This'll be the third-to-the-last main story chapter for this fic. I still have the Guy's Side omake planned, but after that, it's two more chapters of for the main plot, the last of which will be smut.

I'm definitely gonna enjoy writing Adam as the head of the MenToo movement, though.

For anyone interested in making a commission, email me at: storylover543 gmail . com

Roman swaggered into their hideout - one of their more low-key ones - twirling his cane with a flourish and wearing a grin that could outshine a politician successfully getting away with another scandal.. Behind him, Neo followed, her petite frame moving with silent grace as she balanced a glittering artifact on one hand like it was a tray of hors d'oeuvres, "Another perfect heist, Neo!" Roman declared, flopping onto a worn leather couch with the kind of relaxed confidence that came from years of criminal success, "The museum's security was laughable. Almost too easy. Makes me wonder if they even care about their priceless artifacts anymore."

Neo flipped the artifact into the air - a golden statuette of some long-forgotten deity - and caught it effortlessly, her mismatched eyes twinkling with mischief. She pointed at herself with a playful grin, then made a dramatic bow as if to say, It's because I'm just that good.

"Yes, yes, you're the best, darling," Roman said, waving his hand dismissively, though the affection in his voice was unmistakable, "Without you, I'd be halfway to a jail cell by now. But let's not let it go to your head." Well, either a jail cell or being 'corrected' by some Huntress. There was a reason he tried to avoid excessive damage. He had a flair for showmanship, but his heists more entertained the masses than anything. No one cared about some museum funded by a rich guy being robbed, so the Huntresses couldn't drag him to their rooms under the pretext of discipline...yet.

Neo stuck out her tongue, plopping down next to him and stretching her legs out across his lap. Roman froze for a moment,, his grin twitching as he carefully avoided looking at her, "Uh, Neo, sweetheart," he began, choosing his words carefully, "You remember the whole 'personal space' talk we had, right?"

She tilted her head innocently, batting her eyelashes like a cartoon character. Then, with an exaggerated shrug, she tapped the side of her head as if to say, Nope. Must've slipped my mind. Roman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Neo's antics were nothing new - she'd been like this for as long as they'd been partners. He'd plucked her out of a life of misery and chaos, and she'd repaid him tenfold with loyalty, skill, and unwavering support. They were family.

At least, he hoped that was how Neo saw them. Because sometimes, the way she acted made him worry.

Like the time she'd insisted on sitting on his lap during a stakeout, claiming it was the 'best vantage point'. Or the way she'd casually leaned into him after a job, her fingers tracing patterns on his arm. Or the time she'd stolen a necklace and draped it around his neck, then made a mock marriage gesture with her hands.

She was a Huntress, after all. She might not have had the license or official title, but she was a Huntress in anything but the name. And Roman was painfully aware of how thirsty the women in their profession could be. He'd spent years dodging their attempts to catch him. They always claimed they just wanted to do their jobs and bring him down for justice, but he saw the hungry looks in their eyes. One perk of the bad boy charm was that women wanted a piece of him - he had an on-again off-again thing with Lisa for a reason. But of course, that included Huntresses. Very, very horny Huntresses who wanted to tame the untamable Roman Torchwick.

But surely Neo didn't think of him like that. Right?

"Neo," he said slowly, carefully shifting her legs off his lap, "You know I think the world of you. Really, I do. You're my partner, my right-hand girl. But let's keep things, uh...professional, yeah?"

Neo raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a mischievous smirk as she leaned in closer, her face inches from his. She pointed to herself, then to him, then made a heart shape with her hands.

Roman's grin stiffened, "Okay, see, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Neo, sweetie, we're a team. Not a couple. Not a pair of lovebirds. Just good ol' fashioned partners in crime. Capisce?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically, waving a hand as if to say, 'Relax, I'm just messing with you.'

"Good," Roman said, leaning back with a relieved sigh, "Glad we're on the same page. Because I don't need any more complications in my life. Between you, the cops, and the occasional psychotic Huntress, I've got enough on my plate."

Neo pouted playfully but let the subject drop, instead pulling out a small notebook and pen to jot something down. She flipped it around to show him: What's next?

Roman's grin returned, his earlier unease melting away, "What's next? Glad you asked, darling." He tapped his cane on the floor, leaning forward with a glint in his eye, "I've got my sights set on the Atlas Art Gallery. There's a painting there - priceless, irreplaceable, and the perfect addition to our collection. Think you're up for another job?"

Neo didn't need to answer with words. The mischievous gleam in her eyes and the cocky tilt of her head said it all: When am I not?

"Atta girl," Roman said, clapping her on the shoulder, "You and me, Neo. Unstoppable."

As Neo leaned back, her smirk firmly in place, Roman allowed himself a moment of relaxation. Sure, Neo could be a handful - more than a handful, really - but she was his handful. And as long as she kept her horny minx tendencies™ in check, he was happy to have her by his side.

On most days, at least.

Because just like any other Huntress - or Huntress-adjacent woman - Neo was thirsty. Roman was all too aware of it. She was just as desperate to find a guy, have a whirlwind romance, and finally get laid as the rest of them. The romance was optional, of course. But unlike other women in their profession, Neo had one particular quirk that worked decidedly against her: she didn't talk.

Not couldn't, mind you. She could talk perfectly well if she wanted to. She just didn't.

Roman had asked about it once, early on in their partnership, when she hadn't spoken a single word during their first heist. At the time, he thought she might've been mute, but she'd quickly shot him an annoyed look, pulled out a pen, and written, 'Talking is boring.'

That had been the end of it. Neo didn't talk because she didn't want to, and apparently, she thought her silence made her mysterious and alluring. Roman could almost respect the hustle - she certainly carried herself with an air of enigmatic confidence, flashing her cocky little smirks and sashaying through every situation like she owned the place. In any other world, she would've had legions of simps following after her, all of them ignoring the blatant psychopathy and murder cause she was so darn charismatic. Kind of like him...minus the psychopathy and (occasional) murder.

This wasn't that world. As far as men were concerned, being a quiet creep was no better than being a loud one like the other Huntresses.

Roman had seen it firsthand. Neo's attempts to entice men - men who should've been falling over themselves for her petite frame, unique look, and wickedly sharp smile - usually ended with them backing away awkwardly. Sometimes, they'd make a weak excuse to leave. Other times, they'd fake an urgent call or suddenly remember a prior engagement. Or they just flat out ran away screaming 'begone thot!' like a religious mantra.

He could practically hear their thoughts as they fled: Why is this tiny woman staring at me like that? Why isn't she saying anything? Oh, gods, is she planning to kill me?!

It wasn't that Neo wasn't trying. Roman had watched her adjust her outfit to show just a little more skin, strike sultry poses, and flash her sweetest, most inviting smile - all without uttering a single word. She thought her body language spoke volumes.

And, to be fair, it did. It just wasn't saying what she thought it was.

Instead of Come hither, it read more like I know exactly how to dispose of your body without leaving a trace.

Roman sighed, leaning back on the couch as Neo fiddled with the golden statuette they'd stolen, balancing it on one finger like a circus performer. He cared about her - really, he did - but sometimes he wondered if she had any self-awareness.

"Neo," he said, breaking the silence, "have you considered that maybe your whole 'silent and mysterious' shtick isn't working?"

She looked at him sharply, narrowing her eyes as if to say, 'What are you talking about?'

Roman gestured vaguely with his cane, "The whole no-talking thing. I get it - you're going for an aura of mystery. But, and I mean this with absolute love...most guys just think you're a serial killer."

Neo's jaw dropped in exaggerated offense, and she dramatically clutched her chest like he'd shot her. She grabbed her notebook, scribbled something furiously, and flipped it around, 'They're intimidated by my perfection!' She even underlined 'perfection' twice.

Roman snorted, shaking his head, "Sure, kid. Whatever helps you sleep at night." Neo glared at him, her lips curling into a pout. She tapped the notebook again, then gestured at herself with a smug expression as if to say, 'Look at me. How could anyone resist this?'

"Sweetheart," Roman said with a sigh, "You're trying to sell mysterious allure, but you're giving off 'quiet stalker who stares at people and wants to take their kidneys.' It's not the vibe you think it is." He wasn't a fan of organ harvesting himself. You had to have some standards in this line of work, "All I'm saying is, the 'silent and sexy' routine isn't as hot as you think it is."

Neo threw the notebook at his head.

He caught it with ease, chuckling softly, "Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm just saying, maybe consider trying a different approach. Say a word or two. Laugh at their jokes. Pretend you're not imagining how they'd look tied up with you teasing them with Hush."

Neo snatched the notebook back, her cheeks faintly pink as she furiously scribbled again. Not with embarassment; indignation. She held it up with a defiant glare, 'You're projecting.'

"Ha!" Roman barked out a laugh, "Projecting? Neo, I'm not the one who keeps getting rejected by guys because I won't stop staring at them like I'm planning their funeral arrangements." He never had problems getting a woman to his bed. Why? Because he had charm, class, and he didn't open the conversation staring at them creepily or loudly bragging about how amazing sex with him would be. He knew when to let his charisma do the talking.

Neo's face burned red as she tossed a pillow at him, huffing silently before flopping down onto the couch. She crossed her arms, sticking her nose in the air with an exaggerated pout. Roman leaned back, twirling his cane with a grin, "Hey, don't take it so hard, kid. You've got your talents. Just, you know, maybe work on not coming across like a homicidal mime. It might help your chances."

Neo rolled her eyes but didn't respond, which Roman took as a minor victory. He cared about her - probably more than he cared about anyone else - but someone had to be the voice of reason in this partnership.

Especially during her 'boyfriend from Mistral' phase. A year ago, after a really bad rejection and some (admittedly insensitive) comments from him, she was determined to prove him wrong. How, exactly? By showing off her new, never-before-seen, or mentioned, boyfriend. He remembered how she looked up at him with that smug little smile, the look in her eyes screaming 'See, I can get men whenever I want, neener neener neener'.

It would've been a whole lot more impressive if her boyfriend wasn't an illusion. The thing didn't talk, didn't touch anything, and spent all its time standing next to Neo and smiling placidly. Sure, maybe the 'kid' was just shy and mute (like Neo claimed to be), but he knew a con when he saw it. He still had no clue what she smoked to make her think she could pull a fast one on him.

He dared her to kiss 'him'. He remembered how she froze for just a split second before she pursed her lips and did exactly that, standing on her tiptoes. One little nudge to the back and she tripped forward, shattering the illusion on impact. It was a scene straight out of a sad romance movie. The heroine trying to give her lover one last kiss before he disappeared forever. Except this wasn't a tragedy. It was a thirsty woman trying to make herself look less desperate.

She bawled her eyes out after, as if she honestly believed she'd lost her boyfriend instead of just being caught out on her line of bullshit. He felt sorry enough for her to buy an extra tub of ice cream. She spent the whole night eating and watching porn in their shared TV. He felt a whole lot less sorry for her after having to hear hours of cheesy porno talk.

Still, Neo was his crazy murder midget (he got permission to call her that), so he'd have to deal with her craziness for now. Family was family and all that.

Neo was not a creeper.

At least, that's what she told herself as she perched invisibly in the corner of a modest apartment, her legs crossed primly, and her eyes glued to the man standing a few feet away. He was shirtless, his toned back glistening faintly with sweat as he rummaged through a dresser for something clean to wear. Neo smirked, tilting her head as she imagined...so many things. Oh, what she wouldn't give to run her fingers down those corded muscles.

'This isn't creepy', she assured herself, gripping her parasol lightly. 'This is reconnaissance. Strategic observation. I'm being mysterious and alluring.' She adjusted her position slightly, leaning forward for a better view. 'He'll realize that eventually.'

To the untrained eye, sure, it might look like she was just sitting in a stranger's bedroom, invisible thanks to her Semblance, watching a man change clothes like a pervert. But Neo knew the truth. She was cultivating an air of enigma. A quiet, alluring presence that would leave men wondering 'Who was that captivating woman I felt watching me from the shadows?' He'd be mad with lust and curiosity, and then she'd be there to fulfill those needs

Her smirk widened as the man turned slightly, looking in her general direction, 'Perfect', she thought, 'Now just give me a sign you've noticed me. A little gasp of realization, a smile, maybe even a wink. I'll drop my illusion and we can-'

The man froze.

Neo stiffened, her heart pounding in anticipation, 'This is it. He senses me. He knows I'm here.' She readied herself to appear through a burst of shattered glass, her smile cocky and assured. Oh yeah, she was gonna get some tonight!

The man's head turned slowly, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room. Neo held her breath, her smirk faltering slightly at his not-so-excited expression. Then, his eyes darted toward the corner where she sat, and his expression hardened, "Not this again," he muttered, reaching for something on his nightstand. Neo blinked, tilting her head. What was he-

Before she could finish the thought, a jet of water hit her square in the face. She hissed, dropping her Semblance in shock as she scrambled backward, her illusion shattering like glass around her.

The man glared at her, water bottle in hand, "Out," he said firmly, pointing toward the door. Neo pouted, shaking water from her face like a soaked cat. She gestured indignantly, her hands flailing as if to say, I'm not a creep! I'm just...admiring you!'

"Out," the man repeated, spraying her again for good measure.

Neo yelped, bolting for the window with as much dignity as she could muster. She vaulted through it, landing gracefully in the alley below before turning to glare up at the apartment. 'Rude,' she thought, brushing herself off. He didn't have to spray me. That's not how you treat a mysterious admirer!'

She leaned against the alley wall, pulling out her compact to check her reflection. Her makeup was slightly smudged, her hair a bit damp, but she still looked fabulous. Neo snapped the compact shut, twirling her parasol with a flourish, 'Next time, he'll see the appeal. They always do.'

Not that she'd had much success yet. Men were oddly skittish around her. She couldn't figure out why. She was silent, elegant, and obviously attractive. She had style. Didn't guys like women with style? And her Semblance gave her a leg up - literally - in the whole mystery department. She was like a romantic heroine stepping out of a storybook...if that heroine happened to be following the hero around unseen for hours at a time.

Neo crossed her arms, frowning. Maybe men just didn't understand subtlety anymore. They were so used to loud, aggressive Huntresses throwing themselves at them that they couldn't recognize a more refined approach.

Of course, "refined" sometimes meant standing motionless in the corner of a guy's living room while he played video games, hoping he'd eventually feel her presence and fall madly in love with her. Or quietly following him from his apartment to the grocery store, watching as he picked out vegetables and imagining how romantic it would be to cook together. Or, once, hiding under a guy's bed while he slept, just to be close to him. That last one hadn't gone well. She'd sneezed, and the ensuing chaos had ended with another water bottle and a broomstick.

It sucked. The farthest she'd ever gotten was seeing a shirt off. It was like men could sense her desire (not thirst, shut up, Roman!), and every single time, they'd bring out the spray bottle and treat her like an unwanted intruder. Rude!

But Neo wasn't deterred. Every great plan had its setbacks. She was not being creepy. Creepy was lingering outside someone's house in the middle of the night with binoculars. Neo was sophisticated. She was cultivating intrigue. She was-

Another spray of water hit her square in the back of the head, snapping her out of her thoughts. Neo spun around, hissing at a random passerby who held up a water bottle defensively.

"Back off!" the man said, his eyes wide, "I can see your thirst, lady! Get outta here!"

Neo growled, snapping her parasol open with a dramatic flourish before storming off down the alley. 'Valean men are idiots,' she thought bitterly, 'I'm giving them the chance of a lifetime, and they can't even recognize it!'

Still, as she turned the corner and disappeared into the crowd, a mischievous glint returned to her eyes. She'd just have to try again. The perfect guy was out there somewhere, and when she found him, he'd appreciate her enigmatic allure.

In the clinical halls of Atlas Academy, General James Ironwood strode down the corridor with his usual commanding presence, exuding authority and discipline. In a world where men couldn't use Aura, he gained his position not through brute force, but cunning and determination. It was through his tactical mind that Salem's incursions to steal their men had been constantly stopped. So long as he breathed, she would never take them for her nefarious reasons.

Beside him marched Winter Schnee, her posture rigid, her face composed, and her internal monologue a complete disaster. She stole a glance at him, her icy blue eyes tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the broad span of his shoulders, and the way his uniform fit him just so good. He was perfect. Strong. Stoic. A leader. Everything she wanted in a man. Everything she wanted in...a daddy.

Winter's cheeks flushed faintly at the thought, but she kept her expression neutral. She couldn't let him see how his mere presence was unraveling her composure. No, she had to play this carefully. Tactfully. Maybe today would finally be the day she'd make him notice her - really notice her.

"Winter," Ironwood said, breaking the silence as they approached his office, "You've been working exceptionally hard lately. I'm thankful."

Her heart soared at the words, but she forced herself to remain calm. Stay professional, Winter, "Thank you, sir," she replied, her voice smooth and collected, "Your approval means everything to me." She hesitated for a moment before adding in what she hoped was a seductive purr, "Daddy."

Ironwood blinked, stopping mid-step. He turned to look at her, his expression softening with what she could only describe as...paternal affection? No! "I'm glad you think of me that way," he said warmly, "I've always seen you as a bit of a daughter myself. I have no plans for children of my own, but if I did, I would've wanted them to be like you."

Winter's eye twitched. Not that way, she thought, biting back a groan. She wanted to call him daddy while he pinned her to the wall and- Focus! "Yes, sir," she said crisply, masking her frustration.

They entered his office, and the General gestured for her to sit. Winter folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying to compose herself as he sat across from her. His presence filled the room, commanding her attention. A new approach was needed Subtlety didn't work. Time to be more direct, "General," she began, her tone carefully measured, "I...I've been reflecting on my recent performance, and I feel I've fallen short of your expectations."

Ironwood frowned, leaning forward, "Winter, that's not true. You've been exemplary in your duties. You've more than exceeded my expectations in every way."

"No, sir," she said quickly, her voice tinged with what she hoped sounded like genuine regret, "I've made mistakes. Mistakes that deserve...punishment."

Ironwood's frown deepened, and a pang of guilt flashed across his face, "Winter, you're being too hard on yourself. No one's perfect, and mistakes are how we grow."

"But sir," she pressed, her cheeks warming as she leaned slightly closer, "I believe...I would benefit from more immediate correction. A stronger hand to guide me." She bit her lip, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "Your...discipline."

Ironwood looked at her with a mixture of confusion and sadness, "Winter," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "I'm concerned about how low your self-esteem seems to be. If you're equating your mistakes with the need for corporal punishment, we may need to have a longer conversation about how you view yourself."

Winter froze, her carefully crafted plan crumbling in an instant, "W-what?"

"I've noticed this pattern before," Ironwood continued, his brow furrowed with concern, "You've mentioned being 'punished' in passing several times, and now you're bringing it up directly. Winter, I need you to understand that your worth isn't defined by perfection. Mistakes don't mean you deserve to be...bent over someone's knee and spanked." He paused, his expression growing even more puzzled, "And, come to think of it, I can't recall any military doctrine that allows commanding officers to spank their subordinates. I've looked at the archives to check and found no records. Where did you get that idea?"

Winter's face turned scarlet, and she straightened her posture, desperately trying to salvage the situation, "I-I didn't mean- I just thought-" She floundered, her usual composure utterly shattered.

Ironwood held up a hand, his expression kind but resolute, "It's okay, Winter. We'll work through this. If you ever feel overwhelmed or like you need help managing your stress, my door is always open. But I want you to promise me something."

She swallowed hard, nodding, "Yes, sir?"

"Promise me you'll stop being so hard on yourself. You're a brilliant officer and an asset to Atlas and to me. You don't need to punish yourself for every little thing." He smiled at her, his tone softening, "I mean it, Winter. You're doing great."

Winter's heart screamed in anguish. How could he be so sweet, so understanding, and yet so completely, utterly clueless?!

"Yes, sir," she managed, her voice trembling slightly.

Ironwood gave her a satisfied nod and turned his attention back to the reports on his desk. Winter, meanwhile, sat stiffly, her mind racing with frustration and humiliation.

'How is he not getting it?!' she internally screamed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning aloud. She'd practically gift-wrapped the invitation for him, and he'd...he'd father-zoned her!

As the General continued reviewing paperwork, Winter clenched her fists, determination flaring in her chest. Fine. If subtlety and directness didn't work, she'd just have to come up with a new plan. But not today. Today, she'd lick her wounds and regroup, "Dismissed, Winter," Ironwood said, looking up to give her one last reassuring smile, "And remember, no more of this punishment nonsense. You're doing just fine."

She stood, saluted, and left the office, her face a carefully blank mask. The second the door closed behind her, she let out a strangled groan, burying her face in her hands. Why was he like this?! How did he not understand? Still, she refused to give up. James Ironwood was the perfect man, and one day, he'd realize she wasn't just some subordinate or...pseudo-daughter!

One day, he'd call her his Winter. And on that day, she'd finally get her spanking.

The next day came with the advent of a new plan. Winter Schnee was not a woman who gave up easily. She was a fighter, a strategist, a professional. If there was one thing she prided herself on, it was her ability to adapt and overcome challenges.

Unfortunately, James Ironwood was proving to be the most infuriatingly oblivious challenge of her entire life.

Today, she was trying a new approach. Subtlety hadn't worked. Directness had sailed so far over his head that she wasn't sure it even registered as a possibility. So now, she was going to deploy every ounce of feminine charm she could muster, short of literally jumping into his lap. And lap-jumping was an option if need be!

She stood in his office, the perfect picture of poise and professionalism, holding a tablet with a report she'd conveniently 'forgotten' to send digitally. The General was seated at his desk, his focus on another stack of papers, oblivious as always, "General," Winter said, her voice smooth and confident, "I brought the report on the Knight deployment for your review."

"Ah, excellent." Ironwood glanced up with a polite smile, taking the tablet from her, "Thank you, Winter. I'll look this over immediately."

Winter smiled back, stepping slightly to the side. With precise timing, she leaned forward to point at a specific section of the report, her posture deliberately accentuating her curves and generous bosom. She'd spent extra time that morning ensuring her uniform hugged her in all the right places.

"As you can see, sir," she said, her tone almost a purr, "Our forces have achieved significant efficiency gains. I thought you'd appreciate my...personal touch in the reorganization."

Ironwood glanced at the tablet, then back at her, "Excellent work as always, Winter. Your attention to detail is exemplary."

Her smile tightened, 'He's looking at my eyes. Why is he looking at my eyes?!' She straightened, forcing herself to stay composed, "Thank you, sir. I strive to exceed expectations in every way."

"Which you consistently do," he said warmly, already turning his attention back to the report.

Winter's eye twitched. Fine. Time for Phase Two. She stood back, clasping her hands behind her back in a demure pose, "General, if I may...I've been thinking about the importance of strong family values in Atlas."

Ironwood looked up, tilting his head curiously, "Family values?"

"Yes," Winter said, her voice taking on a softer, almost wistful tone, "It's so important for our leaders to set an example. And, well...I've always admired men who take on the role of a husband. Especially older men. They bring such wisdom and stability to a relationship. And, of course, younger wives with their nubile- " she coughed, her cheeks flushing faintly, "-bodies can offer vitality and energy in return. A perfect symbiosis, wouldn't you agree?"

Ironwood blinked, "That's a thoughtful observation, Winter. The balance between experience and youth is often a cornerstone of successful partnerships."

She froze. Did he just...agree? Her heart raced with a mix of hope and panic, "Do you...share that sentiment, sir?" she asked carefully.

He nodded, his expression serious, "Of course. A strong foundation is key to any partnership, whether professional or personal." Winter's lips parted slightly, her hopes rising. Was this it? "I hope you find a husband who values those qualities one day," Ironwood added, his tone kind and fatherly.

Her hopes crashed and burned. Of course. Of course, he thought she was talking about someone else! She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, "Thank you, sir," she said tightly, "I'll...take that under consideration."

But she wasn't done yet. Oh no. If subtlety and indirectness failed, then it was time to be bold. Winter squared her shoulders and took a step closer to his desk, "Sir," she began, her voice steady, "I feel it's important to share something personal with you."

The General looked up again, his brow furrowing slightly in concern, "Is everything all right, Winter?"

"Yes, sir. It's just..." She took a deep breath, channeling every ounce of her nerve, "I've always found men who are...augmented, like yourself, to be very attractive. There's something so...commanding about the way they combine strength and precision. It's inspiring."

The General blinked, his face softening into an expression of gratitude, "Thank you, Winter. That's kind of you to say. Many people are wary of augmentations, believing it makes us less 'Human', so it's heartening to know that someone appreciates them."

Her pulse quickened. Was this it? Was he finally getting it?

"I've always hoped to set an example for those who might consider prosthetics or cybernetic enhancements," he continued, completely earnest, "I want people to see that such technology can be a tool for good and there that there's no shame in it."

Winter felt her composure slipping. He wasn't getting it, "Yes, sir. And...do you ever think about how such traits might...enhance personal relationships?" Like maybe allowing him to fuck her against that desk like a literal machine?

Ironwood smiled, "Certainly. Strong partnerships benefit from trust, adaptability, and mutual respect. Whether it's in the field or in life."

Her fingers twitched. He was impossible, "Dismissed, Winter," he said kindly, his attention drifting back to his work, "And thank you for sharing your thoughts. Your insight is always valued."

Winter stood there for a long moment, her jaw tight and her nails digging into her palms. Finally, she saluted, spun on her heel, and marched out of the office with as much dignity as she could muster, internally screaming in frustration the whole time.

Glynda Goodwitch sat in her office at Beacon Academy, her immaculately polished glasses perched on her nose, her posture as perfect as always. The picture of maturity and authority. She adjusted a stray strand of blonde hair and let out a long, slow sigh, staring blankly at the paperwork in front of her.

It was a far cry from what she really wanted to be doing.

She wasn't shy about admitting it - at least not to herself. She was a grown woman, poised, professional, and in the prime of her life. She had needs. Desires. The same as any other Huntress. And, Glynda thought with a faint grimace, just as little luck satisfying them.

She stood and walked over to her desk mirror, adjusting her collar and giving herself an appraising look. The tight pencil skirt, the crisp white blouse, the hair tied back in that no-nonsense bun - she looked every inch the sexy librarian one would see in their most erotic dreams. Add to that the fact that she literally carried a riding crop with her everywhere she went, and it was practically a walking invitation for men with even the vaguest of submissive tendencies.

So why the hell wasn't it working?

She twirled the riding crop in her hand, tapping it lightly against her palm as her thoughts spiraled. Men just didn't seem to appreciate a mature woman (she was 37 and in her prime, thank you) these days. She wasn't some flighty, inexperienced little girl with no idea what she wanted. No, Glynda knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted a man who could handle her authority, who could understand her strength and confidence. One who'd let her...ahem, take the reins, so to speak.

Was it so unreasonable? Was wanting to whip a man until he begged for mercy, and then beg for something entirely different, really such a big ask?

Apparently, yes.

She sighed again, walking back to her desk and sitting down. It wasn't like she hadn't tried. Oh, she'd tried. Subtlety was the first approach, back in her younger days. A flirty smile here, a double entendre there. A casual adjustment of her blouse to emphasize her, ahem, assets.

But subtlety got her nowhere.

So she'd tried being direct, "I like a man who can handle a little discipline," she'd purred to one particularly attractive colleague at a conference. His face had gone pale, and he'd muttered something about needing to find his wife before fleeing.

Cowards, she thought bitterly.

And it wasn't just her colleagues. She'd tried going out in Vale, dressing to the nines in a figure-hugging black dress and heels that clicked with authority on the pavement. She'd leaned against the bar with a glass of wine, letting her presence speak for itself.

Apparently, the only thing it spoke was, "Don't talk to her unless you're prepared to have your soul dissected."

And then there was the incident at the bookstore, where she'd tried engaging a handsome younger man over their shared interest in classic literature. She'd mentioned something about the themes of submission and power in Suthering Heights and how intriguing it was to see men in such submissive, helpless roles. His response had been to run away before she could even finish her sentence.

She set the riding crop down on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Was it her standards? Surely not. She wasn't asking for much. Just a man who could appreciate her maturity and confidence, who wouldn't be intimidated by her authority, and who might, possibly, enjoy being tied up now and then while she smacked his skin raw. That wasn't unreasonable, was it?

Glynda groaned, resting her forehead on her desk. She could hear the screams of frustration of the younger Huntresses in the halls, no doubt sharing their latest tales of rejection and failure. And while she sympathized with their struggles, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of irritation. At least they had time. She, on the other hand, was running out of patience.

Still, Glynda was nothing if not determined. She straightened her posture, adjusting her glasses and picking up her crop again. If the men of Remnant were too blind to see what they were missing, then that was their loss.

But for now, it was time to get back to work.

Glynda rubbed her temples, her glasses pushed up onto her forehead as she stared at the latest report on her Scroll. Of all the responsibilities she juggled as headmistress of Beacon Academy, this one had to be the most absurd: dealing with the White Fang, a group of Faunus Huntresses who'd seemingly decided that the best way to address their rampant thirst was to strong-arm the government into giving them boyfriends.

Or, failing that, some kind of legal mandate allowing them access to men who couldn't say no to their...desires.

She sighed deeply, setting the Scroll down on her desk, "What is wrong with this generation?" she muttered, tapping her riding crop against her thigh.

The White Fang had only sprung up recently, spearheaded by Faunus Huntresses who shared one common grievance: men kept rejecting them. Now, Glynda could sympathize to an extent. She knew firsthand the frustration of trying to entice a man and being met with awkward excuses, water bottle sprays, or outright panic. But forming a militant organization and staging protests outside government offices demanding 'equal access to men' was not, in her opinion, the way to go about solving the problem.

It only made the rest of the Huntresses look bad.

The latest report detailed their newest stunt: barging into the Council chambers in Vale, where they loudly declared that they wouldn't take on any more Grimm hunting missions until their "basic human rights to sexual satisfaction" were met. Apparently, their leader, Sienna Khan, had delivered an impassioned speech about how Faunus Huntresses faced an even harder uphill battle in getting laid than their human counterparts.

Bullshit. Did she not see how many men looked at Faunus and immediately got hard? They had it easier than the Humans!

Glynda had seen the footage. Sienna had slammed her fist on the table, shouting, "It's not just that men avoid us because we're Huntresses! It's because we're Faunus too! Do you know how many guys have told me they 'don't date cat girls?' It's a travesty!"

That was an absurd claim. Catgirls were only matched by Bunnygirls in the sheer amount of porn they inspired. Sienna was just angry that she had no luck. To make matters worse, they'd brought placards. Glynda could still picture them in her mind, with slogans like "Equal Men For All Women!" and "Horny, Not Hunted!"

Glynda pinched the bridge of her nose again, muttering under her breath, "What happened to the dignity of Huntresses? When did this profession become synonymous with desperation?" There used to be a sense of class with the Hunt, or so she told herself.

A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts, "Come in," she called, sitting up and smoothing her blouse.

One of her aides stepped inside, a young woman holding a file. She'd tried to get a male assistant, but it had been rejected by the Council. Even attempts to get one on her own ended with interviewees running for the hills, "Headmistress Goodwitch," She began, clearing her throat, "We've received word that the White Fang is planning another demonstration. They're gathering near the commercial district this time, demanding...well, you know."

Glynda closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "Of course they are. What are their demands this time?"

"They're insisting that the Council establish a rotational dating program," the aide said, clearly trying not to roll her eyes, "A 'fair allocation system' to ensure that every Huntress, particularly Faunus ones, get an equal shot at men. They're calling it the 'Love Lottery.'"

Glynda groaned, standing up and grabbing her riding crop, "Of course they are. And I suppose they think holding the city hostage will make this ridiculous idea seem reasonable?"

"Well, they've started camping out at the trade routes," the aide said hesitantly, "Apparently, they believe withholding their services will make the Council take them seriously."

Glynda tapped her crop against her palm, her irritation mounting. It was the same old song and dance. Give us boyfriends or we'll let the Grimm tear at the walls.

The aide shrugged helplessly. Glynda grabbed her Scroll and swiped through the report again, her eyes narrowing as she read more about the White Fang's tactics, "This is absurd. I'll have to go down there and remind them what their duties as Huntresses entail. The safety of Remnant comes before their libidos." Say what you would about her, but she earned her place as Headmistress...even if it was half-motivated by her beliefs that men would flock to her in droves for her heroics.

The aide hesitated, "Do you really think that'll work, ma'am? They're...pretty determined."

Glynda's lip twitched, "Determined or not, I refuse to let this Academy be associated with such ridiculous behavior. If they want to act like spoiled children, they'll be treated as such." The aide wisely chose not to comment, stepping aside as Glynda marched out of her office with her head held high.

As she walked through the halls of Beacon, she could hear whispers from students about the White Fang's latest antics. Some younger Huntresses laughed about it, others muttered enviously about the audacity to demand men directly, and a few whispered asking if they accepted Humans and whether they should try their luck. Glynda ignored them all, her focus on the task ahead.

The White Fang might have their grievances, but Glynda Goodwitch had her principles. And if they thought she'd let them hold Vale hostage for boyfriends, they were sorely mistaken. She adjusted her glasses and tightened her grip on her riding crop. If she had to personally march down to that protest and whip some sense into them, so be it.

But as she strode toward the transport bay, she couldn't help but mutter under her breath, "Although...a Love Lottery would solve a few of my own problems..."

Hope you guys enjoyed this one. Baalbuddy Huntress wasn't something I thought would last this long. Anyway, see you.

Wanna help support me (and gain access to chapters a couple of weeks early)? Then check out the link below:

P a treon . com (slash) Vendetta543

Question:

1. Fucked up thing to ask, but do you guys seriously want team WBY to agree to sit in the cuck chair? Seems like a bunch of people really want it. If so, I could incorporate that into the upcoming smut for Chapter 7 of the main story.