#dcviline

[vis3rys]

@dcviline asked: ❝ It is in your eyes. You have the look of a man who wants something. ❞ (irri)

"Of   course   I   want   something."   The   words   come   out   harsher   than   he   expect   them   too   as   he   drinks   from   his   goblet.   It   is   usually   Doreah   by   his   side   who   comes   to   talk   to   him,   or   perhaps   distract   him   with   other   pleasures   to   keep   the   mind   of   the   man   elsewhere.   But   perhaps   she   was   now   with   his   sister,   hopefully   teaching   her   the   ways   of   pleasure   because   all   their   hopes   rest   on   the   Khal   loving   her.   Even   if   she   was   never   his   to   claim,   by   blood,   Daenerys   should   had   been   his   bride,   if   the   traditions   were   followed.   "My   sweet   sister   is   far   too   young   to   remember   or   even   understand   what   was   taken   from   us."  

A   blessing   or   a   curse   perhaps.   She   whines   of   home   but   does   she   really   know   where   home   truly   is?   Perhaps   its   on   the   doomed   mountains   of   Valyria.   Or   the   castle   of   Dragonstone,   or   perhaps   in   a   simple   home   in   Essos,   where   children   had   been   just   that,   young   and   carefree   once.   But   Viserys   had   never   been   carefree.   He   carried   an   invisible   crown.   "I   want   my   home   and   I   want   my   throne.   I   want   Robert   Baratheon's   head   on   a   spike   for   all   to   see.   And   anyone   who   aid   him   take   my   niece   and   nephew   away   and   all   the   actions   that   led   to   my   mother's   passing."

  He   had   grown   to   think   it   was   the   stress,   and   the   pain   of   running   away   that   caused   his   mother   to   give   up   as   his   sister   was   born.   What   a   cruel   world.   He   was   crowned   in   a   bed   of   blood.   His   grip   on   the   table   he   rest   on   grows   and   he   hears   the   bones   on   his   hand   crack.   "They   would   have   killed   me   too.   And   my   sister,   of   course.   He   kept   trying,   even   across   the   sea.   So   yes,   I   want   something.   And   I   shall   take   it."   And   eyes   snapback,   forward,   toward   the   handmaiden   as   he   stands   to   his   full   height   and   walks   closer.   "Do   you   know   my   House's   words?"

[cipherova]

The    soft    scrape    of    her    slippered    foot    against    the    cold    floor,    the    quiet    creak    of    the    barre    beneath    her    hands,    and    the    distant    echo    of    Tchaikovsky    on    a    loop    in    her    earbuds    drowned    out    the    world    around    her.    She    was    somewhere    else    entirely—back    in    the    Red    Room    perhaps,    or    maybe    in    that    narrow    sliver    of    memory    where    movement    wasn’t    just    survival    but    a    kind    of    defiance.    Pirouette.    Arabesque.    Her    lines    were    sharp,    purposeful,    the    tension    in    her    muscles    holding    a    thousand    unspoken    things.    So    when    she    finally    spun    into    a    turn    and    caught    a    figure    at    the    edge    of    the    room—still,    broad-shouldered,    watching—her    breath    caught    in    her    chest. @dcviline ft. walker.

“Are    you    lost.”    she    asked,    her    tone    cool    and    laced    with    a    smirk,    though    she    didn’t    quite    stop    dancing.    It    wasn’t    a    question.    The    music    kept    playing.    She    let    it.    Let    him    see    what    he    wasn’t    supposed    to.    Not    the    assassin,    not    the    sarcastic    thorn    at    every    debriefing—but    this.    This    part    of    her.    The    part    nobody    ever    asked    about.    The    part    she    never    gave    away.    She    held    his    gaze    through    the    mirror    as    she    lifted    into    a    slow    développé,    her    eyes    saying    more    than    her    words    ever    would.    “Or    are    you    here    to    critique    my    form?    Because    I    warn    you—I    bite.”

She    dropped    the    pose    and    let    her    arms    fall    to    her    sides,    turning    toward    him    with    deliberate    ease.    “If    you    want    to    ask    something.    .    .just    do    it,”    she    said,    softer    now.    “Ballet    came    before    the    blood.    Before    the    guns.    Before    the    poison    in    our    teeth.”    She    tilted    her    head,    chin    raised,    not    in    challenge—but    in    something    closer    to    vulnerability.    “So.    .    .ask    what    you    want.”

[bobbitrap]

@dcviline asked: sender kisses receiver's inner wrists. (walker)

Bobbi      stilled.      The      weight      of      John’s      hands      had      been      firm      but      unassuming      until      now,      but      the      moment      his      lips      brushed      against      the      delicate      skin      of      her      inner      wrist,      something      in      her      went      utterly      quiet.      Her      breath      hitched,      caught      somewhere      between      disbelief      and      something      dangerously      close      to      tenderness.      That      part      of      her—the      part      she'd      taught      to      flinch      from      softness—wavered.      She      didn’t      pull      away,      not      yet.      She      just      watched      him,      her      narrowed      eyes      unreadable,      but      her      pulse      betrayed      her      under      his      mouth.

“This      isn’t      you,”      she      said      at      last,      her      voice      low.      Not      accusatory—more      like      a      weathered      observation,      as      if      she      were      reading      a      classified      file      with      pages      missing.      “Or      maybe      it      is.      You      tell      me.”      Her      wrist      lingered      in      his      grip      for      one      more      beat      before      she      slowly      pulled      it      back,      fingers      curling      slightly      as      if      to      protect      what      he’d      touched.      She      wasn’t      sure      if      it      was      caution      or      curiosity      that      made      her      hesitate.

She      stepped      back      half      a      pace,      studying      him      the      way      she      might      a      new      kind      of      weapon—beautiful,      dangerous,      and      probably      going      to      end      up      in      the      wrong      hands.      “Next      time      you      want      to      make      a      move,”      Bobbi      said,      arching      a      brow,      “try      something      that      won’t      make      me      wonder      if      you’ve      been      spending      too      much      time      watching      old      war      romances.”      

[cmdrcap]

@dcviline ; semi plotted for steve and walker.

The   elevator   gave   a   soft   chime   as   it   reached   the   top   floor   of   Avengers   Tower.   Steve   stepped   out   into   the   quiet   corridor,   the   hum   of   repulsor   tech   and   distant   city   noise   the   only   sound.   He   paused   for   a   moment,   scanning   the   space—modern,   metallic,   precise.   Stark’s   design,   no   doubt,   though   a   little   colder   without   Tony’s   voice   echoing   through   it.   Refurnished   and   repurposed   and   yet,   it   made   him   feel   nostalgic   for   a   moment   as   he   looks   at   the   new   logo   staring   back   at   him.   Bucky   called.   They   been   talking   for   a   while,   and   with   a   new   team   on   the   rise,   he   figure   it   was   time   to   talk   with   some   of   them.   Half   of   the   team   seem   to   be   composed   of   people   who   were   used   in   some   shape   or   form,   an   experiment   based   on   Steve's   own   choice   and   serum.

Despite   the   voice   in   his   head   telling   him   he   was   not   responsible   (   and   it   sounded   awfully   like   Natasha   ),   he   would   feel   it   all   the   same.   So   he   goes   in.   John   Walker   was   here.   Or   so   he’d   been   told.   Steve   hadn’t   come   in   uniform.   He   didn’t   think   it   would   help.   Instead,   he   wore   a   simple   navy   jacket,   jeans,   and   that   worn   look   that   came   with   too   many   battles—some   on   the   field,   others   inside.   He   walked   slowly,   steady   as   ever,   until   he   reached   the   common   room   where   someone   had   left   the   blinds   open.   Afternoon   light   spilled   in.

A   quiet   breath   escaped   Steve's   chest.   He   spotted   movement   through   the   glass—a   tall   figure   by   the   balcony,   stiff   shoulders,   arms   crossed.   Steve   stepped   into   the   room   without   hesitation   but   kept   his   voice   level,   careful.   "Walker."   For   a   second,   Steve   saw   it   all—anger,   regret,   confusion.   And   beneath   it,   a   soldier   trying   to   carry   the   weight   of   a   shield   that   had   never   really   been   his   to   begin   with.

Steve   didn’t   flinch.   He   just   nodded,   something   calm   in   his   voice.   "I   thought   we   should   talk."

[d0reah]

@dcviline asked: ❛ touch yourself for me . ❜ (@lannisther)

   Doreah's   heart   raced   as   she   awaited   her   mistress's   command.   She   brace   herself   by   the   opposite   side   of   the   room.   As   the   commanding   voice   gives   her   leave   to   begging   to   touch   herself   and   Doreah's   lip   bite   itself   as   she   begins   to   curl   her   dress   upward,   legs   opening   wide,   to   let   the   other   see   her.   She   reached   between   her   own   legs,   feeling   the   cool   air   brush   against   her   moist   folds   as   she   parted   them   slightly.

She   gripped   the   shaft   of   the   false   cock   she   had   brought   to   show   the   queen,   a   promise   that   touched   the   dark   desires   of   the   queen,   running   her   fingers   up   and   down   its   length,   mimicking   the   sensation   of   intercourse.   Her   breath   hitched   as   she   felt   herself   growing   wetter   with   anticipation.

Doreah   hesitated   for   a   moment   before   positioning   the   false   cock   at   her   entrance,   mimicking   the   thrusting   motion.   She   closed   her   eyes   and   let   out   a   soft   moan,   feeling   the   fake   cock   push   against   her   opening.   She   moved   faster,   her   hips   rotating   in   a   circular   motion,   grinding   against   the   air   as   if   it   were   her   lover's   hard   shaft.

As   Doreah's   movements   became   more   frantic,   her   legs   parted   further,   offering   Cersei   a   view   of   her   most   intimate   parts.   The   sweet   scent   of   desire   filled   the   air   as   Doreah's   hips   bucked   wildly,   her   body   arching   forward   in   pleasure.   "Do   you   like   what   you   see?"

[geistsoldat]

@dcviline asked: ❝i wanted to hate you. but you saw me, and now i don’t know how to forget that.❞ (nat)

He   kept   his   eyes   on   the   floor,   like   the   weight   of   her   words   made   it   impossible   to   lift   his   head.   He'd   heard   confessions   in   battlefields   and   blood-soaked   halls,   but   this—this   was   different.   Natasha’s   voice   had   cracked   in   a   way   that   memory   didn't   allow   for.   He   thought   of   her   as   unbreakable.   Razor-sharp   and   unreadable.   But   not   now.   Not   here.

"I   didn’t   want   to   see   you   either,"   he   said   after   a   long   silence,   voice   rough,   like   it   had   rusted   from   disuse.   His   fingers   curled   at   his   sides,   trembling   faintly.   "In   the   Red   Room...   they   told   me   what   you   were.   What   you   were   becoming.   And   they   made   sure   I   stayed   a   ghost   in   the   corner   of   your   eye."   He   remembered   the   way   she   used   to   glance   over   her   shoulder   in   the   training   yard,   how   even   then   she'd   sensed   the   presence   in   the   shadows.   Somehow,   the   longer   he   spent   out   of   the   ice,   more   feelings   began   to   surface,   and   her   presence,   one   he   was   told   to   train   and   break   if   possible,   became   one   he   cherished.   It   wasn't   just   Steve's   presence   at   the   bridge   that   made   him   pause.

But   he   remembered,   too,   the   flicker   of   recognition   in   her   eyes   the   first   time   they'd   fought   years   later,   no   longer   in   Russia   but   in   chaos.   That   hesitation.   That   breath.   It   hadn’t   been   strategy.   She’d   seen   him.   Not   the   asset,   not   the   Winter   Soldier.   Him.   And   now   she   was   telling   him   that   was   the   thing   she   couldn’t   forget.   “I   wanted   to   hate   you   too,”   he   said,   quieter   now,   almost   to   himself.   “Because   if   I   hated   you,   I   didn’t   have   to   remember   who   I   was   when   I   watched   you   survive   it.   When   I   realized   they   broke   you   differently.”   He   finally   looked   at   her   then,   expression   guarded   but   open   enough   to   hurt.  

[middangard]

@dcviline asked: ❝ Are you going to kill me? ❞ (mirdania @ adar)

Adar   tilted   his   head,   his   dark   eyes   narrowing   as   he   regarded   Mirdania   with   a   mixture   of   curiosity   and   restrained   menace.   The   flickering   torchlight   danced   across   the   sharp   planes   of   his   face,   casting   shadows   that   seemed   to   deepen   the   coldness   in   his   gaze.   He   took   a   deliberate   step   closer,   his   movements   measured,   almost   elegant,   like   a   predator   savoring   the   moments   before   the   strike.

“Kill   you?”   he   repeated,   his   voice   a   silken   whisper,   laced   with   an   undertone   of   amusement   that   was   more   chilling   than   comforting.   “If   I   wanted   you   dead,   Mirdania,   you   would   not   have   had   the   chance   to   ask   that   question.”   He   paused,   his   gaze   lingering   on   her,   as   if   weighing   her   words—or   perhaps   her   worth.   “But   you   assume   much.   Do   you   think   your   life   so   precious   that   I   would   grant   you   the   mercy   of   such   finality?   Death   is   an   escape,   one   I   do   not   offer   lightly.”

His   tone   softened,   though   his   intensity   did   not   waver.   “My   intentions   had   never   been   to   place   damage   for   the   sake   of   damage.   I   believe   you   are   one   familiar   with   the   Shadow   of   Morgoth   himself.   Are   you   not?”   A   close   smith   to   Celebrimbor   himself,   the   resemblance   to   Lady   Galadriel   is   striking   enough   he   does   wonder   if   Sauron   had   thought   the   same.   Surely,   he   thinks,   the   fall   from   the   walls   of   Eregion   had   not   been   one   of   clumsiness.  

[herspoils]

@dcviline continued from wire; walker and stephanie.

Stephanie      ducked      under      the      first      punch,      her      braid      swinging      behind      her      like      a      whip.      John      Walker      was      fast—faster      than      she’d      expected      for      someone      built      like      a      linebacker—but      she      was      faster.      Or      at      least,      she      told      herself      that      as      she      slid      behind      him      and      delivered      a      sharp      jab      to      his      ribs.      He      grunted.      Good.      That      meant      she      wasn’t      totally      outmatched.      Still,      every      time      their      arms      met,      every      time      she      blocked      one      of      his      hits,      it      felt      like      she      was      catching      a      truck.

She      danced      back,      letting      him      come      to      her.      “What’s      the      matter?”      she      teased,      even      as      her      chest      heaved.      “Getting      tired      of      being      shown      up      by      someone      with      purple      in      her      color      scheme?”      His      answering      punch      nearly      caught      her      in      the      side      of      the      head,      but      she      twisted,      dropped      low,      and      swept      his      legs.      He      stumbled—just      enough      for      her      to      land      a      solid      kick      to      his      shoulder.

But      it      didn’t      last.      Walker      recovered      like      a      machine,      grabbing      her      leg      mid-swing      on      her      next      attack      and      slamming      her      down      hard      onto      the      mat.      The      breath      whooshed      out      of      her      lungs.      She      rolled      instinctively,      avoiding      the      follow-up      blow,      but      he      was      already      on      her,      pinning      her      down      in      a      blur      of      tactical      strength.      She      fought,      elbowed,      twisted—but      it      was      like      trying      to      wrestle      a      wall.      And      then,      with      a      grunt,      she      tapped      out.

Later,      as      she      sat      on      the      edge      of      the      mat      gulping      water,      bruises      blossoming      beneath      her      suit,      Stephanie      smirked      anyway.      “You      win,”      she      said,      not      looking      at      him      but      knowing      he’d      hear      her.      “But      next      time,      I’m      bringing      trick      gloves.      Or      kryptonite.”      She      didn’t      mind      losing—not      really.      She’d      landed      her      hits,      made      him      work      for      it.      And      there      was      no      shame      in      getting      knocked      down,      not      when      she      was      already      thinking      about      how      she’d      win      the      rematch.      “What      was      it      you      wanted      in      return?      remind      me.”