravity, finally working with the tide. 

The manoeuvre would see the ships escort The Harbringer out of the moon’s atmosphere and then the rest of Blue squadron would form a sort of 3D star formation around the cargo ship. All jumping to hyperspace at the same time to carry it along with them. 

Simple. 

In theory. 

Everyone had spoken about how practically textbook it was, how easy. 

But then, of course, why was Green Squadron going? 

No one at the briefing had asked, why would they when the answer was so obvious. This part of the quadrant was teething with First Order. With a slow, busted supply ship you were all practically screaming for them to come and play target practice. 

You swallow. 

You should be focusing on that, on the mission. Instead of the utter nonsense that was ricocheting around your head and piercing your heart. 

I hadn’t just been a kiss. 

You and Poe had gotten together clumsily, three months ago, your normal awkwardness drowned out by so much Polanis Red that you almost couldn’t see straight. It had been after the battle of Hurthwen, a nasty dogfight that had everyone hyped up on adrenaline. 

He had been drunk when he kissed you, you remembered that. 

Maybe he had thought… maybe he had believed he was kissing her instead. 

It made a lot more sense. 

Sena was the Green Leader, she was a great pilot. One to be reckoned with. She was kind, she was fun, she was beautiful. She and Poe had joined the resistance together, risen the ranks together. Basically inseparable. Always laughing and joking. She had been in the same squad as Poe, under his command before she was promoted to leading one of her own. 

They had always been close. Always. Best friends. 

Sickness bubbled in your throat. 

You remembered Frizz and Hank talking offhandedly, well before you and Poe were a thing. Both of them sure that Sana and Poe were dating or ‘knocking boots’ as Frizz had so elegantly put it. 

“Two people can just be friends, you know.” You’d said, trying to hide your little crush on the commander. 

“Yeah,” Frizz laughed, “But not them. You seen them together?” 

Hank chortled. 

Nonsense. You’d brushed it off then. Allowed it to creep into your thoughts when it was dark and the base was quiet. When Poe’s breathing was soft and light behind you, his arm around your waist. 

Him and Sana just made a lot more sense than him and you. 

“Yeah, but not them. You seen them together?” 

Yeah. Now you had. 

The Harbringer came into view over the horizon. The seemingly endless stretch of desert was cut through in the distance by a fearsome outcrop of crocks, leading up into a field of formidable mountains. 

Blue 1-4 were already hooked up to the cargo ship, all five hoovering moving together as they flew towards you to meet. 

You wouldn’t have said things were difficult with you and Poe. Well, you wouldn’t have said that before. It was complicated for everyone on the base, most staff were on different call schedules, off-world or on a mission at all times. Having a relationship wasn’t straightforward. There were stretches where you wouldn’t even be on the same planet for days, but…

But you had thought it was…

It didn’t matter. 

You’d gone back to the briefing room, just before take off. You’d wanted to tap the main holoscreen twice, for luck. A little ritual you’d adopted early on. Most pilots were a superstitious bunch. 

That’s when you’d seen them. Sana and Poe. Locked in a tight embrace, their lips pressed together in a deep kiss. 

Your heartbeat had thundered so loud you’d been surprised they hadn’t heard it. But they’d been too preoccupied to notice your presence. 

It was cliche but time had almost slowed, calmed and stretched like the moment you take aim, the second before you fired your ship's canons. 

A flash of the control panel had flickered into your mind when you saw them, your fingers twitching as if you had the trigger in your hands. 

You’d turned and left without a sound. Without a word. Without letting them know you saw. Leaving them to… whatever they did next. 

Was it their first kiss? One of many? Had this been going on well before Poe had taken your hand and led you outside so he could clumsily name all the constellations, making up new ones and backstories to make you smile?

“That one here, you see it?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That one’s the best one, best in the sky. It’s orange and it’s right next to that other orange one, like they’re holding hands.”

You’d laughed. 

“That’s me and you Moonbeam.” 

Moonbeam. That stupid nickname. 

You’d gone to your room quickly, the one that you and Poe shared, and taken off the necklace he’d given you. 

“I want you to wear it for luck, Moonbeam.” 

That stupid smile he’d given you as he’d slipped it from his own neck and onto yours. That stupid kiss he’d given you after. You’d thought that expression was cute when you’d seen it, pure. Now it just seemed like he’d been laughing at you, playing some sick joke. ‘How long can I string someone along?’, ‘how far can I go before they realise it’s all pretend?’ 

You’d left the necklace with the ring slipped through on the small set of shelves in the corner, the one Poe normally kept his holopad on. 

It was idiotic, but your neck felt… empty without it. Cold. Every now and then you touched at where the chain normally lay.A subconscious action only brought to the forefront of your mind by the sensation of your own skin instead of metal. 

Something caught your eye in the distance, a flash of sunlight glinting off the horizon. Dread twisted in your stomach as realisation dawned a second earlier than your scanners. The extra gravitational pressure and high quantity of magnetic metals in the sand affected everyone’s ship computers, causing a brief information delay. 

Your alarm sounded out inside your ship, the radar blinking into life as tie fighters approached from the rock outcrop. They’d used the high mineral concentration to hide their energy signatures. 

“Fuck.” 

The radio screamed into life, orders out pouring over orders. Blue squadron rushed into position while Green scrambled. 

“Blue in place now!”

“It’s gonna be rushed, but we haven’t got a choice!”

“No time!” “Incoming!” “Green half split! Evens left, odds right, let’s keep those fighter’s off The Harbringer and Blue squadron! Gamma pattern!” 

“How far away is the Delta?” 

“Calling in attack pattern!” 

You swing to the right, falling in with Hank and Petal and bank hard, it takes less than a second for you to notice that your squad's movements aren’t as precise and well-timed as usual. The stronger gravity throwing everyone, except you, off their game. 

That didn’t bode well. 

You climb for a second, punching hard on the acceleration to get some height and a clear view of the oncoming and flick on your targeting system. The image glitches, doesn’t hold steady even as you focus. Off by half a fraction. 

Shots fire out from both sides, most missing.

“Targeting not working!”

“It’s out!”

“I can’t get a clear shot!” “The read is malfunctioning!”

“Half a click 4/8!” You shout, as you take your shot, hitting two tie fighters head-on. 

“Good shot Green 7!” You can hear the joy and relief in Sana’s voice. “Half a click 4/8, you’ll all have to manually adjust!” 

You dive, swirling around two fighters before skimming close to the ground, trying to draw their attention away from the cargo ship. You spin, slamming your control harder than you would need to in any other situation as you turn and spike past another fighter, taking out one in the process. 

“Wooooo!” Hank yells over the intercom.

You laugh. “Bet you never thought you wished you grew up on Para right?” 

“Every day new things surprise me.” He banks left, you right, Petal dives down. 

It’s too much of a rush, everything all at once, patterns and shots flying, your ship’s systems screaming as you push the engines a little too hard. 

The tie fighters aren’t moving as fast as they normally do, bogged down even more than the x wings by the gravity. They can’t make their normal quick turns and it’s affecting their strike patterns. 

Good. 

But there’s so, so many of them. 

Explosions fly debris out, and you climb higher. Needing a clear view and unable to rely on your targeting systems. 

More shots fly out, The Harbringer is taking a battering but so far its shielding is holding the hull together. 

The radio keeps screaming, overlapping voices that blur into background noise. You’re trained to only hear your call signal, direct messages. You vear off, narrowingly missing a blast to your wing. 

“-On my tail.” Frizz’s voice cuts through the noise, a sharp stab of dread slicing you open as you turn, automatically looking to the reader, it’s still not clear. 

You climb, twist, fall, see a Green ship, followed tightly by two fighters. Accelsorate, bank. You fire. You’re aiming in a panic now, not adjusting right, not breathing through. 

The shot hits one, before you have to swerve to avoid being struck head-on. 

“Thanks 7!” Cril yells over the speaker, managing to shake the other fighter. 

There’s a scream, a crackle of sound over the system. A sound you know too well. You see the ship crash into the desert, exploding before it even hits the ground as the a tie fighter’s shots hit home. 

Frizz.

“No…” 

“Check!” Sana yells, unable to tell who went down with the system glitching. “Green Leader!”

You swerve around another fighter, everything moving so fast, too fast.

“Green Two check!” Cril.

“Green Three check!” Petal. 

Nothing. 

“Green Four!” Sana yells. No call replies. Balna. Not Frizz. 

The momentary rush of relief at Frizz being alive is cut horribly short by the image of Balna’s kind face that bursts behind your eyes. 

You bank left, right, swerve, take aim, twist. 

There’s a chance, a good chance that you’ll win. All of Blue is in place, The Harbringer is moving up with them. The tie fighters are taking more hits than the resistance, their less aerodynamic design hampering them more than usual with this gravity. 

All you need is…

Another alarm. 

“Oh… fuck.” You slam on your intercom. “Z-Fighter!” 

A chorus of yells answer you. 

A Z-fighter, a quick moving ship a fraction bigger than The Harbringer, with two powerful front guns. A few shots would take the cargo ship out completely. 

And with how slow the supply ship was moving, that wouldn’t be hard. 

The Z-fighter storms in, moving fast but not firing, they were obviously having problems with their targeting too, needing a close clear shot. 

“Take out the main cannons!” Sana yells, the panic in her voice cutting through the chaos. You turn, aim, take out a tie fighter but have to veer up at the last second. Twist. 

Someone comes in after you, aiming for the cannons, a fighter clips their side and they can’t correct quick enough. They spiral off, their ship crashing into the Z-fighter. Obliterated on impact. The Z-fighter seemingly unaffected. 

You loop back, adrenaline blinding you to everything, anything that’s not the goal. Take out the canons. Take out the canons. People are counting on you. Take out the canons. 

You fire, a clear shot before you bank to the side to avoid a direct hit to your hull. 

It’s not enough.

You need to pass again, and again. Other x wings flying in, taking shots, the gravity making them slow, imprecise. Only one blast hits and it’s not full on.You’re the only one hitting directly and it’s not enough. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough.

There’s shouting and screaming, the zipping of the fighters as they cut through the sky. Someone yells your name and you don’t hear it. 

Another hit lands. One canon out. Only one left. You can do this. The Harbringer is nearly in the upper atmosphere, they can jump from there. Just a few more seconds. You can do this.

“Black Leader!” Poe’s call sign cuts over the dim, followed by the call signs of half of the Red Squadron.

They must have scrambled after first contact. 

The canon’s powering up, a quick glance to your panel tells you that The Harbringer’s shield is barely functioning. They won’t survive a direct hit. With how close they are and the Blue Squadron ships that are attached there’s no way they wouldn’t be pulled down too if The Harbringer fell. 

The canon needs more than one hit to take it down, more than five. No way you can shoot five times before they fire. 

You twist, full force. Pumping the acceleration. Fire. Fire. Fire. Three hit. You don’t slow down. Fire. Fire. Fire. They hit. The canon is still operational. 

Sana is screaming orders, so many shots fire at the canon, none of them hit right, hit full on. 

Two chances left. 

One to fire. If it takes out the canon you just have enough time to serve up, to avoid getting smashed to bits. 

Poe shouts for you over the intercom. 

You don’t answer.

One to fire. If it doesn’t take out the canon then… then you crashing into it head on will. 

Poe yells again, this time cutting over everyone else, sending you a direct call. 

You don’t answer.

You fire. Hit. 

Poe screams for you, his voice painful and panicked. He’s already worked out your plan before you had even thought of it. 

The canon doesn’t go down. 

You cut the call to him. Blocking out his signal. You don’t want Poe to think you did this for him. 

You don’t want him to think you did this because of him.

“Green Seven!” Sana yells, seemingly knowing what you’re going to do. 

Hank screams your name over the radio. It hurts. You think it’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Moonbeam!” Poe’s voice is ripped raw from yells, Sana has patched him through over her signal. You were wrong. That was the worst sound you’ve ever heard. 

You dip at the last second, not hitting the canon straight on but smashing your right wing into it. The force surprises you, even though you braced for it. The impact sending you spiralling. You try to regain control, try to turn into the spin. Training taking over even though you're a wing and half a ship down. 

Shouts over the radio, you barely make out- 

“-cannon’s down-”

“-Jump!-”

A spark hits, your console explodes into flame, shards hit your side and you yell. Sky and sand tumbling over each other over and over, and you manage to hit the eject button.

The force rips you upwards, free briefly from your burning ship. But you’re too close to the floor, not enough time to slow down your velocity. There’s-

.

The impact of the ground hurts. Pain explodes along every nerve despite the ejection seat dampening. You scream. 

Agony is everywhere, everything. You can’t feel anything else, can’t comprehend anything except floods of pain. 

You hit your belt, falling out and to the desert floor. Looking up just enough to gauge where you are, where your ship fell. It’s an exploded, fireball mess far off. At least it’s not an immediate threat. You crawl to the side and sob. 

There’s blood falling into the sand from your head, the right side of your face. You can’t see properly out of your eye and your left leg is definitely broken. Shattered. Still, you drag yourself forward, digging your hands in and pulling as something ribs and tears in your side, warm liquid soaking into your fight suit. 

The resistance will jump to hyperspace, they’ll get out. They’ll make it. 

You just needed to get away from your ejection seat, when the First Order doubles back they’ll see it, they’ll see you. You just needed to get to an outcrop. Hide. 

Make it look like you had a weapon. 

Make them shoot you first instead of taking you for questioning. 

Can’t let them take you alive. 

There's the faint sound of a ship somewhere above, landing gear coming down. 

For a second you freeze, panic gripping your heart, you dig into the sand hard, pull, pull, pull  yourself closer towards the outcrop of rocks. The air seems to be leaving your lungs, your breathing ragged and hot. 

You cough, red hitting the dirt, iron hitting your tongue. 

You crawl, pull. The pain is making you light-headed. You gasp, trying to get in a full lung full of air. It's not enough. It's not enough. It's not enou…

.

When you open your eyes your first thoughts are simple. Clear. 

I'm dead.

You were either shot in the head in the sand or simply succumbed to your wounds. 

But then things begin to feel… fuzzy. Not painful, but not right either.

And that's when you smell the Bacta. And then the light starts to change to distorted shapes, and finally, you recognise Hank sitting next to you.

“You better not be dead too,” you whisper your voice dry from lack of use. 

Hank jumps up, goes to grab your hand and then stops himself. There are tears in his eyes. He softly places his fingers on yours and you squeeze back. 

“You're a fucking idiot you know that?” He grins and you laugh. Which hurts a little, but feels good. 

“One sec,” he moves away just to speak to someone outside before he comes back. “I'm the one that picked you up, you know?” 

“Now who's the fucking idiot?” You smile but your chest aches, heavy with the weight of his words. “You shouldn't have done that.” You whisper. 

“What?”

“You were under fire, you should have just jumped-” 

“I saw you eject. Saw you moving. You think I was just gonna leave you there?” He sits. “Besides, I was closest. The commander would have blown up the whole planet to get to you.” 

You swallow, turning away slightly. Going cold at the mention of Poe. 

Hank mistakes the look for guilt, and squeezes your hand again. “Hey, look,” he smiles, “you took out the canons, you're a fucking idiot but you know how to fly in heavy gravity.” 

You snort. 

He smiles. 

“Who did we lose?” 

Hank sighs, “three…”

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment. 

“There-”

There was shouting from outside, a crash and then Poe stormed into the room, med staff close behind him.

You swallow, sickness building in your throat.

He looked awful, drawn out and worn thin like he hadn't slept or eaten in days. His eyes red. 

He rushes forward, Hank moves out of the way, so Poe can take your hand in his. He leans forward and kisses you softly, carefully stroking your cheek, being gentle with your bandages. 

“Moonbeam…” he mutters and you flinch back from him. He looks at you with sad, confused eyes. 

“Look, I can only allow one visitor in here.” The med staff member says.

Hank stands, and speaks when you frown. “I'll see you later, Poe’s the one that hasn't left your side. The only reason he wasn't here when you woke was because I made him go take a shower.” Hank smiled, “you can thank me for that later.” 

Both you and Poe are quiet as the others leave. Poe searching your face for something, while you look away. 

“Moonbeam,” he says again softly, but there's an edge to his words that you're not used to. “What the fuck happened on that mission? What the fuck is this?” He holds up his hand, his necklace and ring wrapped around his palm. His eyes are shiny as he speaks. “Were you trying to kill yourself? What the fu-”

“Poe,” you breathe. Best to get it over quickly. “I saw.”

He frowns. “Saw? Saw what?” 

“You and Sana, in the briefing room… before take off.” 

The small frown on his forehead relaxes slightly for a moment as his eyebrows raise. “You… saw?” 

You nod. 

“You, but, I didn’t see you when I pushed her away?” His voice cracks at the end, a splinter running into the muscle of your heart. 

“You pushed her away?” 

“You didn’t see that?” He frowns again, blinking hard, “you just, just saw and walked away and what? Took this off?” He holds up the necklace again. A tear falls from his eye and he rubs it away furiously as if it had scorched his skin. “Just, just left it and… and…” 

“I didn’t know you didn’t want it…” You say quietly, emotion is making your chest tight and constricted. “I didn’t know you didn’t want her…”

“What?” He breathes, moving closer and squeezing your hand. There’s disbelief in his voice, confusion. Anger, it’s deep down and controlled but it’s there. “No, look, she kissed me. I pushed her away, I, I even logged a report, I’ll pull up the god damned camera feed to show you.” 

He’s not lying. His gaze is unwavering and he’s got that painfully earnest look in his eyes. 

“You thought…” he shakes his head slightly, his voice pained, “you thought I’d-”

“You both make sense together.” You blurt out. “She’s… and you’re…” you shrug and sigh, on the verge of tears yourself. “You’re both the best of us.”

“No,” he shakes his head fiercely, “Moonbeam, no.” He wipes roughly at his eyes again, glancing down for a moment and you lightly touch his head. 

He looks up instantly as you stroke his curls, still lightly damp. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

Poe shakes his head again, grabbing your hand and kissing your wrist. “I’m sorry.” He kicks off his shoes and clambers into bed next to you a little awkwardly. He’s trying to be careful, trying not to hurt you but needing closeness so badly it’s suffocating. 

You scooch to the side as quickly as you can in your current state and lean into him as he wraps his body around you softly and kisses you sweetly. 

“Love you, love you, love you,” he repeats after every kiss, pressing his lips to every part of your skin that he can reach.

“Why are you sorry?” You mutter as he holds you, “I’m the one that messed up.”

He shakes his head, “I’m sorry that I don’t make you realise how special you are, how perfect.” He kisses your cheek, “you’re the best of us Moonbeam.” 

You tut but his grip tightens and he holds you tight. 

“And one hell of a pilot.” He grins. 

You scoff. 

“You are.” He kisses you again. 

You nuzzle against him, settling into his touch. Knots have formed in your chest, pain that’s loosening. His warmth is comforting. Home. 

“Sana said she didn’t know I was in a relationship,” he says softly, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I don’t know if that’s true, but… I do believe her.” 

You nod. “She’s a good person.”

He moves so he can look you in the eyes. “Please, Moonbeam, I… don’t,” he bites his tongue, closing his eyes for a long second. “I want to tell you, I want to say, don’t ever do something like that again… don’t… don’t put yourself at risk.” 

You touch his cheek lightly. 

“But it’s not fair is it?” He smiles sadly. “We both do that every day… You know you were gonna be in my squadron at first?” 

You shake your head in surprise and he nods.

“You were, but… well,” he blushes ever so slightly. “I was so embarrassingly head over heels in love with you,” he laughs lightly. “For months I could hardly talk to you, you know I had to down five Polanis Red’s in a row after Hurthwen just so I could ask you out? I knew I wouldn’t be able to function right if you were in my squad. I knew that I’d put everyone else at risk because if it came down to it… if there was a choice between everyone in the squad dying, everyone on the base, or you… I’d let the resistance burn instead of lose you. Every single time.” 

You close your eyes, fighting the emotion that needs to break through and squeeze his hand like a lifeline. “I love you.” You whisper. 

Your fingertips brush against the necklace, the ring hooking around the first knuckle of your index finger by chance. 

Poe slowly moves his hand from yours and unwinds the necklace from his palm before carefully placing it over your head, giving you plenty of time to move away if you wanted. 

“I love you Moonbeam,” he mutters, his voice low, reverent. Then leans in to kiss you. You kiss him back with all your heart. 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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#poe dameron #star wars sequels #poe dameron x reader #x reader #poe dameron x you #x you #poe dameron x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #poe dameron x gn!reader #x gn!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

[wri0thesley]

Diluc and L, pretty please!

L - Lily (purity): “I shouldn’t taint you like this. Not when you’re so pure.”

cw: injury, dub-con, captive reader

You're trembling. Diluc is blood-stained, his jaw set stubbornly, his clothes a mess of blood and charred carbon and mud and Archon-knows what else. You shouldn't have done this, you think, as his hand grasps your chin in his, as his fingers sink into the soft flesh of your cheek. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.

"You want to clean me up?" He asks you again, and you curse yourself for your own stupidity. He is your captor, not your lover. It can be hard to remember, wrapped in luxury, brought breakfast in bed by maids and dressed in pretty morning gowns of fabric you could never have afforded before Diluc's attentions - those days when Diluc is not here, and you can imagine Dawn Winery is yours.

But you are, at the heart of it, his captive.

When he is at home, he broods through the house; tells you shortly that you're not to leave this room, you're not to go onto the balcony without anyone with you, you're not to eat that, or say this, or forget your manners again. He sleeps beside you, arms like vices around your waist.

But he has not been home for two weeks, and when you had seen him at the door to your shared chambers, his face bruised and his lip swollen and bloody and his entire body bowed with exhaustion . . . you had forgotten all of it in a moment of weakness, and the memory of who you were before Diluc had made this your life had come rushing to the forefront.

You had seen to plenty of men and women injured like this, when you were in the employ of the Church of Favonius, running their clinics. You had patched up children's knees and sewn shut the wounds of the Knights with the same sweet smile and gentle disposition. You had learnt what to say to men like Diluc, who gritted their teeth and insisted it did not hurt and they did not need your assistance even as they fell to their knees on the marble floor of the cathedral and you had to ask some of the sisters to help carry them into the infirmary room.

You could backtrack. Slink back into bed, shake your head, say something about the mess and the scent of the blood--

But you couldn't really, could you? Diluc had - at least, he says - fallen in love with you in those little backroom infirmaries, elbow deep in blood and medicines and bandages. He had looked at your soft smile and heard your gentle voice and, he says, thought you far too sweet and precious a thing to languish there, at the mercy of any rogue who could walk into the Cathedral and ask for sanctuary. He would know you were lying.

You give him a wordless little nod instead, your face still cradled in his gloved hand. A look flits across his own visage; something so sweet and adoring and disbelieving it makes your stomach twist.

"I don't deserve you," he rumbles, and truer words have never been spoken, as he lets you take him gently by the arm and tug him towards the adjoining bathroom. You ignore the muddy boot-prints on the floor; you try and will yourself to imagine the Cathedral around you. Nothing more than Master Diluc Ragnvindr, needing your aid - you think, as your fingers reach for the fastening of his shredded, tattered jacket and push it off the broadness of his shoulders.

He lets out a hot breath that reminds you that this is not just an ordinary day at the Cathedral; looks at you through half-lidded eyes as you busy yourself with running warm water into the basin, searching for cloths and sponges. There is nothing untoward kept in this bathroom - Diluc does not even shave in here, lest you get the wrong idea about something sharp - but there are, thankfully, enough cloths and a tiny bottle of antiseptic, so that you can clean the wounds on his already scarred chest even as he hisses.

He . . . isn't often undressed around you.

That, he tells you, he will wait for - big soulful crimson eyes trained on you. Until you're ready. Until you realise just how hard he is working to take care of you and you return to him the affection he knows you have in your heart. He would never, he promises, hand on his heart, force you to do anything--

He says, as if you are not forced to play house like a pretty little spouse in his luxurious winery already. He says, as if you are not forced to bite down your growls and hisses and sharp words about the life he has stolen you from. He says, as if you are not forced to pretend you are someone else lest you simply go mad.

His breath is coming out in pants as you work your fingers through the matted crimson strands of his hair. His cheeks have flushed beneath your careful, slow attempts to clean him and his wounds. He groans, chest-deep, as you swallow and reach for his trousers, where you can already see that a gash on his thigh has stuck the fabric to his skin.

"This is how I fell in love with you," he grunts, as you manage to undo it, as your cheeks burn with humiliation as you undress him and he sits there, placid and silent. "So . . . lovely. So . . . caring. Even to those who don't deserve it." You kneel before him, so you can check over the wound to make sure there is nothing stuck in it--

And your mouth goes dry and fear and disgust war in the pit of your stomach as you realise he's hard, the stiff outline of his cock pressing against his underwear. Diluc reaches out for you, one hand curling around your shoulder, another soft groan falling from his mouth as he looks down at you.

You freeze where you are. The moment shimmers between you, charged with possibility, and you find yourself reciting a prayer to Barbatos in your head over and over again, muddling over the words in a fever pitch that Diluc will keep his word--

But he's been off ever since he limped into the Winery. Muddled. A blow to the head? Whopperflower nectar? Some creature's venom, some spell from the Abyss? You don't know what it is, only that Diluc is looking down at you and there is a hot, burning kind of hunger that he usually tries to hide written clear in his crimson gaze.

"You're so pretty down there," He says, voice low and dark and husky. "I . . . I shouldn't taint you like this. Not when you're so pure."

"Diluc?" Your voice comes out thready and reedy, your body trembling like a harp-string. "Let me patch you up--"

"No," Diluc says, more to himself than to you. "I've waited so long--"

The hand on your shoulder curves upwards, thumb brushing your collarbone, your jawline. You curse the thin little morning gown you'd let Adelinde dress you in this morning, the square neckline a little risque - giving Diluc unfettered access to the soft, vulnerable skin of your throat and your collar.

He's not interested in those, though. His thumb presses against the seam of your lips, instead. With a strength that an injured man should not possess, he uses his other hand to pull you closer at the same time as he hooks his thumb into your mouth, forcing it to open up.

Panic flaring in your mind. Diluc pulls your mouth open as wide as he can, uncaring that you're drooling - his eyes are somewhere far away now, as he mutters to himself--

"It's not so bad," he's saying, "I'm not . . . it's just your mouth, and I've been so calm, and you're so beautiful-- it won't . . . ruin you--"

"--'iluc--" You can't speak for his thumb in your mouth, for the saliva filling it, for the fear that runs through you as his other hand slowly goes to unbutton his placket as if in a trance.

"Shh," he says to you, and you have never heard a less reassuring hush. "It's alright, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. You offered, remember? I would never . . . force you to do anything--"

#ask game #drabble #yandere diluc #yandere for ts #not sfw text #dub con for ts #writing #genshin impact posting

[dduane]

An anonymized non-anon query

(A note: my ask box isn’t open to anons at the moment, because I started getting inappropriate messages that I didn’t care to see. Maybe I'll eventually go anon-open again. But the present situation isn’t going to stop me from answering asks where the person’s uneasy about having their username revealed. Like this one:)

[text:

Can't go on anon so this is a little mortifying to be Seen™ but;

Do you have any words for fandom girls who are no longer in their 20s and starting to construct people in their heads who shame them for "still being into this stuff"?]

First thing; funny how it's always fandom girls who come up against this, isn't it? If it was some 90-year-old fandom boy in question who'd been painting his face red and white and following Manchester United since he was nine, no one would turn a hair. In fact, everybody in that cohort of interest would be praising him for his commitment and loyalty. It's almost as if some people have bought into the idea that the rules are different for girls somehow! Something to do with the idea that where girls belong is home making everybody a sandwich. I wonder where that might have come from...

Anyway. What you're describing here is something a lot of us have run into: the pressure to (allow me briefly to stand the well-known trope on its head) Be Like All The Other Girls... and to be prepared (and indeed resigned) for that inevitably to happen IRL. This stuff starts sneaking into your head in a very innocuous way: by disguising itself as "being prepared" for what you're afraid might happen. And it's very hard to avoid having that concern slowly but surely turn into a dread of what's going to happen. (For there's a horrible seductiveness about self-fullfilling prophecy... even if you know you've built it yourself. Part of your mind, that frightened advanced-fight-or-flight part that's always trying to keep you safe by predicting all the possible futures, starts feeling satisfied with itself when it finally has the evidence to say, "Well, at least we were prepared for that!")

So it's best to be proactive about managing this, I think, before things start to get bothersome. Develop a quick switchblade-style defense that you can pull out of your brain's back pocket at short notice. And then, when you're used to using it on those rogue ideations, disarm the sneaky "attacker" more thoroughly by taking it apart, gradually, at the more straightforwardly analytical end.

Let's start with the switchblade: a good-old fashioned mantra. How about this:

"Nobody gets to gatekeep my joy."

This can be used as a silent affirmation any time you feel the need. Any time you start feeling that pressure—that annoying whisper from the conjectural voices in your head that want you to think about how maybe you are too old for this kind of thing—pull out the mantra and shiv them in the gut with it, three times. (Threes are always good for this. Think how many spells have to be done, or names spoken, in threes. The rhythm's an archetype all its own.)

What you'll notice, with repetition of this intervention over time, is that the incidence of this kind of thinking gradually gets rarer and rarer. It might take a while to go away completely... but you'll know what to do if it rears its head again.

But also: this response can when necessary be repeated right out loud in front of whatever sorry piece of breathing meat has the unutterable bald-faced gall to actually try to gatekeep you to your (digital or otherwise) face. Pull it out, set your features in an expression of amused calm (because what you do to your face makes differences in your brain), and hit 'em with it. And if they continue to try to argue the point with you, you get to just keep repeating your base-state mantra until they give up and go away.*

...Now, since good mantras normally run deeper than the mere words, it makes sense to inquire into an underlying issue:

Why do people do this to other people? (And I don't mean this as a rhetorical question with optional eyeroll: I mean it as a possible diagnostic.) There has to be a reason people pull this shit... as mandated by the favorite (different) mantra of psychiatric professionals everywhere: "All behavior is motivated."

One aspect of this to consider: the "you're too old to be into this stuff" response is usually a learned behavior. People for whom the perception of "insufficient" age or maturity is an issue have routinely picked it up from others. There are a number of reasons why they parrot it... the likeliest being that simply want to be seen saying the thing that lots of other people they know also say; so that by so doing, they can be seen as Smart. (This is of course just another a manifestation of our old generally-maladaptive friend, the so-called herd instinct.) And nine-tenths of those other people, I can guarantee you, got it in turn from others still. "They're too old for this" is rarely going to be a spontaneous insight. (Except when used pertinent to certain contact sports, and some types of opera.)

Yet why does the trope perpetuate itself so enthusiastically?

Leaving aside personal living-arrangement issues in individual cases, I think it's because in some people, underneath the expressed trope, there's a genuine fear... an insidious variation of the well-known impostor syndrome. And it's this:

They're afraid that whatever it is they've got at the moment, it's may well be the wrong kind of "this stuff"... not a real joy. (Some people will take this to mean, "The kind of stuff, or joy, other people will approve of." Cf. the "seeming Smart" thing.) And, as they get older, they may be becoming afraid they may never have it.

Now, people naturally try to protect themselves from experiencing their own fears whenever possible. This one's no different. So one way such folks find to distract themselves from the fear of having no joy is to devalue such joy in others. That way, whatever they see themselves as having their noses spitefully "rubbed in" can be perceived as no longer a real threat to them. They can start seeing it as a bad joy, a weak or silly or stupid joy. And (in this case specifically) an immature joy.

(With this in mind, the passage in which C.S. Lewis deals with this toxic fetishization of "maturity" is worth quoting in full, since we so frequently see only the last couple/few lines:)

“Critics who treat 'adult' as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence. And in childhood and adolescence they are, in moderation, healthy symptoms. Young things ought to want to grow. But to carry on into middle life or even into early manhood this concern about being adult is a mark of really arrested development. When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”

...And you hear there the voice of a man who'd dealt with a whole lot of critics in his time on this subject—some of them quite famous and elevated types, trying to discredit him for what we'd now think of as "clicks"—and had routinely made them ever so sorry they'd engaged. Also, Lewis was an enthusiastic reader of "the pulps" until his dying day, and you should have seen some of his responses to those who tried to tell him that "at his age, he should be over that science fiction stuff by now." I'd have to go digging for the cites, but... hooboy.

Anyway, and as a closer:

You're not required to—at someone else's mere behest—even think about changing your way of thinking and living in the (probably hopeless) hopes of pleasing or placating other people you've never met. And most specifically:

You are in no wise required by the Universe to curtail your personal experience of joy in order to try to make scared and small-souled people more comfortable.Your soul gets to be its own size, and have its own joy... in its very own shape, volume, and richness.

So if anyone pulls the "You're too old for [x]" crap on you, I encourage you to just let that attitude sail on by you and fuck straight out into the Oort Cloud and beyond. Let passing alien spacecraft on their way in-system gaze at it in wonder and say, "Wow, look at that go! Didn't think they had warp drive here yet."

...Anyway: let me know how you get on.

HTH!

*This is a basic assertiveness-training technique that I feel is much undervalued in daily usage. Every time someone comes up with a new reason you should stop doing what they don't like, and expects you to respond to that... what makes them think you're required to come up with a new and different reason not to? Who made that concept up? And why waste useful originality on someone arguing with you in the kind of bad faith that refuses to accept your answers? Just keep repeating yourself with the main reason until they give up (probably in great exasperation: too bad...) and bugger off elsewhere. :) ...But see the useful 1970s work When I Say No, I Feel Guilty for effective DIY approaches to this problem.

#advice #the retired psych nurse is IN -- 5¢ #or indeed #€0.03

[cochineal-leviat]

Sweet Dreams, Stardust

Okay, so I have a lot of feelings about In Stars and Time. But let me say first, wow, this game irreversibly changed my brain network. For anyone who is considering buying this game, please do. I don't think I've had a story touch my heart and mind like this for a long time. And that goes without mentioning the stunning visuals and entertaining battle system. (Be careful, though, because this game handles heavy topics regarding mental health)

If you're still hung up on buying it but are curious, there is a free demo on Steam if you like to try.

Thank you, @insertdisc5, for this gem of a game. I will be turning it around in my head like a microwaveable gourmet meal for months to come.

Technically the illustration has no spoilers (unless you count Siffrin having a good nap as a spoiler). But I will be going into heavy spoiler territory under the keep reading since I need to get my thoughts on this game off my chest.

And a monochrome version because you know me, I can't help myself. Even in black and white art pieces, I will put in some colour.

And a very tiny Loop

Initially, I was going to do a piece with a theatre stage and the cast (Siffrin, Mirabelle, Isabeau, Odile, Bonnie and the head house maiden) taking a bow and finally leaving the spectacle to a life not controlled by a script and Wish Craft. But it was more fitting to put my feelings into creating a peaceful scene. Like, oof, I needed this very badly. I used sepia to make the painting warmer and added some more details like headcanons. The stars/colours might be remnants of Siffrin's transformation. Or maybe they were always there, but he never paid attention to it. Who knows.

I'm going to keep this brief. Otherwise, this post will take way too long.

I adore Siff's character. It's perfect for a game and narrative such as this. I saw a post not long ago on Tumblr going into depth about how their role as the rogue and not the hero works so well, so I won't linger on it for long. But how they would rather listen and fade into the background perfectly aligns with the player's experience of being the silent observer. (And the nodding off that changes into zoning out. It took me way too long to realise that small but essential narrative change) Oh, and the portrait change! It flew over my head until I was staring at the game menu. I was so confident Siffrin had a mischievous grin and not a frown. I always feel slightly surprised when the party asks for Siff's opinion or mentions that they have been too quiet. I felt Siffrin's excitement like my own when he got excited at finding clues to end the nightmare they were in. So I knew it would end up falling on their face because they were too excited. I just had this bad gut feeling the whole time during Act 4.

And oh boy, speaking off acts. I thought it would have been the standard 3. Boy, I was wrong. Whenever I felt I was nearing the end, I was thrown back at the start with more mysteries than answers. It made exploring the game intriguing since there is almost no information about it online (at the time of writing this post). There is the Discord, but I didn't know about it until I finished it.

This game has a lot of secrets, and I had a lot of fun uncovering them. The looping mechanic works so well in discovering little details and further leads. (even though my stubborn arse kept trying to do everything in the least amount of loops as possible. I thought the ending would be different if I exceeded a 100. My final number is 59. I am still not sure if I should be mad about it not being a rounded number like 60 or that I went over the 50 threshold)

However, it is a good thing that only some mysteries were solved. Like, what's up with colours in this world? Everyone sees in black and white, and the idea of shades and colours is only spoken of in scientific studies. They do exist and are not a part of the disaster that happened to Siffrin and their land. But there is definitely something mysterious about it. I adore how the dialogue reflects this, as the characters do not speak of shades or colours. Isabeau expresses surprise to see a streak of red colouring the sky in Act 6. It makes you think about how colour is perceived and how you describe it. (The lore inside this game is immaculate. I eat this shit up)

We never find out the name of the country north of Vanguard or what it was like. We can only infer that the beaches had black sand, with shells that shine like stars, high-reaching mountains, forests and plains. Which is vague and yet intriguing enough to make you wonder. It connected me to Siff and King because I also wanted to know. I was desperate to know. I needed to know. But in the end, we never will know because that is not the story's point. Siffrin even says in the game, that King should let go because he is hurting everyone and everything, including himself, in his desperation to preserve Vanguard. This is all the more ironic when Siff accidentally does the same with his family and the loops. I might gush more about what the country might be like and their technology in another post. This game makes me want to theorise. This is the first time I've wanted to write and post theories. ISAT fucked me up good.

Which, by the way, was genius. Siffrin and King are mirrors of each other. Siff does not have King's disastrous ambition, but their love/obsession will be the downfall of both of them. They have more than being each other's countrymen in common, and I imagine Siff despises that.

I love the fact King's question to Siffrin before the showdown was/could never be answered. Usually, in a game such as this, you must figure out how to solve everything, especially for the big bad. But that was never the goal. King is a delusional monster who will not stop before achieving his dream. He will raze everything to the ground and hurt many people because he must succeed. It is what he desires. Nay, the universe wills it. What a witless excuse that can easily be made into someone's truth. Especially to somebody who is driven mad with grief.

How King's character's done is so excellent. Because, at first, I wasn't scared of him at all. He was just the big bad, and I felt nothing much but the glory of victory when Siffrin outsmarted him by looping and making sure Mirabelle learned the shield spell that would protect the party from freezing in time. But each time you fight him, you get more frustrated until Siff figures that talking to him might be fruitful. It does, but unfortunately, you and Siffrin leave yourself emotionally and mentally vulnerable. King stops being a one-dimensional villain and changes into an actual person. Someone you can sympathise with and possibly mend peace with without fighting. You and Siffrin opened his heart for a kindred spirit and got hurt.

King stopped being a monster and became human. And while monsters are wretched, humans have intent behind their cruelty. I felt so betrayed, so angry, but most of all - terrified. I felt it when Siffrin spiralled when fighting King again after their actions caused such a catastrophic turn of events for Bonnie. Every time after that, the fight with King felt tense and nerve-wracking in a dreadful way. Because even victory could not soothe the dread I felt. (The track 'It's finally over" will forever haunt me. I already feel anxious whenever it cycles to that when I listen to the playlist)

He was not, however, the final villain, even though everything that happened was King's fault. You were always your greatest enemy (or Siffrin in this case, since you are supposed to be Siffrin). I never could have guessed that the whole reason why Siffrin could not escape the loops was because Siff accidentally wished to never let go of their friends. This reminds me of Modaka Magica, where (spoilers for the OG anime) Homura goes back in time so much that the universe ties itself around Modoka, making her a waiting egg whose wish and magic will be massive when she becomes a magical girl. The one thing Homura was trying to prevent.

(Siffrin and Homura are identical in that sense. Shy characters who are loyal to a fault but are rendered into something cold, bitter and cutting by their traumatic experiences. Only Siff has people who care about them and would do anything to save him, too, whereas Homura never lets go, making the world a worse place to live in. Yes, I did go into doomed Yuri. That anime lived in my mind rent-free in my mind for years)

The Head House-maiden not being the villain was also a great touch. I am used to the apparent antagonist turning out not to be the big bad and the trusted, friendly character ending up being the evil one. Twist villains no longer work when everyone expects them to be villains.

That was my biggest theory as I played. The second biggest being that Loop is someone who enjoys Siffrin's suffering. I am so glad that was also not the case. They are apathetic but not cruel. Never intentionally, anyway. They were like the player, urging Siffrin to go deeper into the mystery to solve it. Ultimately, I chose and made cold and cruel decisions simply because I wanted to see what would happen. So yeah, I warmed up to this cosmic star thing as the game went on and even started trusting them. Act 5 really is a punch in the gut. I am so sorry, Loop. Thank you for coming through in the end.

Oh man, this is so long, and I haven't even gone into the main cast. I will leave that for another post. They are such great characters, as are the people of Dormant and the House. (Don't think I don't see the wordplay in this game. Very clever)

Going into this game completely blind was the best experience I could have had. I felt anxious, happy and scared so severely that my neurons were rearranged. I don't know if there are more endings (aside from the obvious action of attacking Odile in the True(?) ending of the game), but I am taking a break from it to make art and write for this game before I dive back into despair-o-land.

Anywho, thank you for coming this far and reading my ramblings. Have a fantastic day or evening further! o(*'▽`*)ブ

#in stars and time #isat #siffrin #isat siffrin #isat isabeau #isabeau #isat odile #odile #mirabelle #isat mirabelle #Bonnie #isat bonnie #isat loop #I love this game so much #and the charachters #I want to do an essay on their designs #and even some theory posts #I never had this happen before to me #long post #nothing to see here but me singing praises for this lovely game #isat spoilers #you're safe though as long as you do not go under keep reading #do Siffrin and Isabeau have a shipname yet because there is little of it in the drawing #Siffrin x Isabeau #heh fuck it #isat fanart #my art

[bonefall]

.. opinions on wind runner? i feel like im one of the only ones that genuinely hates her sometimes

If you feel like the only one who genuinely hates her, I think you need to look around more. Wind Runner is a very widely disliked character, because she's often used within the story as a small antagonist who "threatens" the authority of Tall Shadow. Gray Wing dislikes her. Thunder is openly cat-racist to her. She spends several books trying to break through the moor cats' xenophobia to join a group that came to HER LAND.

Then, when Moth Flight is old enough to be a relevant character in Forest Divided, Wind Runner is turned into Yet Another mean mom the very moment Moth displays ADHD. She's contrasted to her mate Gorse Fur, who is a Soft And Good Dad, and ultimately MASSIVELY punished with the harrowing events of Moth Flight's Vision (even though, for most of that book, she's completely right.)

Ask yourself why they're especially harsh on WIND RUNNER for being mean to her child, in the arc with Tom the Fucking Wifebeater and his redemption death, plus Thunder being forced to stop being mad at his abuser Clear Sky, please.

To me, Wind Runner is an intense, ambitious woman who's demonized for it in a way that men just aren't. She's subject to several misogynistic trends within WC, plus a huge helping of xenophobia that goes absolutely unexamined. If DOTC cared at all about women, it would have treated her with the nuance she deserves.

Wind Runner is treated with nearly endless suspicion by Gray Wing through books 1 - 3, while he's bending over backwards to suck Clear Sky's toes.

Her wanting to join the group that came TO HER HOME and being a bit pushy about it earns a stronger reaction from Gray Wing than Clear Sky murdering people.

She's pressured into changing her name "to fit in," and it's still not enough. She wanted to join the group so bad she changed her name, at the request of the Mountain Cats, for a chance of being better accepted

This came after she'd already saved Jagged Peak's life when a burrow collapsed on him. She's plenty trustworthy.

She keeps doing shit to try and prove herself to this group of assholes. Remember Bumble being dragged back to her domestic abuser? Gray Wing interprets this as a power struggle, when WIND RUNNER WAS NOT EVEN PART OF THE GROUP AT THE TIME.

From Wind Runner's POV, she did something that the Moor cats wanted done. It was fucking evil. It was committing violence against another member of the out-group the cats see her as.

But who actually has the power here? Tall Shadow does.

Gray Wing said it himself that she could have come up with some excuse for Bumble to stay, and she didn't. In fact, any cat could have spoken up. No one did.

and still. STILL. Wind Runner gets nothing. Her reward is Gray Wing surmising that actually, her doing their sick dirtywork was a political move.

It's more consistent as a motivation with how Wind Runner wants to join their group. The thing she's been doing.

She only actually gets to join the group after Thunder starts publicly hurling slurs at her for suggesting they need to be ready for Clear Sky to attack them. "What do you know about peace? Last time I was here you were NOTHING BUT A ROGUE WITH A ROGUE'S NAME"

Gray Wing even starts purring when she gives birth, because her ambition goes away briefly and she "stops bossing everyone around." this is treated like a sweet thing. god forbid women retain their personalities when they have kids

She loses her first premature child to a seizure and Gray Wing starts proselytizing his religion to her. "Maybe it's a good thing your weakest child died because Jesus has them now" I want to beat him with a hammer

When her second child gets sick, Clear Sky has a bright idea that involves killing it. I refer to this as his "reverse leper colony" suggestion. He only develops a sense of humanity towards the sick when his brother's pregnant wife is in danger. Wind Runner and her kitten barely seem to clock as people to him.

It's only after her SECOND baby succumbs to a horrible, painful death that she decides the moor cats are assholes, and she goes to start her own group. It's LONG overdue. I was extremely excited to see it.

Now. Listen.

I've been treated just like Moth Flight before. I've practically heard the scolding in Book 6 Chapter 3 verbatim. I'm not downplaying anything about Wind Runner being harsh to her; being yelled at like that never fixed the problem.

What I'm saying is that this is the SAME arc that summons the hollowed-out ghost of Storm to coo that Clear Sky "never drove anyone away" with his abusive behavior and gives Tom the Wifebeater a heroic redemption death.

So why is the scolding from Wind Runner treated as unambiguously harsh? What's the difference between her and them?

Why is it that outside of this little bubble of the community, you can get buried in a flood of people crying about how "Clear Sky made Summisteaks Butt he thought it was the right thing :((( He feels bad about shoving Thunder's face in a weeping, pus-filled wound and trying to kill him :((((" but Wind Runner is mean about Moth Flight not catching a rabbit and she should be skinned alive

Why is WIND RUNNER held responsible for the death of Clear Sky's child in Moth Flight's Vision, WHEN IT WAS COMPLETELY HIS OWN FAULT??

So, why should I hate her? Because she's mean to the idiot protagonists? Because she's Yet Another Bad Mom whose actions ARE treated as Bad in the story, in the arc famous for openly weeping whenever someone's mad at their abusive dad?? When she has this whole horrific, unexamined story about how incredibly bigoted The Settlers are towards her and the extremes she goes to in order to please them?

I'm glad she's mean, actually. She should have been even meaner. I think she should have a gun

#so anon I am very sorry #Uou are going to the Shadow Realm #I am the patron saint of every woman in wc #but especially the ones in dotc #because that arc does them so fucking dirty #Wind Runner can be as mean as she wants I support her #The Settlers deserve it actually #Wind Runner #Windstar #Warrior Cats Analysis #also again everything wind runner has ever done that was mean was done worse by clear sky #but clear gets off with a slap on the wrist. IF that. #while Wind Runner gets her leg sickeningly snapped on screen as several paragraphs detail her growing fever and horrible agony #before the magic of JesusClan heals her and bestows her lives upon her #Guys getting hurt in WC: ''owie'' #Girls getting hurt in WC: (you can hear the writer breathing heavily through the 6 paragraphs of prose they use to describe her injury) #..........also. to put into perspective just how fucking bad the misogyny in this arc is; #there are only 4 female characters in Book 1 who survive to the end of Book 6. Besides some cameo cats who exist in the tribe #Wind Runner is one of them. The other three are Settlers. #I won't even say their names lol. Can you even remember who all three of the other ones are #warrior cats analysis

[fantasyescapes17]

Candle (Part 1)

You have always received the best of everything life has to offer: be it education, family, fortune or happiness. Mr. Yoon Jeonghan- one of the ton's renowned villains- cannot possibly bring you happiness of any kind, never mind wedded bliss. But can you evade Jeonghan's charms? Or will you find yourself falling victim to this clever rogue?

Genre: Yoon Jeonghan x female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are Wonwoo's sister so your last name is Jeon, but the reader has no other specific characteristics, physical or otherwise.

Word Count: 4.8k+

Part 2 Part 3

Series Masterlist [I would recommend reading the first story in this series, Patience, before this one but it's not strictly necessary.]

“It is not that I do not wish to marry,” you explained to the maid that was dealing with your hair. The fine silver comb tugged painfully on your scalp, but you had learned to ignore it through continued practice. “I do like the thought of being the lady of my own estate, and having children and a husband who loves me.” 

The maid hummed as she dragged the comb through your hair. “Of course, miss.” 

“But why must all the eligible bachelors of the ton be so dreadfully boring? Every conversation feels the same. If you’ve spoken to one of them, you may as well have spoken to them all,” you complained. “They constantly talk about the same subjects and offer the same compliments.” 

“What would you like them to say instead, miss?” the maid asked lightly. 

“Well, anything that I have not already heard a hundred times before!” you exclaimed as the maid fixed the last pin in your hair and released you. You turned to appraise yourself in the mirror carefully before pouting at your maid. “Daisy, I am not foolish enough to entertain expectations of true love. But is it too much to ask for a husband who will not drive me mad out of boredom? A husband for whom at least a small candle lights up in my heart- never mind a wild and burning flame?” 

Daisy smiled. “You will be late, miss. Your family is waiting downstairs.” 

“But you offer me no reassurances,” you noted with a frown. 

“Do not worry yourself too much, miss. There are plenty of men in London this season that you are  yet to meet. I am certain one of them will light your heart’s candle.” 

You thanked her and then stood up to appraise yourself in the mirror. You had chosen one of your prettiest gowns for the first ball of the season and were pleased with the way the soft pastel colours accentuated your figure and skin. You were not the belle of the ball- you would leave titles like that to more perfect women than you- but you were certainly striking enough to never be left wanting for a dance partner or company. 

God. All this effort to spend your evening listening to men offer you recycled compliments or boast about their fortunes. 

"So her highness finally arrives. I thought perhaps you were waiting for the ball to end," your brother Wonwoo remarked as you walked down to the foyer of your large London home. 

You paid him little mind. Wonwoo was not truly angry about the delay. He had no great love for social engagements or balls and suffered through them in the same way you did, albeit with fewer complaints. 

"Beauty takes time," you replied simply.

"As does the journey to the Hessington's manor. Mother and Father are waiting for us outside."

"It would not be fashionable to arrive too early," you protested. 

Wonwoo simply offered you his arm in silence and you joined your brother in stepping out of your large home and climbing into the lavish carriage that waited on the street outside. Your parents were already seated and your mother smiled when she saw you. 

"Oh darling! You look quite lovely in that dress," she told you happily as the carriage slowly began to take your family to your destination. "I should not be surprised if your  father has a queue of men outside his door to offer for your hand this season."

You smiled. "Thank you, mother. I am sure Father knows best."

Your father raised an eyebrow. He appeared bored. "I know nothing. You are perfectly capable of choosing your own husband. Unless you wish to marry a stable boy, you shall hear no sound from me."

Your mother swatted his arm. "Dearest! How can you say such a thing! It is of utmost importance that our dear daughter is married well and happy- and you must do everything you can to ensure this!"

Mr. Jeon chuckled. "I believe these matters require far more womanly expertise than I possess."

Your mother disregarded him and turned back to you. "Now darling, remember. We are in no hurry. This is only your first season and time and money are on our side. Unlike some of the other foolish mothers of the ton, I know that marrying well is far more important than marrying quickly."

You smiled. "Yes, mother."

"There is no need to accept any offers immediately. Do not court anyone straight away. Wait and watch and analyse. You deserve the very best."

You bit your lip and nodded. You had to admit that your mother's confidence in you made you feel better about your prospects. She was right. There was plenty of time. You were not in any rush and you would wait patiently until the right man for you appeared. 

Hopefully he would. 

"As for you, Wonwoo-" your mother continued, turning to your brother who had been staring out of the window absently. "Although your sister's marriage prospects occupy more of my time and attention than yours, it would be helpful if you at least indulged in a few dances and did not offend all the young ladies that crossed your path by ignoring them or pretending to be absorbed in a book."

Wonwoo flushed. He had been known to hide behind a book in order to avoid the attention of some of the more determined young ladies. Women frequently left your brother's company feeling snubbed. 

"Yes, mother," he replied with a sigh. 

"I want to see you up on the dance floor for at least two dances," she pressed. 

"One," Wonwoo pushed back. 

"Two, this is not a discussion."

Wonwoo decided against arguing with his mother and turned his attention back to the window of the carriage as it clattered noisily along the path to the ball. You chuckled- you could not wait to meet a woman who could put a genuine smile on Jeon Wonwoo's face. A difficult task indeed, but certainly not impossible. 

The carriage stopped once your family arrived at the Hessington's ball. It was an incredibly grand affair. Being the first ball of the season, it would set the standard for all social events during the upcoming months. You could tell that this would be a glamorous season indeed. 

You almost felt nervous. 

"Isn't that your friend?" Wonwoo mumbled to you as your family entered the enormous bustling ballroom full of immaculately dressed men and women. 

"Miss Jeon!" 

You laughed in delight as a young woman in a bright purple dress came over to you and embraced you warmly. It had been many months since you had seen your dear friend Ella Williams.  You wrote to her often but you were no great writer, and letters were not nearly enough to say all that you wished to share. 

“Miss Williams! Oh, I am so delighted to see you here! How have you been?” you demanded of your friend. 

Ella smiled. “I have been wonderful, as always. It is a pleasure to see you as well, Mr. Jeon!” Ella greeted your brother with a bright smile and a polite curtsey. Wonwoo acknowledged her with a small tilt of his head. Ella was no stranger to your brother’s quiet and unenthusiastic manner- so she merely giggled at him and did not take offence. 

“He is upset because he is required to dance twice tonight,” you explained to Ella. “Wonwoo, you might as well ask Ella to dance with you so that half of your promise to mother is fulfilled. Then you need only find one more partner over the course of the evening.” 

Ella batted her eyelashes at your brother. “I would not object to a dance with Mr. Jeon.” 

You waited patiently while Wonwoo signed Ella’s dance card and then wordlessly disappeared further into the room in order to speak to some of his acquaintances. Ella beamed and turned back to you. 

“Well. I shall be the target of much envy when I stand up for a dance with the elusive Mr. Jeon. Oh! But I have so much to tell you, my friend, come with me to the refreshments table and I will show you what I have prepared for us!” 

You allowed Ella to take your arm and pull you towards the refreshments. You both found seats on a bench and she pulled a small black diary out of her pocket that she showed you cheerfully. 

“Guess what this is?” she asked eagerly, but did not allow you time to formulate a response. “I spent the entire summer doing research and have prepared elaborate notes on every single marriage-minded bachelor that will be in attendance this season. I believe the usual clumsy method of turning up to as many social events as we can and simpering at random men only to be disappointed once we learn more about them cannot go on. We are clever women. We must employ the scientific method.” 

You giggled at your friend. “The scientific method? To find a husband?” 

“It is almost perfect! And it took me months to compile- I keep adding to it every time I learn more about any of them."

You looked at her book with a laugh. It really was packed full of notes. This was no small feat that Ella had achieved. 

"How does this help us?" you asked, confused. 

Ella sighed. "My dear friend. Every time a man introduces himself or asks you for a dance, you need only look him up in my little book to know everything about him! Well; perhaps not everything, it is still a work in progress but I am constantly adding to it!"

You looked down at her little book curiously. 

"Ella… you may have created something very valuable," you admitted to her slowly. "I am sure many of the young women in the room would love to have a peek at that little book."

Ella beamed. "Yes, but I shall not share it with anyone but you."

"You really are a wonderful friend."

"Of course I am. Now- have you found any dance partners yet for the evening? I am lucky to have started the evening off strong by securing a dance with your brother- it is my turn to find you an equally excellent partner."

You smiled. "I would be very grateful."

But Ella's efforts were not necessary. As you stood, you were approached by your brother and another handsome young man with a very charming smile.  

"I believe the dancing is about to begin," Wonwoo said simply as he offered his arm to Ella. He paused to look at you. "Sister, allow me to introduce you to my friend Mr. Kim Mingyu."

Mr. Kim Mingyu took your gloved hand into his own and pressed his lips to your knuckles in a suave manner. 

"Miss Jeon. I have heard many wonderful things about you; would you do me the honour of joining me for the next dance?" Mingyu asked. 

You smiled. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Kim."

"Excellent. This way."

Mingyu was a very good dancer and an adequate conversationalist. He did offer you some textbook insincere compliments about your dancing skill and your dress, but since he was good friends with your brother, any lulls in the conversation were filled with stories from the time he and Wonwoo spent together at Oxford. There was something very lighthearted about his words and manner. It left you with the impression that Mr. Kim Mingyu did not take anything very seriously-including his own marriage prospects. 

"Thank you very much for the dance, Mr. Kim,” you bowed to him politely as the music came to an end. Mingyu smiled and offered you his arm to lead you away from the dance floor. 

“It was a pleasure, Miss Jeon. May I help you find your next partner?” he offered generously. "I know multiple young men who would be delighted to be introduced to you.” 

"I would be very grateful, Mr. Kim. But I have already promised Miss Ella Williams that she may be the one to find my next partner and I could not bear to  disappoint her."

Mingyu nodded. "Very well. Your brother is probably seeking a corner to hide himself in for the rest of the evening, so if you find yourself requiring a dance partner at any moment please do not hesitate to send for me."

You laughed. "Indeed. I shall summon you as soon as your services become necessary."

Mingyu left you just as Ella came over to join you on your bench.

"Well, well," your friend teased. "Mr. Kim is certainly very handsome. And he appears to be an excellent dancer."

"Will you tell me what you have written about him in your little book?" you asked. 

Ella withdrew the book from the folds of her skirts and took a moment to flip the pages. "Let us see here…. K for Kim… Mingyu…. ah! Here he is! 

"Goodness, the page is full!" you laughed as you saw the page crammed to the brim with notes. There was barely any space left. "Is that a list of women he is rumoured to  be courting? Heavens. You shall need to prepare a summary for this man."

"I have one," she replied, her fingers pointing to two underlined words on the top right corner. Notorious rake. 

You both exchanged looks and laughed. 

"That sounds about right," you giggled before taking her arm. "Now hurry! You promised to find me another dance partner! If we sit on the bench for too long then we might be approached by someone particularly odious."

"Of course!" 

Ella grabbed your arm and guided you across the room to a group of men who stood conversing near the balcony. One of them turned and smiled when he saw Ella. 

"Ella! I did not know you would be here tonight," he greeted her fondly. He had gentle eyes and a soft smile that put you instantly at ease. 

"How could I miss the first ball of the season?" Ella asked. "Joshua, you must allow me to introduce you to my dear friend Miss Jeon. I insist that you dance the next dance with her, for she is so much in demand that you may not have another chance all season! Miss Jeon, this is my cousin Viscount Joshua Hong."

Joshua greeted you warmly. Unlike Mingyu, he made no excessively charming moves to kiss your hand but his impeccable manners put you at ease. 

"Of course. It would be an honour to dance with Miss Jeon," he promised you. "But first allow me to make introductions of my own. I am accompanied by my dear friends Mr. Choi Seungcheol and Mr. Yoon Jeonghan."

You curtsied politely to the two men. Mr. Choi was handsome, certainly, but you were struck immediately by how unnaturally perfect Mr. Yoon Jeonghan was. His features were sharp, angular, and he looked like a marble statue sculpted by a skilled artist. Jeonghan had an almost ethereal beauty to him. 

And he turned immediately to your friend. 

"Miss Williams, may I request your hand for the next dance, if you have not already promised it to another?" Jeonghan asked, as he offered her his hand. 

Ella took it without hesitation. "Of course!"

It was no punishment to dance with Viscount Joshua Hong. The man was possibly the most eligible bachelor in the room considering his title, vast fortune and gentlemanly reputation so Ella had done you a great favour. Joshua made light and pleasant conversation as you danced. He was not entirely boring, but also failed to be particularly interesting. You found yourself casting glances across the room at Ella's dance partner. 

When your dance with Joshua came to an end, you approached Ella and Jeonghan with the faint hope that you might be chosen as Mr. Yoon Jeonghan's next partner- only to find that the man in question had already left the area. 

"What happened to Mr. Yoon?" you asked your friend casually. 

"He apologised and had to leave early. Something about his sister- perhaps you know her? Miss Yoon? Fairly pretty woman who is rather well-known for strangely not receiving any offers of marriage since the last many seasons?"

It sounded familiar. "Was he a good dancer?"

"Excellent- but I was terribly nervous throughout the dance, after all, you know what everyone says about him!" Ella said with a shaky laugh. 

You did not know. "What does everyone say about him-"

Your question was cut off by the appearance of your mother, who took your arm with a bright smile. “My dear! I can see that you have been quite successful with your dance partners tonight. Not only Mr Kim Mingyu but Viscount Hong as well! Everyone is quite taken with you.” 

You smiled at your mother. “Thank you, mother-” 

“Come along now. I have many others to introduce you to, we should take advantage of this momentum. You should come as well, Ella. A certain Mr. Lee has been asking about you and you will need someone to make the necessary introductions!” 

Ella smiled and took your hand as the two of you followed your mother.

—--------------------------------------------------------------

The Hessington’s ball was, in your mother’s expert opinion, a grand success. You had danced almost every dance with an eligible young man and the general consensus among the ton was that you were a delightful young woman who would likely receive her fair share of attention and gentleman callers. 

It was difficult to not want to bask in all the attention. 

“Mother! May I go to the assembly rooms with Ella and Mrs. Williams this evening? I believe we have no other engagements,” you reminded her eagerly as she attended to her knitting in the drawing room. Your mother looked up at you. 

“Will Mrs. Williams chaperone?” 

“Of course.” 

Upon receiving her permission you hurried upstairs to dress for an evening at the assembly rooms. You had heard from Ella that Viscount Hong would be in attendance. While you had no specific interest in Joshua  himself, you could not deny that the Viscount was well-connected and always ready and able to make introductions with other eligible young men. 

Daisy helped you into a pretty dress. Since an evening at the assembly rooms was not nearly as glamorous as a ball, you kept your attire simple but could not resist finishing off your look with a string of pearls around your neck. 

“You look lovely, miss,” Daisy complimented you kindly. “The pearls suit you very well.” 

You smiled. “Thank you, Daisy.” 

The Williams’ carriage arrived promptly to pick you up, and you travelled to the assembly rooms with Ella and her mother. You were delighted when Mrs. Williams promptly sat down at one of the many card tables and announced her intention to play whist all evening. The older woman appeared to have no plans of following you or Ella about the room, or being an overbearing chaperone. 

"I have decided to cast my net upon Mr. Xu Minghao tonight," Ella whispered to you, gesturing to a handsome young man in the corner of the room. "I shall ask Joshua to introduce me. Would you like to come?"

You tilted your head thoughtfully. "I might play some cards first. I have been looking forward to it for a while. Do you think it would be impolite for me to sit down at any of these tables?"

"I see Mrs. Patty there. She will surely welcome you at her card table; although I would be careful. I hear her gambling habit can be… excessive. And she gossips even more than she gambles."

You giggled. "I shall be fine with Mrs. Patty. She likes me. Go on and demonstrate your charms to Mr. Xu."

You were welcomed warmly at the card tables by Mrs. Patty and the other ladies, all of whom complimented your success at the Hessington's ball the previous evening while dealing you into their game. You were not a very experienced card player, but it did not signify. The bets were small at the ladies’ table. On the other hand, the table of gentlemen across from you were clearly playing for much higher stakes. 

You had a clear view of the men's card table. A few familiar faces were seated there- including Mr. Kim  Mingyu and Mr. Kwon Soonyoung. The occupant that was of particular interest to you, however, was Mr. Yoon Jeonghan. Jeonghan had leaned back in his seat in a relaxed and careless manner, a handsome smirk on his face as he observed his cards. 

Really, he was unfairly attractive. How were you supposed to focus on your cards when a man as perfect as Yoon Jeonghan sat directly in your line of view? It was hardly surprising that you lost the first round of the game with the ladies. 

Jeonghan looked up suddenly and his intense gaze met yours. You were a little flustered at having been caught staring, but the corner of his lips curved up in a hint of a smile. Jeonghan acknowledged you with a simple tilt of his head. You forced a polite smile back and quickly turned away. 

When you dared to lift your eyes in his direction once more, he had already turned his attention away from you. 

“Really Mr. Yoon? Will you continue to win until you bleed us all dry?” you heard Mr. Kim Mingyu demand from the other table. The other men nodded in agreement; it appeared that Mr. Yoon had won almost every hand this evening. 

“You are bleeding yourself dry, Mr. Kim. Perhaps you may wish to study the rules of the game before you hand your money to me?” Jeonghan suggested lightly. 

“If I play another round with you I shall be in danger of losing my estate.” 

There appeared to be a general consensus among the men at table that they had lost enough money to Mr. Yoon for one evening. You watched with interest as they all left the table in search of refreshments and other entertainment. Mr. Yoon lingered at the table a few moments longer to collect his belongings.

It was a rare opening- you waited until your current round ended and took the chance to excuse yourself from the ladies table. 

“Pardon me, Mrs. Patty but I think I have had my fill of cards. I will take your leave now,” you said to the older woman who dismissed you easily. 

You took a deep breath. Perhaps it was an… audacious move (if not an entirely improper one) for you to approach Mr. Yoon while there was nobody else in your company. But you were quite determined to learn more about this man with the angelic features and confident gaze. You could not simply wait until Jeonghan decided to take note of you- you would bring the conversation to him. 

“Mr. Yoon,” you greeted him politely. 

Jeonghan turned to you with mild surprise. This was a crowded room, yes, but it was still bold of you to approach him without a female chaperone.  

Although to be fair, Yoon Jeonghan had never been one to put too fine a point on the rules of propriety.

“Miss Jeon, if I am not mistaken,” he greeted calmly. He gave no indication that he found you approaching him to be improper. “We were introduced at the Hessington’s ball last evening. I heard from my stepmother that you had excellent success and danced every single dance.” 

“I do not know if I was particularly successful at anything; to dance every dance at a ball is not unheard of. But to win almost every hand of cards while playing a game of chance… that is what I would consider success,” you teased him.

It was a bold attempt at flirtation- you could only wait and see what move Jeonghan would make. 

Jeonghan folded his arms across his chest. You could tell that he was biting back a smile. “Perhaps my opponents were simply too drunk to remember the rules of the game,” he suggested.  

“Or perhaps you have devised a way to eliminate the influence of chance on the game’s outcome entirely.” 

Jeonghan could not resist a chuckle. “Miss Jeon. I must protest this line of questioning. It seems to be in danger of impinging upon my honour as a gentleman. I hope you don’t mean to accuse me of cheating at cards?”

“Res ipsa loquitor, as they say in Latin, or- the thing speaks for itself,” you continued to tease him. “Do you deny it?” 

“I shall not deny it. Instead, I shall generously grant you the opportunity to withdraw this dangerous allegation you have chosen to make,” he continued, “for I am confident that you possess no evidence to support your claim. Please- have a seat. It would not do for you to remain standing while we debate my alleged crimes.” 

You allowed Jeonghan to pull out a chair for you and he expertly moved behind you to push it back in before taking his own seat. You folded your hands in your lap and smiled at him. You were enjoying this conversation. 

“Your words are clever Mr. Yoon, but they do not cry innocence,” you insisted. 

“I am not claiming to be innocent.” 

“Then you admit you are guilty?” 

“I shall not answer your allegation either way,” Jeonghan replied with a chuckle. “But I am concerned for the impact your allegations shall have on your honour when you find yourself unable to justify them with sufficient evidence.” 

You laughed. “So you are greatly concerned for my honour, are you, Mr. Yoon?” 

“I would be concerned for the honour of any young lady in your position.” 

“Then how do you suggest we resolve this? For I find it impossible to believe that you should have been able to win so many rounds of a game of chance without having found some manner of tilting the scales of luck in your favour,” you insisted. 

Jeonghan leaned closer to you suddenly. His dark eyes boldly met yours and your senses were instantly overwhelmed by him. His clean scent, the sound of his soft breathing and his handsome face hovering a few inches from your own. Jeonghan’s voice (suddenly low) sent a pleasurable shiver down your spine. 

“If you do not withdraw your allegation,” he whispered. “I shall have no choice but to demand satisfaction.” 

Oh. This man was dangerous. 

He pulled back and you felt a rush of adrenaline. Noone had ever flirted with you quite like this before- and it was, clearly and undoubtedly a delightfully dangerous flirtation, for what man would innocently lean so close and whisper such words in the presence of a lady unless he meant to be unequivocal about his nefarious intention? 

It appeared you had walked into the lion’s den of your own free will. 

“Satisfaction?” you asked him, trying not to reveal how flustered you were.  “I hope you do not intend to challenge a lady to a duel, Mr. Yoon.” 

“A duel? No, not at all. I can think of better ways for you to restore my honour.” 

“I have no intention of restoring your honour,” you replied boldly. 

“Perhaps I shall be able to persuade you otherwise. Tell me Miss Yoon- have you recently lost anything? Perhaps a valuable item that you carry upon your person?” Jeonghan asked in a knowing tone. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You had not carried much with you and you quickly checked that you still possessed your handkerchief and reticule. As you turned your head, however, you realised that there was a strange lightness around your neck. 

Your hand flew up to your bare neck. 

“My pearls!” 

Jeonghan smirked. His arm moved subtly across the table and you caught a glimpse of something white and shiny clasped in his hand just before he tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. You stared at him in shock and disbelief. 

“Mr. Yoon- have you just stolen my pearls?” you demanded in a hushed tone. 

Jeonghan looked pleased with himself. 

“Not to worry, my lady. I have every intention of returning them to you tomorrow, at the Hongs’ ball- where you shall do me the honour of dancing the final dance of the evening with me. An act which will, I believe, be adequate recompense for the baseless accusations you have brought upon my honour.” 

You looked up at him with a smile.

So it was to be a game.  

“You don’t play fair, Mr. Yoon,” you remarked. 

“Remind me to further discuss the merits of fairness during our dance at tomorrow’s ball,” Jeonghan suggested as he stood from his seat and reached for your hand. He pressed his lips against your knuckles- softly, tantalisingly, and perhaps lingering for half a second longer than appropriate before giving you a roguish smile. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Jeon.” 

You watched as he walked away to join his companions at the refreshment tables. Your heartbeat thumped with excitement while the adrenaline from your unbelievably shocking encounter with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan slowly ebbed. 

Well, you thought to yourself. Mr. Yoon Jeonghan had certainly lit your heart’s candle. 

Indeed, he seemed quite in danger of tipping it over and setting the entire bloody place on fire.

-----------------------------------------

A/N: Thanks to everyone who showed so much love for my first fic Patience, and also thank you for reading Candle! Jeonghan was such a crucial character in Patience that it was always my intention to write a companion fic for him.

I should be able to upload the next part of Candle in a few days, if all goes well. I'm also in the process of plotting for Wonwoo, Mingyu and Hoshi, in no particular order.

Any feedback is welcome! I'm not sensitive lol.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfiction #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen au #regency!au #yoon jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan scenarios

[engie-ivy]

(Short fic of Remus being a disaster😋 for @wolfstarmicrofic)

2nd: Rogue

Remus only dates so-called 'bad boys', because he isn't interested in falling in love, but also doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, and with those types, he doesn't have to worry about either. When he goes on a date with Sirius Black, however, Remus quickly realizes he's made a huge error of judgment.

Wasn't Looking For This

“You need help,” Mary states as she’s scrolling through Remus’ Tinder matches.

“Don’t you dare start swiping for me!” Remus warns.

Mary shakes her head. “No, I mean like professional help. Have you considered talking to someone?”

“Please.” Remus plucks his phone from her hands. “I don’t see any use in paying a ton of money to have some therapist psychoanalyse how my dating life is problematic.”

“I agree,” Lily says, sprawled out on the couch flipping through a magazine. “You don’t need to be a licensed therapist to psychoanalyse what’s wrong with your dating life. Instability during your childhood that lead to an insecure attachment style, causing you to develop a great fear of commitment, and resulting in you only dating men you know you’ll have no risk of falling in love with. Men I would describe as rogue bad boys. Overconfident, narcissistic, inconsiderate, too full of themselves to care about anybody else’s feelings. Men who definitely aren’t looking for an emotional connection, so you don’t have to worry about not only you getting feelings for them, but also them getting feelings for you.”

Remus glares at her. “Rude.”

Mary sighs. “So, is tonight’s guy a rogue, self-centred bad boy with too much confidence?”

“We actually haven’t spoken much,” Remus admits. “But he definitely has the right vibe. He was wearing a leather jacket in the bar, everyone was throwing themselves at him, but he hardly seemed to care, and he had this haughty air about him. Plus, the reason we didn’t talk much is because he had his tongue in my mouth five minutes after saying hello.” He grins. “So I’m hopeful.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “You’re an absolute disaster.”

Remus gets to his feet and presses a kiss to Lily’s cheek. “Love you too, Lils.” He turns to the girls before going out the door. “Don’t wait up,” he says with a wink.

Lily groans and Mary shakes her head. “You have issues.”

Remus made a huge mistake.

He realizes this immediately as he wakes up in a bed that is most definitely not his. He’s relieved that Sirius isn’t there, which gives him some time to think.

Yesterday, Sirius had taken him out for dinner at a nice restaurant. Afterwards, some drinks and a lovely stroll through the city at night-time and its beautiful city lights, ending at the front door of Sirius’ apartment.

Sirius had been charming and funny, and sure, that happens sometimes. With his habit of dating vain bad boys, Remus isn’t surprised anymore at how charming they can be when they want to. But then Sirius had also been kind and caring and actually interested in what Remus had to say, and that most definitely wasn’t what he signed up for!

Sirius had been a true gentleman, holding out Remus’ chair as they got to their table. He had smiled at Remus with a smile that was so much brighter than Remus remembered from the badly lit bar after a couple of drinks. As soon as they sat down, Sirius had said that his resting face was often interpreted as haughty, and how that ‘so not was who he was’, and that he was glad Remus wanted to give him a chance anyway.

Remus had wanted to scream.

In hindsight, he should’ve fled right there and then. But no, he had stayed. And of course Sirius had offered to share a dessert and then let Remus eat all of it, of course he had insisted that he’d pay for dinner, of course he had asked ‘is the okay?’ when he took Remus’ hand in his as they were walking side by side.

And if that hadn’t been bad enough, it turned out Sirius loves animals. He had shown Remus pictures of his dog, beaming with fondness as he told Remus about her.

The cherry on top of this miserable pie that Remus definitely didn’t order, was that Sirius is a doctor. A bloody doctor. He works in the ER and he loves his job, because ‘it’s just so rewarding’.

When he had gently pulled Remus close and kissed him under a streetlight, Remus’ stomach did this fluttering thing.

It was awful.

Remus gets out of bed and starts putting on his clothes. He’ll shower at home. Right now, he needs to get out of here. He should’ve left yesterday, he shouldn’t have stayed the night. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone home with Sirius in the first place, but he just can’t bring himself to regret that, because holy shite. He’s only human, after all.

He’ll do the awkward goodbye, where Sirius might mutter something about breakfast and maybe having some yoghurt left in the fridge, which Remus will politely decline. He’ll leave and forget all about this. Forget that guys exist who are actually interested in what he has to say, forget that guys exist who look at him like he’s actually worth something, forget that guys exist who can make him feel like he’s actually worth something. Forget that Sirius Black exists.

As he enters the living room, though, he stops in his tracks at the dreadful sight in front of him.

The table is set, and Sirius is in the kitchen, wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, his hair haphazardly tied in a messy bun, baking what appear to be pancakes. Sirius turns around and smiles at him, and Remus is floored by how he can look even more gorgeous like this then he did yesterday in his dress shirt and suit jacket. His stomach does that weird fluttery thing again, and Remus hopes against his better judgment that it’s due to yesterday’s wine.

“You’re awake, good,” Sirius says. “Since you told me yesterday how you have quite the sweet tooth, I couldn’t let you go without trying Potters’ Perfect Pancakes! Recipe from my chosen mother Effie, and I’m not even overselling when I tell you that they’re the best thing you’ll ever taste. Come, sit!”

Remus’ brain is shouting at him. Run! Get out! Just leave! But Remus’ body moves to the chair, sits down and starts buttering a bloody pancake.

It’s like watching a car speed towards a wall, knowing it’s going to crash, but there being nothing he can do about it.

His feeling of impending doom are interrupted by his first bite of pancake. It’s fluffy, and chewy, and gooey, and smooth, and creamy, and everything in one. “Oh my god,” he says.

Sirius is leaning forward in his chair, looking at Remus with an eager smile, his face brimming with excitement, his eyes sparkling. Remus can’t help but think that he’ll do anything to see Sirius smile like that. “It’s good, innit? I wasn’t exaggerating?”

“Really good,” Remus confirms. “And you definitely weren’t.”

As Remus digs in, Sirius places a mug of tea in front of him. Remus takes a sip, and it’s exactly the way he likes it. A warmth spreads through his body, that has nothing to do with the tea itself.

Then a beautiful girl walks into the kitchen. She has shiny black curls and she’s happily wagging her tail as she barks at Sirius.

“There she is!” Sirius drops to his knees and starts scratching her ears. “You were a little sleepy head, weren’t you? Yes, you were. Yes, you were. Who’s a good girl?” Sirius coos, as his dog starts wagging her tail even more and tries to lick his face.

And that’s just it for Remus.

The car has crashed. There’s nothing for it anymore. He’s done for.

The car has crashed, and all Remus can do now is hope that he’ll make it through in one piece.

Well, at least he has a doctor with him.

#my tumblr writing #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #disaster remus lupin

[sapphire-writes]

Mine to Lose

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

warnings: language, sensual themes, I imagine the reader as a sibling to Rhaenys (so cousins with Daemon).

summary: Your return to the capital reignites the flame between you and Daemon.

note: a little Daemon drabble I’ve been playing around with!

word count: 1.2k

masterlist

It had been several years since you had been in the capital. But after much consideration, your husband had allowed you to stay with him at court. 

Venturing down the halls you stopped outside the doors to the throne room. You could hear the soft sounds of High Valyrian being spoken inside. The doors were slightly ajar, and you peered through the opening. 

Daemon and Rhaenyra were lost in conversation; Daemon observed his niece with a hungry expression on his face. You felt your breath catch in your throat. You had not seen Daemon in years as well. 

“Cousin,” you call as you enter the throne room, throwing open the doors, and causing the pair to leap away from each other. You force a smile on your face. 

“Rhaenyra,” you say, sweetly, as Rhaenyra scurries over to you. Her face is flushed, cheeks rosy. A necklace adorns her neck, Valyrian steel catching the light.

“Sodjisto,” she croons, as her small frame reaches you. You engulf her in a hug, stroking her silver hair, your eyes locked on Daemon. You’ve always been more of an aunt to Rhaenyra than a cousin. 

He is standing tall, hands crossed in front of him, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“Dakogon, byka zaldrīzes. īlon ūndegon bē tolī,” you tell Rhaenyra, stroking her cheek. 

Run, little dragon. We catch up later.

Rhaenyra gives her uncle one last longing look, before squeezing your hand and leaving the throne room. 

The silence she leaves in her wake is palpable between you and the Rogue Prince. 

“It has been too long,” Daemon says, breaking the silence. His smile is predatory as he crosses his hands behind his back, his broad chest on display. 

“Rhaenyra is just a child,” you scold, cutting to the chase. You saw the way he looked at her. 

Daemon moves towards you, his strides are long, his face the picture of ease. He is circling you, as a dragon in the skies would its prey. 

“I have missed you.”

The words are salt in an open wound that never healed, despite your time apart. 

“You have a funny way of showing it,” you tell him. 

“I am surprised he does not keep you locked up at Casterly Rock.”

You understand which he Daemon refers to. The man you had been married off to at first chance; your father’s hope that the match would keep you far away from Daemon.

In truth, you had been a prisoner at Casterly Rock for the beginning of your marriage. You found the stony fortress depressing, with little to occupy yourself. 

It appeared that both of you had been carted away to opposite sides of the realm. 

“My lord husband is a member of the small council, his place is at court, as is mine. Aemma enjoys my company.”

“Does your husband?” he asks, a smirk ever present on his face. 

You clasp your hands in front of you, lacing your fingers together, fiddling with the rings that adorn your fingers. 

“My husband prefers the company of common whores to that of a princess. It seems I have a taste for men of that nature,” you tell him, bitterness evident in your tone. Though you did not care for your husband, there was a shame that came with knowing you did not fulfill your duties as a wife. 

Daemon cocks his head to the side, taking in your words, realizing the implication.  

“I never put any whore above you.”

You meet his gaze. Daemon’s lower lip protrudes in a pout, his brow furrowed. As he looks upon you he cannot imagine the stupidity of your Lannister husband. You are an exquisite creature in Daemon’s eyes. 

“You may choose to believe what you wish,” you quip.

Daemon clicks his tongue before it finds purchase between his teeth. 

“Let us retire to your chambers, my head between your legs will quickly silence that sharp tongue of yours.”

You stare each other down for a moment, the side of your mouth tugging upwards slightly.

“How is your wife? I hear you have not been to the Eyrie in many moons,” you throw the accusation like a knife. 

If Daemon is right about one thing, it is your sharp tongue, your wit. 

“I came to court to have the marriage annulled,” Daemon tells you, causing you to scoff. 

“I suppose Viserys told you off.”

A beat. 

“He did.”

You lace your fingers behind your back and begin walking away from him. You look at the Iron Throne and feel Daemon’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your skull. 

“Marriage is simply a political agreement. Why not put a child in her and be done with it?”

“I do not see you with a child, married nearly a year. What do the maesters say to that?”

Though you still face away from him, a smile curls on your lips.

“That fire licks the walls of my womb. Inhabitable for a lion cub.”

You can feel his presence behind you, his breath on the back of your neck. Daemon has always had the ability to slowly creep up on you. A terrifying thought to some, but not you. 

“But not a dragon.”

You turn to face him. Daemon’s eyes search your face, as though memorizing every feature.

“Stop that.”

“Do not deny it.”

“Viserys is already distraught at your return to court, and now you seek to provoke him further?” you question, raising a brow at the Targaryen prince, “What is your business with Rhaenyra?”

“I only wish to adore my dear niece.”

This earns a scoffing noise from you, along with a glare.

“You said similar things to me once.”

Daemon’s smile widens. 

“And I adored you, didn’t I?”

You can feel the blush creeping up your cheeks but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking away. 

“She is just a child.”

“Rhaenyra will not be a child forever.”

“And then? You are a married man Daemon.”

Daemon sighs deeply.

“Did anyone question the Conqueror when he took two wives?” Daemon asks, bringing a hand to stroke your cheek. His fingers leave a trail of fire atop your skin in their wake.

“Did they question Maegor with his?” he continues, eyes dropping to your lips as they wet them.

“No, they nearly tore the realm apart instead,” you told him, “you never listened during our lessons, did you?”

Daemon drops his hand from your face, the loss of contact chilling. 

“Hard to hear the maester with your thighs around my head,” he remarked.

You stick your chin up at him, cheeks hot.

“That never happened,” you tell him, as he chuckles. 

“Perhaps I am misremembering,” he concludes. 

The tension between you is thick, it clings to the walls of the throne room like fog. 

“It is my understanding you shall be participating in today’s tourney?” you ask to clear the air. You are both in the capital now, plenty of time to continue arguing. 

“Does that worry you?” Daemon asks. You shake your head. 

“You are a skilled fighter,” you compliment. Daemon looks you over. 

“Shall I have your favor?” he murmurs, taking a step closer. You tilt your chin to look up at him. 

“Should you ask,” you answer, a soft smile on your face before he covers your mouth with his, fingers fisting in your hair, pulling your body flush against him.

taglist: @tempt-ress

note: if you would like to be added to my taglist, just let me know!

#daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x y/n #hotd daemon #hotd imagine #daemon oneshot #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen imagine #hotd x reader #hotd fic #house of the dragon #fanfic writer

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter nine.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 3.3K

Summary: Day 162 - also known as the first day of the expedition

Warnings: titans, blood and violence mention, arguments, semi-gaslighting, …things get heated in a wink wink nudge nudge way

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER NINE.

“Head’s up! Titan spotted on the northeast.”

It’s the first time the Captain of the Special Operations Squad has spoken to the group this morning, inching towards the early afternoon.

The team formation is simple: you’re dead center in a protective diamond while Levi’s black stallion charges in the lead. This was a non-negotiable decision, unanimously agreed upon by your Scout colleagues. 

Your safety, as they claim, is their top priority.

(The mission, as you'd argue, should be their top priority instead.)

And after yesterday's argument, you still feel sour. Devastated. Low, like their efforts don't really mean much.

Lack of sleep can get your comrades killed.

Why would he say that? Did Levi do something wrong when you were still yourself?

Through supper and well into the evening hours, you're stuck on that very question. Every word, every syllable, is loaded.

Lack of sleep can get your comrades killed. Don’t repeat past mistakes.

Just thinking about it breaks your skin into a cold sweat.

(Was it not Levi who fucked up, but you?)

You can’t ask.

Levi managed to avoid group breakfast in the crawling dawn, out of sight and out of mind until the agreed upon expedition hour — 06:00 hours — came to a head.

"How big is it?" Eld asks, squinting against the sun.

"Three meters at most," Levi states.

“I got this,” Eld promises, breaking formation at Levi’s right hand as his horse gallops to the right side of the diamond.

The decorated steed veers into the east, before a burst of life ignites the wires of Eld's ODM gear.

He latches onto the nearby tree trunks, zipping through the field to eliminate the problem.

“Show off,” Oluo huffs.

You continue riding along with the rest of the group, watching as the three-meter titan goes down without much of a fight. Eld uses the fallen body to latch into its skin, zipping back towards the group with ease.

Killing titans is easy.

Predicting where they might come from is where it gets tricky.

It’s like this for hours — spotting rogue titans, mostly under five meters, mindlessly wandering the fields of what used to be. The squad takes turns destroying the humanoid creatures, giving everyone ample opportunity to get their blades wet.

Everyone but you.

After yesterday’s fight, you’re too scared to ask Levi why — so you keep your mouth shut.

The tension is palpable despite your best efforts; Petra gives a look every few kilometers, curious as to why you have yet to speak up or participate in sporadic conversation. In your peripheral vision you see the way her round eyes scrutinize your face, nose scrunched in interest.

You only stare ahead at the tail of Levi’s horse.

“How much further until we set up camp, Captain?” Gunther calls from the back of the diamond.

“A few kilometers,” Levi supplies. “We’ll tend to the horses and set up a watch rotation for the night.”

“Calling dibs on second!” Oluo shouts to your left.

Petra’s head whips to the side, her arm raising to signal the rest of the group. “Another three-meter on my side! Want James to take it, Captain?”

She must see it. She must notice how you’re itching to get into the action, to prove your worth on the team.

You stare ahead, blinking up to the undercut disappearing and reappearing from the whip of raven-black hair.

Mentally, you try to form a psychic link.

Let me, you beg. Let me show everyone that I’m not a waste of space. Let me show you that I’m still me, whoever she is.

Levi takes a moment to think about it before speaking.

“Gunther, take it down.”

You deflate, your fists loosening on the reigns of your horse.

You could do it — break formation and ignite your ODM gear — but that runs the risk of slamming into Petra if she doesn’t duck.

The diamond has, quite literally, trapped you in.

Gunther doesn’t hesitate to act. With the sharp whiz of his ODM wires, the man abandons his horse at the back of the formation. His blades extend from their rectangular sheaths.

Within minutes, the titan goes down with a wail.

To not run into any abnormal titans so far is only a blessing — but the nearing forest, dense with tree trunks and overgrown bushels of leaves, is anything but.

You don’t need to remember how this goes to know the forest is a death trap.

Still, the tall trunks will provide ample vantage point for the nearing evening.

Levi holds a fist up at the mouth of the clearing, causing all horses to cease. Their puffs of exhaustion mix with the serene ambience of chirping birds and singing crickets.

It’s hard to forget how easily a titan can sneak in for a meal here.

“Set up a shelter and start a fire,” Levi orders, hopping off of his black stallion to turn towards the group. His eyes connect with every squad member — everyone but you. “We’ll stay here for the night and push on in the morning.”

“Captain,” you blurt, the intrusive thought hitting your tongue well before you can stop it.

Levi continues his air of boredom, but his eyes belatedly glance towards you. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

Your eyes connect.

Your stomach churns with transparent butterflies.

“Since everyone else spent the day taking down titans, I volunteer first watch,” you state.

“Denied,” Levi answers.

Your eyes widen a fraction of an inch. “What?”

“I always take the first watch.”

Like you’re supposed to know that already. Your body flushes with embarrassment.

“But I—”

“Actually, Captain, the time that’s spent with the rest of us resting could benefit James’ understanding of the mission,” Petra chirps as she dismounts her horse, rubbing at her stiff wrists. “I think James has been eager to help. And if she’s taking first watch with you, then we know she’s in good hands.”

You whip your attention towards her, shocked she spoke up at all.

The men grunt with approval of the redhead’s offer, stretching their limbs to relieve some of the long ride’s aches.

Captain Levi’s expression darkens, but he doesn’t say anything.

Petra doesn’t look your way, not when she’s already turned six shades paler with worry that she overstepped with Levi. Instead she pretends to look around at the nature surrounding the group.

She disappears into the middle of the group, decidedly fussing over the makeshift fire Oluo has started with dry twigs and other nearby supplies.

Had she meant to do that? Question Levi's comfort? It doesn’t seem like it.

Either way, you’re now trapped with two very real facts:

One, you’re taking the first watch of your first real expedition.

And two, you’re doing so with Levi, who cannot back out without arousing suspicion.

A wire whizzes above your head.

With that, Levi Ackerman disappears from view into the tall, tall trees.

You rearrange your cloak, mindful of how heavy the blade sheaths are at your hips, before igniting your ODM gear to follow. Wind whips against your face, cool and crisp.

From up here, you can see everything: the vast field leading back to Wall Rose, the dilapidated buildings of a civilization that once was, the life that found a way where titans cannot reach.

It would be peaceful if you were up here alone, but you’re not.

Levi is already crouched by the time you reach the highest branch. Beneath your feet is a massive expanse of flat wood, likely hundreds of years old.

The heels of your boot click when you float down onto its surface.

The captain says nothing.

For a few agonizing minutes, it stays that way. Birds chirp. Fireflies float. Cloaks billow.

This is going to be the longest watch of your life.

Sitting down on the flat trunk-like branch, you run your tongue against the seam of your lips.

You shouldn’t—

You can’t—

But you do.

“Y'know, we have to talk eventually.”

Your voice, echoing gently at this high altitude, surprises even yourself. A part of you wishes you could take it back, to keep your mouth shut, but another part?

Another part knows the entire expedition can’t last like this.

Captain Levi stands from his casual kneel. “No, we don’t.”

You sigh with exhaustion, but it isn’t from the grueling ride out to the forest. “I didn’t act out my memory maliciously, Levi.”

“At the moment, you will address me as Captain.”

Your eyes connect with the gray of his. His voice is hollow.

“Seriously?” you mumble.

His brow quirks. “Am I laughing?”

This? This is fucking ridiculous.

Rising to stand, you brush off rogue specs of leaf from your uniform. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s gotten you so freaked out, but I thought you would enjoy the surprise, Captain.” You dislike how angry you sound, but you are — angry. Mad, that he won’t speak to you clearly about the situation. “As far as I could tell, it was a happy memory for me.”

“A happy memory or not, it wasn’t appropriate,” Levi snaps. “Sneak-attacking what you remember and what you don’t doesn’t—”

“It wasn’t a sneak attack!” you protest in a yelp.

“It is.” He argues. “It was. Because I need to know how to act accordingly around you—”

“Captain—”

“—and being launched into what used to be doesn’t help.”

Into what used to be.

How to act accordingly around you.

A larger bird than the blue jays in the area coos overhead — possibly an owl, hooting as the night takes over the sky.

The tension can be cut with a knife as Levi stares at you, and you stare back. You try fitting the puzzle pieces together without saying a word.

Why does he have to act a certain way around you?

Does this have to do with what happened on the supply building roof at headquarters?

“Captain,” you slowly start, choosing to remain civil. Respectful. “I apologize — for catching you off guard, for not fully understanding the gravity of the situation. I recognize that you and I have history, whatever that might really be.”

There.

History — recognition flickers in his gaze.

Commander Erwin’s words come flooding back to the forefront of your memory:

I had anticipated this… situation to be a bit of a shock to him.

The spars. The special treatment. The way he sat with you on that roof.

You remember looking up at Commander Erwin with surprise when he asked if Levi had visited you during your recovery within Trost Headquarters; the way he appeared surprised when you told him that Levi never once showed; the moment he made you question everything.

We returned two weeks ago from the expedition. I assumed he would have at least attempted once.

You were surveying the cadet training, sir, you told him.

I was, Commander Erwin confirmed, but he wasn’t.

Then where the hell was Levi, if not with Erwin?

“You’re taking the second watch,” Levi decides with an abruptness that catches you completely off guard. “Ask Eld to cover you.”

His words are a cold splash of water to the face. “Wait, are you serious?” Levi is expressionless. “No. No, Captain, I am not leaving.”

There is a hint of anger in his clipped question.

“Are you disobeying direct orders?”

“That wasn’t a direct order, sir,” you reply. “You never ordered me. You only told me. There’s a distinct difference.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t be a smartass.”

Except the murmur is a thinly-veiled threat and nothing more.

Somehow you’re confident enough about it that you take a few steps into the wide gap between you.

“You said you wouldn’t shut me out,” you urge softly, hoping to spark his own memory in your panic. “I made a mistake and I am sorry for it, but—”

“No, shithead, what I said is that you need to leave.”

You frown. “But why? Why can’t we talk?”

“Disobeying orders and questioning your superior. Are you trying to rack up all possible offenses in one night?”

“You are not my superior, Levi. Not technically. Captain, Lieutenant, it’s all arbitrary bullshit Erwin made up.” Your eyes squint to narrow slits as your frustration climbs. He doesn’t correct you when you sneer at his first name. “I am trying to understand why you became so freaked out over a silly move I pulled when we were teenagers—”

“Enough.”

“—and why saying some silly phrase like dirty trick is such a big deal to you so I don’t make the same mistake again in the future!” you continue. “Because if I missed something? Because if that moment of us in the Underground is linked to something bad that I’m not remembering, since it feels pretty good to me when I say it—”

“I said enough,” Levi barks.

Something ignites in you to step forward, teeth bared.

“Don’t talk down to me like a fucking cadet, Levi.”

A flinch of muscle is all you need to see to know that Levi is as surprised as you to hear the acidic swear on the tip of your tongue — both brows move north from their neutral position, and suddenly the air feels thick.

“Is that not what you are?” he challenges, low and dangerous as he mirrors your step forward. “Because last I checked, you were barely a Scout anymore. You were just some dumbass with a fucked up memory.”

The insult stings its intended target.

You wince, but hold your ground.

“Now you’re saying shit to hurt me because you’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“Levi, you’re being mean,” you murmur. “You hate not having control. I get that. I hate not having control over my own head, but you don’t get to be an asshole so you can feel better about a fucked-up situation.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, and I’m tired of you pretending I don’t. Hiding away from me doesn’t protect me.”

You trudge closer towards your captain, but he bridges the gap for you: one step of his boot and he’s eye-to-eye with you, here, in the middle of this clearing.

The green flecks in the gray of his eyes bring some sickening softness to your belly, quelling a fraction of the fire within. It reminds you of summertime and darkness. A dichotomy of things you once loved — and things that once scared you.

Levi stares head on, seemingly disinterested in your psychological assessment.

Yet when your eyes drop to his arms, you see the most obvious tell of all: his fists are pale, fingers gripped in white-knuckled balls of restraint.

So you ask the first question that comes to mind, throwing caution to the wind:

“Are you afraid I’m gonna actually die this time?”

By the sound of his breath hitching in his throat, it’s safe to assume your question has caught Humanity’s Strongest off guard. 

Painfully earnest, your words are woven in a confusion threatening to choke the life out of you.

And Levi — Levi is four shades of enraged, glaring straight through you.

“I don’t give a shit if you live,” Levi corrects with a snarl.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Then allow me to keep the first watch,” you reason. “And second. And third, because if you don’t give a shit, then who cares, right? I'll be tired. Maybe a titan will take me out so you can stop having to deal with my insufferable ass.”

“No.”

Your chin tilts. “But you said you don’t—”

“Why do you want to die so fucking bad?” he shouts, his spit hitting your cheek. “Why bother coming back to me if all you wanted to do was throw away your second chance?”

He realizes a second too late what he’s said —

— what he’s done.

For a man who’s spent the better half of the hour telling you he isn’t scared, that he doesn’t care, Levi Ackerman looks absolutely terrified as he stands speechless in the aftermath of his own wrongdoing. 

For minutes neither of you move. Neither of you look away.

Something dark brews behind Levi’s stormy eyes as you watch with unshakeable shock.

What can you say to go back twenty seconds?

The damage has already been done.

You both know it.

Your stomach sinks in sickening foresight.

“Forget it,” he dismisses.

No.

“Levi.”

He’s turning.

“Levi.”

You don’t know why you reach out, but your hands claw at his sleeve to stop him. He continues to turn.

Desperation takes your hand from his shoulder to his face, and quickly your palm paws at his cheek to pull him back.

He presses hard against your palm, fighting its hold, but you manage to bring his face close to yours in a rushed exhale.

Levi breathes heavily through his nose, nostrils flared and eyes downcast.

"James." It's hardly a murmur.

“Don’t,” you beg under your breath. “Don’t shut me out.”

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

He remains locked in place, all his limbs taut. He doesn’t, however, fling you from his body.

You keep his face caged between your hands.

“You said you wouldn’t shut me out.”

“James—”

His voice is different. Huskier.

Is that a plea?

You shake your head wildly, overcome with fright.

“Don’t shut me out,” you croak once more. “Please don’t leave and shut me out.”

The angle of Levi’s face serpentines from where he was running to come back to you.

Your faces collide, nose to nose.

His hot breath spans across your face in shaken puffs.

"Don't leave and shut me out," you repeat, voice cracking.

His head shakes, causing his nose to nuzzle yours.

“Won’t—”

“Please don’t leave me,” you repeat on the verge of crying.

His voice drops to a whisper, a prayer.

“Never—”

“Don’t leav—”

Your lips close, pressed together by something soft and warm. The sound dies muffled.

As if held hostage by your own body, you tense when a pair of warm hands encircle your head, pulling you closer to a softness in contrast of your desperation.

You blink once and see it.

Levi’s eyes are screwed shut, brows painfully knit together, as his lips move against yours. A boot shuffles, angling the scent of his sweat to engulf you.

Instinctively your fingertips curl around his head, digging into his cheeks when you kiss back with profound starvation.

Spurred by your actions, a ragged exhale causes his lips press harder. The thumbs against your face run absently along your skin, as if to quell the anxiety plaguing your mind.

You pull him impossibly closer, matching the intensity of the kisses.

As if you're drowning.

As if it's been forever.

The tip of his tongue flicks against your lower lip. Wordlessly it requests consent, and your lips part eagerly to comply. He takes the opportunity and runs with it as his tongue seeks yours for salvation, gliding with practiced ease.

Inadvertently you whimper from the contact.

The sound is enough to yank him clear from your ironclad grip, dragging your nails across his face.

Gray eyes meet yours with a swirl of emotion — awe, uncertainty, dread — with lips pinker than before.

Your hands remain in the air from where you had him.

Red streaks line the sides of his face like hastily-drawn whiskers.

All you can do is stare.

Levi Ackerman has never looked so vulnerable.

“I order you,” he finally says, voice wrecked, “to tell Eld to accompany me for the first watch.”

You finally breathe, hands dropping unceremoniously to your sides.

"Yes, sir," you obey on autopilot.

He doesn’t need to say it twice.

You spin on a heel.

Your ODM gear ignites back to life.

.

author note: ...remember when i said i had a scene written for forever? tehee.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami

#snk #aot #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan #aot fanfiction #aot fanfic #snk fanfiction #wip series #levi ackerman fic

[samgirl98]

Mending a Family 6/?

Prev | Next

Here, have some Batfam angst

Bruce

Crime Alley was mourning the loss of its hero. Bruce refused to believe Jason was dead.

Neither he nor his other children had been able to make any headway in their hero persona. In the end, Bruce went to Crime Alley undercover as a homeless man. No one had seen hide or hair of Red Hood in almost two months. Everyone thought that Red Hood had died; it never occurred to them that Jason might have left.

(He was alive; his son couldn’t be dead again. There hadn’t been a body.)

Bruce looked at the camera footage on the day of Jason’s disappearance. Unfortunately, there weren’t many cameras in Crime Alley, so he only occasionally caught glimpses of Jason’s red helmet.

(Why hadn’t he fought harder to add more cameras in Crime Alley? Bruce could’ve funded better security for the place. He had wanted to respect Jason’s wishes but look where that got him.)

“Hey, B, still looking at the footage? Found anything new?”

Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the monitors but answered Dick’s questions.

“No, nothing new.”

That was the frustrating part. Nothing new popped up, no matter how often Bruce looked at the footage. There had been no anomalies, no significant rogue attacks, and Jason hadn’t gotten into any fights with other drug dealers. The little footage he saw of Jason had him interacting with some of the women he protected or handing out bags to some of the kids. There was nothing that indicated that Jason was planning to leave.

(He left. He had to have left. His safe houses were full of dust and empty.)

“Bruce, maybe it’s time you stopped looking at the footage.”

Bruce paused the video and glared at his eldest. Dick put his hands up.

“I’m not saying let’s stop looking for him. I’m saying looking at the same thing over and over again isn’t going to help us find him.”

Bruce glared at the last clear video they had of Jason. He knew Dick was right, but he had no idea where to start. No one in the hero community knew Jason was alive again. Jason didn’t have any friends or allies outside of Crime Alley. The last time they had spoken, he had ended in a shouting match because Bruce had asked Jason if he knew anything about the disappearance of a child rapist over a year ago.

Bruce regretted many things in his life; not making things better with Jason was now at the top of his list.

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Maybe it’s time we brought in others to help us.”

Bruce frowned. He didn’t like bringing in other heroes regarding Gotham’s or his family’s affairs.

“Listen, I’m not saying we tell the whole hero community, but I can ask some team members to help. I’ll tell them to keep it to themselves. I know Roy would love to help when he finds out Jason is still alive. Kori can travel the world and maybe keep an eye out. Victor can hack into systems worldwide, and Raven can probably sense him. He has returned from the dead; that has to leave some signature.”

“Hmm,” Bruce thought about it before nodding. Dick gave him a quick smile and left the cave. Bruce picked up his phone and waited for the person to answer.

“Bruce, is everything okay?”

“Clark, I need to speak with you. Can we meet at the usual place?”

(Why hadn’t he reached out sooner?)

Tim

In another part of Gotham, Tim Drake was in his base of operation (fondly dubbed the Nest).

Instead of repeatedly looking at the same footage, Tim was trying to find if anything weird had happened in the city on the last day of Jason’s appearance in Crime Alley. Here were the facts.

Even though it had been late April, the weather had been unseasonably cold. While that could have been a coincidence, Tim doubted it. The weather started at 79 degrees F and ended in the low 20s. Mr. Freeze was still in Arkham, so he couldn’t have done it.

Fact two: his scanners had picked up weird readings he had never seen before. At the same time that the weather started dipping, the unknown readings had risen.

Fact three: the night of the anomaly, Jason had disappeared.

The three things had to be connected. Tim texted Barbara to run a test to see if she got the same results and also to see how long the anomaly lasted while he did the same. He was going to find Jason.

(His family depended on it.)

Dick

Dick hung up on Roy, his screams still echoing in his ears. To say that his team had been upset he had kept Jason’s resurrection a secret had been an understatement. Nobody had been as angry as Roy.

Dick understood where Roy was coming from.

(Bruce had kept secrets from him, and he knew how it felt.)

But he hadn’t wanted his little brother to be remembered differently now that he had strayed off the hero path. He deserved to be remembered as that sweet little boy who thought being Robin was magic.

It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered now was finding him, and if that meant being yelled at or reprimanded by his friends, well, as long as they found Jason, he could take anything his friends decided to dish out at him.

Damian

Damian frowned at the phone. His finger hovered over the call button. He noticed how Jason’s disappearance affected the family. Father was coming home with more bruises. Richard smiled less often, and they were more strained when he did. Timothy was sleeping less. (Though Damian didn’t care what the buffoon did, he just wanted to ensure Drake was firing on all cylinders when they went on patrols.) Alfred had stopped making witty remarks. He cooked, he cleaned, and he greeted them, but something was missing in the older man.

(Would they worry about Damian the same way if he disappeared? After all, father didn’t choose him; Damian was thrust upon him.)

Damian pressed the call button and waited for the answer.

“Mother, I need another favor.”

Alfred

Alfred stood outside Jason’s old room. He hadn’t entered to clean since Jason disappeared. Alfred knew he had to. After all, it was his job to keep the manor tidy and orderly.

His heart ached at the thought of entering Jason’s memorial.

(The suit downstairs was a memorial for Robin, one that Alfred despised; the room was Jason’s.)

Alfred took a deep breath and opened the door. He had a job to do. Besides, his wayward grandson deserved to come to a clean house.

Once more, I would like to remind people that I am open to suggestions and prompts for this fic. I don't have an overarching plot, I'm mostly focusing on Batfam angst, found family, and eventually, way, way, waaaay, down the line for reconciliation. So have fun suggesting

@idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @skulld3mort-1fan @theauthorandtheartist @emergentpanda-blog @jaggedheart11 @fisticuffsatapplebees @booberrylizard @fantasticbluebirdfan @thegatorsgooseoose @cyrwrites @kjoboo91 @crystallicedart @amaramizuki666 @spekulatiusmuffin @meira-3919 @kilasmess @bubblemixer @lexdamo @wonderland-daisy @mj-arts-n-stuff @amyheart19 @dolfay @the-church-grimm @undead-essence @aph-mable @lizisipancardo @purrloin77 @writer-extraodinaire @charlietheepic7 @sinfulloccultist @nootherusernameworked @coruscateselene @chaoticchange @itsberrydreemurstuff @gmkelz11 @feral-bunny31 @paroovian @thatonegaybitch68 @d4ydr34min9 @overtherose @fandomwandererer @vipower001 @thordottir45 @blackrabbitt3t @rosecinnamonbun @bianca-hooks123

#mending a family #dc x dp #dp x dc

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Oh i have a good one, rogues gallery, which other rogue would they get jealous of you spending your time with? (can either be from a platonic or romantic place)

only asking because I think it would be kinda hilarious if you're chilling and chatting with one of the lankier rogues like Riddler or Scarecrow and one of the bigger scarier guys like Bane or Croc just lowkey pouting in the corner.

"Ugh, not them!" Rogues Gallery x Reader

I did both platonic and romantic since it kind of depends. Hopefully this comes out okay because tumblr is being a little sketchy at the moment.

TW: Jealousy, mentions of unhealthy dynamics, a smidge of smut, knife stuff

The Riddler

Platonic? Joker. Do not associate with that buffoon, you're HIS friend. Zsasz it's mild disapproval because of his weird bullshit. Croc because of some past jealousy issues, but he'd get past that.

Romantic? hoo-boy. Lowkey he gets a little jealous of a lot of his peers because despite the image he wants to put out there, he is so self-conscious and petty. Might end up getting a little shitty about it unintentionally if it's too much time spent with them. Definitely something that would need to have a sincere conversation about how that's not okay but also you're the person he wants.

Penguin

Platonic? Perhaps some of his more charismatic peers, but it would be really easy for him to get past it.

Romantic? His "pretty"/charming peers- i.e. poison ivy, Riddler, Scarecrow, Harley Quinn. He wouldn't get to a toxic or shitty point with it, but you might notice him grumping about and getting self-deprecating. It's happened before, you know. Someone using him and then hopping to someone beautiful as soon as the better opportunity arose.

Mad Hatter

Platonic? Zsasz, eugh. Does anyone like him? A lot of that is because Zsasz is possessive and plays for keeps. More worried Zsasz would do something rather than you not being his friend anymore. Black Mask because Roman thinks Jervis is "goofy" and "ridiculous" so Jervis would worry you think that too.

Romantic? No one and also everyone. If it's any of his faithful comrades, he's actually really chill about it. All of you are friends! Especially Jon. If you wanted to kiss Jon, it's alright as long as Jervis is also there. Strangers though? He's hissing, hackles raised and draping his body over you until he's established they aren't trying to steal you away.

Scarecrow

Platonic? Music Meister simply because Clarence is a fun time but not like. A pain in the ass like some others in the gallery. Joker he'd genuinely consider fucking that man's day up.

Romantic? Jonathan isn't really the romantic jealous type. He could joke around about it, but genuinely he's older, been through a lot and if you wanted to leave him, you would. He would get possessive if one of them hit on you, though. Edward might try it just to get on his nerves so he has to straighten that shit out.

Victor Zsasz

Platonic? No one.

Romantic? You're his. He doesn't think of it as jealousy. He thinks of it more like... disliking other people trying to play with his favorite toy. It sure fucking looks like jealousy, though. He wonders if you'd be opposed to him carving his initials into your hip? No? That's fine. he'll definitely be carving someone if the others don't back off, though. Particularly that Scarecrow fellow. Too much psychobabble.

Killer Croc

Platonic? He's not crazy about that Black Mask. Way too much of a rich prick.

Romantic? Ra's al gul because of how well-spoken he is. Worldly. Who wouldn't want to be with that guy besides the whole weird pit thing? To a way lesser degree, Bane sometimes? Bane is his friend so it wouldn't get awkward or anything but the guy is incredibly intelligent AND just as strong. Makes you feel a little lacking sometimes.

Harley Quinn

Platonic? Joker. Fuck that guy. Straight up tells him politely to fuck off, you don't need his bullshit. Gets mama bear protective as your friend. Ra's al gul also kind of creeps her out.

Romantic? Joker. If it came up, she would make it very clear she's not jealous of you, she's jealous of him- There's no feelings for him anymore but she'll be damned if he gets his claws into you. She knows how he can manipulate things. Bane if only because she kind of thinks he's hot.

Poison Ivy

Platonic? Joker. Fuck that guy. She'll make it clear she disapproves and probably threatens him if he gets too chummy. Black Mask but mostly because of how he dislikes Harley.

Romantic? Joker. After everything with Harley, she'll murder the clown if he tries getting some level of closeness to you while you're in a relationship. Mr. Freeze because there's something so charming and alluring about him. Sensitive. Maybe to some extent Selina only because she's so beautiful.

Two-Face

Platonic? Harv doesn't like Riddler much and hates Joker even more. Snakes in the grass. Harvey doesn't mind Edward but is in agreement about Joker.

Romantic? This might come as a shock but- Penguin. They actually find Oswald charming and enjoyable to be around to an extent, so if you were to get a little too friendly, they might need some reassurance. Riddler again with Harv specifically because of his charm and looks.

Black Mask

Platonic? Harley Quinn. She's way too fun and bubbly, he'd be paranoid about her turning you against him.

Romantic? Again Harley Quinn, same reasons. Poison Ivy since she fucks with people's head plus attractive. Catwoman and Riddler because of the looks department. Anyone who looks at you longer than a minute. Maybe if he put a collar on you or a tattoo, people would get the fucking hint. Or fuck you high up in public where they can see. That'll teach them.

Mr. Freeze

Platonic? Poison Ivy. They've had some run-ins before where Pamela got a little too Close and then got stabbed in the back so he'd definitely be jealous and on edge that she'll do it to you.

Romantic? hahahahahhahahahha. Look, Victor has a LOT of issues in the romance department. The truth of the matter is, he gets easily jealous because he's had the greatest love of his life ripped from him without warning. It doesn't make it okay or healthy, but it is a truth. Almost everyone on the rogues gallery barring perhaps Ra's and Zsasz are potentials for stealing you away. He doesn't get a certain way with you, obviously you're not the problem. It's everyone else.

Ra's al Ghul

Platonic? While there isn't anyone in particular he's jealous about, per say, he might wonder if you prefer the company of the more... lively personalities such as Riddler and Mad Hatter if you spend a lot of time with them.

Romantic? Where Edward plays up his swagger and confidence, Ra's actually has it. Why should he worry? You would be a fool to leave him. You would be a bigger fool to cheat on him, for both you and a hypothetical lover. And despite it not being a fear of his, he makes it clear he would find out should the topic come up.

Bane

Platonic? Doesn't feel a need to be jealous over compatriots. He doesn't own your friendship. Will disapprove of Joker or like. Condiment Man or something. Idiocy.

Romantic? Penguin because he recognizes the threat that man could really be if he wanted. Poison Ivy because of her immense allure. Doesn't get super jealous, but definitely casts some side eye if people get too close.

#foxwriting #Riddler #mad hatter #scarecrow #Harley Quinn #poison ivy dc #penguin dc #killer croc #victor zsasz #bane #ra's al ghul #mr. freeze #black mask #two-face

[theobjectofyourire]

"I need Rhaenyra."

"Daemon." His brother's voice is wearied and wrought with frailty. He looks an old man as much as he sounds. The crown weighs heavy atop his head, his silver hair faded to little more than wisps, a faint remembrance of their great ancestry. The sight stirs something of a sympathy, mayhaps a pity within Daemon, as well as the first whispers of grief. Viserys will not long live, and the Prince would weep for that loss were it strong enough to quell his rage.

"I know we've had our differences," his brother says softly, "but let them pass with the years."

What kind words, and so easily spoken by the feeble ghost of the man before him. The King knows his death is nearing, and this is no more than a desperate ploy to earn some forgiveness before he reaches his grave. Daemon isn't of a mind to grant him such peace. Not after the banishments. Not after the offenses. Not after Rhaenyra.

Not after Rhaenyra.

His brother's words are a sharp reminder. Years. Years have passed, though he's hardly to know it. Time has been uncertain for the Rogue Prince, with many a year feeling a month, and the midnight hour often disguising itself as a lifetime. It is only by sparing a glance at the princess, his princess that he can truly be sure.

She is now a queen in her own right. His heart cannot but swell with pride to see her carry herself with such regality, a self-assuredness accompanying her every step and yet not in the slightest diminishing her ferocity. She is the blood of the dragon, the blood of Old Valyria, a goddess reborn to take what is hers. A goddess he would gladly worship.

There was a time he would not wait to be given the chance, but take it, as he did those years ago during their adventures in the heart of King's Landing, but seeing her now, he cannot bring himself to do it. He wonders if her life is better for his absence. He would hope so, if not for his own selfish desires.

His brother's voice pulls him from his thoughts, away from the sight of his niece. "There's a place for you in my court," Viserys says, "if that's something you should need."

Daemon seethes, his lips forming the words before he can think to stop them. "I need Rh..."

He stops.

He shouldn't say it.

To the Seven Hells with shouldn't, he can't say it.

He can't bear to say it. There's too much truth in it. He needs her.

He's always needed her.

"...nothing," he grimaces. Unable to stomach meeting his brother's eyes, he forces his gaze down to the rough cracks in the stone. Nothing.

Nothing. The word tastes a lie, and an unconvincing one, at best. She envelops every thought, fleeting or otherwise, that finds its way through the labyrinth of his mind. His heart is hers, entirely, and it's only now that he understands the emptiness that permeated his life these last ten years.

"I want Rhaenyra," he had told his brother, knife at his throat. He remembers looking at the blade and thinking that death would be preferable to losing her, and yet he still considered it wanting. He had never thought himself naïve, but what other word spoke such truth?

His hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, ever the calming influence, he forces himself away from his brother, refusing to so much as glance at his would-be queen.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my prince." Otto's voice stops him dead in his tracks. Dark Sister calls to him, and though the temptation is difficult to resist, he manages.

"No matter how fat the leech grows," Daemon sneers, "it always wants for another meal."

He wonders, as he walks away, if it was the right course. Any of it. If he should have slain Otto Hightower where he stood. If he should have forced his brother's hand and taken Rhaenyra to wife all those years ago. If he should have done as she asked at her wedding feast and cut through her father's kingsguard.

"Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife," she had said, venom in her words and something else he could not quite place. At the time, he thought she was merely tormenting him, taunting him with all he could not have. Now, he cannot but wonder if she desired him as much as he did her. If it was not a mockery, but a genuine plea, an admission of her deepest desires.

What life might have been had he only obliged.

As he wanders the beach, somewhat melancholy under the light of the emerging moon, he is vaguely aware of gentle footsteps behind him. There's no need to look. He felt Rhaenyra's eyes on him. He felt her yearning. It mirrored his own.

He does not know what this night will bring. But if the Gods are good, they will never again threaten to tear them asunder.

#i don't know what this is #a little dissection of this scene #how much rhaenyra means to him #there was so much going on inside his head i had to explore it #matt smith is brilliant #hotd headcanon #hotd fic #daemon x rhaenyra #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd spoilers #daemyra #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd 1x07 #rhaenyra x daemon

[stupid-sloot-headcanons]

I just keep thinking about Yan!Nanami Kento with a fat darling and my brain is just ✨✨✨✨

Like he can try to be as stoic as he wants to be around darling but his eyes always go soft when he sees them in shorts that exposes the bottom of their peach. And he is the type to play the savior role to their Darling prior to making them move in with them or asking them out I just know ittt. Like he might save Darling from a few rogue curses and he might just take advantage of their fear to touch and caress them to calm them down or if he catches them, he would literally just smooth his hands over their rolls and tummy. And oh goddddddd, he would try to hide them from Gojo but who knows??? Maybe Gojo might join in too but Nanami would not allow Gojo to utter anything making fun of their body. My brain is a bit zapped rn because I am doing my assignments but omgggg feel free to elaborate on this 😭🙌🏼❤️

Nanami's just so unused to things that are...soft. I mean yeah, he sees spilled and mutilated flesh, but it isn't the same "soft" as Darling. Plump lips, cheeks, hips, thighs. She's a perfect complement to his sharp edges, high cheekbones, and his crisp salaryman's outfit. If he's the best working man out there, she's the ideal housewife even if she doesn't know it yet.

He doesn't like having Gojo around, but will begrudgingly accept it with the notion that more security around Darling is better than none. Still, Gojo's getting a smack for every pervy word spoken and any talking about Darling's size/looks is ending with a knife coming. Gojo just dodges it with a cheeky grin. but still.

If Gojo ever propositioned a threesome or showed interest, I think Nanami would get a little nasty and say no since Gojo tends to ruin any good thing Nanami has.

...maybe if Gojo got him drunk enough and he was in the right mood, fed enough raunchy thoughts and remembering fantasies he's had of Darling being fucked by him with an audience. But Gojo needs to remember that Nanami is sharing. She belongs with and to Nanami.

#thots #.jjk #.gojo #.nanami #yandere nanami #yandere jjk #fem darling #plus size darling

[howyouloveyourdragon]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ

pronouns: they/them (there is use of the word 'suitor' but that's only because I couldn't think of another word to use and as we know from my 'only fair' fic i don't feel the need apply real world childbearing mechanics and there isn't much talk of it so you can imagine your body, gender etc however) warnings: suggestive at times, none others that i can think of, lmk of any if you find them! summary: History remembers names, not blood, he knows that all too well so why are you so important to The Sea Snake, the bastard of the Rogue Prince A/N: In this, Rhaenys has been dead I'M SORRY i couldn't find a good time or reason for her not being his wife and i didn't want to mess with the lore too much. race of reader's mother is never mentioned however reader is daemon's bastard, i hope you like it! open to a part 2 but only if you'd like one, this is a lot more slowburn and reader centric than my other stories but i love book!baela and wanted to look at her relationship w/ reader a bit prompt divider: firefly-graphics wordcount: 1516

YOUR FATHER'S FIRM hand on your shoulder distracts you from the dark affair around you. Another dead. Another important house on the verge of extinction. Daemon squeezed and let out a shaky breath, it wasn't due to the grief that death brought, you were sure, but rather the grief of another loss of aid and another oncoming threat of the House in mourn. If he had to deny another suitor he wasn't sure Rhaenyra could hold him back from his rage this time. It was the middle of war and he was as politically aware as his wife but that didn't mean he was happy about betrothals in war. He was forced to marry young and he would never force the same on you, he made that promise to himself many moons ago. Daemon huffs and soon the warmth of him turns away from you again. You swallow around the lump in your throat and cast your eyes to your half-sisters. Baela shares an anxious glance while Rhaena stays staring ahead with tense shoulders. She clenches her jaw and looks down. Baela gestures with a tip of her head to beckon you over. You take cautious steps but reach them without difficulty, the sound of your feet beating down on the hard ground rings in your ears. It's deafening in the surrounding silence. It is a small ceremony but not any less intimate. Baela tries to send an encouraging smile but it comes out forced. She grasps your arm a little too tightly and tugs you away with your arms interlinked.

"Father thinks they might turn on us." Baela tells you plainly. Her expression is strong and not for the first time you miss the playfulness that usually lies within her eyes like a knight of your childhood fairy tales. "I think we need something to keep them distracted, a wedding." You freeze and furrow your brows. "I thought Jacaerys wanted to wait for the war to be over?" "He does," She sighs and scrunches her nose quickly, the only action betraying her emotions. "I fear he has taken to the Snow girl Mushroom has spoken of." You sigh and move to stand before her, clutching her hands in your own. "Listen to me," You demand firmly. She reluctantly flutters her fierce eyes open and looks into your own, the first sight of vulnerability hidden beneath her irises but you knew this girl better than you knew yourself. You had held and loved her since she was a mere babe in your arms. "You are strong, you are beautiful, you are a Targaryen." Her shoulders softened. "Any man who does not trip over themselves to please you is a fool and I know of one in particular who cares for you more than you know." For only a moment her brows pinch. Her lips twitch of their own volition upward. "Whom?" She asks, dark eyes wide. You put a finger to your lips and shrug. "Perhaps you will discover tonight..." You trail off. "at the festivities, no marital behaviour however that I will remain strict on." A breathy laugh drops from her and you're both walking again, though this time toward the large estate you have been residing.

The bright moon is dancing among the sky as much as you are beneath it, or at least that is how you perceive it as Rhaena giggles sweetly and lets her fingers guide your own. Raucous music and laughter fills the empty space outside as the scene plays like a sonnet to your hope. The war is not yet won but you are sure it will be soon. You only stop moving once a new dance partner catches Rhaena's attention in the form of a friend. You nod and part from her although your spinning and smooth movements don't stop and your eyes drift around the fire you are all circling around. Your eyes linger as you see Baela's beaming grin while Alyn Velaryon extends his hand. Prince Jacaerys clenches his jaw from beside her. You feel glad you have no attention on yourself as you snicker quietly, at least you think there is not. He may not have the hair of a Valyrian but he certainly had the spit of fire within him. Your sister had been the centre of attention all night with her coils wrapped in beautiful braids and her figure draped in the most gorgeous of gowns. She was the image of heart-stopping charm. Half the men and women present would be accusing her of using enchantments by the night's end. Suddenly you feel a warm hand connect with your waist from behind you and you gasp quietly.

Corlys Velaryon's attention was not easy to garner but once you felt it it was hard to remove and he knew this. Corlys had been watching you for what felt like hours with his gaze firmly planted on your untroubled frame, how you guided his granddaughter so effortlessly, how your eyes look glassed with the roaring flames reflected in your eyes. This wasn't the first time he had seen you of course, in some respects you were family but this was the first time he had seen the ferocity in which you fought, how you had avenged that young man that had been slain earlier that day. He distantly hoped that the man meant little to you–that it was merely an act of loyalty to his House and not personal. The last he had seen you before the war was at Laena's funeral when you were only seven and ten summers old. You had been still a child and his beloved Rhaenys was beside him.

Now, his fingers tickle up your sides before spreading along either your arms. It sent delightful shivers up your skin. "My lord..." you murmur in acknowledgment while his breath runs down your exposed neck. "I was not expecting you." He hums and a smile curls his mouth, not that you can see it. "Greetings, princess." Amusement flickers in you. "I am no princess." You remind. He grumbles quietly. "But you should be." He retorts. "And so I shall treat you as such." He winds his fingers to lace with your left ones and spins you around so that he can press his lips in a kiss to each knuckle. Your breath hitches. Your eyes narrow in suspicion and rake over his handsome face. "If you are attempting to charm me, you will reap no reward." You purr, face tense and unrelenting. He only chuckles warmly. "I only hope to seek your approval, princess." "Approval?" You laugh. "Approval for what?" "To court you." Silence. Your brows pinch and your head tilted downward. "Court me?" You ask, your tone thick with suspicion. He nods, not elaborating. "I thought history only remembered names, my lord." The edge is sharp to your words but they don't cut him, only entice. "Then they would remember the Liege Velaryon with the intellect of a maester, the wits of a Queen and the beauty of not only the stars threaded in your eyes but the moon that entraps my heart." His words aren't rushed nor forceful. Instead they are intentional and planned, much different than the other men who flirted spontaneously and then lost interest within the night's end. You cock your brow. You don't respond, then a familiar presence is beside you. "Lord Corlys." Your Queen and stepmother greets but he doesn't change the direction of his gaze. "Your grace." "I have unanswered inquiries of your fleet, might we speak privately?" You can see a tick in his jaw but still he rises and finally looks at her. He nods, his smile forced, and steps away. His touch lingers on your hand as he follows Rhaenyra and despite your wishes, your eyes track him until he's completely out of sight.

The rest of your night is spent with fleeting glances from yourself but also those around you and you only stop once the fire has tired out on you. Your sisters decided to wander back to their chambers but sending enough guards to follow after them, Your father hangs back to wait up for you, not dozing asleep like you expected him to. Once you approach him while flushed and exhaustion ebbing at you, he extends his arm and walks you back soundly. However, there is a tense thickness to the air you're not quite used to yet. Daemon only breaks the silence once you reach the door to your chambers. "I want you to think wisely." He states, firm as always. You look at him and know there is no way to deceive him. You nod slowly. Your father is a calculated man but he was not cruel. "You are the blood of the dragon and I do not want you settling for less than your worth." His tongue curls like it's spewing fire but the tone stays authoritative and safe. His steps echo once he leaves you to wrap your hand around the stocky doorknob and turn. You have a lot to think about but as soon as your gaze slipped through the large window, the illuminating moon whispered the sweetest future for you to decide.

#corlys velaryon #corlys velaryon x reader #corlys velaryon x daemon's bastard #corlys velaryon x daemon's bastard reader #corlys velaryon imagine #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagine #hotd #house of the dragon #corlys velaryon x targaryen #corlys velaryon x targaryen reader #corlys x reader #corlys velaryon x targaryen bastard reader #corlys x bastard reader #corlys velaryon ff #corlys velaryon fic #corlys ff #corlys velaryon fanfic #the moon ff

[bonefall]

could fern leaf be a former park cat or something that clear sky sends to spy on tall shadow & then defects? or, since she’s important to the rescue of star flower in the books, maybe she could be involved with one-eye somehow…? even though star flower is totally different now, so she doesn’t really Need rescuing from any situation she’s in that you’ve talked about so far. guess it depends on which aspects of the character best serve the story, and whether she would work better as part of DOTC proper or thunder’s SE

i also genuinely can’t remember if bb!clear sky’s original M.O. for his group is Tribe Cats Only, or if he is willing to take in anyone who kisses his ass enough. could make sense if fern leaf (or more accurately, any tom willing to vouch for her) appeals to clear sky enough. hell, maybe she could be a mole on one-eye’s behalf instead?

(Follow up ask to this post)

The new rub to the formation of the groups in BB is that there is two distinct cultures in the forest: Park Cats and Tribe Cats. They're divided by a language barrier, with the Park Cats speaking Parkmew and the Tribe cats speaking what we now call Old Tribemew.

So Clear Sky doesn't have the same "options" like canon. These ""rogues"" don't speak his language and he simply would not learn even if the chance was offered to him. It doesn't even really cross his mind that these are full people to reach out to; in his mind they're intruders. The flavor of bigotry in the modern era hasn't quite evolved yet, so he has the most straightforward kind of xenophobia you can imagine.

He only starts changing his mind after the First Battle, after his revelation, when he's back on his bullshit in Thunderstar's Justice. In my head it's kind of like... a mockery of Thunder Storm's way of life, that allowed him to live in defiance of him for so long. "See, now I do what you do. Since Gray Wing approved of you so much." kinda thing

There's two park cat groups; The River Kingdom, and The Wind Coalition.

The first conflict the Sun Trail Pioneers run into is with WindCo up on the moor, who chases them down into the forest! The Park cats who lived in the forest weren't united, just various individuals that had little "homestead" territories.

The conflicts with them start after the Shadow/Sky split that follows the death of Jagged Peak. Shadow's Clan moved eastward into the caves at Snakerocks, where no one bothered them, but Sky's Clan started getting hostile towards the little homesteads and pushing cats westward, back to the River Kingdom.

SO with that recap out of the way...

I have two and a half-ish cats already that I'm heavily interested in using to turn on Clear Sky for Thunder's Clan. So I'm not sure how to slot Fern Leaf in there.

1: Snake. Snake is the only cat in-canon who said that maybe Clear Sky shouldn't be their leader after letting One Eye into the Clan against all warnings, and then he gets DOGPILED for it, and the very next book shoves him into the arms of Slash to undermine the fact that they accidentally gave him a good fucking point.

I'm RIDICULOUSLY fond of him because of this. I love him out of spite. I've spoken before about how I plan for him to be a Tribe-descended cat, and a lot of that is because I want to keep his goon roles serving Clear Sky. One of which is that he is going to badly injure Sunlit Frost in the First Battle.

So thinking about it... it makes the most sense for Snake to turn on Clear Sky in Thunderstar's Justice. Still unsure when. But if I have any roles where a cat needs to get help, stop a battle, or call Clear Sky out for making a really bad decision, it's gotta be him.

I'll keep him in my hand for a while; this feels like a piece that will fall into place.

I'm also unsure of what family he's going into. I keep waffling on it. I'm leaning towards the Claw family and possibly the son of Fox, since he's going to be living a bit longer. He's going to be about the same age as Thunder Storm, maybe a bit older.

2: Red Claw Since Acorn Fur is now Acorn Swoop, and she's not nonsensically going to go join the guy who killed both of her parents because it would be too sad to go home where they're not alive, her love interest has to end up in Thunder's Clan.

I'm already pretty committed to making Petal into Petal Claw and Fox into Fox Claw, so it follows that Red Claw would be in the family. Thinking about it, maybe Red should be the son of Fox instead...

Especially because he could defect earlier. Moth Flight's Vision is totally overhauled anyway and I'm planning to shift a lot of the original plot to something for another character anyway...

Plus, enemies-to-lovers is fun and I haven't really had a chance to do it yet. Acorn Swoop is absolutely the kind of punk who would nab one of her worst enemy's best soldiers, and the type of nerd who would frame it like her biggest catch yet.

("OI THUNDER!! LOOKIE WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN")

And most relevantly... this is leaving Fern Leaf's backstory up in the air. Him leading a dog pack into the heart of camp and getting Beech and Frog killed is what kicked off the Bunny Bones plot of the original MFV that I like so much, and I feel like it's an important part of Fern Leaf.

So not only am I here planning Red Claw as a high priority for being someone to turn against Clear Sky, but also, he complicates Fern Leaf a bit.

Maybe I should step back a bit on the two and start from scratch with them, and replace their backstories with new ones that preserve the "emotional core." I'll have to think about it.

That 1/2 Cat: Alder or Birch The kits that are stolen from Misty, that queen who was murdered by Clear Sky and whose kits are given to Petal. In BB, that's something I want to examine for how fucked up it is. It becomes the basis of Kit Stealing later, an awful practice that the Clans will struggle with for many generations.

These ones are SUPER important, but I say 1/2 because it doesn't have to be Thunder's Clan they turn for. But I do want one of them to eventually learn their origin, and end up finding their family in River Kingdom or the Wind Coalition.

I mention them because I keep going back and forth on if they're going to get combined with other characters. Basically imagine me next to a big conspiracy chart and I'm connecting a big red line between possible plot threads back to Fern Leaf. Maybe her? Maybe she can be one of the stolen kits?

I could even make it so Birch is actually an older sibling, or a half-sibling, or one from the same litter who was saved... maybe even end up making it a litter of 4. Slots in well with her canon story, too, where she mentions her mother abandoned her.

The truth can be that it was a lie. Her mother didn't abandon her. One of them was murdered and the other was chased off.

And, of course, I could save her to be a "One Eye Cultist." None of my drafts so far have brought in any extra followers of One Eye who will follow him from place-to-place besides Star Flower herself. I would like to add some, and that's a fine place for Fern Leaf, but somehow I feel like I can do her better.

#better bones au #BB!DOTC #BB!Fern Leaf #also for the record I am both Very sorry and Not sorry that-- #--Acorn Swoop ended up changing so much from her mild-toned canon counterpart lmaooo #My lover showed me a clip of a british TV show with a character called Vyvyan ranting about bad sitcoms #RIGHT around the time I first designed her #Because I was yelling about the original arc and partner was like ''this is u (affectionate)'' #And somehow that evolved into an inside joke about Acorn Swoop and now I cannot unhear it #''being hungry makes me lose my easygoing approach to living with other cats'' #(THROWS A MOLOTOV AT SKY'S CLAN)