á ášłàŹ đđđđ đđđ !! â· just a friendly argentinian girl who wants to share her love for the things âĄÌ 05 , she/her. university student, I like to obsess over things and learn a lot from it . game of thrones and dc comics lover . formula one . football.
â„ đ„đąđ§đ€đŹ âȘê± m.lists. who I write about
ê° đ«đđȘđŹ ê± â open!
athenalvss. mdni. do not copy, translate, or claim my writing as yours.
summary: The little siblings like to play in different parts of the castle, but they should be careful around Ser Criston Cole.
pairing: Aemond Targaryen x twin!fem!reader
terror twins mlist
The war had changed everyone's life; there was no longer a moment of peace for anyone, everyone worried about attacks, alliances, and strategies.
In the Privy Council, Otto Hightower and Alicent had spent hours arguing with Aemond, demanding patience from him when all the prince wanted was to ride Vhagar to travel to Dragonstone and burn all those who tried to usurp the throne.
The tension at the dinner table had been very thick; Aegon preferred to get drunk until he passed out, while Alicent hadn't stopped rubbing her fingers against the table, silently praying, and Aemond looked tense, leaving the two princesses immersed in ignorance, clearly on orders from their mother.
But it was impossible for you to ignore your dear brother; he was clearly lost in thought, filled with anger, and that jaw you loved to stroke was clenched tightly. He definitely wasn't going to sleep tonight.
That's why, when the castle finally fell silent under a cold, overcast night sky, you went down to the courtyard. You knew you would find him there, venting his rage against the straw effigies. The air in the courtyard reeked of dampness and the tar from torches that flickered in the east wind, casting long, distorted shadows on the stone walls.
When you entered the courtyard, the only sounds were the sharp whistle of steel slicing through the air and the sharp thud of Aemond's sword against a wooden post. He was sweating despite the cold, his shirt open and his silver hair plastered to his forehead. Noticing your footsteps, he stopped abruptly. He didn't need to turn around completely; your scent and the rhythm of your walk were something his body recognized instinctively.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice hoarse from exertion, plunging his training sword into the ground. His single eye scanned you from head to toe. "If Mother finds out you're out at this hour, you'll be in trouble. We're at war."
âMother is too busy weeping before the statue of the Mother to notice my absence,â you replied, approaching with slow, deliberate steps. The flickering light of a nearby torch illuminated your features, which were a kind of reflection of hers. âBesides, you were making too much noise. I could sense your frustration from my chambers.â
Aemond let out a dry snort, but the stiffness in his shoulders lessened slightly as you approached. He walked to the table where the practice weapons rested and picked up a short dagger, blunt-bladed but heavy. He held it out to you by the pommel.
"If you're going to stay and break the rules with me, we could at least do something useful. Your defense with the dagger is still pathetic."
"Hmm." You smiled slightly, a smirk identical to his, in a mocking way, and took the weapon.
The metal was cold, but when Aemond positioned himself immediately behind you, all the chill of the courtyard vanished. His chest, damp with sweat and warm, pressed against your back. You felt the rapid beating of his heart against your shoulder blades.
With a deliberate slowness that had nothing to do with military training, his black leather-gloved hand traveled up your arm, caressing it, until it grasped your right wrist. He forced your arm upward, aligning the dagger blade with your chin. His breath brushed against the sensitive skin behind your ear, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.
"Nyke biot dÄri sĆvÄ« dĆvÄ« dĆvior.(I want to be like this with you forever)" she whispered in thick, harsh High Valyrian that chilled you to the bone. "If you move like that, they'll disarm you before you can taste their blood. You have to be firmer, faster."
"I know how to defend myself, Aemond," you murmured in the same language, your voice barely a whisper lost in the night wind, feeling him press your body closer and closer to his. "You just want to take advantage of me."
Instead of correcting your posture, you let yourself be drawn in by his weight, tilting your head back to rest it on his shoulder. Aemond reacted quickly. He let out a low, muffled groan, and his lips sought the line of your neck, leaving a trail of hungry, possessive kisses that made you gasp softly. His left hand abandoned any pretense of showing you fencing and moved down to your waist, digging his fingers into the fabric of your clothing, pressing your hips against his with a force that betrayed the immense tension he'd been holding inside.
â "Ao mÄman...(I love you)" He began to whisper against your skin, but the phrase died in his mouth.
âClank. Clank. Clank.
The distant but unmistakable echo of armored boots resonated in the tunnel leading to the parade ground. Someone was coming, and the rhythm of the footsteps was not that of a servant. It was the heavy, rhythmic march of a white cloak.
Adrenaline surged through your veins, but Aemond didn't freeze. In a split second, his warrior instincts and his desperation to protect the secret merged. With a fluid, brusque movement, he used his weight to slam you against the courtyard's masonry wall. His hand twisted the dagger in your fingers and pressed it with feigned force against your abdomen, leaning over you, his face contorted with artificial fury.
Just as Ser Criston Cole turned the corner, with a heavy torch in his left hand and his right hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the light illuminated what looked like an extremely violent lesson.
âYour letdown is a fatal mistake, sister!â Aemond declared in the Common Tongue, his voice echoing off the courtyard walls with cold, ruthless authority. âIf I were a Velaryon bastard, youâd be lying dead on the ground before you could even scream. Pay attention!â
Ser Criston stopped abruptly about five paces away. The Lord Commander frowned, his eyes immediately scanning the scene. He saw your flushed cheeks, your ragged breathing, and the way Aemond was pinning you against the wall. The metal of the dagger was still pressing against your clothing.
âPrince Aemond! Princess!â Cole exclaimed, taking a step forward but maintaining a respectful distance. âIt is unusually late. The Queen Mother has ordered all members of the royal household to remain in their quarters due to alarms in the Ghoul.â
Aemond didn't let go of you immediately. He took a deliberate second, slowly lowering the dagger and turning to face his mentor. His face was a mask of stone, obscuring any trace of the warmth he had shared with you just moments before.
"If I may say so, I think it's a rather... rough ride for the Princess."
âMy sister asked me to refine her self-defense technique, Ser Criston,â Aemond replied, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand. âIt seems the peaceful life my mother imposes on her has made her soft. But sheâs right. Weâre done for today.â
You stepped away from the wall, smoothing your clothes with slightly trembling fingers, but forcing your eyes to maintain an expression of choreographed, dignified frustration. You looked at Cole.
"Ser Criston is right, brother. Your teaching style is... too rustic" you said, holding the royal guard's gaze.
Cole nodded slowly, though his dark eyes remained fixed on the small distance that now existed between you, and on how Aemond's silver hair looked strangely disheveled in the back.
"I will escort the Princess to her chambers, my Prince" offered Cole, stepping aside to make way.
"That won't be necessary, Ser Criston," Aemond interrupted, crossing his arms and fixing his single eye on him with an unyielding firmness. "I brought her here; I'll return her to her bed. Continue your rounds."
Cole was silent for a moment, assessing the order, before giving a tense bow. The clinking of his armor sounded again as he withdrew, leaving them alone in the dimness of the courtyard, where the danger of the secrecy was only just beginning to be felt.
.
The afternoon had been a hotbed of political paranoia. Larys Strong had spent hours locked in with the Queen Mother, delivering reports about alleged Black spies monitoring the royal family's movements. Alicent, consumed by fear, ordered the guards in the royal corridors to be tripled and that no member of the family be allowed to walk without an escort.
Aemond and you had barely seen each other all day, both of you busy with your duties, but the prohibition and tension of the castle had only fueled the urgency to be close to each other, to feel each other's warmth even in the most innocent way.
As night fell, the torches in the main corridors were kept burning at full capacity by order of the guard, eliminating any dark corner. But you still needed to satisfy that nagging need within you, so you had used the excuse of searching for a book in the library to leave your quarters in case they found you wandering around after escaping through the passageways. But the Fortress was no longer the safe haven it once was; every corner was guarded, and the echo of armor clattered constantly against the stone walls.
The atmosphere in the west wing was frigid, heavy with the smell of burnt wax and the old wool of the hangings that decorated the stone corridors. You knew Ser Criston Cole was relentlessly patrolling that area, but the need to feel your twin's warmth overcame any trace of caution. You walked with your heart pounding against your ribs, alert to every vibration in the air, until a familiar shadow fell across the stone floor.
Without a word, he took your arm and dragged you toward the blind alcove behind a huge tapestry depicting the conquests of Aegon the Conqueror. The heavy woolen fabric absorbed the echo of your footsteps and plunged them into a dusty, suffocating, and ridiculously intimate gloom.
"You're late," he chided you in High Valyrian, his voice a harsh hiss, trapping you mercilessly between the cold masonry wall and the firmness of his chest. "I've missed you enough not to make me wait any longer."
âMother kept me here praying,â you replied in the same language, your voice barely a feverish whisper as you tangled your fingers in his long silver hair, drawing him closer. âShe wants the Seven to help us, but I donât think theyâll hear mve at all.â
Aemond let out a dry laugh, a dark and insolent sound that died directly against your lips. He kissed you with a restrained, hungry passion, devoid of any patience. His large, rough hands desperately sought the warmth of your skin beneath your heavy green cloak, impatient with the distance imposed by court robes. His hand boldly moved up your thigh, squeezing with a possessiveness so savage that it made you gasp against his mouth.
â"Ao mÄman nykeÄ dĆna ( )" He whispered against your lips, his breath ragged, before biting them again with a desperate gentleness that made you lose your footing.
Then, the rhythmic, heavy, metallic sound of patrolling armor echoed in the outer corridor. Someone was approaching the exact corner where they were hiding, again, as if it were the gods' punishment for doing something so repulsive.
Barely parting your lips from his, you pressed your back against the stone, holding your breath. Aemond didn't back down an inch; instead, he stepped forward, using himself as a living shield. The breadth of his shoulders and the drape of his own black cloak completely enveloped you, erasing you from existence for anyone who passed by.
As Ser Criston Cole rounded the corner, he brushed aside the side tapestry with his left hand, flooding the alcove with the flickering light of his torch. What he saw was Prince Aemond Targaryen standing alone in the hidden passage, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression of sovereign annoyance. Cole, however, was a man-at-arms, trained to notice the subtlest details; his dark eyes immediately dropped and registered the slightest movement of a green fabric peeking out from beneath the prince's heavy cloak.
âPrince Aemond? Is something wrong?â Cole asked, stopping just three paces away. The Lord Commanderâs brow furrowed with stern suspicion, and his right hand instinctively descended, resting on the pommel of his sword.
Aemond turned halfway, expanding his stance to further block your figure against the stone. His single eye glared at the royal guard with utter, lethal contempt, holding the tension of the silence before speaking.
âSer Criston. My sister had a nightmare because of the visions of Haelena, and she came looking for our mother,â Aemond said in the Common Tongue. His voice sounded so fluid, so free of guilt or hesitation, that it sent a shiver down your spine. âI found her wandering the corridors and Iâm escorting her back to her room. SheâsâŠunwell and unable to speak.â
Cole hesitated for a second that felt like an eternity. The air in the narrow corridor grew heavy, suffocating, charged with the electricity of suppressed desire and the panic of being exposed. The gentleman's gaze traveled over the prince's slightly disheveled shirt and then settled back on the trail of green fabric.
"I can escort you myself, my Lord," Cole insisted, stepping forward with a moralizing firmness in his voice, "so that you may rest and return to your quarters safely."
âI said Iâll take care of it, Ser Criston,â Aemond cut him off sharply. His voice dropped an octave, losing any trace of courtesy and transforming into a dangerously sharp warning. âWithdraw.â
Cole swallowed hard, gauging the implied violence in his student's eyes. Knowing he had no proof to challenge the word of a prince of the blood, he bowed awkwardly and dropped the tapestry, resuming his rhythmic march down the main hall.
Only when the echo of the metal faded completely into the distance did you allow yourself to release the air that burned your lungs. Under the cloak of the tapestry's darkness, your hand sought Aemond's, finding his fingers and squeezing them with feverish force, while your twin's chest rose and fell, savoring the danger of the game they had just won.
.
It was a stifling, humid heat that night, the kind that foretells storms over the Blackwater, and that did nothing to help the spirits of the people who lived in the castle, and even less so the fact that King Aegon had put on a grotesque spectacle in the great hall, drunkenly celebrating the supposed superiority of the Greens while breaking wine glasses and humiliating the servants.
Nothing to be in a good mood about at all.
And you were no exception; you hadn't been able to bear the confinement of your own room, where the walls seemed to close in on you. The oppressive air and the blind desire to be with the only person who understood the disgust your family inspired in you led you to Aemond's chambers.
By the time midnight passed, the room had become a warm sanctuary; the fireplace was unlit, but the fire between you was blazing, fueled by the risk and isolation of the past few days.
The disarray in the antechamber was a stark reflection of the frantic urgency that had consumed them the moment the bolt clicked. Your heavy green silk dress, that rigid contraption Alicent forced you to wear to look like a devout lady, lay crumpled on the stone floor, along with your shoes and the ribbons of your corset. You were left only with your white silk chemise, a garment so thin it was see-through and clung to your skin in the night's warmth.
You were sitting on Aemond's lap, your legs straddling his thighs as he reclined on the edge of his large four-poster bed. Aemond's black silk shirt was completely unbuttoned, revealing his pale chest crisscrossed with old training scars. Your fingers were tangled tightly in his long silver hair, gently pulling back to deepen a wet, slow, feverish kiss that stole your breath.
"Ao ñuhys iksÄ, kepa. (You are mine, little sister)" he whispered against your lips in a hoarse High Valyrian, almost a plea, as his large, rough hands moved up your bare thighs, pulling at the silk of your chemise. "To hell with everything, everything and everyone, it's just the two of us Ăuha drakona (my dragon)"
"Nothing else matters, my other half," you replied in the same language, panting slightly as his lips descended to your neck, biting with a possessive gentleness that made you arch your back on the mattress.
They were so lost in each other's warmth, cut off from the rest of Westeros behind the heavy oak doors, that the sharp sound of the antechamber doorknob turning struck them like a steel whip. Ser Criston Cole, who by the Queen Mother's express orders held the master key to the guard and had free rein to deliver urgent security reports at any hour, pushed open the door and entered without waiting.
"Prince Aemond! A raven has arrived from Oldtown and the Queen demands" Cole's voice trailed off in his throat.
The Lord Commander stood frozen in the middle of the antechamber. His eyes, trained to detect any anomaly, fixed on the stone floor. There, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the bay window, lay your green dress. It wasn't a forgotten garment; it was strewn haphazardly beside a hastily untied corset and petticoats. An unmistakable trail of women's clothing leading directly to the archway of the main bedchamber.
Panic shot down your spine, chilling you to the bone. Aemond reacted quickly, pushing you back onto the mattress and pulling the light sheets up to cover you up to your shoulders, but this time there was no way to hide the truth. You couldn't disappear.
Before you could catch your breath, Cole's heavy footsteps advanced through the antechamber. The knight halted beneath the archway of the main bedchamber, torch held aloft. The golden light illuminated the scene with utter cruelty: Aemond, standing beside the bed, his shirt open, his chest covered in sweat, his hair disheveled; and you, the queen's perfect princess, tucked into hia bed, your silk nightgown askew, your eyes wide with shock.
The silence that followed was unbearable. There were no excuses, no absurd lies, because the evidence was devastating.
Ser Criston Cole paled, as if he had seen a ghost. His dark eyes shifted from you to your twin brother, filled with profound moral horror, but also with utter political panic. As the Greens' strategist, Cole knew perfectly well that if this secret left that room, the legitimacy of his faction would crumble completely. They couldn't accuse Rhaenyra of fathering bastards when Alicent's own children were committing the most depraved acts right under their noses. The honor Cole had fought for his entire life was rotting before his eyes.
Cole's hand slowly descended to the pommel of his sword, not to attack, but out of pure instinct for defense in the face of the tension of the moment.
Far from cowering or begging for mercy, Aemond stepped forward, positioning himself between Cole and the bed. His face transformed into a mask of pure Targaryen hostility. He held the Lord Commander's gaze with his single eye, in a stony silence that dared the guard to speak. Aemond didn't utter a word; he simply glared at him, making it clear that he wasn't going to offer any explanations or show an ounce of guilt.
Cole gritted his teeth, his jaw trembling with suppressed fury, disgust, and the crushing weight of betrayal. He stared at the prince he himself had trained, now transformed into what he considered an abomination. He wanted to speak, wanted to scream that he was a sinner, but the political implications of his own words froze his tongue. If he betrayed the twins, he would destroy Alicent and hand the Iron Throne to Rhaenyra on a silver platter.
Overwhelmed by the shock of the discovery, caught in a moral dilemma that was beyond him, and utterly unable to process the coldness with which Aemond held his gaze, Ser Criston Cole took a step back. He lowered his torch, turned on his heel without uttering a word, and left the chambers with a swift stride, slamming the door shut with a sharp clang that echoed throughout the room.
In the bedroom, the air suddenly returned to your lungs. You looked at Aemond, who turned to you immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed to take your trembling hands.
"Aemond... what are we going to do?"
Criston Cole knew everything; his silence was a ticking time bomb.
The next day, the atmosphere in the Red Keep felt thick, almost unbreathable, like the air before a forest fire. Ser Criston Cole had spent the entire morning watching them from a distance; his usual military rigidity had transformed into a grim fixity, a gaze heavy with judgment and a contained despair that made your stomach churn every time you saw him.
You know that the Lord Commander was trapped in his own mental hell, torn between his blind devotion to Alicent and the disgust he felt for the secret he had discovered in the prince's bedchamber
He was never an expressive man, but a single glance was enough to understand that something had changed. His usual military rigidity had transformed into a disturbing stillness; he was no longer the disciplined vigilance of the Lord Commander, but that of a man desperately struggling to reconcile what he had seen with the principles that had guided his entire life.
Every time your paths crossed with his in a corridor or courtyard, you noticed how his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than they should have. There was no anger in them. There was bewilderment. Repulsion. Guilt, even. As if he believed he had failed the queen by not having seen sooner what he now considered a sin impossible to ignore.
You knew exactly what tormented his conscience.
The image of the dress abandoned in Aemond's chambers had taken root in her mind. It had begun as a suspicion, then become an unbearable doubt, and finally a conclusion she refused to voice aloud.
Even Aemond hadn't managed to cross paths with you during the morning; council duties and training kept the prince busy, leaving you alone in front of Criston's inquisitive gaze.
You needed to escape. Even if it was only for a few minutes.
That's why, when the afternoon began to paint the windows of the Red Fortress orange, you headed to the royal library.
It was one of the few places in the castle where time seemed to stand still. The immense hall remained enveloped in a reverential silence, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient wood and the soft rustle of turning pages. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, tanned leather, and cedarâa fragrance that always managed to calm the jumble of your thoughts.
You slowly wandered along the shelves, letting your fingertips brush against the spines of ancient volumes written centuries before your birth.
You were leafing through the pages of an ancient manuscript, your hands trembling slightly, when a heavy, massive shadow fell across the wooden table, blocking the dim afternoon light filtering through the window. You slowly looked up.
Ser Criston Cole stood before you. He wasn't wearing his Whitecloak helmet, which allowed his hardened features to show, but this time his dark eyes reflected a deep and twisted confusion.
"Princess." His voice was low, respectful, but lacking the warmth he had once shown when speaking to you.
You straightened your back without taking your eyes off the book you held in your hands. "Ser Christon."
He remained motionless. "Can I talk to you?"
"I hear you, Ser Criston ." You slowly turned down the volume and held it against your chest.
Criston remained silent for a few seconds, as if carefully choosing each word. He seemed torn between the duty he had sworn to uphold and the affection he had always felt for the queen's children.
âPrincess,â Cole began, taking a step forward and lowering his voice to an urgent, tense whisper. âIâve spent the night awake, thinking⊠I know the darkness that dwells within Prince Aemond. I know the resentment he carries and the violence with which he takes what he desires, ever since he was a child.â
Cole leaned on the table, scrutinizing your face with an almost desperate fixity, trying to read behind your eyes.
âTell me the truth, my Princess⊠Is he forcing you?â Coleâs question was heavy with a gnawing suspicion. He had no certainty, but in his rigid, gentlemanly mind, he needed to believe you were a victim before accepting that the Queenâs daughter had willingly submitted to such depravity. âI know the prince is ruthless, and you are very close, but if he is using his position, his size, or his threats to subdue you⊠if he is ruining your virtue against your will, I beg you to tell me now. With a single word from you, I will go before the Queen Mother. I will protect you from him.â
You felt the weight of Criston's gaze on your face, waiting for an answer that never came. The air seemed to have grown thicker among the tall library shelves, to the point that each breath required a conscious effort.
Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
Not because you didn't know what to answer. But because any answer meant losing something.
If you lied and claimed Aemond was forcing you, Criston would rush to Alicent immediately. The scandal would erupt that very night. Your brother would be branded a monster, a man capable of violating his own sister, and while that might protect the secret of your love, it would forever condemn him in his mother's eyes.
But telling the truth meant admitting that she had not been seduced, deceived, or subdued. It was you who had often sought out Aemond with the same desperation with which he sought you.
Nobody had forced anyone.
That thought made a painful knot settle in your throat.
Because you knew how Criston saw you.
From childhood, he had been one of the few men at court who had always treated you with a mixture of respect and almost paternal affection. He had been present during your riding lessons, at your brothers' training sessions, at countless family dinners. He had always been a steadfast, incorruptible figure, a man whose word was worth more than any oath.
And now he watched you as if trying to rescue the little girl he remembered. He didn't understand that that little girl had disappeared long ago.
You felt a pang of guilt.
Not because you loved Aemond, never for that reason.
The guilt arose from understanding the pain that truth would cause those around you. All those who had placed their faith in your family.
You looked down at the book you were still holding in your hands. Your fingertips absentmindedly traced the aged leather cover, clinging to it as if it could hold you up when the world began to crumble.
You were about to speak when a black leather-gloved hand settled firmly on the knight's armored shoulder. The grip was so brutal and sudden that the metal of the Royal Guard's shoulder guard creaked slightly. Aemond had emerged from the shadows of the adjacent shelf, silent and deadly as an ash-waving specter.
Aemond glanced at you over Cole's shoulder. In High Valyrian that sounded like a soft, protective lullaby amidst the storm, he spoke to you: âPÄza, jĆor dĆnaâ (Wait, my sweet).
Then, with a sharp movement of his arm, he forced Cole to turn around so that he was face to face with him, pushing him against the bookshelf.
With a slow, deliberate movement, laced with a demented insolence, Aemond brought his left hand to his face and removed the black leather patch. He exposed his scar and revealed the mystical sapphire set in its empty socket. In the flickering candlelight of the library, the blue jewel shone with a psychopathic intensity.
"Force her, Ser Criston?" Aemond whispered in the Common Tongue, his laugh a hissing, icy drip of venom. "You don't understand much about dragons, even having lived among them for so long."
Before Cole could reply, you stepped forward, emerging from behind the table. Under the Lord Commander's astonished gaze, you slid your hand forward to intertwine your fingers with Aemond's with fierce force.
âNo one forces me to do anything, Ser Criston,â you declared in the common tongue, your voice flawless, dignified, and devoid of any trace of guilt. âI⊠I love my brother.â
summary: Two-Face is a little obsessed with Batman's new partner, so he takes the necessary measures to keep her close, even if it's just for a few hours.
pairing; Harvey Dent x Vigilante!fem!reader
note: If I have to justify this, I'm going to say two things: my fav batman villain, and second, he is hot.
Gotham was a city too big for even Batman to protect alone.
Over the years, the Bat-family had grown precisely for that reason. There were nights when Dick was patrolling BlĂŒdhaven, Barbara Gordon was coordinating operations from the Clock Tower, and Jason, Tim, Damian, or the others were busy with their own missions.
On those occasions, Batman needed someone he could trust without reservation.
That's where you came in.
You were his field partner when circumstances demanded it and when your university life allowed it, but you were happy to help the bat in any way you could.
Bruce trusted your judgment, your ability to improvise, and above all, your ability to keep up with him on patrol. He didn't need to give you orders every second; a single glance was enough to understand the plan. He also appreciated that you weren't some rebellious kid trying to impress him to stay. You were less trouble than all the others who had come before.
That's why, when the city became too chaotic or everyone else was unavailable, it was your communicator that would ring.
Over time, the police grew accustomed to seeing you alongside the Dark Knight. Commissioner Gordon wasn't even surprised anymore when, instead of Nightwing or Batgirl, it was you descending from a building with Batman.
The criminals also learned your name. They knew that if you showed up, the chances of escape would decrease dramatically.
And, in a surprisingly short time, you had already faced a long list of Gotham's most dangerous criminals. Names you only knew from Batman's files or the news a few years ago: the Joker, the Penguin, the Riddler, the Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, and, of course, Two-Face.
You never imagined that those figures, almost mythical to any citizen, would end up becoming part of your daily routine. Each one had their own methods, their own quirks, and a different way of challenging Batman. Over time, you learned to adapt to them all, to anticipate their moves, and even to recognize when one of them was planning something big.
However, there was one who was very creative, as you had faced him at least three nights in the same week.
At first, it seemed like a simple coincidence. Two-Face frequently appeared in the operations you were involved in. Then, he started ignoring opportunities to escape in order to confront you personally. Later, he stopped being content with just exchanging a few words during battles.
Nobody paid any attention to it. After all, Gotham was full of obsessive men.
But this was not a simple rivalry; it was the beginning of a fixation that, as the months passed, would end up becoming a dangerous obsession on the part of the renowned Harvey Dent.
One night a call came in shortly after midnight.
One of Batman's informants had obtained a crucial lead: Two-Face was planning to meet with several members of Gotham's mafia at an old dockside warehouse. According to the information, a deal involving weapons and money from various criminal families would be finalized there.
So less than twenty minutes later, the Batmobile stopped a few blocks away.
The building was enormous. An old brick industrial warehouse, abandoned for years, its only light coming from a few exterior spotlights that flickered intermittently. The wind creaked the rusted sheets of the roof while the harbor water lapped gently against the wooden pilings.
Batman scanned the building through the visor of his cowl. "I see no movement."
"Perhaps we arrived ahead of schedule," you whispered.
The place was unsettling; it was too quiet and gloomy given the poor visibility due to the lack of lights. Inside, hundreds of containers, wooden crates, and machinery covered by tarpaulins formed a veritable labyrinth.
Batman raised a hand, signaling you to stop. He crouched down next to some fresh footprints.
"These ones are new."
"So someone was here."
"Or is it still here..."
They continued advancing in silence; only their muffled footsteps and the steady drip of water from the ceiling could be heard. Suddenly, Batman's communicator emitted a faint beep, and a heat signature appeared in his visor.
"Movement on the second level." he looked up at the metal walkways. "I'm going upstairs. You check the east side. If you find anything, don't act alone."
You nodded.
It wasn't the first time they had separated during a patrol; they were both used to working that way, and he knew you would take his words into account.
You waited for Batman to disappear into the shadows before continuing, as you moved forward between the containers, the feeling of discomfort increasing.
It was as if someone was watching you.
You turned slowly, but there was nothing in that area, only darkness accompanied you. You took a deep breath and continued, but a faint metallic noise resonated behind you.
Then a box fell several meters away. Instinctively you ran towards the sound, and as soon as you crossed the narrow passage formed by two rows of containers, several metal gates crashed down behind and in front of you.
You were locked in.
"Batman!" You reached for the communicator, but only heard static.
The signal had been blocked.
Before you could react, four men emerged from the shadows. They were Two-Face's men.
The first one tried to grab you, but you knocked him down with an elbow to the jaw, the second one received a kick that threw him against a container, the third one managed to fire, forcing you to take cover behind some boxes.
You knew you couldn't stay trapped there, you threw a batarang, cutting the lights in the hallway, the darkness was on your side.
For a few seconds, there were only thumps, muffled screams, and the sound of metal hitting the ground. One after another, the men fell. And when the last one finally lay unconscious, you sighed.
It was over, or at least that's what you thought.
A voice sounded behind you. "The boss said we couldn't fail."
You turned around too late; something heavy had hit the back of your head hard.
A sharp pain shot through your skull, your knees gave way instantly leaving you completely dizzy and blind, while through the ringing in your ears you heard footsteps approaching.
"Is she alive?"
"Yeah."
"Perfect... The boss made it very clear he didn't want a scratch on her, kill the idiot who shot her."
Before you completely lost consciousness, you saw a pair of elegant black boots stop in front of you.
Then a silver coin fell to the floor and Harvey Dent's face flashed before your eyes for just a second. "Take her."
Everything went black.
The return to consciousness was slow and painful.
Before you opened your eyes, a sharp thump hammered at the back of your head. The thump was still there, pulsing insistently, as if each beat of your heart echoed against your skull.
The air was cold, damp, with that unmistakable smell of old wood and dust accumulated over years.
You slowly opened your eyes. The light was dim, barely enough to make out the shapes in the room. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly and casting irregular shadows on the walls.
You blinked several times, trying to focus; it wasn't common to be surprised by someone hitting your head until you lost consciousness, how painful it all was.
The first thing you did was try to get up, but a strong pull in your wrists prevented you from doing so.
Looking down, you saw steel handcuffs encircling both your wrists, securing them to the armrests of an old wooden chair. These weren't makeshift handcuffs; they were reinforced and bolted directly to the chair's frame. You pulled a second time, harder, but barely managed to budge the chair a few inches off the ground.
You took a deep breath to force yourself to think clearly; you couldn't exert force, it only made your head throb even more and you weren't going to get anywhere. You had to find another way to solve it, but first, rule number one: don't panic.
You could hear Bruce's voice telling you that.
As long as you remained calm, there would always be a chance to escape. You looked up and finally took in your surroundings.
The room was enormous; several rows of wooden benches stretched out before you, covered with a thin layer of dust. To one side still stood the judge's bench, raised above the rest of the room, and behind it hung the Gotham crest, cracked in two. The windows were completely boarded up, preventing any light from entering.
An old courthouse in one of the abandoned buildings.
An almost ironic choice for Harvey Dent. The former district attorney had turned a place dedicated to administering justice into his hideout for a kidnapping.
You couldn't keep dwelling on the situation you were in because the sound of a door opening broke the silence.
The footsteps echoed on the wooden floor with an unsettling calmness. Then Harvey appeared, or at least what was left of Harvey Dent.
His figure emerged from the shadows with the same elegance he had once possessed as Gotham's district attorney. The undamaged side of his suit remained impeccably pressed, while the other half was charred and torn, as was the deformed skin of his face.
He carried a revolver in one hand and in the other, he absentmindedly twirled his characteristic silver coin between his fingers.
He entered the room, his gaze fixed on you, his attention so intense it sent a shiver down your spine, and stopped just a few feet away from you.
The only sound was the soft clinking of the coin as it passed from one finger to another.
You were the one who finally broke that awkward silence. "I have to admit, this is a pretty extreme method for starting a conversation."
The corner of his mouth, on the good side, curled slightly. "If I had invited you, you wouldn't have come." His voice was calm, as if they were talking in a coffee shop and not in an abandoned courtroom with you handcuffed in front of him.
You looked at him in disbelief. "Well... I mean, you can't blame me."
Harvey did not respond immediately.
He simply pulled a chair from among the benches in the courtroom. The scrape of the wood against the floor echoed throughout the room as he slowly moved it closer until it was right in front of you.
He rested his forearms on his knees, holding the coin between his fingers, still keeping his gaze fixed on you, and that was what was truly unsettling.
He wasn't interrogating you, he didn't want information about Batman, he didn't even seem interested in threatening you. It was as if he'd been waiting for this moment for a long time and, now that he finally had it, he didn't quite know where to begin.
Harvey remained seated in front of you without saying a single word.
The chair he had dragged until it was in front of yours creaked every time he shifted his position slightly. Between his fingers, the coin twirled with an almost mechanical skill; it seemed an unconscious movement, a habit acquired after so many years.
You, on the other hand, did not take your eyes off the handcuffs that bound your wrists.
His gaze drifted down to your wrists. "Are they too tight?"
You blinked, confused. "Pardon?"
"The handcuffs." he made a small gesture with his head, indicating them. "I didn't want them to be so tight."
You watched him, unsure if he was joking to annoy you or what was wrong with him, but his expression remained completely neutral.
"Kidnap me"
He barely inclined his head. "Yes."
You waited for an explanation or for him to continue talking so you could get some information, but nothing, and the silence became increasingly uncomfortable.
You exhaled slowly through your nose. "And you don't see anything strange about all this and what you're saying?"
The coin stopped spinning for a moment. Harvey held it between his thumb and forefinger before answering. "No."
He didn't really find anything strange about the situation.
"Batman is coming."
"I know."
"And when he arrives..."
"He'll try to get you out of here."
"So... why do it?"
Harvey looked down at the coin and rolled it slowly on his knuckles. "Because you'll be here for a few hours."
You frowned. "What?"
He looked at you again. "Without him."
You didn't understand.
"Whenever we meet, Batman is in the way." His voice remained measured. "There are always gunshots, explosions, people running; we can never finish a conversation."
You looked at him in disbelief, what the hell was happening? The signs that he was out of his mind were obvious, but this was something, you had to be smart if you wanted to get out of here alive.
Where the hell is Batman when someone needs him?
"Conversation? Harvey, every time we meet you try to shoot me."
"I've never shot at you."
The statement came from his lips with such certainty that it made you fall silent, leaving you to mentally review each confrontation.
And suddenly you realized he was right, what a strange feeling to think that a murderer and criminal like Two-Face was right, the hit and his timeshare were damaging your mind.
He had shot at Batman, at the police, at vehicles, but never directly at you.
What a romantic man, right?
Harvey noticed the change in your expression. "You remembered." He leaned back in his chair. "That's why I needed to bring you here."
"You need to?"
He nodded slowly. "It's the only way you'll stay long enough."
The casual way he uttered that sentence was far more unsettling than any threat. He spoke like someone who had reached a perfectly reasonable conclusion after analyzing all the possibilities.
You would escape, Batman would appear, and the conversations would end.
So he removed the only thing that was preventing you from staying there and
He kidnapped you.
And, judging by the serene expression on his face, it was clear that he didn't understand why that should seem like madness to you.
"Enough time for what?" you asked in a low voice.
Harvey held your gaze, the coin had stopped spinning between his fingers. For the first time since you had woken up, he seemed to hesitate.
He opened his mouth, ready to answer.
But a loud crash shook the entire room.
The old skylight exploded above their heads, sending hundreds of shards of glass hurtling to the ground.
Harvey barely had time to look up when a black figure descended, wrapped in a cloak.
Batman.
He didn't even have time to react; a punch landed squarely on the uninjured side of his jaw, forcing him back. Before he could regain his balance, Batman spun around and connected with a second, direct blow to his face.
Harvey fell heavily onto the wooden floor. The revolver slipped several meters. The coin slipped from his fingers, spinning on the floor before coming to a stop next to one of the benches.
"Are you okay?" Batman asked without taking his eyes off Harvey, making sure he remained unconscious.
Before you could answer, another figure descended using a cable from the hole in the ceiling.
"God!"
Nightwing landed almost immediately in front of you, and in two strides he was by your side. He knelt in front of the chair as he pulled a small tool from his belt. "Let me see..."
Her hands moved swiftly over the handcuffs. You could sense the confidence in every movement.
"Did it hurt you?" he asked as he tried to open the mechanism.
You shook your head. "Just... one hit."
He looked up immediately. His eyes scanned your face until they settled on the bruise that was beginning to form near your hairline. "Did he hit you?"
"It wasn't him, one of his men."
Nightwing clenched his jaw.
A metallic click announced that the first handcuff had opened. Then the second, and the chains fell to the floor with a thud.
As soon as your hands were free, Dick carefully grasped your wrists, examining the reddish marks the steel had left on your skin. "Look at me."
You obeyed.
He placed a hand on your cheek and then on the back of your head with a gentleness uncharacteristic of someone who had just stepped into an operation. "Are you feeling dizzy?"
"A bit."
"Are you seeing double?"
You smiled wearily."I only see you once, luckily."
Dick let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between relieved and frustrated. "Don't joke around now."
Without thinking twice, he placed a hand on your shoulder to help you up and held you by the waist before you could even feel dizzy. "Relax, I've got you."
Batman, who had already secured Harvey with reinforced handcuffs, looked up for barely a second. He simply checked that you were in Dick's hands and refocused on the prisoner.
"Are you okay?" he asked as he helped you up.
Still dazed from the blow to the head, you nodded."I've had better nights."
He let out a relieved smile. "Yes... I can tell"
Harvey, still dazed from the blows, slowly began to regain consciousness.
The first thing he saw when he opened the only eye he could focus on was Nightwing holding him with a closeness that did not go unnoticed.
Then he saw how, almost instinctively, you placed a hand on Dick's arm to keep your balance. And finally, he heard the phrase that made everything fall into place.
"Let's go home," Nightwing said softly. "You're safe now."
Summary: Clark never had a moment of peace in his life, and he owes it all to his annoying sister who came with him from Krypton.
Pairing: Clark Kent x sister!reader (platonic)
clark m.list
âȘïž For Jonathan and Martha it was a great joy to be able to adopt you both; having one child was already a dream come true, but two children, both were over the moon, even if you were quite peculiar children.
âȘïž Clark was a very peaceful, calm, and quite quiet child. He really liked his own space, even if he was just sitting on the floor admiring the sunset. But for you, Clark's personal space was conquerable territory.
âȘïž You really didn't understand why he would want to be alone when he had you, i mean, what was his was yours and what was yours was his, right? So why not invade his peace and personal space?
âȘïž In that situation, if Clark had had a different personality, it would have ended up in big fights, but since he was the peaceful boy he was, he never complained, and both Mom and Dad looked at him with a bit of pity. Did they love you? Of course, but no one could say that you didn't handle a great deal of intensity and energy, which wasn't bad at all because you were like the joy of the home, but it could agitate anyone if they weren't used to it.
âȘïž Everyone thought that would change as they grew up and reached adolescence, and like anyone else, you'd want your own personal space and understand that your brother would too.
âȘïž Funny but not
âȘïž You loved teasing him even more, and now you had so many more tools at your disposal; it seemed like fate was always against him. He had to listen to guys asking you out, guys flirting with you (something you actually enjoyed and he hated, well, protective brother), but it made him even more nervous when he saw you with his great love Lana's group of friends, and he almost froze when he saw you two sitting at the house, you evil girl.
âȘïž It had to be said that most of the fun things happened in your teens, that is, even before the appearance of your powers everything was quite chaotic.
âȘïž During those years, your parents found it incredible how Clark handled your personality. They even thought Clark had developed an amazing ability to ignore you when you were being particularly annoying. It was a survival mechanism he perfected over the years. Jonathan was convinced that much of Clark's power didn't come from his Kryptonian origins, but from having survived an entire childhood with you.
âȘïž You were quite hyperactive, which didn't help you at all in class given your poor ability to concentrate, but the good thing was that Clark was extremely good at helping you study. He had infinite patience to explain something to you ten times if necessary. You, on the other hand, were an expert at helping him with social problems. If Clark needed advice on how to talk to someone, interpret a situation, or stop acting weird, he usually ended up turning to you, so it was a kind of trade.
âȘïž Since she couldn't focus on anything for very long, Clark was definitely the one driving the old farm truck, but even then, Martha would pray every time the two of you went out in it together. Not because you were irresponsible, but because you had a habit of getting easily distracted, talking about anything and everything.
âȘïž For a while you two were very calm, actually you more than anything, but both of you were suffering a lot of pain and discomfort when your powers appeared, it was a good thing to share your grievances with someone who understood you completely, and you were a great help to each other in being able to handle your new abilities, but you were sure that you could have good advantages of it.
âȘïž Clark was able to join to the football team after much insistence to your dad, and the whole team was so grateful to have such a fast and strong player as him, plus you enjoyed going to watch him play, maybe see some hot boys.
âȘïž You, on the other hand, used it to listen to the gossip of the whole town from miles away, and you found it so fun because who wouldn't if they had the chance?. You can clean quickly with your speed. Are you bored of your furniture being in the same place? You have super strength. did you lose something? That doesn't matter, you have x-ray vision.
"Clark, you should ask the neighbor's granddaughter out on a date, she likes your ugly haircut."
âȘïž Adolescence was probably the time when they annoyed each other the most, but also the stage when they became most inseparable. Because while the rest of their lives were constantly changing, they could always count on each other.
âȘïž Despite having such a happy life on the farm, that comes to an end. One day Clark decided that Smallville was too small for him, that he needed to find his purpose, and that Metropolis was the place where he could be a journalist and continue to grow.
âȘïž It was a difficult day for everyone. You didn't know a life without Clark beyond the loneliness of a few hours, but now he was going to a huge city far from home. Even if your parents had asked you to go with him, you couldn't imagine your life away from them either. All of this was too much for you.
âȘïž Even though Clark had told you he wanted to leave Smallville, you never thought it would happen so soon. Suddenly, the next room was empty, the breakfast table had one less plate, and the barn felt unnervingly quiet.
âȘïž For the first few weeks after he left, you kept going into his room out of habit. Sometimes you were looking for something to do there. Other times you'd just sit for a few minutes before leaving again. It was medieval torture; you missed your brother.
âȘïž Martha was the first to notice how much it was affecting you. Although you tried to act as usual, you were quieter than normal and spent less time bothering your parents; something was definitely going on in your head.
âȘïž Jonathan surprised you several times by looking towards the main road when you heard an engine approaching, as if a part of you expected to see Clark's old truck appear.
âȘïž Clark wasn't handling it as well as he'd hoped, either. After years of sharing practically every day of his life with you, the silence of his Metropolis apartment felt strange. For the first time in his life, he could enjoy all the privacy he wanted. But he quickly discovered he didn't like it as much as he'd imagined.
âȘïž Your parents couldn't tolerate their children spending even a minute longer in these situations, even though they thought all this change would be good for them, but they were clearly wrong, so they had to fix this.
âȘïž That's when Jonathan and Martha started talking seriously about it. Honestly, it didn't take them long to figure out the solution, and it didn't take them long to convince you either. Because, no matter how hard you tried to defend your position, everyone knew the truth: you missed Clark far more than you were willing to admit.
âȘïž You were worried about leaving the farm, worried about being away from your parents, worried about abandoning the only life you'd ever known. But you also knew that a part of you had been waiting to hear that proposal ever since the day Clark left.
âȘïž Martha was the one who finally gave you the last push you needed. After all, Metropolis wasn't on the other side of the world. The farm would still be there, they would still be there, and you could always come back and visit them.
âȘïž When you finally agreed, Jonathan and Martha seemed much more excited than they let on, not because they wanted you to leave, but because they knew exactly how happy it would make you and Clark.
âȘïž And that same day you appeared at the door of Clark's apartment.
âȘïž Clark knew nothing until you appeared at his Metropolis apartment door with several suitcases at your feet and a smile impossible to hide. At first, he stood completely still, staring at you as if trying to figure out if you were real. Then he looked at the suitcases, back at you, and finally understood what was happening. For months he had imagined what it would be like to have the only person who truly understood him close again, and here you were!
âȘïž Even though Clark spent years complaining about you when you lived on the farm, the truth was he didn't know how to live without your constant presence, and moving to the city had affected him just as much as it had you. You had arrived on Earth together, grown up together, and faced every change in your lives together. You were the only person who could fully understand who he was and where he came from.
âȘïž He had missed every part of you: how absentminded you were, seeing your smile every morning, when you scolded him for leaving his clothes lying around, your competitiveness, your company, your...
"Clark, why do you have a suit with your underwear on the outside?"
Dark yandere aemond obsessed with alys younger sister
ALWAYS, FOREVER . Aemond targaryen
summary: Aemond travels to Harrenhal to secure a privileged position in the war and will need the help of the renowned witch Alys Rivers, which is a shame because he has to make rash decisions to obtain her assistance.
pairing: Dark!yandere!Aemond x Rivers!fem!reader
note: I'm not the best at Dark stuff, but I'll go as far as my skills allow.
â Aemond arrives at Harrenhal with the suffocating pressure of war weighing on his shoulders. His brother Aegon has been crippled, having fled like a coward, leaving him a clear path to finally do what he has always wanted: seize absolute power.
â King's Landing is a viper's nest, and he bears the title of Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm. To fulfill that role, he needs an absolute advantage against Daemon Targaryen and his damned sister who is trying to usurp him, and he needs it now.
â A decisive advantage is what he needs, not another minor victory or a favorable battle, but something that will completely tip the scales of the war in favor of the Greens. Daemon Targaryen is far too seasoned a strategist to be met with brute force alone, and even though Vhagar is the most powerful dragon in the Seven Kingdoms, even she has her limits. Aemond understands that this war will not be won with fire and blood alone.
â It is then that the rumors about Alys Rivers reach his ears. A damned Strong bastard who has dwelled in Harrenhal for years, known for reading the flames and speaking truths no one else could possibly know. Some call her a healer; others, a witch. Aemond cares little for the names. If half of those stories are true, Alys could become the most valuable weapon in the entire war; he needs her on his side.
â However, from their very first meeting, he understands that convincing her will be impossible. Alys isn't impressed by his lineage, she doesn't fear Vhagar, and she doesn't seem fazed by the threats of a Targaryen prince. She observes him with an almost irritating calm, as if she already knows every word that will come out of his mouth before he even utters it; the woman is cryptic, almost mocking, before the platinum-haired prince, as if she has neither fear nor an ounce of respect. It's a dynamic that Aemond detests, that feeling of not being in control of the situation.
â Aemond tries to negotiate for several days. He offers her gold, protection, and even a privileged position when the Greens are victorious. Alys rejects each proposal with the same composure with which she rejects his threats, forcing him to accept a reality he detests: he cannot force her, at least not directly. So he sends his men to investigate her.
â It is one of the men at Harrenhal who unwittingly provides the solution. In a casual conversation, he mentions that Alys is not entirely alone, as she had appeared; she had a younger sister. The information barely occupies a moment of silence before Aemond makes a decision. It fills him with neither guilt nor satisfaction; it is simply the most logical move in a war where compassion rarely has a place.
â With the cold steel of his sword pressing against the skin of the young woman's neck, Aemond stares down at Alys. His face shows no remorse; he is the embodiment of the executioner of the Riverlands.
"Your magic belongs to you, witch, but the lifeblood of your blood belongs to me from this moment forward," Aemond hissed, feeling the younger girl's quickened pulse beneath his gloved fingers. "You will guide my wings and my armies to victory. If your visions fail you, if you conceal a single secret of the enemy from me, I will slit their throats in this very courtyard and have Vhagar devour what remains."
"Alys..." a trembling sob escapes your lips.
The prince shifts his gaze from the older woman to you, not with compassion or apology, but with a mocking look that would send shivers down anyone's spine. "Shh, calm down, little girl. Your sister won't let anything happen to you, will she?"
Alys was stunned, unable to believe what she was seeing. That relentless, paranoid gleam in the prince's single eye... she couldn't risk anything happening to her, she would never forgive such a thing. So, for the first time, she bent the knee. The deal was sealed by force.
"Wise decision"
âAemond orders you transferred to the King's Pyre Tower, specifically to the antechamber directly connected to his own quarters. It's no ordinary cell; it has amenities, but its location is purely for control: to enter or leave that room, you would have to pass through Aemond's personal space. He replaces the castle guards with his own trusted soldiers and forbids them from speaking to you or even looking you in the face. You are now his property, a high value asset to be guarded with obsessive zeal.
â When Alys discovers that her sister has been taken to the castle, she abandons for the first time the composure that had so puzzled the prince. She bursts into the great hall demanding to see her, and although she keeps her head held high, the worry in her voice is impossible to hide. Aemond then realizes he has been right. After days of fruitless negotiations, he has finally found the only weakness of the supposed witch of Harrenhal.
"Free her, she's innocent, she knows nothing about this."
"When the war is over you can see her again, you just have to fulfill your part of the deal," he says with simplicity and disdain to your request.
â Alys stares at him for a long moment, as if observing something he is still unable to see. She doesn't argue or try to attack him; she knows that would cause her to lose her mind and leave her alone with this twisted Targaryen prince, so she simply sighs wearily and withdraws.
"May the gods be with you, Prince Aemond; you will soon know if it was worth it."
â Aemond doesn't understand those words, nor does he waste his time trying to decipher them. He has always despised prophecies and riddles. For him, only one thing matters: the plan has worked. Alys agrees to cooperate, though she makes it clear that she's not doing so out of loyalty to the Greens, but to keep her sister alive.
â That same night, Aemond enters the young woman's room unannounced. He walks in his black leather armor, casting an immense shadow in the candlelight. His initial intention is to remind her of the rules of her confinement and break her spirit, but seeing her standing there, meeting his gaze despite her obvious physical fear, something shifts in Aemond's psyche. He moves too close, invading her personal space in an intimidating way. He relishes the physical power he wields over her, but a dark fascination begins to take root in his mind. She is an inexperienced young woman who cannot defend herself, and her life depends on him; she is completely in his hands.
âHowever, something strikes Aemond. He had expected to find a terrified girl, docile or desperate to regain her freedom. Instead, he discovers someone who, despite her obvious fear, continues to respond to him with an almost insolent firmness. You never lowers your gaze for too long. She never begs him. And she never tries to elicit his pity.
â He approaches slowly, forcing you to retreat until the cold stone of the wall stops any possibility of escape. The difference in height between them makes the scene even more intimidating. Without saying a word, he raises a hand and places his thumb under her jaw, applying just enough pressure to force her to lift her face and look directly at him with the one eye he has left.
"Look at you, girl, a little bastard of Harrenhal holding the fate of a war in your hands," he says, his voice lowering a tone, becoming an almost intimate threat, "what an obedient girl, staying put and not making a fuss."
âThe young woman clenches her jaw beneath his fingers, but doesn't grant him the pleasure of pleading. The silence that returns is almost defiant, and for a moment Aemond stares intently into her eyes, observing every detail and emotion she exudes. The prince's single eye remains fixed on the girl's irises longer than it should, as if the rest of the room has vanished around them. Your gaze was so penetrating, he even experiences an uncomfortable sensation, a slight pressure behind his sapphire eye that he attributes to fatigue.
â That night he sleeps barely a few hours. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her again standing by the window. He doesn't remember the color of the candles or the exact words they exchanged, but he does remember her eyes. He sees them with an almost unnatural clarity, as if they had been etched into his memory.
â During the following days, Aemond makes a point of staying away from the tower where the young woman is being held. He convinces himself that the visit that night was merely a reminder of his authority, a necessary act for the hostage to understand her place within Harrenhal. He cannot afford to be distracted by a nameless, insignificant girl. Yet, he discovers with some irritation that his mind keeps returning to her at the most inopportune moments. He remembers the way she held his gaze, the tension in her jaw when he forced her face up, and, above all, the fact that she never begged him. It seems absurd to dwell on it. After all, she is only a hostage.
âOn the fifth day, Alys begins to notice subtle changes in the prince regent. They are such small details that anyone else would attribute them to war exhaustion: he remains motionless for long minutes in front of the fire without uttering a word and loses track of conversations during war councils.
âAemond barely sleeps. When he manages to close his eyes, the dreams are never the same, and yet they always end the same way. He sees her standing by the window of that room, lit only by the dim candlelight, watching him with the same intensity as the first night. He wakes with a start, convinced he felt the touch of fingers on his face, the warmth of a breath too close to be a mere dream, or the brush of her lips that ends up causing him pain in his groin. .
â He tries to combat those thoughts by throwing himself into his work. He spends hours studying maps, reorganizing troops, and planning his next move against Daemon Targaryen. It only takes a moment of distraction for him to discover that, without realizing it, he has drawn the same tower of Harrenhal in the margin of a piece of parchment.
âThat's starting to become an unacceptable distraction. However, the solution he finds is even worse; if seeing her in his dreams isn't enough to silence those thoughts, then he'll have to see her while awake.
â Aemond begins to visit constantly, so much so that the guards have become accustomed to the frequency of seeing him cross the doors of that room; he needs to see her, to know that she is alright, that no one is trying to take her away from him.
âAt first, he stays for only a few minutes. He enters, observes the room, exchanges a few words with the young woman, and leaves. However, each visit begins to last a little longer than the last. Sometimes he finds an excuse to start a conversation; other times, he simply sits in a chair by the window and watches her silently as she continues reading, embroidering, or gazing at the gray landscape surrounding Harrenhal.
â But even if she eventually grew accustomed to that constant presence, it didn't make her uncomfortable. She knew of the Targaryen madness; she had heard horrifying and cruel things, but the madness that could run in their genes made everything worse. You couldn't predict their next move, and it didn't help that they looked rather terrifying.
â When too many hours pass without him seeing her, an unbearable unease begins to settle in his chest. He becomes irritable during meetings, loses patience with his advisors, and any setback, however insignificant, is enough to trigger his bad mood. Only when he crosses the threshold of that room again does that feeling slowly disappear, as if the mere fact of knowing she is still there is enough to restore his calm.
â The youngest Rivers begins to notice that the prince no longer visits her to intimidate her. His questions change without him even realizing it. The threats become less frequent and are replaced by questions that, in any other context, might seem like simple displays of curiosity. Aemond wants to know what her life was like before arriving at Harrenhal, how long she had lived with Alys, what places she frequented, what books she liked to read, and even who the few people were that she trusted.
â As the days passed, the questions became increasingly specific. He wanted to know about her relationship with Alys, whether she liked the weather here, whether she had ever considered leaving Harrenhal, whether there was anyone she particularly missed, and whether she had ever been in love. The last question took her completely by surprise. She took several seconds to answer; it was something she hadn't expected him to ask, but it seemed she had taken too long because the only thing she saw before Aemind stormed out the door was his angry face.
â After that conversation, Aemond can't stop thinking about it; he needs answers, he needs to know if there's a man in the head of his flower, a man who isn't him
â It is then that he begins his own investigation. He discreetly orders his men to find out what the young woman's life was like before she arrived at Harrenhal: who she spoke with, who frequented the cottage where she lived with Alys, and whether any man visited her regularly. The soldiers believe they are seeking useful information about the witch, unaware that the prince is merely trying to confirm a suspicion that keeps him awake at night.
â And from one day to the next, they are all dead, becoming food for Vhagar, but it doesn't really matter, she won't know, and even if she did, she doesn't need anyone but him
â Little by little, he begins to control every aspect of her confinement. He had allowed her to leave her room only when he was with her, but now the times for going out to the courtyard change constantly and always coincide with times when the rest of the castle is almost empty. He doesn't want soldiers, servants, or knights to have any opportunity to cross paths with her more than necessary.
â He also develops the habit of giving her small comforts she never asked for. A new book appears on the table after he hears her mention an ancient Valyrian text. Days later, he finds a better quality blanket to ward off the cold of Harrenhal. Then come new candles, clean clothes, and even a more comfortable chair by the window. Whenever he gives her these things, he makes it clear that they are from him; he wants her to be satisfied in all her needs, and he wants to be the only one who can do so, even before she expresses them.
â Aemond is no longer content with seeing her once a day. That need eventually becomes an unbearable nuisance. One night, as he returns to his quarters, he realizes that the distance between the two towers is unbearably long. Too many corridors. Too many doors. Too many people between them.
â So the next morning, as soon as he wakes up, he gives the order.
"Move the girl."
The soldiers exchanged confused glances. "To the dungeons, my prince?"
Aemond slowly raises his eyes. "To my chambers."
â When the young woman sees the guards enter to collect her few belongings, she thinks she will finally be freed or executed. Neither happens. She walks silently through the endless corridors of Harrenhal until she stops before a heavy oak door.
â He appears shortly after, as if he had been waiting for that moment. He watches her pace the room with evident bewilderment before speaking with that calmness that always precedes his most unsettling decisions.
"Why am I here?"
The prince closes the door behind him with a slow movement. "Because the tower is no longer suitable."
"I've been there for weeks and it's never been a problem"
Aemond remained silent for a few moments. His single eye slowly scanned the girl's face before he answered. "You're not aware of the number of eyes that stop on you when you cross this castle."
Those words send a shiver down her spine."I am nothing more than a hostage."
For the first time since they met, Aemond deliberately closes the distance between them. His steps are slow, calculated, until he's just inches from her. "You stopped being just a hostage a long time ago."
The young woman instinctively takes a step back. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Aemond holds her gaze with an almost obsessive intensity. "It means I can no longer tolerate others looking at you." He pauses briefly. "I can't tolerate them talking to you. And I wouldn't tolerate anyone trying to take you away from me."
â She feels the fear fully settle in her chest; she did not obey to avoid shuddering at his words and his touch. His hand gently rests on a lock of her hair, moving it away from her face with a delicacy that is infinitely more unsettling than any abrupt gesture.
â From the moment of her move, the young woman's routine is fully selected by the regent prince. Every morning, breakfast arrives at exactly the same time, and they both sit facing each other at the table in her room, after she has dressed in the dresses that appear in the wardrobe, which Aemond considers appropriate for a lady of the court.
â Before leaving the room, Aemond stops in front of her. He observes her for several long seconds, as if trying to memorize every feature of her face before departing. With a gentleness that contrasts sharply with his harsh nature, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The young woman remains completely still; she has learned that any attempt to pull away only makes him persist. Then, without warning, Aemond lowers his head slightly and places a brief kiss on her lips.
â Meanwhile, Alys Rivers loses count of the times she tries to negotiate with the prince. Day after day, she reminds him of the agreement he himself imposed upon arriving at Harrenhal: she would read the fire, reveal everything she knew about Daemon Targaryen, and, when the war ended with a Green victory, she could have her sister back. However, as the weeks pass, Alys begins to sense something unsettling. The prince has stopped talking about the future. He no longer mentions when his sister will be freed, nor does he refer to the end of the agreement. He simply acts as if that promise never existed.
â Alys doesn't need to see her sister to understand that something has been happening. She only needs to observe Aemond himself. The prince no longer arrives at their meetings with his mind solely on the war. Sometimes, as the flames dance before them, his gaze shifts toward the door, as if a part of him remains constantly aware of what is happening in the adjoining chambers.
âIt's an almost imperceptible change, but Alys is living in delicate situations without knowing about her sister, so seeing changes in the regent prince worries her.
â One afternoon, as the fire crackles in the hearth, Alys breaks the silence.
"The war was the reason you came to Harrenhal, but now I'm not so sure that's still the case..."
Aemond does not respond.
The prince continues to watch the embers, motionless. Only when the silence becomes unbearable does he speak with that calm that always precedes his most unsettling decisions. "Priorities change."
Those four words are enough to make Alys feel a shiver run down her spine.
â That night, the flames revealed a vision she wished she hadn't seen. She saw the blackened walls of Harrenhal shrouded in the shadow of a massive dragon. She saw her sister walking alone down a long stone corridor. And behind her, a silver-haired figure never ceased to follow her. No matter how many times the young woman tried to get away, the distance between them always seemed to disappear.
â From then on, rest ceased to exist for Aemond; he had a bad feeling. Every night, when he finally managed to sleep, Harrenhal seemed to open the doors of his mind. Those hallucinations, which had been like wet dreams for him, since he could see her even when they weren't in the same room, began to turn into nightmares. He no longer dreamed only of her. He dreamed of unknown people taking her, carrying her away from Harrenhal, hiding her in places where he couldn't find her. He always woke up before reaching them, his breath ragged and his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
â Alys watches this transformation with a mixture of horror and helplessness. She recognizes that look every time Aemond looks at her. It's no longer the cold, calculating expression of a prince holding a hostage to secure an alliance. It's the look of a man who has begun to mistake possession for affection. And Alys knows, better than anyone, that these kinds of obsessions never end well.
â For days he tries to convince himself that there is still time to stop him. Perhaps, when the war is over, Aemond will remember the deal he himself made. Perhaps something of the disciplined man who came to Harrenhal seeking only an advantage against Daemon Targaryen will still remain. But every time the prince mentions his sister, every time he rearranges the castle to keep her close or alters his plans just to see her for a few more minutes, that hope fades a little more.
â Then she understands a truth that chills him to the bone. If sbe waits until the end of the war, it will be too late. Because Aemond no longer thinks like a strategist; he thinks like a man who has decided that no one will ever again take away what he considers his own.
â That certainty forces Alys to make a decision she never thought necessary. For the first time since that agreement began, she stops thinking about the war, the prophecies, or the Targaryens. She thinks only of getting her sister out of Harrenhal, no matter the cost. Because if she remains one more day under the same roof as Aemond, Alys fears that the moment will come when even her sister won't remember what it was like to live away from him. And that possibility is far more terrifying to her than any vision the fire could have shown her.
â Alys Rivers realizes too late that the prince has discovered her intentions. That very night, she leaves her chambers hoping to find her sister before him, convinced that there is still a way to get her out of Harrenhal.
â She never gets to see her again.
âThe next morning, Alys Rivers had disappeared from the castle, she had vanished without a trace, like her closest people.
â Rumors whisper through Harrenhal. Some swear they saw the prince return late at night, his sword still drawn. Others claim Vhagar roared before dawn, as if even the ancient dragon had sensed the violence that had just stained the castle at the hands of her rider, but no one finds Alys's body.
â That night, the door to the aur chambers shares the orincipe and the young woman opens with the usual creak.
She immediately looks up, noticing Aemond standing motionless in the doorway. The candlelight reveals small dark stains on the black leather of his doublet and the back of one of his hands.
The girl's heart raced. "What... what happened?"
She doesn't get an immediate response.
The prince calmly closes the door and begins to walk towards her, with the serenity of someone returning after settling an outstanding matter.
"I heard screams..." she whispers, growing increasingly uneasy. "What's happening out there?"
Aemond stops in front of her, observing her for a few seconds.
Then, a faint smile barely curved her lips. "Everything's alright. You don't have to worry anymore." Her voice was soft, almost comforting. "Everything's alright..."
â She wants to ask again despite all the terrifying things going through her mind, but the words die in her throat as Aemond slowly raises a hand. With a gentleness uncharacteristic of a man like him, he brushes a lock of hair away from her face and places a kiss on her forehead, a kiss that for him represented a pure and tender love, then caresses her cheek with his fingertips.
â Only when he withdraws his hand does he feel the moisture on his skin; instinctively he brings his fingers to his cheek and when he looks at them he sees a thin stain of blood.
â She looks up at Aemond, unable to breathe, anguish filling her chest and she clutches her throat, feeling as if she might choke on herself from the anguish and nerves, but he just keeps smiling in front of her, giving her a terrifying smile that she could assume was trying to cause tenderness and love, a completely pure love, as if he had just offered her the peace she so desperately needed.
"No one will ever try to separate us again JorrÄeliarzys."
I truly love writing. I love sharing my ideas, and it's amazing that 5,000 people like what I do and enjoy it as much as I do, investing time in it. So, all that's left is to thank everyone for the support I've received since the day I published my first post. It's a really lovely community, truly, thank you, yall are making a girl so happy đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶
Oh yep, I write about anything except hard angst or sensitive topics (sa, cnc, stuff like that) because I aim for my writing to be recreational and enjoyable, so except for that, anything :))
summary: "Two healthy babies, your grace, the Mother has blessed you" said the midwife.
pairing: Aemond targaryen x twin sis!reader
cw: of targcest, smut ( p in v), dirty talk, pretty short :/
Note: There's no reading order; you can read them in any order you like and ask me anything about these two.
request! ; terror twins mlist
Alicent had always found everything related to Targaryen customs repugnant, even more so that disgusting union between relatives that they practiced with such ease cousins, nephews, siblings. She couldn't fathom the idea that the Seven could allow such a thing. She had told Rhaenyra as much at the time, and she still held that opinion, even now that her eldest children were married and had children born of that incestuous "love" they shared, if indeed such a thing existed between them.
The only solace she had left with her children was the two of you, and her precious, sweet Daeron, who was far away from her and all these twisted rituals that ran in his blood. Or at least that's what she wanted to believe; she couldn't even imagine another situation like that between her children.
They had come into the world together in the quiet of the early morning, before the bells of the Sept had even rung. Two perfect babies, with silver hair and eyes of such a deep violet they were fit for royalty.
The midwife had wept at the sight of them, murmuring that the Holy Mother had blessed her. And Alicent, exhausted and trembling, wanted to believe that the Seven were finally offering her mercy.
Twins.
A double miracle.
For years she clung to the idea that the Seven had finally granted her a respite. Two quiet, obedient, inseparable children. There was no rivalry between them, no cruelty, only an intense and affectionate siblings love, a union too perfect to be questioned. Why would Alicent question the pair the Seven had sent her to reward her great work in life? She could never do that, and perhaps that was why the twins had always felt free to do as they pleased; they were beyond question in their mother's eyes and before anyone else.
The maesters spoke of a natural bond between twins, the septons spoke of shared souls, and the rest of the world saw them as lovely siblings who would accompany each other in the duty that each had inherited.
Perhaps that's why no one noticed the moment Aemond began looking at you the way men look at women, as more than a sister. It was subtle at first, imperceptible to anyone who didn't have a twisted gaze like his family.
The time he spent with Aegon didn't help either. His older brother filled his ear with crude jokes, tales of conquests and pleasures that Aemond pretended to despise, but which he listened to with far too much attention and interest.
And yet, that was no vulgar desire, it was something much deeper; what at fourteen years old was only a fleeting thought had become something worse, it was a possession, that silent thought that the place by your side should belong to no one but him, because they were destined to be together; if the gods had decided that their lives should begin at the same time, how could it be right that they should end separately?
The Targaryens were not like the rest of the world; they never had been. Their blood was different, their customs were different, their destinies were written in fire and guided by the same heritage that ran through their veins.
You were no different from him.
Perhaps that was why you found it easy to give in to your desires when you accepted the desires you had for your twin when he shared them with you.
But, unlike Aemond, you had felt guilty for those sinful thoughts that kept coming back, even when you tried to drown them in prayers that no longer offered you comfort.
You felt guilt for your mother's voice repeating the precepts of the Faith, for every sermon heard in the Sept, for every stern look that seemed to judge sins not yet committed. You felt dirty for a long time, even if you tried to ignore it, you knew that the Seven would still know it was somewhere in you and would take care of punishing you.
You wanted to convince yourself that it was nothing more than confusion, that it would disappear with time, that duty would eventually prevail as it always did in court.
But the closeness with Aemond never diminished; it seemed as if he had decided to torture you by remaining there by your side; that must be laughter as punishment, without a doubt.
But when he finally moved towards you, there was no hesitation in his gestures nor uncertainty in his gaze; it seemed that he had no doubts about it, so when he looked at you with such determination, as if it had been inevitable from the first day, you couldn't help but feel liberated.
The guilt that had accompanied you for years did not disappear immediately, but it began to crumble under the weight of that unshakeable certainty that he seemed to possess about the two of you.
Perhaps that's why you no longer felt afraid of your thoughts, or of feeling what you felt. You weren't afraid to love him, to imagine a life together until your last days; you wanted to give him everything, just as he gave you everything; you wanted to make him feel loved, appreciated, adored, as he always should have been.
Perhaps that's why, right now, you didn't mind having Aemond's rough hands covering your mouth while he penetrated you on one of the library tables.
His long fingers gripped your hips as his balls slapped hard against your pearl, making the only sounds in the room the wetness of your pussy and the collisions between your skins, along with that soft murmur that no one but you two could understand because of how quiet it was.
"See how well you're taking it?" he said, pressing his entire body against your back, his thin lips level with your ear. "It doesn't even look like I ruined your pussy this morning, darling."
He hears you moan his name under his hand in a voice he barely recognizes, and that sound seems to do nothing but excite him.
He fucks you like an animal, half savage, while his cock harasses that sweet spot inside you that makes it hard to breathe. You can do nothing but squeeze your hands tightly against the edge of the desk you're leaning on and let out every desperate cry that comes from feeling him deep inside your cunt while you squeeze him with all your might. He lets out a hiss between his teeth, but he does nothing to slow down, not when he's so drunk on your cunt and how good it feels.
Barely pulling away, he looks down and watches as his cock goes in and out of you, as your groin shines with the combined lubrication of both of you, and feels his cock tighten at that vulgar sight.
How grateful he was to the Gods for sending you to him, such a lovely and good little sister who enjoys carnal pleasures with her good older brother
"You have such a perfect pussy" he whispers, as he removes his hand from your mouth and lowers it to caress your clit with his fingers. "Can you be quiet for me? It would be embarrassing if anyone saw you crying over my cock."
"Aem please" you whisper with what little strength you have left, so dizzy from all the incredible sensations your brother can draw out of you. "Please, please, I'm so close." A particularly loud whimper escapes from your last words.
"You're going to give us away," he whispers to your ear as he thrusts into you again, moving his hips forward and causing your eyes to narrow. "As much as I like your little screams..." he mocks, his lips pressed to your earlobe, his voice teasing as he says, "I prefer you quiet."
His hand covers your mouth again as he penetrates you faster, the other brushing against your clit again, unable to stop you from letting out sharp moans, now against the palm of his hand.
The way he takes you is almost brutal; he's rarely fucked you like this since you started seeing each other this way. It's so primal, like his blood is driving him to this point, unable to suppress any desire he feels for you. It's as if he believes this will be the last time he has you, as if at any moment you could be taken away from him, from his desires, from his love.
He's positioned himself at the perfect angle, thrusting into you hard just the way you like it. He doesn't want to leave you wanting more of his cock, even though your desire to be ruined by him seems inexhaustible. Now he's grateful for his hand, because the sound you make behind his palm is much louder than it should be, and he's sure that without it, even the guards in the yard could hear you.
The hand over his mouth relaxes as pleasure begins to consume him, making it impossible to control him any longer. He lets just one finger remain between your lips, allowing you to guide him to his climax as he feels the warmth of your mouth and tongue around his finger, just as you always did when you took his entire cock in your mouth. His other fingers are halfcupped against your chin, busy maintaining his firm grip on something to control his pleasure; both are close, you can feel it in the way his cock contracts faster and faster inside you, in the way he begins to desperately seek his pleasure, in how his whole body heats up and becomes light.
You scream into his hand when his cock makes you feel tiny, that sensation that makes your knees tremble and writhe in his strong arms, your cunt squeezing around him to the point of pain, when his thumb finds your pearl to play with it quickly, throwing you into the spasms of your orgasm.
You no longer cared about anything else, because you loved him, you loved your twin in the same way a woman loves a man, as a wife loves her husband, and you wanted to have, you desired to give him everything a woman could give a man.
You are both exhausted as you try to catch your breath, trembling in each other's arms.
Without thinking, you tilted your head slightly, just enough to kiss him, scattering kisses along his scarred cheek and the corner of his lips until you reached his tender, delicate lips, where you intensified the kiss almost immediately, wanting to taste him. "I love you, Aemond."
His rough hand rests on your hip as he turns you around to face him, pulling you close to his sweaty body. "I love you too, dear sister."
Okay, I know this acc is all about DC stuff, BUT I'm watching hotd AND I HAVE AN URGENT NEED TO WRITE ABOUT DAEMON AND AEMOND.(btw I have have two fics in my wattpad acc, just saying)
Request | bruce buying reader gold jewelry when sheâs a silver girlie and everyone tells him off about it even though the reader insists itâs okay
summary | Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
Pairing | husband!Bruce wayne x Wife!reader
note: When I was rereading this, I realized it looks like one of those "happy families" propaganda pieces from conservatives, lol
hot wife series ( ppl don't know how much I love this serie)
A husband like Bruce Wayne had his disadvantages and his advantages.
Maybe he wasnât a man of many words, he had trouble expressing his feelings properly, could be a little compulsive about control, quite stubborn, a bit obsessive with things, and he disappeared from the bedroom every nightâwhich was a combination of traits that could cause problems for anyone. And you couldnât really blame people for thinking that. But you could see beyond all of it, and maybe that was the reason why what you had worked so well after all these years.
Bruce tried every day to give his best, and he was grateful that you noticed. He was grateful to you for so many things. He had built a life he never couldâve imaginedâa beautiful wife, two great boys, and a lovely baby who waited for him every day. All that and more.
So many years with Bruce Wayne had taught you a lot. That he loved quietly, but intensely. That he showed more through actions than words. That he was protective to the extreme. And that he always thought of you during the dayâsometimes bringing flowers, books youâd once mentioned, something even you had forgotten but he hadnât, or on some occasions, like this one, jewelry.
Thatâs why, when he came home that night with a small black velvet box in his hand, he was genuinely excited.
The front door closed softly behind him.âIâm home,â he announced, loosening his tie.
You appeared first from the hallway, the baby settled against your hip, her face bright and eyes wide open. Bruce smiled immediatelyâthat soft smile he reserved only for you.
âHey, love,â he said, leaning in to kiss your temple. âHow was your day?â
The baby made a small sound, and Bruce instantly lowered his voice.âAnd hello to you too, princess,â he whispered, gently touching her cheek. âDaddyâs home.â
He leaned closer again, looking at the baby with a softness that completely contrasted his public image.
âWas she good today?â he asked quietly.
âLike a little angel,â you replied with a smile.
From the living room came the sound of hurried footsteps.
âDid Bruce get here?â Dick asked, peeking out curiously.
âYou finally made it, Bruce. I was already hungry,â Jason added from behind him, arms crossed but wearing a half-smile.
Bruce let out a small laugh, the kind he rarely showed in public.âHey, guys,â he greeted. âWere you good today?â
Jason stepped out behind Dick, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.âDepends on your definition of âgood,ââ he commented. âNo one broke anything⊠yet.â
Bruce sighed, amused.âThatâs already progress.â
Jason approached first, looking him up and down.âYouâre late. Mom said youâd be home earlier.â
âI know,â Bruce replied. âI had a long meeting and stopped to get something for Mom before coming back.â
You raised an eyebrow, amused.âSomething?â you asked.
Bruce glanced at the small black velvet box in his hand, his fingers closing around it with almost reverent care. âYeah. I wanted to get you something special.â
Dick tilted his head, instantly curious.âA gift?â
âFor Mom?â Jason asked, frowning. âJust because?â
Bruce nodded.âItâs good to give gifts every now and then,â he admitted. âI just⊠saw it and thought of her.â
You stepped a little closer, the baby still resting against your hip, watching him with a soft smile.âBruce, you didnât have toââ you started.
âI wanted to,â he interrupted gently.
He opened the box carefully.
Inside was a delicate gold necklace, with a small diamond that sparkled under the mansion lights. It was beautiful. Not something you usually wore, but it was obvious heâd chosen it with love.
âBruce⊠itâs beautiful,â you said sincerely.
And it was. It wasnât your usual styleâyouâd always been more of a silver girl, cool tones, simple jewelryâbut you knew that gift came straight from his heart.
What Bruce didnât expect was everyone elseâs reaction.
Dick was the first to react.âOh.â
Jason tilted his head.âThatâs⊠gold.â
Bruce blinked, confused by the tone.âYes,â he replied. âItâs a unique piece. They told meââ
Before he could recover, Dick frowned. âWait⊠doesn't Mom always wear silver?â
Jason leaned forward.âYeah. Literally never wears gold.â
Alfred, who had been watching from a distance, cleared his throat.âIf I may say so, sir⊠Mrs. Wayne has always shown a preference for silver jewelry.â
Bruce closed his eyes for a second.âGreat,â he muttered. âAbsolutely brilliant of me.â
You let out a soft laugh.âBruce, itâs okay. Itâs really beautifulâŠâ
âSo many years together,â Dick added. âI thought you already knew.â
Bruce looked at you, as if searching for salvation.âOkay, I forgot,â he admitted. âI thought âsomething nice,â not âQueen on a Saturday night.ââ
Alfred inclined his head slightly.âMrs. Wayne can certainly wear gold with elegance. Although, I must admit⊠silver still suits you better.â
âThank you, Alfred,â Bruce murmured. âVery helpful. Truly necessary.â
You laughed, resting your cheek for a moment against the babyâs head. âBruce, look at me,â you said. âI love it. Really. Itâs not a big deal.â
âIâm never going to recover from this, am I?â Bruce murmured, shoulders slumped as if heâd just lost a crucial battle.
âNo,â Dick and Jason said in unison, disturbingly synchronized.
You laughed, adjusting the baby more securely on your hip.âBruce, seriously, itâs beautifulâŠâ
âBeautiful, yes,â Dick cut in. âBut gold.â
Jason raised a finger.âVery gold.â
Bruce ran a hand over his face."I know,â he said quickly. âI mean, I knew. I just⊠forgot.â
Bruce opened his mouth to defend himself, but at that moment the doorbell rang through the mansion.Bruce frowned, glancing at the clock in the living room.âAre we expecting someone?â
âNo,â you replied. âAt least Iâm not.â
âGreat,â Bruce muttered, tired.
Alfred turned calmly, as if heâd been waiting for that moment.âIâll take care of it, sir.â
As Alfred walked away, Dick glanced at the necklace again.
âPerfect timing,â Jason commented. âRight when Bruce embarrasses himself.â
âI didnât embarrass myself,â Bruce said.
âYou were forgetful,â Jason replied.
From the entrance, the sound of the door opening echoed.âGood evening, Alfred,â said a calm male voice.
âWelcome, Mr. Kent.â
Bruce closed his eyes for a brief second.âPerfect.â
Moments later, Clark Kentâs unmistakable voice carried in from the hall. âI hope Iâm not arriving at a bad time.â
Bruceâs shoulders dropped. âOf course not,â he murmured. âWhy would you be.â
Clark entered the living room with a friendly smile, stopping short as he took in the entire scene: you holding the baby, the gold necklace shining, Dick and Jason wearing suspiciously satisfied expressions.
His eyes went straight to the necklace.
He blinked.
Once.
âOh,â he said, genuinely surprised. âGold.â
The silence that followed was criminal.
Dick tilted his head slightly, as if calculating how far he could push it without getting kicked out of the mansion.
Jason didn't bother holding back. âuh-huh,â he said. âThat's exactly what we said.â
Clark lifted his gaze from the necklace to Bruce, first curious⊠then dangerously close to amused. âI thoughtââ he stopped, choosing his words carefully. "Well, it's nice. It'll look good on you."
Bruce stared at him.âClark.â
âWhat?â Clark replied, lifting his hands. âIt looks good. I was just surprised.â
âWe all were,â Dick said. âItâs part of the experience.â
Jason stepped closer, nodding toward the necklace.âYou know what the best part is?â he asked. âIt doesnât matter what he does for the next ten years. This is going to keep coming up.â
Bruce looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment.âIâm Batman,â he muttered. âI face villains, cosmic horrors⊠and yet this is whatâs going to haunt me. A gold necklace.â
You stepped closer, resting your shoulder against his arm.âI love you even when you mess up jewelry.â
Bruce sighed, fully surrendering.âGreat,â he said. âAbsolutely great.â
And Jason, of course, couldnât resist adding another teasing commentâbut Bruce cut him off first.
Bruce looked at him.âOne more word⊠and youâre going to bed early.â
