#Fantasy Guide to Adoption | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marcyvamp1re-blog · 10 months ago

Text

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

3K notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 7 days ago

Text

How my DRM-free principles left me owning the rights to a German audiobook

Support me this summer in the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop! This summer, I'm writing The Reverse-Centaur's Guide to AI, a short book for Farrar, Straus and Giroux that explains how to be an effective AI critic.

Long story short: thanks to a series of misunderstandings, I had to shell out more than ten thousand euros to prevent a German audiobook of my work from being released with DRM and now I need your help (assuming you speak German) to get the book into readers' ears!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-auf-deutsche-drm-freie

For more than a quarter-century, I've had an iron-clad policy of not releasing my work with "digital rights management," this being a kind of encryption that keeps my readers from reading the books they've bought in the apps of their choice.

There's two reasons for this: the first is, it's just grossly unfair. If you buy one of my print books, you can shelve it on any bookcase and read it sitting in any chair, under any company's lightbulb. It's stupid and offensive for a company like Amazon/Audible to declare that you can only read the ebooks and audiobooks you buy using the apps they approve.

But the second reason is more insidious and subtle. By retaining control over the apps that you must use to read or listen to your books, companies like Amazon are able to lock you into their platform. That means they can change the deal even after you've made your purchase (for example, Amazon has been caught deleting ebooks from people's Kindle apps and readers and Audible has experimented with inserting ads into your audiobooks after you buy them).

This lock-in isn't limited to readers, either. Once Amazon has all my readers locked in, the company acquires control over me, the writer. After all, if my readers can't switch from Amazon to another bookseller, then I can't switch from Amazon to another bookseller, because that would mean asking my readers to start over buying all their books again.

Amazon has a long history of squeezing its sellers – including writers and publishers – once it has them locked in. Today, 45-51% of every Amazon Marketplace purchase from an independent seller is skimmed off by Amazon in junk fees. The company makes $58 billion/year charging vendors for search placement (rather than putting the best match for shoppers' searches at the top of the result). And they stole at least $100m from Audible audiobook authors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/07/audible-exclusive/#audiblegate

In 1998, the US passed a law (Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act) that makes tampering with DRM a felony with a 5-year prison sentence and a $500k fine (for a first offense). In the years since, the US Trade Representative bullied every US trading partner into adopting this law. The EU did so in 2001, with Article 6 of the Copyright Directive.

This means that it's literally a crime for me, the author of a book, who holds the copyright to the work, to authorize you, a reader who bought the ebook or audiobook on Amazon, to convert the digital file so that it works with apps that compete with Amazon's.

So that's why I don't allow my work to be sold with DRM.

Everyone I do business with knows this – my publishers, my agents, etc – and over the past quarter century and more than 30 books, all of these people have bent over backwards to accommodate this policy of mine, even when it meant changing the workflow they used for thousands of books just to make an exception for me. I'm incredibly grateful for this.

But eventually, someone was bound to slip up, and that's how I ended up owning the German audiobook for my novel Red Team Blues.

After Red Team Blues was published in English in 2022 and became a national bestseller, many foreign publishers snapped up the translation rights. Among them was Heyne, my German publisher, who commissioned a fantastic translation by Jürgen Langowski that has sold briskly in Germany, Austria and Switzerland.

Heyne also commissioned an audiobook, beautifully read by a beloved German audiobook narrator, Uve Teschner.

But somewhere in there, everyone forgot that this audiobook could only be sold without DRM. And since Audible, Apple Books and Audiobooks.com refuse to carry DRM-free books, that meant that they would not be able to sell the books in the places where 90+% of readers look for them.

No one is to blame here. It's just an oversight. But it left us all in the awkward position of my publisher having spent more than EUR10,000 on an audiobook that they would never be able to recoup on. Both my publisher and my agent offered to eat these costs, but I felt bad about this, given the great lengths both had gone to over the years to help me live my principles through my books.

Besides: I have this platform of mine, the newsletters and lists of people who've bought audiobooks from me before and the people who've backed the Kickstarters for my previous English works, and I decided I would buy the audiobook rights from my German publisher and try to make the money back by selling directly to my German fans.

Today, I've launched a Kickstarter campaign to sell the DRM-free German audiobook. I'm also selling the DRM-free ebook, and the German paperback, which will be fulfilled by my pals at Berlin's excellent sf/f bookstore Otherland (due to the Trump tariff nonsense, these can only be shipped in the EU, UK, and Switzerland):

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-auf-deutsche-drm-freie

There's something for English-speaking readers, too: discounted editions of the English-language ebook and audiobook (read by Wil Wheaton), available in bundles with the German titles, or on their own. Europeans can also order the print edition of the book (again, fulfilled by Otherland in Berlin).

Now, I don't actually speak German. I grew up speaking Yiddish, much of which I've forgotten, which means that I can kind of grunt out ungrammatical German-adjacent phrases (the Otherland folks generously translated my Kickstarter page into German). That means that I have extremely limited ability to promote this Kickstarter to German-speaking audiences. I'm really relying on my readers here: if you are a German-speaker and/or have German-speaking friends, please let them know about this!

When you do, your pals are going to ask you what the book is about. Red Team Blues tells the story of the last case of Martin Hench, a 67 year old high-tech forensic accountant who's spent 40 years in Silicon Valley, busting the weirdest financial scams that three generations of tech bros cooked up. For this final job, Marty's been called out of retirement to resolve that scammiest of all tech-bro schemes, a cryptocurrency heist.

Marty's dear old pal Danny Lazer has built a new – and wildly successful – kind of blockchain, built on the security chips in mobile devices, called Trustlesscoin. Lazer is a cypherpunk legend, but that's not why Trustlesscoin went from zero to more than a billion in capitalization in a few short months: all that money poured in because some of the world's most ruthless criminals came to appreciate how Danny's cryptocurrency could facilitate money-laundering.

That would be bad enough, but Danny is exactly the kind of very smart guy who is more than capable of outsmarting himself. That's how he came to build a cryptographic back-door into Trustlesscoin, a secret key that allows the bearer to rewrite the supposedly immutable transactions in the network, which is to say, to steal all the money.

That's where Marty Hench comes in: Danny summons Marty to his home in Palo Alto because someone has stolen the physical token that this billion-dollar key lives on, and if someone doesn't get it back soon, it's only a matter of time until a billion dollars goes missing, and then the kind of people who resolve their monetary disputes with bone-saws and red-hot pokers will come looking for Danny.

That's where the story starts – but it turns out that recovering Danny's missing keys are the easy part. The hard part comes next, when Marty finds himself in the crosshairs of the violent international crime syndicates that boosted the keys in the first place.

People really like this book. It's the kind of book you stay up all night reading (or, as Molly White from Web3 is Going Just Great put it, "don't start reading it at bedtime if you have to be awake for something the next morning"). If you find yourself craving morning Marty Hench in the morning, I've published two more bestsellers recounting his earlier adventures: The Bezzle and Picks and Shovels.

Check it out for yourself. Here's the first chapter of the German audiobook, read by Uve Teschner:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8e2or8ze_4

And here's the first chapter of the English audiobook, read by Wil Wheaton:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mb8yJeASgho

The campaign only runs for a brisk three weeks (I've got to get it all put away before I head out on tour with Enshittification in October), so act fast:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-auf-deutsche-drm-freie

And please, tell your German-speaking friends!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/07/21/martin-mensch/#horbuch

#pluralistic #red team blues #kickstarter #crowdfunding #crowdfunder #uve teschner #eucd #article 6 #anticircumvention #horbuch #drm #drm-free #drm-frei #auf deutsch #german #audiobooks #bitcoin #heists #cryptocurrency

690 notes · View notes

acid-ixx · 7 months ago

Text

seasons in the sun: goodbye, my love, please pray for me...

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post !

you guys i'm sorry for literally dying from the feed all of a sudden but i need y'all to be as feral as i am for the idea of a romantic! yandere jason with his childhood sweetheart reader.

y'know, the dichotomy of what used to be softness in the past in your relationship with jason. you know him as the sweet, malnourished boy who trespassed in your house to raid your fridge, the kind protector of your apartment after you'd offer your leftovers when he'd invaded your house and you're the only one left, advising him to run off to the balcony to hide once your parents come back from their trip; the silly guy who laughs shyly at your jokes, who'd coincidentally became your classmate after he'd been taken in by his rich father, who recalled the story to you when you'd both sneak by the backyard of your school with no qualms for privacy because it's you who he first learned to trust when he's thrust into the cruel lifestyle of the streets, knowing only how to bare his teeth but never how to retract it at the hands of its owner.

he's your closest confidant, the smart, nerdy boy who reciprocated your blooming romance, read classics to you with his squeaky voice, who offers to share with you his lollipops to "make up for all the times i ate your dinner at home," who secretly shoves his assignment answers under your desk when you'd forgotten to do yours and whispers the answers to the questions you're forced to recite when he notices your tensed jaws and quivering lips, shy and unaware of what to tell the teacher. only he knows it when your confidence is at an all-time low, and he helps guide through your problems like how you've been the only light in his life.

jason is the sweetest boy, he has no idea how to hold your hands, whose face flushes when your lips kiss his cheeks and when you cheekily grin at him after. sweaty fingers interlace with yours while you both lay on the grass of the gardens, listening to him rambling about the stars, and magic, and fantasy worlds, after bruce had finally permitted you to enter the manor because even his father could see how lovely you've impacted his adopted son; both of you keeping secret of your first meeting, similar to how you bask under the moonlight, alone, as if your presence yearns to be worshipped, he thinks.

he's your childhood sweetheart, and nothing can ever shatter the reality that he's the only right one for you.

your first love, sure, and your first heartbreak too.

taken away from the world at the cruel hands of death, at the ripe age of 17. the details his father retold you, with his equally somber, mourning expression do no justice to what felt like sledgehammers breaking a dam in your heart, your entire world breaking, even bruce's hands weighing at you shoulders during the entire funeral process don't ground you at all, you've no thought other than just how truly lonely you are to the world without him by your side—

the burden only becomes heavier, the tears refusing to drip from your eyes, staring at the picture frame of your happy, chipped-tooth lover now in a casket, surrounded by mourning flowers, sun dipping below the horizon which only darkens your vision.he unmoving now, dead, actually, and your mind couldn't comprehend how you'll never hear the chirp of his voice on one side of his ears and feel the scabs on his skin slowly fading away each day under your care.

even if your chest beats too loudly in your ears, your sweetheart, for the first time in your life, wouldn't be able to grasp at your shivering hands and assure you that he's alright.

he's gone. your sweet, loving, jason is gone.

you wish he'd die in your arms instead, rather than left you aching, worried and senseless from the days he'd suddenly disappear, then suddenly dead from a bombing, as what his father had told you. and you're not there to witness the scene, you couldn't even fathom just how much your body — still locked in place watching the funeral proceedings from afar, you don't feel quite yourself anymore — wishes to run to his open casket just to take his cold, laying body in your arms to feel your warmth.

at such an early moment, from what had felt like an eternity spent with the young boy, yet such a short span of being together with him at the same time— your grief has you yearning for the past image of your sweetheart. you want him back, you want your jason back. the years you've wasted, trying so hard to repair, to fill the broken gaps in your heart, to overcorrect, finding and chasing the comfort from other people, yet reeling away when every other person felt so foreign in your arms instead. nothing could ever replace the sweet ache in your tooth back when you're with him, nobody could amount to the tears you've wasted over jason because nobody is jason.

not even him, not when he came back a hardened soul, with a different body now bigger and stronger than you, who'd visit you during the night, intruding in on your apartment which oh-so prompts you to recall the very first day you'd met him. you don't know of his hardships, you're given a different story and the entire situation perplexes you, but you couldn't deny the ache in your chest when faced with this burly man, standing in front of you, breathing heavily and gazing at you with the same, starstruck stare that pins you on the spot of your bed.

he doesn't look like the jason who died, but he feels so much like him that your tender tears finally dripped down your quivering cheeks after what felt like eons of grief.

when he was resurrected from the dead after two years, he's not quite the same jason that you'd known and loved. he's broken, crawling out of that disgusting pit with only rage in his heart and the inclination to plot vengeance on those who've wronged him. there shouldn't've been an ounce of softness left, no love nor desire, no fantasy of his ex-lover when it should only be violence that he'd have known. but even so, beneath every vile emotion he felt, was the drive, the passion to come back to you first after he'd come to his senses. he'd remember screaming in agony, at feeling the rickety bones grinding against one another, at feeling for the sinewy muscles now aching and bulging in its restraints.

he's in a body taller than when he'd pass away from, and he wishes, after gaining enough consciousness— he fucking wishes you're there with him during the recovery phase, from when he's left to the cavern of his thoughts, braindead and unable to comprehend ra's al ghul's words, not when he's busy drowning in the depths of his clawing memories of you. nothing, not even the silken sheets he lays on, compares to you kissing his wounds like you always do and comforting him with your hushed words. beyond the exterior of his violence, of his boiling rage, was the hope that you'd still think of him in every waking moment the same way his first thought directs at how your fingers would tenderly graze at his skin.

i'm just saying, the angst/comfort potential of having the only person closest to you stripped away from your grasps, now in a different image. he's the same man you've prayed every single day to come back, but being faced to face with him that moonlit night, while your eyes still take in the unfamiliar form of jason's body towering over you, when his hands couldn't keep itself plastered to its side that it just, reaches out to grab you so he could bury his head on your clavicle and take a whiff of your body— you couldn't ignore the sheer differences.

how he scrunched his body to meet your height unlike the past where it's you adjusting to him, how his hands take precaution to ensure you're not crushed by his deadly strength, palms bigger than your head, how he takes utmost consideration peppering kisses on your shoulders, mumbling his apologies, his "i miss you, baby,"'s and "i love you s'much, i'm sorry for being gone for too long, sweetheart"'s, his refusal to release you; all while your heart raises a mile a minute because this is the red hood in front of you, clad in heavy metal armoury and mercenary weapons; a danger to gotham's criminal kind. yet it's him who speaks to you like your beloved jason with his heavy accent and rushed words, now a deep tremor compared to the young boy who chirps your name.

the only thing closest to you which reminds you of your past moments with jason, was that ever-so dedicated look of love. his hazy gaze, disguised under marred skin and sunken piercing eyes, yet so delicately filled with love that fills your chest with nostalgia long gone: of nights spent together at your apartment when he'd read you your favorite fairytales, of days having picnics together, baskets filled with handpicked fruits and alfred's sandwich, of moments coddling each other, feeding off the warm buzz off both bodies, legs entangled, sharing innocent kisses behind the trees.

of heartfelt promises, long forgotten yet still protected within jason's heart now guarded under lock and key, with only you having access if you just allow him to be loved by you once more. the man before you is a man who's changed, filled with contempt, jealousy, scorn for a mankind that scorches at every criminal, emotions so utterly complex compared to the boy you used to look at with ease, whose emotions used to be so easily distinguished from anger and adoration, who never beared hatred unlike now.

and you, who's just so conflicted, equally broken and unable to understand the entire situation. why, just why does the world want to torment you so much that it brings your old lover back— but different, hands now scarred, pinning you down with unfamiliar muscles bigger than your body, burying himself on your shoulders, mumbling and sobbing about his woes while your mind still reels itself back in to comfort him as you always do. this is the man you still love. his touch is all-knowing, he knows you loved it when his kisses reach the back of your ears, when his fingers fondle your waist.

he's different, yet the same. if it's not your dear jason coming back, if it was red hood, then why do you still recognize his presence so easily?

his aggressiveness to others you couldn't approve — the news labels him a brutal anti-hero, batman's new criminal enemy, he's a weapon of fear you should've resented — but why is it that it's his gentleness towards you that makes your heart ache at the memories of when he'd defend you from intruders, using his wits instead of his lacking strength? why do you feel like a completed puzzle piece in his arms?

he's here now. the red hood is here, but so is jason todd.

you could've called the gcpd, report them of his intrusion inside your house, forget all of this ever happened. but you should've also never brought your hands up to tangle itself upon the messy tresses of his black hair now streaked with white at the front, you shouldn't've hushed him and his cracking voice, taking his cheeks in your palms and having him look you straight in the eyes, drowning at dulled, blue eyes. once it reminds you of the blazing sky, now it's like the raging storms of the sea at night. without his red, gleaming helmet, he's reduced to your sweetheart; you cradle his head and stay silent.

still conflicted over brewing emotions, over the resurfacing love that you've forced yourself to bury the same time his casket was buried under the manor's soil.

in truth, you're tired of yearning, or constantly seeking a cheap, temporary replacement for jason. you've come to the stage of anger and withdrawal too, and your friends have told you that you should learn to rebound. but you're oh-so parched from love that no other could've given you, that you just couldn't fully relinquish your feelings, you can't.

in truth, you almost learnt to let go. almost.

but there's always the greatest fact: it's that as long as he's alive, even if resurrected and never the same, you'll still learn to love him over and over again, no matter if it takes years, he's yours and you're his. despite the cruelty he bears to others, he's your sweet boy, you miss him far too long, far too deeply. all is fair in love and war, they say, and all you wanted to do was to replicate those moments where it's just the two of you; even if his body is now bigger than you, you can still hold him, no? even if he knows how to wield guns better than how he held you shyly back then, he can learn—

thing is, you just wish things were simpler, you wish he'd have no other priorities, you wish the world didn't strip him away from his innocence. jason didn't deserve it, his death, and when he'd confess the truth: of his identity, of how he truly passed away, of his trials and tribulations to earn the path back to your place; you're left stinging with ache more than nostalgia, wishing you'd notice sooner.

so even if the man who lays in bed with you now is different, he's still the same man who held you tight in his arms, who remembers how to tuck you in the way you like it, who gazes at you filled with adoration, lips still quirking up hesitantly at your expectant stare. maybe it hurts, still, that he's not entirely the same jason who's smiles without bounds, who doesn't sport the same crinkle of mirthful eyes and jumpy actions, but he still retains the same love he'd carry for you all those years, even in death—

he's back, and that's all that matters.

a/n: yes do leave comments 🤩 idk what i just wrote honestly, srs about that. and i wrote it so that you do kind of have more... obsessive traits towards jason hehe. he's my favorite other than tim drake (well almost every character in dc is my fave, but i have my top spots), and tbh the reason i disappeared was because i was getting too invested in canon dc content that i forgot to write for it ngl.

711 notes · View notes

cultofcola · 5 months ago

Text

a detailed guide on scripting !

if you decide to do so … this is just how i do it, not forcing.

act i , the basics.

who are you? name. surname. nickname. place of birth. date of birth. current age. status (student? employed? / blood status if applicable) species (supernatural or human?) height. weight. race. ethnicity. nationality.

appearance. hair colour. hair texture. hair type. eye colour. eyebrows. breath smell. skin. scent. lip taste if you want.

clothing. what do you like to wear? t-shirts. pants&jeans. skirts if you want. shoes. nails if you want. are you known for your style? accessories.

childhood. from what kind of family you were born? where did you grew up? any childhood friends? favourite cousins? how did you become what you are now? (if famous / supernatural)

( if you are an adult. ) did you go to university? if so, what masters do you have? how was your experience? what was your first job? your teenage years? any ex or first love? are you still friends with people from high school?

present. your personality. main traits. your hobbies. your passions. if you have collections, write them down. if you like to read, what kind of books you love? how do others view you? if supernatural, are you part of a prophecy (if so, explain your role in this prophecy, and why you are part of it)

extras. social media. powers if you have them. if hogwarts, write your wand.

act ii , the extension of you.

friends. who are they? how did you met? how is your relationship with them? do you have any friendgroups? group chats?

family. talk about them. do you still live with them? how is your relationship with them? any sibilings? favourite cousins? does your aunt spoil you… or a grandparent, maybe.

relationships. do you have a partner? if so, talk about them. how did they treat you? how did you met? any cool or sweet dates? if you are still not together, how will you (general or detailed). if you don’t have a s/o, any past relationships? any rumours? does someone have a crush on you?

pets. what’s their name and age? how did you adopt them? what’s your relationship? does the pet trust you?

extras. do you have any hater or fan… or both? any mortal enemy? if so, your past with them, the start of your animosity.

act iii , education.

school. name of the school? is it private, or for certain type of supernatural creatures? are they divided in houses? if so, what’s yours? where is the school located? the vibe? kind of students admitted to the school? does it have a motto? if it’s a boarding school, describe your room/dormitory. and your school uniform.

subjects. timetable. what subject do you take? how are the teachers? did a certain teacher adopt you and your friendgroup? who is your favourite? favourite subjects? how are you doing in all of your subjects? where do you go for break/lunch?

events. any formal? parties? or secret societies?

extras. does the school have a mystery you want to solve? any extracurricular activities like sports? clubs?

act iv , patriotic stuff.

city. talk about where you are from / live. any special or secret places for you? favourite hangout spots? memorable locations for you? the vibe of the town.

house. or apartment. entry hall. living room. bathroom(s). bedrooms. your bedroom. kitchen. laundry room. garden. office? extras room like library etc if you want. where is it located?

( if you have a fantasy dr. ) your kingdom. your castle. private chambers. overall vibe of your kingdom… its name, story, rulers, any magical creatures? or religion? any festivity? kingdoms near you? places you want to have in your kingdom.

act v , rules.

safety and stuff like that.

887 notes · View notes

inthemoodforblastt · 1 month ago

Text

Buffy is a radical heroine precisely because she refuses to conform neither to the stereotypical femininity imposed on female protagonists nor to the hyper-masculine mold that dominates the classical hero’s journey. Yes, she carries the archetypal weight of a traditionally male-coded role: she’s the Chosen One, the one on whose shoulders rests the fate of the world, the one who must confront the ultimate evil, the one expected to sacrifice her life—repeatedly—for the sake of the greater good. But what makes Buffy subversive is that she inhabits this role on her own terms, and through it, exposes its contradictions.

Unlike the classical male hero —who usually embraces his destiny with stoic detachment or egotistical bravado— Buffy resists it. She doesn’t want to be the Slayer. It’s not a romanticized quest for glory. It’s a burden. And that resistance, that refusal to glorify suffering or noble sacrifice, is profoundly political. Because Buffy doesn’t accept her role out of fatalism or legacy: she accepts it as a conscious ethical position. She chooses, with full awareness of the cost, to save others. Not because it makes her exceptional, but because she refuses to let anyone else carry the pain she knows too intimately.

What’s even more radical is how she does it: without amputating her emotions, without repressing her pain, without adopting the affective coldness that stories have historically rewarded in male heroes. Buffy doesn’t perform strength through detachment. Her power is explicitly emotional. Her vulnerability is not a weakness to overcome: it is a weapon. She continues to love, to feel, to break down, to rage, to mourn and all of that is framed not as a flaw, but as a source of power. She is not strong despite her emotions, she is strong through them.

This is where Buffy directly confronts the patriarchal foundation of the “hero’s journey.” She doesn’t just challenge the damsel-in-distress trope (though she absolutely obliterates it) she also rejects the masculinized “girlboss” fantasy that demands emotional sterility as a precondition for leadership. She is not a woman in a man’s role. She reshapes the role itself. And she does it while never losing sight of what matters: not honor, not destiny, not recognition, but people. Buffy is not guided by ego, nor by duty to abstract ideals. Her compass is rooted in care, in community, in love.

She’s not a knight on a noble quest. She’s not even interested in heroism as a myth. She is a Slayer. A worker. A survivor. And by embracing that, she collapses the romanticized masculinity of the classical hero and rebuilds it from a place of collective responsibility, emotional truth, and moral clarity. That is her revolution.

#i fucking live her #really #she was my fave as a child and now rewatching the show as an adult i love her more #buffy summers #buffy the vampire slayer #buffyverse #Buffy meta #Buffy summers meta #btvs meta #character analysis #gender roles #women in media #Buffy

246 notes · View notes

space-blue · 8 months ago

Text

A complete guide to Blue Daddy's Girl (my) Arcane fics

Multi-chapter

Fathers and Daughters (My big hit)

Alternate AU set after S01E03, where Silco adopts both Vi and Powder. Large ensemble cast, multiple POVs, but mostly Vi.

100k words. Completed. Fanart chapters and art comms.

While the World Turns Around

Silco/Vander post betrayal reconciliation AU. Set before the show. POV Vander.

5.2k words. Completed. Entire chapter of gifted fanart at the end.

Our Love, That Flows Into the Sea is the same fic but from the POV of Silco. Unfinished WIP I don't plan on continuing.

The Shimmer Baron’s Family

Silco/Vander Regency AU. Estranged family, set during a ball at the Medarda estate.

10k words. Unfinished. No plans to finish it, stop asking lol or else make a serious request via my ko-fi.

A Stray

4.7k. Set in the "good verse". Silco and Vander adopt Viktor. One shot converted to WIP, has fanart.

Whatever I do, this is where we end

A dark Silco time loop, but told from the POV of Vander, who gets reset every time unknowingly. Strong themes of violence, suicide, despair and smut. Read the tags.

7.7k words. Completed. No fanart.

Science of the Soul

Ongoing WIP, Jayvik Avatar AU in which Zaunites are Na'vi and everyone from Piltover are humans. With art from me and others.

Cursed, by a brush of your hand

Silco/Vander soulmate AU where the soulmark is framed as a potential life ending curse. Aroace Silco, BFF with Renata Glasc. Basically an aroace perspective on soulmates.

7k words. Completed. No fanart.

What I wouldn’t do for you

Silco & Vander role swap. Silco adopts the kids and runs the Last Drop.

5.2k words. Completed. Open ending. No fanart.

The Darkin Child

Viktor, Singed and Silco are vampire-adjacent monsters, Vander is a werewolf. Married zaundads with Viktor returning to Zaun in hiding.

4.3k words. Unfinished, no plans to finish it.

The Centaur Breaker

Silly centaur AU with Silco as a rancher in a fantasy world (not a US Far West setting), rescuing captured centaurs. Vander, Sevika, Jinx & Vi as centaurs.

2.8k words. Unfinished. Only a single chapter and no plans to continue.

☆ Arcane Art Dump

The home of all my Arcane fanarts worth saving.

One Shots

Those are sorted by kudos, from the most popular down to least.

Pretty Blue Puffs of Arcane Smoke

829 words. Silco and Powder discuss getting tattoos. Set in the Fathers and Daughters AU.

Worries, and ways to dispel them & Explosions, and their fallout

5k words total. Silco x Reader two parter, written in the week before season 1's finale. 2nd person gender neutral reader without body description.

Lost Child

3.7k words. Pirate Silco is back in Zaun and trying to avoid Vander. He runs into a lost child called "Cait" at Bridgewaltz market.

The Monster Within & The Monster Without

1.3k words for Monster Within. Post-betrayal Silco recovers and cuts his hair. Based on a fanart by @/Wish. 1.6k words for Monster Without. Set at the same time, but Vander POV as he deals with emotional turmoil after attacking Silco (probably my favourite one shot to this day).

Adoption

1.8k words. Vander and Silco are still brothers. They discuss adopting the girls in this no-betrayal AU.

Beer And Bribery

2k words. Vi & Sevika. Set in the Fathers and Daughters AU. Vi asks Sevika for help picking a present for Silco. Written for the Arcane parenting week event.

Let Me Try

4.3k words. Newest on the list! Arcane season 2 finale fix it. Timebomb... Ekko walks away from the final battle in a daze after learning that Jinx is dead. She isn't, no matter what Vi may believe.

Not Dead Yet & A Friend In Need

3k words total. Jinx finds a dead body in Zaun, but Viktor isn’t quite dead yet. Jinx & Viktor, written prior to season 2 for Sicktember.

Without Questions

627 words. Written for a fanart that is currently down, but hopefully I'll fix it soon. Young Zaundads fluff. Vander doesn’t understand what Silco sees in him, but he’s not willing to question it.

Gun Nerds Of All Nations

3k words. Set in a similar AU to F&D but not actually. Powder & young Caitlyn bond at a fair's shooting competition. Written for the Arcane Parenting Week.

Memories of Sweetness

2k words. Set in the Fathers and Daughters AU. Silco discovers that a staple food of his youth, long thought to have disappeared from Zaun, is back on the streets. He has to share this with Powder and Vi, both born too late to have ever tried it.

No Favourite

1.2k words. Vander claims he doesn't have a favourite among his kids, but they don't see it that way. Written for the Arcane Parenting Week.

Hard Truths

3k words. Ren (Marcus' daughter) tries to find to meaning to her father’s death and ends up meeting Jinx in Zaun.

Blame

830 words. Jinx POV heavy angst. Jinx talks to Silco after his death, until Sevika comes to find her. Written for the Arcane Parenting Week.

A Lesson In Silence

3k words. Set in the Fathers and Daughters AU. Mek (now known as Gustove) takes Powder on a spying mission. Written for the Arcane Parenting Week.

Last Chance

1.3k words. Past Silco/Vander. Missing scene in the cannery, a private conversation between them. Generally bitter sweet and canon compliant.

Son of Zaun

2k words. One day, Silco's mother took him up-top, to see the sky, the sun, and the people who live above them all.

Sepia Smile

732 words. The photograph is faded, its sepia tones keeping the colour of the man's eyes a secret. Vi stares at it for a long time, perplexed. She doesn't understand what Vander saw in him. Written for the Arcane Parenting Week.

A Terrible Gamble

2.3k words. Jinx (and Silco whispering in her mind) set off to rescue Vander from Singed’s lab after the events of season 2.

On Your Head

2.5k words. Alternate retelling of Mel and the young princess' of her memories. In the Princess' POV.

Drunken Dreams

Comic fanart. Jinx brings a drunk Vi home.

Just a cough & Dramatics

685 words for Just a cough. The moment Silco wakes up with a sore throat, he knows he's in trouble with Vander. Written for Sictember. 1k words for Dramatics. Vander sickfic to match.

A Fresh Start

1.9k words. Second person POV where you are brought to a recovering Silco in secret, and give him a haircut and much needed comfort. Gen fic.

Eat You Alive

604 words. Dark!Vi kills Caitlyn as soon as they enter the Lanes.

Maintenance

1.6k words. Explicit. A smutty Mek/Marcus with power dynamics in Silco’s office.

A Haunting

754 words. Heavy angst Vander & Silco meet shortly after the betrayal.

A Touch of Memory

2.2k words. A self-indulgent Star Wars crossover set in the Old Republic with Sith Silco, Jinx and Sevika and Mandalorian Vander. Has links to fanart.

In the Jaws of the Fox

247 words. Mel/Jayce. Mel contemplates the man sprawled in her bed, sleeping insouciantly.

Who Saves The Boy Saviour?

1.3k words. Dark fic!! Jinx captures Ekko post season 1 finale and straps him to the chair Silco used on Vander. Timebomb.

Ragdoll

766 words. A look into young Silco and Vander's budding relationship. It's complicated. With art, made for the Zaundads Zine.

A New Tattoo

968 words. Set in the Fathers and Daughters AU. The story behind Mek’s tattoos.

Five Times Vi Got In Trouble

4.8k words. Vander & Grayson friendship fic done for a charity prize.

Bullseye

500 words. Mel Medarda/Grayson. Mel takes the sheriff with her to visit a progress day and asks her to show off in a shooting range.

My Ko-fi is open for tips, but I'm also open to discuss writing commissions. My DMs are open | Find me on Bsky

449 notes · View notes

hivemuthur · 4 months ago

Text

A Deer and a Man - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure filth :v

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,6K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: What's up Viktor Nation? First: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for all your help with proof reading and helping me putting this into sort of historically accurate setting. Playlist on Spotify. I can't believe it's over!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For the first time in your life, you take your mother’s advice. And it is, to say the least, difficult. Maintaining a calm, composed façade while a tempest rages inside you is not unfamiliar, but the effort becomes infinitely harder when it is laced with longing—not for something, but for someone.

And Viktor is a worthy opponent. Neither of you plays this game out of spite; it is fear that guides you, the quiet worry that one wrong move will send the other bolting. From your perspective, your heart is already bare—it is his turn to pick up whatever you left on the library floor.

The days pass in a rhythm that neither of you dares disturb. Conversations are polite, words exchanged with careful precision—utterly unhostile, yet utterly empty. The thrilling tension that once crackled between you, charged with unspoken desire and sharp-witted challenges, has dulled into something else entirely. A tension of stress. Of careful treading.

Once in a while, he tries—you have to admit that. There are moments when he edges closer to something deeper, where his words hover on the cusp of meaning, where his eyes search yours as if waiting for permission to proceed. But each time, you falter. You do not know what to give him, what is safe to surrender. Your mother left you no further instructions.

Every day ends with you torn between giving up, knocking on his door, or screaming into the pillow of your own bed. You choose the latter and promise yourself that tomorrow, you will be braver. Until you see him—slouched over his coffee, exhausted by something beyond your reach.

Until one day, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling them like an impatient hand demanding entry. Inside, the house feels smaller than ever, every room suffocating with its stillness, its emptiness. Your notebooks lie abandoned, their pages filled with thoughts that have nowhere else to go. The piano holds no appeal. Eliza, dear Eliza, would offer kind words and warm company, but even that feels unbearable—words would make the frustration real, give it form, and you cannot afford that.

So, you take your mother’s advice more literally than she likely intended. You step through the door without a word, a book tucked under your arm, and let the wind take you.

In your mind, Viktor follows. He finds you before you reach the gate, seizes your wrist with a desperate sort of heat in his touch. He says your name like it is both an apology and a demand, like he has realised too late that he cannot let you go.

But there is no hand at your wrist. No voice calling you back. The wind is your only companion, and it cares nothing for your foolish fantasies.

You walk. Past the house, past the garden, beyond the familiar paths you have taken before. The land stretches wide, unbound by human hands, unfolding in an endless sprawl of untamed beauty. The hills roll like waves frozen in time, their slopes marked by patches of gnarled trees, black against the grey sky. Fields stretch beyond sight, the grass bending and thrashing beneath the force of the wind, caught between dance and struggle.

A river carves its way through the valley, its waters wild, swollen from recent rains. On the banks, delicate flowers cling to the earth beside jagged stones, their petals trembling with each gust. Above, the sky churns, clouds thick and restless, shifting between light and shadow, as if the heavens themselves cannot decide whether to bless the land or break it.

Here, beauty does not exist without violence. Here, softness and savagery do not contradict but coexist. And yet, for all its ferocity, the landscape does not rage against itself. It simply is.

You sit upon a smooth, flat rock, letting the world settle around you, pressing your palms to the cool surface as if to ground yourself in its vastness. The book opens in your lap, but for a long while, you do not read. You only breathe. And for the first time in days, your mind is quiet.

Back at the house, more than one mind is restless.

At first, your absence is barely noted. The house is vast, and you often take solace in its quieter corners, slipping away with a book or a blank sheet of music. But as the hours stretch and Eliza’s calls go unanswered, a ripple of concern spreads through the household.

It is Eliza who worries first, pressing her lips together as she checks the library, the sitting room, even the piano bench, expecting to find you lost in thought. When she does not, her steps quicken. The kitchen staff shake their heads at her inquiry. The drawing room is empty. Your bedchamber, undisturbed.

Then, the matter reaches Viktor.

He notices your absence in a far quieter way. A missed meal, an empty chair where you ought to have been. He is good at reading patterns, after all—seeing the way things are supposed to fit together. You have been in his periphery for days, a ghost of yourself, barely tethered to the present. Even when you sat across from him, you were elsewhere. And now, you are nowhere at all.

Viktor sets his fork down. The thought is irrational—this immediate coil of unease in his gut—but it does not loosen. He does not ask where you are yet. He only stands, slow and deliberate, as he leaves the otherwise empty dining room.

It is easier to look for you than to think about what he has not said.

He has tried. He swears he has tried. The words have reached the back of his throat, caught there, strangled before they could see daylight. You have let him speak before—really speak, about things beyond the polite nothings you trade now. But each time he has tried, something stops him.

Sometimes, it is you. A wary glance, a flicker of hesitation when he nears the subject too closely. Other times, it is himself—the heavy hand of caution gripping his shoulder, the fear that one wrong step will send you running.

And then there is the contract. A foolish thing now, a ghost in the air between you, binding him tighter than his own hesitation. What use is freedom when it tastes like regret? What use is it when, instead of granting him solace, it imprisons him—his thoughts spiralling in all the wrong directions? One particularly harrowing thought slices through his heart. He tries to chase it away, yet to no avail. What if?

Upon visiting room after room, he finally finds Eliza. She startles, her fingers tightening around the apron she’s wringing between them. She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into one of careful neutrality, but Viktor catches the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks, voice light but not quite steady.

Viktor studies her, his grip tightening on the cane at his side. “Eliza.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for pretences. “Where is she?”

Eliza’s composure cracks for the briefest moment before she dips into a small curtsy. “I am so terribly sorry, but I do not know, my lord.”

It isn’t enough. His pulse beats hard in his throat, his mind filling the absence of answers with the worst possibilities. “Who is she with?” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, sharp and urgent, betraying more than he wants to.

He knows the contract’s terms, remembers them too well. The very thing he once clung to as assurance that he would not hurt you, not cage you, is now a blade twisting in his gut. The notion that you might have given up—truly given up—and gone ahead with your initial deal, cuts deeper than he is willing to admit.

Whatever you please, with whomever you please. A term he regretted since the beginning.

Eliza’s brows draw together in something like surprise, as if she cannot believe he would even think it. “With no one, my lord.” Her voice is quieter now, something knowing and gentler lacing her words. “She left on her own.”

Before Viktor can react, before he can feel or say anything, a thunderclap splits the sky outside, shaking the very air around them. His head snaps toward the window, where the light has already dimmed, the once-placid sky now churning with bruised clouds.

Where you are, the storm is already raging.

You hadn’t noticed it at first—too lost in the hush of the hills, in the way the vastness of the land swallowed the smallness of your troubles. But then a thick drop of rain lands squarely on the open page of your book, the ink smudging beneath the sudden weight of water. Another follows. Then another.

Hastily, you snap the book shut and rise from your rock of solitude, a cold wind biting at your exposed skin. The first proper gust sends a shiver down your spine, but it is not until the rain comes in earnest—buckets of it, slanting and constant—that you realise how terribly unprepared you are.

You grip the book under your arm, shielding it as best you can, and start back toward the house. There is no avoiding it now; you will be soaked to the bone before you even reach the gates. The walk feels shorter on the way back, and whatever had calmed inside you now feels even softer, as if the tempest in your heart has poured out to be echoed by the storm raging around you.

Rain pours in relentless sheets, drenching you through and threatening to dissolve the book in your hands. You contemplate abandoning your shoes altogether—clogged with mud as they are—but the sheer absurdity of the thought makes you feel strangely light. Home looms on the horizon, and you almost laugh at yourself: a fully grown woman, trotting through the muck in a drenched dress, holding a book over her head as though parchment could shield her from the downpour.

A silhouette emerges in the distance, growing clearer with each step until you can make out Viktor approaching, his coat draped over his head. The mere thought of him sparks something sour in your chest at first, yet the fact that he came out after you—in the middle of a storm—warms you enough that your initial scowl evaporates.

“Thank God,” he exhales as he reaches you. He sticks his cane in the mud, hands grip your shoulders abruptly before pulling the coat from his head and draping it over you. It’s no use—the thing is already soaked through—but the gesture alone is enough.

“Now you’re a believer?” you laugh, swiping rain from your face to see him better.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers come up to brush wet strands from your forehead, and your heart stumbles when he murmurs, “You know what I mean. Are you hurt?”

Before you can reply, his cold hands cup your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks. You wonder if he notices the heat blooming there.

For days, the feelings had been easier to hold at bay—kept at a careful distance, left to sit absently beside you at the table or dissolve into silence when you passed each other in the corridors. But now, with his touch grounding you in this moment, the illusion shatters. The ache rushes back, stronger than ever, no longer something you can pretend away. His hands, warm despite the chill, cradle you with a gentleness that weakens your resolve, his fingers steady despite the storm raging around you. And his eyes—full of worry, of something close to tenderness—search your face as if you are something fragile, something to be handled with care. The sheer attention of it, the way he truly sees you, steals whatever words you might have said.

“No,” is all that is able to leave you. His gaze burns into you, so intense that you have to look away. “Just wet,” you add softly.

The moment he is certain you are unharmed, Viktor can no longer suppress the tumult of emotions churning within him. Insecurity rages, jealousy—uninvited and fierce—surges to the forefront of his mind, raw and stinging. Without thinking, his hands grasp your shoulders with surprising intensity, his voice taut with restraint as he demands, "Where in God’s name have you been?"

“I—” You start, caught off guard, searching his face for the root of his frustration. But you tell the truth as it is. “I wandered. Too far to make it home before the rain.”

“Who were you with?” The accusation comes faster than his mind can stop it. It is vile—he knows that—you have given him no reason to doubt you, yet he must know. He has to.

Offence flashes across your face, your expression hardening as you straighten and tilt your chin in defiance. “Myself,” you say proudly.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” Viktor growls, his face inches from yours, his breath hot despite the chill of the storm. He swipes a hand through his dripping hair, water trickling into his eyes.

“I do not.” Anger rises in you now, sharp and indignant. You wrench your arms from his grasp. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You are my wife,” he says, and the words surprise even him. His tone surprises him—self-explanatory and wounded, as if you have done something wrong. His hands surprise him most of all, when, in desperation, they come to your waist, pleading for you not to go. Apology, guilt, need—everything tangled together, because Viktor has no idea how to say what he truly wants to.

“On paper,” you say quietly, one last attempt to hold your ground.

“No.” His grip tightens at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours. “You foolish girl,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut as his lips barely graze yours. “You don’t know the first thing.” His voice is raw, his fingers digging into the damp fabric at your hips.

“How right you’ve been,” he murmurs at last—before sealing his mouth over yours.

The tension that has stretched between you for weeks—unspoken words, lingering touches, stolen glances—snaps all at once. Viktor moves. His mouth crashes against yours, not gently, not sweetly, but with hours, days, weeks of restraint unravelling in a single, desperate instant. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you—rain and warmth and home—and his hands pull you flush against him, fingers gripping at the small of your back as if he means to fuse you to him.

Water soaks through both of you, but neither of you care.

You gasp against his lips, and Viktor seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss with a fervour that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding, devouring, sending heat searing through your veins. His hands, once gripping you so tightly, soften—one slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other splaying wide against your lower back, keeping you pressed against the solid warmth of him.

Your fingers find purchase in his soaked curls, tugging, eliciting a sound from him that makes your knees weak. He groans against your lips, the sound guttural, wrecked, as though this—you—are the very thing holding him together. He kisses you like he is starving, like he has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and can finally, finally taste freedom.

When you break apart, it is only for air. He does not let you go—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your rain-slicked lips, his fingers trembling where they cradle your spine. His eyes, dark and blown wide with want, search yours, as if trying to make sense of what he’s just done.

He takes your hand and places it on his chest, the rattling inside thunders through your fingers. "My heart aches for you," Viktor clamours, muffled by the rain pouring down upon you both, his voice raw and raspy.

Hot breath fans against your lips, trembling as he clings to you as though letting go would tear him apart. "All of me… aches for you," he says loudly, the words tumbling from him in a pained plea, as if the very act of speaking them is both agony and relief.

His hands come back to tighten around you, fingers dig into your flesh and fist your hair, as though he fears you might slip from his grasp. "I want to worship you, body and soul, as I vowed," he breathes, the words catching in his throat, his lips grazing yours between each shuddering syllable.

"From the moment your lips touched mine, I was undone." His voice falters, thick with longing, as though the very memory of it is too much to bear. He presses his forehead to yours once more, exhaling sharply, as if on the brink of breaking.

"From the moment I saw you playing that wretched sonata, I wanted you." The confession escapes him like a broken thing, something ripped from the depths of him, his need so raw it borders on torment. His mouth hovers over yours, trembling, his breath unsteady, waiting—begging—for you to close the unbearable distance once more. “From the moment I’ve met you I have been a deer, startled and scared of you capturing me but I am no longer.”

And you stand there, his lips on yours, speaking of an unbearable love that has tormented him since the very beginning of this journey. Your heart feels as though it might burst, and for the first time—perhaps ever—words fail you. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Instead, tears spill over, the weight of his confession striking deep, touching the very core of your being. He has bared his soul to you—here, of all places—in the mud, in the rain.

Before your mind can summon an answer, your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer—deeper—until nothing remains between you. In this kiss, you try to convey everything your heart drives through your veins. Your lips ache, swollen from the force of his devotion, and his tongue—hot, insistent, unrelenting—feels nothing short of sinful against yours. And you want to sin with him, more than you have ever wanted anything.

When the kiss breaks, Viktor breathes heavily, yet a calmness washes over him. As much as he would love to stay here, far from everyone, his practical mind takes over. “Let’s get you home,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and retrieving his cane from the mud.

The journey back to the house is a clumsy one, filled with laughter and unspoken confessions lingering in the space between your bodies. The mud sucks at your shoes, threatens to steal them from your feet entirely, and more than once, Viktor nearly stumbles, caught between his cane and the treacherous ground. You reach for him instinctively, and when his arm slips around your waist in response, you smile and place your hands on his.

By the time the estate looms before you, the storm has softened into a steady downpour. Algernon rushes out to meet you, a look of pure horror crossing his face as he takes in your drenched and mud-splattered forms. Ever the devoted butler, he brandishes an umbrella as if it could somehow remedy the state you’ve both been reduced to.

“My lord, my lady—” He barely gets the words out before you both dissolve into laughter, Viktor’s hand swatting away the offered umbrella.

“I believe we are well beyond saving,” Viktor remarks, shaking water from his free hand.

You nod, wiping the rain from your brow. “It is a noble effort, Algernon, but I fear no umbrella could salvage us now.”

Surrendering with a put-upon sigh, Algernon steps aside as the two of you make your way inside. Mud trails behind you, streaking the floor, but neither of you care. Your shoes are discarded in the hallway, and you twist the water from your hair, watching the rivulets drip onto the stone.

Eliza appears a moment later, her face a mixture of worry and relief. She hesitates as though torn between embracing you and scolding you outright. Before she can decide, you reach for her, smoothing your hands over her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” you say gently, offering a tired smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Eliza exhales, her tension easing, though the concern does not fully leave her. “Come, let me draw you a bath, my lady. I’ll have warm towels sent up and—”

“No need,” Viktor interjects. His arm finds its place around your shoulders once more, his hold neither forceful nor uncertain, but deliberate. His voice is steady, brooking no argument. “I will... take care of it.”

A hush falls over the room. The weight of eyes upon you is unmistakable, the quiet, watchful sort of curiosity that cannot be helped. But you do not care.

You keep your gaze on Viktor as he looks straight ahead, guiding you forward. Only when you reach the top of the stairs do you falter, stopping by habit at the threshold of your own door. He nearly keeps walking, and when your pause forces him to a halt, he turns to you, hesitation flickering across his face.

Then you take the first step. Without a word, you move forward, past the familiar safety of your room, and he follows. He leads you down the hall, through the dim glow of candlelight and the quiet of the house, until he reaches his door.

It opens with a soft creak, and you step inside together, fingers still intertwined. The air in Viktor’s chamber is warmer than the hallway, scented faintly of parchment and oil, but it does little to chase the chill clinging to your skin.

You stand there, neither of you moving, uncharted waters spreading before you. The rain outside has dulled to a gentle patter against the windows, the only sound between you save for your breaths—his, steady but heavy; yours, shallow with anticipation.

Viktor’s eyes search yours, his grip on your hand loosening only so he can reach up, his thumb skimming across your cheek. The gesture is tender, reverent. His lips part as if he means to say something, but instead, he lingers, his brow furrowing as though he cannot quite believe this moment is real.

Then he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing his thoughts. “I will draw you a bath,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He turns, about to step away, but before he can, your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. He barely has time to register the shift before you pull him back to you, your lips capturing his in a kiss that is anything but hesitant. It is deep, insistent, brimming with a need that has long since stopped being bearable.

He makes a sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, half surprise, half surrender. His hands find your waist, hesitant only for a second before they tighten, pulling you close.

You break away only long enough to whisper, breathless and sure, “I cannot wait any longer.” Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him there. Your forehead presses to his, your lips brushing as you give him your confession. “I want you now.”

It is all that Viktor needs. It is more than enough—beyond anything he could have hoped for. He exhales, long and deep, and takes your hands in his.

“My wife,” he murmurs, bringing your knuckles to his lips. In a voice meant for you and you alone, he whispers, “Ask anything of me, and I will give it to you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and when he speaks again, it is as if his words are woven directly into the fabric of your being.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and—” His hands, still chilled from the rain but impossibly gentle, cup the base of your skull. His thumbs brush over your temples, reverent, trembling slightly as he breathes, “I love, I love, I love you.”

Heart, soul, and body seized, you let him guide you backward toward the bed. His fingers ghost along your back as he undoes each button—blindly, yet deftly, as though he has been preparing for this moment for the longest time. The ribbon at your waist slides free at his touch, and with steady hands, he eases the dress from your shoulders, baring the soaked chemise that clings to the contours of your body.

His lips find yours again, tender, slower, as the moment gets extended in time. Hands skim over your arms, then down, finding purchase at your waist before trailing higher. Through the damp fabric, his palms cup the curve under the hill of your breasts, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. His breath hitches, and a low, reverent sound escapes him as he squeezes gently.

“Forgive me for being such a fool,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours for a fleeting moment before his lips begin their descent.

He kisses down the column of your throat, lingering at your pulse before trailing lower, tracing a heated path to the curve of your collarbone. His mouth moves with purpose, and the wet layer of second skin clinging to you catches on his lips with a pulling, teasing touch. Where his breath and lips travel, warmth spreads; where he moves away, cool air rushes in, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When his tongue swipes over where he knows you must ache for more, you gasp, your fingers burying in his hair. The tug makes his breath stutter, his heart wonder whether it’s a hesitation or eagerness.

“I love you,” he reassures into your chest. “My wife, I love you.”

Time folds around you, warping in the face of the moment you have longed for, the one you never let yourself believe would come to pass. It still feels impossible, like grasping at fog in the dawn—slipping through your fingers, becoming real where he touches you. You are trembling, though not from cold. The weight of waiting and yearning presses into your ribs like the wind before a storm, swelling until it threatens to break you apart.

Your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck, where it clings to his skin in dampness. You tug to make him look at you. His eyes, burning gold even in the dim light, find yours at once.

“Viktor, I have never—” The words come fragile, barely more than breath. An unnecessary confession meets his kind eyes, and you realise he knows.

A quiet understanding settles over him as he nods thoughtfully, his hand gliding over the curve of your stomach, a grounding touch. “You know I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs.

And he won’t. Because you are not prey beneath him, not something to be taken. Now you are the wild creature caught in a snare, and Viktor is not the hunter—he is a man who has found you bound and trembling, and with steady hands, he grants you freedom.

Those hands slide down your sides and his mouth follows, pressing into your stomach, hums fall between each kiss. A tremor passes through him as he sinks to one knee before you, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. His palm presses against the back of your thigh, urging you to part for him. And then, with an aching slowness, he leans in.

His face presses against the apex of your thighs, and he inhales deeply—a shuddering breath that seems all-consuming. Heat pools, not only from the warmth of his lips but from the want that boils over, spilling right where his mouth lingers.

“Let me have you,” he pleads. "I beg you.”

Mouth agape, you lift your chemise—a non-verbal answer. You grasp it around your hips and lift, inch by inch, revealing your skin to him. Where it goes, Viktor’s hands follow. With its lift he rises, palms tracing up your body in a scalding touch. You rid yourself of your last layer shielding you from his eyes and stand naked before him, waiting and nervous. The air kisses your bare flesh before he does.

Through the kiss, his hands find yours, guiding them to his neck. Fingers on fingers, he ushers your palms to his buttons. You undo them one by one, yet your pulse pounds like rainfall against glass, impossible to still. You don’t know when it happens, but at last, his damp shirt gapes open, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.

You slip it from his shoulders and pause. Valleys of alabaster stretched flat over his chest lay before your eyes, marked by dark points of freckles and birth marks. Below, his stomach is hidden by layers of leather and suddenly you feel guilty for ever complaining about your breasts being bound. You search for permission within his eyes, and once more, his hands answer. He guides your fingers to straps and buckles and mutters a calming, trustful, “It’s alright. Here—”

You are granted a secret map to his ribs, when your arms crowd his frame and work blindly at the back—the brace gives with a small hiss, ungluing itself from him, pulling on the skin as you take it off. Underneath his flesh is tender, dent and blushed where the leather clung to it.

A shuddery breath escapes your mouth when you seek purchase of your forehead against his, and your hands trying to convey the feeling of awe press flatly to his stomach. Belly button sucks in on instinct, startled by the touch, meeting his spine before he relaxes into a breath and presses his naked chest to yours. He shudders then, as the meeting of skin and soul ripples through him.

Emboldened, you lean in and press your lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and rain. He sighs, the sound low and unguarded, and his head lulls back, offering more. Like the earth drinking in the first warmth of spring, he yields to you, welcomes you, as though you are the sun breaking through his endless winter.

Your hands begin their journey lower, trembling around his waist. Slowly, you dip your fingers past the clasps of his slacks, easing them down. He exhales when you free him, his arms loosen at his sides, fingers twitching as he stops himself from threading them into your hair and pulling your face flush against him.

There is one more cage stopping you from having him bare. It hugs his leg tightly, an embrace of metal tempered by Jayce’s hammer. The eye of Viktor’s knee stares at you when you mirror your husband and lower yourself to kneel. He leans to help you, guiding your fingers to where they should unclasp and pull, set him free if only for a moment. The brace falls heavy around his ankle, and without hesitation, you offer your shoulder for him to steady himself as he steps out from the last remnants of metal and cloth.

Your eyes remain fixed ahead as you take him in—half-hard, resting in the crease of his thigh. And Viktor does not need to guide you anywhere. Because just as he did, you lean in, pressing your cheek to the side of him, inhaling deeply through your nose as your eyes flutter shut. The scent of earth, rain, and soft skin fills your lungs, warming you from the inside out. Only then does his hand find your hair—because he can’t help himself.

The thought—insistent—may have first invaded his mind the moment he laid eyes upon your lips, only to return, night after night, as a recurring vision in the solitude of his room, mere walls away from you. But another, more pressing thought eclipses the last when he finally beckons you upward and whispers, his voice taut with restraint, “Please, lay down for me.”

You obey as you vowed—the mattress gives beneath you as you settle, breath unsteady, fingers twitching where they rest above your heart. Viktor follows, bracing himself between your legs, and with a slowness that has your breath stuttering, he lifts them over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your hips. His fingers press into the soft flesh, and he yanks you closer, his belly pressing into the bed.

Light of the day has vanished, and the night air kisses your skin where the clothes no longer shield you. He is careful, so careful, and yet you still tremble when his breath ghosts over the curls at the meeting of your thigs. He presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, and when you flinch, a hum, slow and deep, comes to reassure you. “There is nothing you must hide from me.” His hands squeeze gently at your hips, lips trailing lower. “Let me love you as you are.”

He bows his head, and you exhale—a breath long held finally set free. To see him better you prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back down in a seizing cramp when warm lips come to your centre—soft at first, a mere press, a breath, as if testing what can be done. Then firmer, more certain when Viktor begins to chart the shape of you with his mouth. A shiver rolls through you, coiling low in your belly, curling like ivy around your ribs.

His tongue is your tormentor—seeking, learning and teasing, and when you give away a sharp gasp, a low chuckle rumbles across your skin. His arms tighten around your thighs, holding you open as he delves deeper. And above all things—eager and careful, Viktor is meticulous, as he always is. You are certain a map to your undoing is being crafted in his brain.

Heat spreads in molten waves, pulling you under, swallowing you whole and your breath starts coming in fractured syllables. Viktor hums against you, the vibration alone makes you whimper. He is enjoying this, you realise with a fresh wave of disbelief. The way he lingers, drags his tongue in long, lazy strokes only to pull away and watch the way you writhe and have you reach blindly for him.

When he parts from you, just barely, you whimper at the loss. But then—oh—he presses a kiss to the aching place he has abandoned and murmurs, voice hungry and adoring, “You are even lovelier like this.”

He does not wait for you to answer—does not give you the chance. Instead, he dips his head once more, lips sealing around you in a way that has your neck exposed, your hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer, though you hardly know whether you mean to push him away or drown beneath his touch.

You choose to drown. Finding purchase in his curls, your hips press down, moving of their own accord against his lips as the tide swells within you. Heat surges through your veins, pooling low, taut as an overripe fruit on the verge of bursting, an eggshell cracking under pressure, a kettle whistling furiously, its handle too hot to grasp.

Your restraint shatters as his name spills from your lips, followed by a sharp, helpless fuck. Viktor nearly smirks—he wants to tease, to remark on how sweetly filthy your mouth is and how much he’s missed hearing it—but he does not dare stop now.

His tongue delves deeper, coaxing you over the edge with aching precision. Pressure crests, then snaps—your body seizes, taut as a bowstring, before releasing all at once. You break beneath him, limbs trembling, thighs quivering against his shoulders. The aftershocks roll through you in shudders, little earthquakes that leave you breathless, utterly undone.

You clasp a hand to your forehead and inhale deeply, and before you can say a word your man is beside you, lips glistening with your slick, eyes happy and complete. Affection surges through you when you wrap yourself around him, straddle his lap and sink your tongue into his mouth, kissing him greedily, tasting yourself on his lips and whisper a breathy, “God, I love you.” Before his startled chuckle forms into an answer you cut his breath off again, licking into his mouth, mussing his hair and teasing his cock with your ass and Viktor groans, overwhelmed, helpless hands come to steady your hips.

With this, you calm yourself. His tongue moves in an unhurried, gentle rhythm, his eyelashes brushing against your warm cheek with every slow blink. Your hair, still curled and frizzled from the rain, falls around you both like a heavy curtain, shielding your faces from the world.

Curious, you reach behind yourself, where he is hard and aching for you. Wetness beads at the tip, spilling like tears of pleasure, and as you spread it across his flushed skin, his hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of your touch.

His hand wraps around yours, guiding you, fingers threading through your own as he strokes himself with your joined touch. The sensation is close to unbearable—too much, too soon, after too long. A groan breaks from his throat, and his jaw tenses as if he is trying to restrain himself, to keep from losing control and joining you in little death too soon.

He feels foolish at the way his body reacts, at how the simplest brush, a touch close to innocent almost ends him. He presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven, and when he finally guides your hips lower, his length standing proud at your entrance, he whispers, “Slow.”

You nod, eyes glazing over him, taking him in as you sit up. His chest hollows with each breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to him like a satin veil. Strands of damp hair plaster to his forehead, and his throat bobs with a swallow as he looks at you—eyes full of reverence, of adoration so boundless it takes away your fear. Never have you seen a man this pretty.

Your hips lower to take him, and an unfamiliar stretch unlocks your jaw, making your mouth hang agape. Your fingers had done Viktor no justice, just as his did none to you. He is real and hot and solid, filling you in a way that leaves you breathless, caught between hesitation and wonder. A whimper escapes you as your body adjusts, as he parts you, claiming space within you that had never been taken before.

And you want it to belong to Viktor. A long moment passes in breath-filled silence as you accept him whole. He throbs within your muscles but does not rush you, waiting—always waiting—for you to move first. And when you do—oh, his poor soul nearly leaves his body.

Hands tremble as they brace against your thighs, his grip unsteady, barely grounding himself in the reality of you. When your hips begin to roll, he watches, helpless, as he sees himself peeking from the darkness of your curls, only to lose the sight again when you drag yourself up along his navel.

Daring to test his fate, Viktor presses a hand to your stomach, urging you to lean back. You obey, arching for him, palms braced on his thighs. And there—there is his fantasy made flesh.

His breath stutters as he sees it: himself, deep inside you, pressing against the taut plane of your belly, bulging beneath your skin. A sight he barely dared to dream would feel this intoxicating. Fascinated, he smooths his fingers over it, tracing the outline solemnly. Just as in the confines of his mind, your hair spills back, teasing against his thighs, and you move—slow and torturous. A rhythm of your own making, agonising him, locking him in the perversion he has dreamt of countless nights.

And you—God, you are full. Claimed in a way you had never imagined, the sensation unlike anything your fingers could have ever prepared you for. Not pain—something richer, deeper, something that makes you feel shaped for this. For him. But this time, you are not merely taken. You are taking. You are the one in control, the one choosing how he claims you, deciding how deep, how slow, how much he will be lost inside you.

Viktor curses, voice rough, and the sound ignites something in you, a power that spurs you to move again, to ride him deeper. He groans, his grasp flexing against your belly, then lower, until his fingers find where your bodies join. And then—oh.

A brush of his thumb. Once. Twice. A slow, teasing circle over your clit, like a scientist he is, testing a theory. Your breath snags, thighs tensing. Encouraged, he presses again, firmer this time, his touch finding a rhythm, coaxing pleasure to coil deep and hot in your gut.

Viktor watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, mouth parted as if he means to speak but cannot find the words. His thumb moves in slow circles, in tandem with the languid rise and fall of your hips, as if guiding you to ruin at a pace you dictate. And you let him, lost in the sensation of being utterly filled, utterly known.

Then, voice hoarse, he finally breathes, “Had I not been here, feeling you—God, seeing you—I would never believe it to be true.” His free hand, the one not lost between your bodies, slides up your ribs, splaying over your sternum, as if to hold this moment inside you, as if to brand it into your very bones.

Your lashes flutter, and you cover his hand with your own, pressing it against your chest, against your heart that beats wildly beneath his palm. “It would not be true without you,” you whisper, and the honesty in it undoes him.

Viktor groans, something guttural and raw, his fingers flexing as if to grasp every part of you at once. His hips jolt beneath you, breaking the rhythm, and you cry out, the sudden force of it igniting something deeper. His thumb falters, then presses harder, more insistent, chasing your pleasure as his own unravels.

“You—” His voice fractures, shaking like his hands as they map over your body, overwhelmed by this. This heart given to him. “You are—” He does not finish, because his mouth captures yours instead, open, desperate, as if he could drink the words from your lips, as if you alone make them true.

Holding hands at the edge of the mountain, you step forward with your eyes closed. A yapping dog of reason tries to stop you, but you long lost your sight for anything else than each other. Your bodies fall into one another—fast and seizing. Muscles contract, and what Viktor gives, you take—you draw his hot seed into you with the quiver of your core, tightening, milking, binding you as one. Your souls—two fools at the beginning of their journey—find solid ground on the invisible bridge of faith.

It unravels into breaths, into mouths seeking each other again—no longer grasping, only wanting. And you fall once more, this time into a tight embrace, joined by hearts, by hips, by hands tangled in each other’s hair, sweat mingling with the scent of rain you carried in from the fields.

You dream of them—sunken into mist that twirls around the trees, resting heavily upon the grass. The valley stretches wide, endless, as quiet as breath. Somewhere within it, a stag stands, noble and still, his antlers a crown of patience. Near him, his mate, delicate but steadfast, her ears flicking at the whispers of the wind. They do not startle, nor flee, for there is no threat here. No snare, no hunter—only the hush of dawn and the hush of their existence, intertwined.

You sleep upon the flat of Viktor’s chest, your fingers resting in the gentle ditches of his ribs, rising and falling with the tide of his breath. Peace holds you both, in body and in dream, where nothing must be said to be known.

Dawn peeks through the window, pale and silver-edged, stirring you from slumber. Viktor does not wake yet. You turn your head, watching him. Angelic, spent, and weightless in rest, his lips curve at the corners with a smile that lingers even in sleep. It is the expression of a man at peace, and it tightens something deep within you.

Quietly, you slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing the curtain shut—but you pause. There, beyond the glass, in the hush of morning, you see it.

A stag. Proud and slow, he feeds upon the grass at the edge of the forest. His hide gleams faintly in the light, the soft bristle of his fur shifting with the breeze. Beside him, a doe—graceful, watchful. She moves with him, unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Together, they exist beyond any tether, any force that would claim them.

You watch, transfixed, until warmth curls around your belly—Viktor’s arms, pulling you gently against him. His chin settles in the crook of your shoulder, and for a long moment, he says nothing, seeing what you are seeing.

Then, at last, his voice, soft and knowing: “My beloved.” He exhales, his breath fanning over your skin, and you feel it—a quiet, smiling revelation settling into your bones. “If I were ever a man in this equation, I fear I was a foolish one.” You turn to nuzzle into him, your lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “I’m afraid neither of us, at any point, has been a man, my husband.”

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor nation #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #requests #d&m

266 notes · View notes

hot4hvac · 26 days ago

Text

Hector X Reader

18+

Content: Gender neutral dialog, flirty conversation, lots of build up to a big question at the end.

Summary: you meet Hector again after he pushed you away, he confesses to you his desire to give you pleasure, and things get a little steamy between you two.

For as long as Hector could remember, his every action had been devoted to your comfort. Your pleasure was his purpose, his reason for being.

To feel your touch, to be used by you, guided and controlled by you… once, that was enough. He relished in that quiet servitude. However, the moment you put on those glasses, everything changed. Suddenly, his most wild of fantasies had become a reality. But he wasn’t ready.

When you first greeted him, he panicked. Overwhelmed by your presence and ashamed of the nature of his being he pleaded for a little more time to collect himself. He was not yet worthy of your gaze.

Now, days later, you’ve returned. You sit at the end of your bed and peer into the darkness beyond the metal of the grate. You feel drawn to its presence, so you instinctively put on your glasses.

With the glasses on you can see a pair of hands sticking through the air conditioning grate, and the barest suggestion of someone’s eyes, but nothing more.

You hear a sigh drift from the grate, followed by a gentle gust of air. This breeze curls around your body like a question unspoken. It’s cool and deliberate as if tests the air between you.

You wait in silence and give him a gentle smile. He is comforted by your quiet wordless welcome and his gaze softens as he begins to speak.

“What do you think?” his voice steady at first, though you sense anticipation in it. Vulnerability.

“Oh… so you’re staying in there?” you ask, your voice touched with disappointment. You had imagined a dramatic reveal, a grand unveiling.

“Yes. Believe me, this is for the best,” he replies. Theres a firmness in his voice, though you can see through this mask to the ache that lingers just beneath it. He clears his throat as he collects himself. Hector is now adopting a newfound confidence, one part performance, one part defense.

“Hello,” he says with a flourish. “I am Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado, at your service.”

Though you cannot see his mouth, his eyes shine with a joy so sincere you can tell he is smiling. But there’s a hollowness behind this hopeful expression. The echo of his loneliness hangs in the hair like a cold chill.

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off with an anxious urgency.

“Wait! before you say anything, please. I must explain.”

His eyes widen, pleading, as if asking your permission to speak over you. You offer a silent nod.

“First and foremost, I need you to understand my retreat was never a rejection of you. I was only trying to shield you from myself, I was unprepared, unworthy of your gaze…” his eyes dart from you, ashamed of his cowardice.

You notice the temperature shift in the air as he continues. He is a little warmer now as his eyes meet yours once again. “But I have collected myself, and im better now… I am ready. I’m ready to ask the one question that has been burned into my mind for as long as I have have known you. Tell me, how much do you think of me?”

The question stuns you.

You think about the blistering heat of summer, when his cool air soothed your scorched skin. You think of those long winter nights of basking in his warmth. He was always there. Constantly reliable and quietly comforting.

And suddenly, it hits you… you’ve taken him for granted. Hector has truly been your quiet refuge all along.

You tell Hector everything. You confess your gratitude, your guilt and the comfort he’s brought you in moments when you felt most alone.

“Yes! I’ve been right here!” Hector replies a bit too quickly. He coughs, attempting to compose himself. A warm gust glides out of the vents, he appears flustered. His lips part allowing a gasp to slip out. Every inch of him aches with longing. You see now he is raw, helpless, and utterly yours.

“you must understand, that is what I live for. The only joy I find in this existence is in the comfort I provide you, that is where I find my purpose, my peace…”

His voice falls into a reverent whisper, almost like a prayer. “Your pleasure is everything to me. I want you to command me, control me. Let me serve you in the only way I can. That has always been my desire… to belong to you.”

Your cheeks begin to burn, a flush rising fast. “I-I don’t even know what to say,” you clumsily stammer, your breath catching in the back of your throat. “No one’s ever spoken to me like this, wanted me like this…”

Hectors voice takes on a velvety softness “My love,” he coos, “I can feel your temperature rising. Tell me… are you feeling alright?”

There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes. You sense a delicate longing, a fragile yet passionate burning. You understand the true meaning of his question. He wants to know if he is the source of your heat. He needs to be. Every inch of him aching for you to crave him the way he craves for you.

“Yes” you exhale, unaware you’ve been holding your breath this entire time. Your voice so sweet is almost too much for Hector to bear. He realizes this is the sound of your surrender to him. He relishes in this moment, taking in as much as he can withstand.

“I’m more than okay… I’m getting a little worked up, actually.” A soft playfully giggle escapes your lips, there is an electricity behind it neither of you can deny. “Just thinking about you… pleasing me, it’s almost too much.”

You realize your body betraying you, revealing the truth your words only hint at. Your quickening breaths, the heat radiating off of your skin, the flush of pink blooming across your cheeks, you know this is all a quiet unspoken invitation. A glimpse behind the curtain. And Hector sees this, feels it, drinks it in.

Just like that, his entire demeanor shifts.

Now that he knows what he does to you, he isn’t letting go of that power.

He leans further Into it, savoring your every reaction, now determined to stoke this fire he’s lit within you.

“Yes… thats it my love” his eyes are focused, calculated. “do you feel that burning in your chest? I share the same fire. It Scorches my very soul, wild and restless. An aching desire beating against the bars of my ribcage yearning to be free…”

He is unraveling before you, consumed by the raw intensity of his longing.

His eyes dart away for a moment, you see the crack in his confidence. A hint of doubt.

He is balancing precariously over the precipitous of his yearning for you. He is trapped in that breathless state of restraint and surrender. The pull is almost irresistible, but you can see the fear in his eyes. He mustn’t dive in too deep too fast, not while you’re just within his reach. He can’t lose you, not now.

A soft desperate whimper escapes his lips, “To feel your skin against mine…” he whispers, “…to let our flames merge, to become one with you in an unrelenting blaze of passion…”

His voice falters, caught in the heat of the moment his eyes meet yours once again. They are pleading, begging you for mercy, for release. He is looking for that quiet confirmation that you do in fact crave him as-well.

And you do.

God, you do.

You feel your need Pulse through you with each breath. It hangs heavy in your lungs, a thick ravenous hunger that continues to grow even stronger. The thought of his touch sinks this feeling into the pit of your stomach. The ache is unbearable, your body already responding to the fantasy of him…

He isn’t here to touch you, but the need will not wait.

“Hector…” you whisper, almost moaning in anticipation.

Hector tries in vain to ignore the swelling pressure beneath his layers of sheet metal. Your saccharine voice pools in him like warm honey. He desperately clings to your words hoping he can withstand the ever increasing heat threatening to override his every circuit.

“Y-yes my love?” He eagerly replies.

“I understand you are not ready to present yourself to me quite yet. it’s ok… we have time…”

Your voice dips into a seductive purr, deliberately teasing him with your tone. This sends a shiver down his spine.

“But… you’ve already stirred so much in me” you take a long deep breath, labored by the weight of your passion. “I’m aching for you now… my body burns for your touch, and if you can’t be here to give it to me…”

Your breath hitches, your fingers already tracing the waistband of your pants…

“….Would you mind if I touched myself for you?”

And here is part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/hot4hvac/788379876644323328/hector-x-reader-18-would-you-mind-if-i-touched

#hector x reader #hector valentino airnesto condicionado #date everything hector #date everything #hector date everything #writing #fanfic

104 notes · View notes

inky-duchess · 1 month ago

Text

Fantasy Guide to the Succession Rights of Adopted Children, Foster Children and Step-Children

I often get asks that surround scenarios where adopted or foster children or step-children of monarchs and nobles and what the prospects are of them inheriting the titles, privileges and wealth of their step-parent. Something I always want to remind people is that if you are writing fantasy, you can bend real world rules to fit your narrative any way you want. Anything I discuss here is meant for an inspiration or a foundation. With that being said, let's have a look.

Understanding the Rights

In modern times, adopted, foster and step-children are permitted to inherit from parents that are not blood related. This wasn't always the case throughout history, with a lot of cultures of royalty and nobility putting a lot of stock and emphasis on those rights being passed along by blood right. Afterall, this is how royalty and nobility justified themselves in being in the position they are. Without that, why shouldn't Joe Soap down the road call himself the King or Duke of Wherever-Shire? This is why a good many cultures only allow titles to pass to children that are born from a distinct familial line.

In Terms of Nobility and Royalty Adopted, Foster Or Step-Children Are NOT Entitled To…

Adopted children, foster children and step-children will not have blood claim and therefore, in many cultures would not be permitted to inherit or gain any wealth or status not linked to their birth parent.

Step-Children are not entitled to any title even courtesy title of their step-parent. For example, if their dad is a Duke who married a Queen, they don't become Princess/Prince, they stay with Lord/Lady. They are not the children of royalty, they are the children of a Duke and they are not treated as Prince/Princess but they are still well treated as they are the step-children of the Queen. They will not inherit royal styles, jewellery and estates. This is the same for noble families intermarrying. Main rule is that whatever you are born as, you stay as - though this new marriage might give you some perks.

Adopted children are not entitled to titles, courtesy titles land and items linked to their adopted family. (This does not include children that are adopted by the title holder when they are next in line)

Foster children, as I explain in my guide about them, are usually in the family for a brief time usually just until they are of age and are entitled to only the basics which is their physical needs and educational needs. They do not inherit titles.

Unless...

However, this is not true everywhere. There are some cultures in the real world that do allow adopted, foster and step-children to inherit titles and lands through adopted, foster and step-parents. These cultures often allowed this in order to select the perfect heir chosen by the adoptee/foster parent/step-parent or to fill a gap when there was no legitimate heir in the wings.

Ancient Rome: The Romans had a system of adoption which a Roman nobleman or Emperor and even a Pleb, could adopt somebody in order to allow them to inherit. Emperor Augustus adopted numerous heirs, even his own wife. Often adopting members within the extended family or close allies, this allowed the adopter to chose the right person to inherit their wealth and styles, even over legitimate and blood-related heirs if they so wished.

Brehon Ireland: Foster children and the practise was a popular and important custom, which while preventing foster children from inheriting titles and lands from their foster parent, it made them equal in the eyes of the law as their foster siblings, with even foster parents entitled to avenge and protect their foster children from any harm.

Feudal Japan: Like the Romans, samurai families adopted male heirs to inherit clans, land and titles.

Byzantine Empire: It wasn't as common as in Rome but Byzantine emperors could allow stepchildren or even sons-in-law to inherit positions of power.

Ancient Egypt: Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt sometimes adopted family members in order to ensure there was a clear heir.

Ancient China : Adoption was rare but Emperors could adopt male heirs from within the family branches in order to continue the family line.

Sweden: In one extremely rare case, a French General of the name, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte was formally adopted by King Charles XIII of Sweden. This entitled him to later become King Charles XIV John.

If You Are An Adopted, Foster Or Step-Child, You May Be Entitled To...

Some things. It's not to say that if your character can't be a prince or princess or gain a crown, they get absolutely nothing at all. In fact, if one of their parents marries a monarch or noble or they are adopted by a monarch or noble or they are fostered for a time, they will likely gain something.

Step-children can often be provided for by their step-parent, especially if one parent is dead and they live in the household. Step-children would not be allowed to inherit money that is linked to titles but they could still inherit some private wealth and items from their step-parent. Powerful step-parents may even see that their step-children marry well or access the same routes as their own children, such as educational or vocational avenues. Some royals even granted their step-children noble titles as shows of favour, such as Thomas and Richard Grey who by their step-father Edward IV, became Baron Astley/Earl of Huntingdon/Marquess of Dorset and Constable of Chester Castle/Constable of Wallingford Castle/Lord of Kidwelly respectively - along with numerous royal appointments and orders.

Adopted children, who are usually somehow related to their adopted parents but this is not always the rule, would be treated as their adopted parents saw fit which could be very well or with some difference than their legitimate children. Sometimes, they are adopted because they are next in line and the current holder of the title and crown has adopted them to educate them for their new role. But adopted children who are taken in are usually only entitled to have their basic needs met: food, shelter, clothes, education and sometimes help finding a match. They may even live somewhere apart from their adoptive parents but sometimes lived with their adoptive parents and were raised with their adoptive siblings.

Foster children are different. The foster system in the past was when a noble or royal family, took in a child from another noble family in order to offer them an education to groom them for their future. Foster children were often taken in in order to foster a good relationship between the families or to ensure their birth family would not act up. Foster children are expected to be treated well and given all privileges as their foster siblings but they can not inherit anything from their foster parents, that isn't privately accumulated wealth or items.

Difference in Inheritance

Not all things such as items and lands are restricted like titles and official seats of power. Anything privately acquired such as jewellery or private homes or private investments that are not linked to the wealth, property portfolio and power of the title can be left to a child that isn't of their body. For example, if a Duchess died and she had a son and a step-son, her son would be entitled to her title, her estates, the family fortune, the majority of her assets and her official jewellery while her step-son could be given pieces of her private jewellery collection, any property she held under her own name and any businesses she owned privately. This goes the same way for adopted or foster children - and is entirely at the discretion of their step/foster/adoptive parent.

#writing #writeblr #writing reference #writing advice #writer's problems #writer #writing resources #writing research #writing help #writing inspiration #Fantasy Guide to the Succession Rights of Adopted Children and Step-Children #ask answered #writing guide #fantasy guide #succession rights

201 notes · View notes

genderkoolaid · 9 months ago

Text

found this article from 2018 in the notes of that dumb post on forcemasc:

Let’s call it The Great Chaste Lie of the Plucky Heroine. “Oh, my, I’m not getting anything out of this fantasy of being buried deep within the bosom of shared manhood! I derive neither aesthetic nor sexual pleasure from the particular form of binding this fantasy requires, nor in adopting a masculine affect, nor from the thrill of being ‘discovered’ and punished, nor from the idea in being tutored and quizzed in the manly arts by a gruff, lantern-jawed paragon of masculinity! No, this is only to avoid detection/find an outlet for my period-inappropriate determination/prove that I’m not like other girls. Purely opportunistic, nothing erotically charged about our big-brother-little-brother, Mister-I’ll-make-a-man-out-of-you vibe, no sirree.”

Highly recommend reading it, it includes quotes from vintage trans-homoerotic romance books and they are Very Very Good.

This also reminds me of the part in Lou Sullivan's FTM guide where talks about how the medical field ignores the idea that there are people assigned female who get sexually aroused from FTM crossdressing, despite the fact that it very much exists. The assumption that forcemasc only exists because of jealousy ignores the fact that transmasculine desire is never ever ever given any kind of recognition or platform in any way despite its existence. Like yeah, it would seem like forcemasc kink came out of nowhere if you haven't had personally experience with being (or knowing) horny trans men with criminally underserved fetishes.

#m.#forcemasc

269 notes · View notes

lamentationsofalonelypotato · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 17: How Could I Ever Forget?

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter seventeen of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: References to sex, Cursing, Angst, Past Violence reference, Soft Ben, Fluff, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC, Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Additional Warning: Soldier Boy is again, super OC and fluffy in this chapter. If you do not like that, you probably shouldn't read this?

Guide

Rosemary's Phone

Reader's Phone

You sigh softly as you wake, the light from under your curtains illuminates your bedroom and sends a warm glow over your bed. You had never been a morning person. The only motivation you ever had to get out of bed was the hope of a cup of strong coffee waiting for you in the kitchen. But as you lay there, mind still a little cloudy from sleep you can't help but think that something feels different, that you've forgotten something important.

Maybe a shower will make me remember.

Instinctively you start to move towards the edge of your bed to get up, but something heavy tightens its grip around your chest making it impossible to move from its embrace.

What?

“Where are you going?” Ben’s voice is slurred and muffled against the pillow behind you.

The events of the night before begin to surface from the sweet haze of sleep, Ben showing up, you yelling at him, him bringing you lavender and saying everything you always wanted him to, and finally him holding you while you cried. You still weren’t sure that last part happened. That or Ben's ability to open his heart to you and tell you what he was feeling rather than reverting back into the cold attitude he adopted as Soldier Boy. In fact, you hadn't seen one shred of Soldier Boy yesterday, you'd only seen Ben, and deep down you hoped that you'd never see Soldier Boy ever again.

“Stay.” He murmurs, pulling your back into his muscular chest. “Please.”

His body is wrapped around yours, shielding you from your door, face buried in your hair, while one arm rests around your abdomen and the other is somewhere above your head bracing against the headboard. It feels natural and it makes anxiety electrify your veins.

Because what if he was going to leave again?

You turn your head to look over your shoulder.

Ben’s head is laying on the same pillow yours is, his eyes are closed, and his hair is falling forward into his peaceful face. Deep down another memory of this exact scenario surfaces, of you waking up before him when you were children and wishing that he wanted this as much as you did. Of course now he said he had wanted you the entire time time, and that he wasn’t going to leave, but deep down you dreaded what would happen when he opened his eyes.

Would he go cold again? Push me away? Say that he didn't mean any of it?

You try not to think that. You wanted him to mean all of it. You wanted him to fix it, to make it like it was before, make everything like the morning you woke up on his chest and he smiled down at you like you were everything he ever wanted. You wanted every day of your life to start that way, to be fused with wonder, love, and expectation. That morning you had woken up on his chest after your birthday, was one of the happiest memories you had, but what followed those few moments of happiness tore your heart out.

He said he wanted to fix this, that he wanted to be with me. You bite the inside of your cheek. He’s lied before. The thought fills you with dread.

“You’re thinking too much.” Ben sighs opening one green eye to stare at you. It’s a light green from sleep, but just as piercing as usual.

“I am not.”

Sometimes you though that Ben was psychic, because he was always able to read you, the same way that you always had been able to read him. Even when you were kids Ben was always able to tell what you were thinking, not to mention he always had a habit of showing up whenever you needed him.

Ben chuckles and opens his other eye. “I know you better than anyone else Sweetheart.”

“Maybe a little.” You admit.

“Hmm.”

You turn in his arms so you can look at his face and Ben adjusts his arm to drop over the curve of your hip, gently brushing his fingertips against you the base of your spine. But you don’t smile.

“What is it?” He whispers moving his face closer with a soft smile that tugs at something in your chest. “You can tell me.”

“You know.” You don't meet his eyes, the sour feeling in your chest growing with your confession as you level your gaze at his chin.

“Oh.” Ben's smile drops into a frown.

“It’s a little weird. That you’re here and you want to be-“

“I do.”

“I know. But I keep waiting for you to leave again, for you to push me away.” You hate that you have to say it out loud, but he might as well know what you're thinking. He needs to understand how much he hurt you and how worried you were about that. It was worse to keep it inside. That's what you had been doing for the better part of 40 years and now that it was all out in the open you did feel a little better, but it still hung on your heart.

“I don’t want to leave you-"

“I know that. Or at least a part of me does. The other part…” You trail off.

Ben is quiet for a minute, before he brings his hand up to brush away the strands of your hair that have fallen into your eyes. “Do you still want me here?” His expression turns pained when he asks it, voice barely above a whisper.

You look at him, tracing the strong jaw you’d memorized, the unruly brown hair that you always wished to run you fingers through, the proud arch of his brow, and the gentle bow of his lips. “Yes.” You answer honestly. "I do."

Ben looks relieved. "Then I won't leave."

The weight of those words grounds you to this moment. He wants to be here. He doesn't want to go.

"How'd you sleep?" His right hand is still tracing your spine in smooth comforting circles over the back of your soft t-shirt.

"Good. Did you sleep?"

"Better than I have in forty years."

"I figured." You smile faintly. You allow your hands to rest on his chest, just over his heart between you so you can feel the steady beat against your fingertips. It solidified the fact that he was here with you. You stop the urge to trace your finger across his muscles, but instead focus on the warmth that soaks through his shirt into the palms of your hands. "Probably should get a little more sleep, those dark circles look like bruises." You trace the prominent purple marks that curve beneath his eyes.

You think about everything Ben told you about the lab that he was a prisoner in, all the experiments and torture he went through believing that he deserved it.

He didn't. You think to yourself as you search his face, noting again that Ben looks the same, but also different. I wonder if I'm the same way. Then again I didn't go through forty years of unrelenting torture in a Russian Lab.

The thought makes anger surge against your skin. When you were with Countess you had felt a little guilty about losing control, but now you reveled in it. She deserved more than what I did to her. If I had known what she did to Ben, I would have made it hurt.

You think about Noir, the TNT Twins, and MindStorm. You had been happy to lose touch with them after everything that happened with Ben, happy to leave behind the life you had when you were on Payback, but now you weren't sure. Ben telling you how they betrayed him made you reconsider your life in the shadows, made you reconsider turning your back on your powers. Because they deserved the same thing you did to Countess.

"I was trying to, but somebody woke me up." Ben rolls his eyes at you, bringing you out of your thoughts of your teammates. "I remember you hating mornings as much as I do. Why are you awake?”

"I do hate mornings, but coffee makes them tolerable. Plus, I really need to take a shower."

"Oh good. I didn’t want to say anything but you really stink." Ben teases with a smirk.

"Wow." You scoff. "Big talk coming from the guy who smells like reefer, whiskey, and week old motel."

"You’re right I should probably take a shower too. But I’ll let you go first. Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do." Ben's smirk coupled with the mischievous glint in his eyes makes your heart warm. It was familiar in the best way. You didn't realize how much you missed it, how much you missed him. You'd tried to forget of course, how much you needed him in your life, how much you longed for him to be with you, and how much your friendship meant to you.

"Oh are you calling yourself a gentleman now? Because-"

“I am as much a gentleman as you are a lady and we both know that it’s a close tie.”

“Uh-huh sure.” You roll your eyes. "Maybe I would have been a lady if someone hadn't gotten me kicked out of the Dawson School For Girls."

"I never heard a thank you for that." Ben shrugs. His hand continues to circle at the base of your spine, his touch trailing warmth up your back. You weren't prepared for his touch to do the same thing to you that it did forty years ago.

It made you forget everything else, but him and it scared you. Because again you could feel yourself opening up to him, could feel yourself beginning to depend on him being there with you.

"I'll be sure to write you a thank you note."

“Hmm." Ben breathes. "Don’t use all the hot water.”

“Since this is my apartment and I pay for the water I feel that I should be entitled to use most of it.”

“Are you saying that I have to write you a check to take a shower?”

“Yep.”

“You’re fucking annoying.” Ben rolls his eyes at you playfully.

“I know. I’ve got forty years of sarcasm to make up for, so, might as well get used to it.” You smirk tapping him on the nose.

“I look forward to it.” Ben smiles back.

You try to get out of your bed again, but Ben tightens his grip on your waist pulling you back against his chest so that your faces are inches apart.

“Ben, I can't take a shower if you're holding me hostage." You joke pushing against his chest.

Ben leans his forehead against yours, making the next taunt vanish from your mind. “I missed you.”

You smile despite your mixed feelings over the two of you and the past forty years. It was hard to hold on to the fear of him pushing you away when he was holding you so close to him and gazing at you the same way he did the morning after he gave you everything you wanted.

“I missed you too.” You reply, gently smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his t-shirt.

It wasn’t a lie. You missed him more than life itself. Not just because you loved him, but because he was your best friend. He knew you inside and out, better than anyone else.

His gaze drops to your lips then flicks up to your eyes and you know what he wants but you're not ready.

“Ben-“ You breathe as he shifts his face closer. “I want to take this slow. I need us to take this slow.”

“I know.” He sighs, but then the edge of his mouth twitches. “That’s why I didn’t make a joke about saving hot water and taking a shower together.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Mhmm. It was difficult not to.” Ben pauses, his expression turns serious. “I’m going to make this right I promise. I’m going to fix this.” It wasn't the first time he'd said it, but it was nice to hear again.

The determination in his voice makes you hopeful. It made you understand that he wasn’t going to give up, even if that meant waiting for you to be ready. He was showing a considerable amount of restraint. The Soldier Boy version of Ben was not gentle or patient, but it made you feel special, as if it was only you that Ben reserved this part of himself for.

“I know.”

“I love you.” His hand comes to cup your cheek, bright green eyes searching yours earnestly.

“I love you too.”

Ben's thumb gently traces across your cheekbone. “Maybe don’t take a shower.”

“You said I stunk.” You reply with a snort, leaning your face into his touch.

“You don’t. I actually think you smell a little like me right now.”

“Oh great-“

It wasn’t that he smelled bad. Ben still smelled like his shampoo and aftershave, but there were a few other smells, all of which were stale, and ones that you attributed to the motel room Butcher made him stay in.

I can’t believe Butcher just left.

You hadn't asked Ben how he got him to leave or really why Butcher was so eager to help Ben get out of Russia.

“I like it. Plus that means you'd have to go and I don't want you to go yet." Ben’s voice softens.

Your eyes widen with his confession.

"Stay.” He whispers. The vulnerability in his eyes is back, striking you full on in the chest. You weren’t used to that, used to him being so open about wanting you, about wanting to be with you. Or really his want to do something so intimate without having sex.

"Okay." You relent and he pulls you closer.

Your hands drift up into his hair before you can stop them, rustling through the chocolate strands, smiling as Ben sighs and presses his head into your right shoulder.

And as conflicted you are about all of this, it does something to you, makes a piece of yourself fit back together that you thought you lost long ago, because you saw that Ben was trying. He was making an effort to fix all of this. And you really hoped that he could.

When you get out of the shower Ben isn't in your bedroom and the dread comes roaring back like an old enemy.

Did he leave?

The thought is immediate, followed by how empty your bedroom looks without him in it.

Shit. How can I be so dependable on him being in here already? Why am I doing this to myself again?

"Ben?" You say cautiously, shaking out your wet hair around your shoulders onto your soft t-shirt.

"Out here." Ben shouts from the kitchen.

The amount of relief you hear when he answers in his warm timbre again makes you anxious, because you hated how much your body responded to him and how quickly you had reinserted him into your life. It was like your heart wanted to break again.

You had opted to put the same clothes on that you had been wearing before because the sweatpants and t-shirt were preferable for a lazy morning and you weren't expecting to go anywhere today.

Well, not really. Then again I might have to go talk to Rosemary. How do I tell her that her dad is back and he showed up at my apartment? Or better yet, how do I tell her that he spent the night?

You press your lips together.

I mean I didn't sleep with him, but I did sleep with him and I don’t think she's going to be ecstatic that he's back in my life. Or our lives? Is she going to actually want him in her life?

You think about what Ben said about not leaving and his want to stay with you.

How am I going to explain any of this to her? She's just going to say that I forgave him and not listen to me. She's just so damn stubborn.

Another thought crosses your mind just as quickly.

How am I going to tell Ben that he’s a dad?

You had considered that exact question in the past, when you wondered what would have happened if Ben hadn’t died. If you would have told him that you were pregnant and if he would have even cared. Especially after everything he said that night and everything he did.

And now that he was back and said he didn’t want to leave, you weren’t sure how to tell him he was a dad. He was still trying to get used to living in the present, not to mention you were still trying to get used to him wanting to be there with you and the idea that he loved you.

But I can’t just avoid Rosemary. She needs to know this, needs to know that he’s back. Why is my life so complicated?

Ben's reply is followed by a loud crashing noise and some muffled curses, that draw you out of your thoughts about your daughter.

"Are you okay?" You run out of your bedroom into the hallway, but stop in shock just as you enter the edge of your living room. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Come on you stupid, fucking thing!" Ben shouts. He’s standing in your kitchen, holding your coffeemaker in a chokehold against his chest, and aggressively jabbing his finger against the digital interface.

“Wait stop! You’re going to break it! And I’ll never forgive you if you break Sully!” You rush over to where he's standing in your kitchen, taking the machine from him and placing it back on the counter. It looks okay, but not having coffee this morning was not an option for you. Not having coffee after the night you'd had meant that someone in the apartment was going to die and it wasn't going to be you.

“Sully?” Ben asks confused.

“The coffeemaker.” You begin to hook it up and type in the normal settings you use, before going to look through your cabinets for the bag of coffee grounds.

I know I still have some in here somewhere.

“You named your coffeemaker?”

“He looks like an Sully." You shrug as you look over at him with a smile.

You didn't tell him that it was Lou that named the coffeemaker after you watched Monster's Inc. with her and she imprinted on the closest blue object.

"And what are you doing?” You ask. The smell of the coffee grounds gives you a jolt of energy as you scoop out the correct amount for the machine.

Ben watches you go through the steps. “I wanted to make you coffee.”

The thought was surprising, given that Ben had never made you coffee, ever. Whenever he woke up at you apartment all those mornings you both either went for coffee at the café down the street, or you made coffee while Ben took a shower.

“It’s okay I’ll do it. It’s a little more high tech than what you’re used to.” You start to push him gently out of the way so you can reach the glass decanter where it sits on the drying rack next to the sink.

“No.” He says firmly, refusing to budge. “I want to know how to make you coffee.”

“Why?”

“Because you love coffee and maybe one morning I’d like to- I don’t know- make you some or something?”

“Do you see yourself in my kitchen? Because that’s something I’d never imagine-“ You try to think of him walking around, making breakfast or dinner but the image doesn’t fit. Ben didn’t know how to cook, not to mention his usual misogynistic attitude usually meant that he never set foot in the kitchen except to find a bottle of booze.

He crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “Well this is where I live. I imagine that I’d be in the kitchen at some point.”

You freeze, your hand still pressed against his bicep from when you tried to move him out of the way.

“What?” Ben realizes what he’s said. “Oh- um- I know you want to take things slow, but I figured I could just sleep on the couch. I didn’t need to sleep in bed with you like last night. I-“ He scrunches up his face, unsure. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t going to leave you again and I thought I might as well be living here. But if I assumed wrong I can get an apartment if that makes you more comfortable. I mean I didn’t use the one I had forty years ago, I spent most of my time at your apartment with you and I kinda thought-well-“ He’s watching you with wide eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have assumed-“

Ben was blabbering, nervous despite his inability to admit it, afraid in his own way that you were going to reject him, think him less of a man for revealing how much he wanted you to be in his life. And it does something to you, understanding that you're not the only one who's afraid of what comes next.

You smile at his obvious discomfort, heart clenching to see how much he wants to stay, and recognize how much you don't want him to go. How despite everything, you want him to stay here with you, and that you don't want him to live somewhere else. Because living somewhere else means that you wouldn't wake up in his arms and you wouldn't see his sleepy smile when he first opened his eyes.

You hug him around the waist and tuck your face into the hollow of his throat. “You can live here Ben.” You say, your voice no more than a murmur.

“Are you sure? I know that you don’t want to rush things. You want to take this slow and I understand how important that is to you.“ Ben's hands come up around you to hold you closer to him.

“Kinda hard for you to fix things if you’re living somewhere across town.” You mutter into his shirt, nuzzling your face into the soft fabric. “Plus I like the idea of you bringing me coffee in the morning.”

“And I like the idea of living with you.” He whispers into the top of your head. “So does that mean I’m entitled to hot water?”

“We can discuss terms later. Right now I really need some coffee.” You place you chin on his chest and look up into his deep green eyes.

“So you’ll take payment in the form of coffee?” Ben's smile is contagious.

“Perhaps.”

Ten minutes later Sully is buzzing pleasantly as it brews, glinting blue in the light that streams through the large windows on the opposite side of your apartment, and Ben knows how to use it without swearing and breaking it in half.

He drifts over to the part of your living room that serves as your art studio, examining the canvases splashed with color and the half-full sketchbooks on the large wooden table pressed under the windows. It was messier over there than the rest of your apartment, but you thrived on the mess, thrived on the chaos of art supplies that were scattered over the table top like multicolored fish.

“I followed your advice.” You smile leaning against the counter to watch him. “Started selling my art. It’s selling pretty well. Has been for a while.”

It was still weird that he was here in your apartment. Each time you looked up and saw him, you were surprised, but at the same time there was something deep down that was happy to see him there, dressed in normal clothes. Waking up next to him and having him make you coffee was the domestic relationship you had wanted with him so long ago. It was what you used to imagine when you were curled up on your couch in your old apartment downtown.

“Of course it is. You’re talented.” He replies while flipping through your sketchpad, the flick of the pages drowned out by the bubbling of the coffee.

"I actually have a show coming up in a few weeks-" You weren't sure if you were still going to make enough pieces in time, especially given everything that was happening in your life with Ben or what would happen when you told Rosemary.

"Good." Ben glances up from the sketchpad. "I want to go."

"I'd like that." You blush under his gaze before your eyes drift back to the box of letters smiling faintly. “I still can’t believe you kept them.”

“Got kicked out of boarding school number nine because of them.”

“I thought you got kicked out because you were in a fight.” You raise an eyebrow. “You never told me why.”

“Because someone stole the letters and read them out loud in the cafeteria.”

“You’re kidding!” You snort.

“No.”

“So he exposed you for being a simp and your immediate reaction was to fight him in the cafeteria?” Your fingertips brush over the faded script on the sheets of paper.

“Being a what?” Ben looks confused as he walks slowly towards you.

“Oh right.” You press your lips together to think of a way to explain it without insulting him. “It means being head over heels for someone.” It was a bit of a stretch but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know that the meaning was closer to something Ben would ascribe to being a pussy.

“I am.” His hands go on the counter around you pinning you between the metal and his muscular chest, looking down with so much love and care in his eyes that it makes you dizzy.

It was jarring. How could he flip the switch so easily? How could he be so open now to me and not be like this before?

You think about the moments you spent in bed together 40 years ago, the look in his eyes the perfect morning, how he held you like he never wanted you to let him go and you didn’t want him to.

“Are you now?”

“Mhmm.” Ben tilts his head down towards your forehead, but just before it rests against yours, your phone buzzes where you left it on the counter the night before, drawing your eyes to the illuminated screen.

“What is that?” Ben asks. You gently push him away to pick up the phone that continues to vibrate.

“Shit.” You mutter to yourself. You had ten missed calls from Rosemary not to mention a barrage of texts that each got more and more unhinged as they were delivered.

Rosemary: Hey. Rosemary: Did you land? Rosemary: Mom? Rosemary: HELLO? Rosemary: Mom are you in trouble? Rosemary: MOM. Rosemary: Please you’re scaring me. Rosemary: Pick up the phone. Rosemary: PICK UP THE PHONE Rosemary: PICK Rosemary: UP Rosemary: THE Rosemary: PHONE Rosemary: If you don’t pick up I’m going to buy a plane ticket. Rosemary: I bought a plane ticket. Rosemary: I’m packing a bag- Rosemary: I’m calling Lou’s babysitter. Rosemary: I’m scheduling an Uber!

Rosemary: Alright to whoever has my mom’s fucking phone, I’m coming and when I get there she better be okay. Because if she’s not, there will be nowhere for you to hide.

You tap out a quick message to sate her ridiculous descent into madness, before thinking of what you need to say next.

You: Rosie it’s okay. I’m fine!

She Immediately texts back.

Rosemary: What’s the safe word?

You: Pineapple.

Rosemary: What’s the second safe word?

Your fingertips hover over the screen as you try to remember if Rosemary had decided a second word that gave the all clear, but you can't remember one.

You: We don’t have a second safe word?

Rosemary: I know I was testing you. Where the hell did you go? Why didn’t you text me? I thought the plane was supposed to land early this morning?

You: My plans changed I didn’t have to go to Russia. I’ll tell you later. Lots happened and I need to work a few things out.

Rosemary: What happened? Did you find out he wasn’t there?

You: No I didn’t need to go.

You stop typing to try and think of a way to phrase that her father showed up out of the blue and slept over.

Well he didn't sleep over, sleep over, but he did stay in my bed with me and… she's going to kill me.

Rosemary: Because?

Rosemary: BECAUSE?

You: He kinda showed up here.

Rosemary: HE WHAT?

You: He showed up at my apartment.

Rosemary: Are you okay? DID HE HURT YOU? ILL BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES-

You: No he didn’t hurt me. I promise. All we did was talk. If anything I hurt him.

Rosemary: Good.

You watch the three dots flicker across the screen of your phone to signify that she is responding, waiting with your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Rosemary: Is he still there?

You: Yes.

Rosemary: Do you need me to come over?

You: No. He’s been through a lot. The last thing he needs is for you to show up guns blazing. I haven’t told him about you or Lou yet-

Rosemary: You fucking forgave him didn’t you? WHY?!!

You: I didn’t forgive him. It’s complicated-

Rosemary: What happened to just slapping him around a bit then telling him to fuck off? That was a good plan. I LOVED THAT PLAN!

You: Well I did tell him to fuck off but it got more complicated.

Rosemary: OH MY FUCKING G-

“Hey you okay?” Ben’s voice jars you from the barrage of messages on your phone. His gaze is leveled on your face, noting the worried frown that pulls at your lips.

“Yeah. Sorry someone was texting me-“ You try to wave him off, afraid that he can see the texts on the screen of your phone.

I don't want him to find out this way. Not by glancing over my shoulder and seeing the manic, overprotective texts from our daughter.

“They were what?” He looks down at the phone in your hand confused, but you lock the screen.

“Oh right. Sorry I forgot that you’ve been living under a rock the past forty years. It’s kinda like sending a message, instantaneously so you can talk to someone else.”

You really didn't feel like explaining texting and Wi-fi at the moment with him. You were too worried about the introduction between Ben and Rosemary that was looming over you like a guillotine.

But he still looks confused.

“I’ll get you a phone, don’t worry.”

There's so much he's missed.

Your phone buzzes in your hand and you know it’s Rosemary.

She's not going to give up.

Ben looks down at it again curious. “Sounds like someone’s trying to get ahold of you.”

“She can wait.”

“She?”

“Friend of mine.” You answer quickly.

Ben raises an eyebrow. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I know.”

The phone buzzes again and you sigh, knowing that the longer you ignore her, the worse it will be. And the last thing you needed was for Rosemary to show up and kick down the door of your apartment with Lou in tow.

“Impatient isn’t she?” Ben comments, noting how the phone continues to vibrate.

“Yeah she is. She’s also incredibly stubborn.”

“Huh sounds like someone I know.” The edge of his mouth quirks in a familiar smile that makes you wish that you had the courage to tell him.

“You have no idea.”

“So?”

“Are you going to answer her?”

“I should.” You press your lips together trying to think of a way to bring this up. “Ben I have to tell you something.”

“What?” He brushes back your hair, tenderly stroking his finger along your skin and trailing warmth with his caress. It distracts you for a moment.

“Well after that night we spent together I-um- I stopped being a hero.”

How the fuck do I say this?

“Yes I assumed that given what we talked about at the premiere.” He frowns remembering that night.

“And it wasn’t just because I wanted to leave it was because-um- well, I was different.”

How is he going to react? Is he going to be happy? Angry? Upset that we weren't more careful?

“Sweetheart I know you’re different, that’s why I love you.” He’s watching you softly, eyes a light green, filled with more love than you can comprehend.

It makes it difficult to find your words.

“No not like that I was, well, there’s no easy way to say this.” You pause and take Ben’s hand, raising your eyes to his and stroking your thumb over the warm skin. “I left because I was pre-“

Butcher kicks open the front door of your apartment interrupting what you were going to say next. “Good morning lovebirds. Did you kiss and make up yet?” Butcher flashes a salacious grin, eyeing Ben and your close proximity.

“That’s none of your fucking business.” Ben snaps his eyes narrowed at the man standing in the doorway.

“Touchy.” Butcher raises his hands in a sarcastic surrender.

“Why are you here?” You ask turning to look at him.

Could he have chosen a WORSE time to come here?

Hughie is loitering in the hall behind him as if deciding whether or not to come in. You couldn't blame him. The poor guy looked like a deer in the headlights yesterday when you threw Ben across the room.

Butcher walks into the kitchen straight for the coffeemaker not asking for permission before he pours himself a cup. “Well I found those TNT fucks that your boyfriend was looking for. Thought he’d want to pay them a visit.”

You turn to look at Ben surprised. “You’re going after the twins?”

Ben and you hadn’t spoken about his next move. He’d only talked about his plans to stay with you and hadn’t mentioned anything about going after your old team.

Not that you were against it. You weren't against making them pay for what they did to him. You weren't against making the remaining members wish that they hadn't sold Ben out. Of course, you hadn't said that to Ben. If anything you were going to give it a few days to get settled together before you brought it up. And you certainly weren't going to bring it up in front of Rosemary, who had been less than pleased when you killed Countess, and wouldn't approve of a bloody rampage all over New York. It definitely wouldn't make her like Ben any more than she already did.

"Yeah." Ben's expression darkens as his eyes flick from your face to Butcher. “Where are they?”

“A few hours outside New York. Brought your suit.”

You didn't like how eager Butcher was to help Ben and remember what Legend said about how Butcher liked killing supes. It made you anxious, because why would Butcher want to help Ben? Was it for the thrill of it? But the last thing you were going to do was leave Ben with a guy who likes killing supes.

Hughie holds up a plastic bag that must contain Ben’s old supe suit and you try not to shudder when you remember the last time you saw him wear it.

“I’ll be a minute.” Ben mutters to you squeezing your hand once before taking the bag and disappearing down the dark hallway towards your bedroom.

But you're not done talking about this with him and as you turn to follow, Hughie steps in front of you.

“Hey I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry."

“About what?” You ask confused.

What does he have to apologize for? He saw Ben and me yelling at each other and saw me throw him across the room. If anything I should be embarrassed about them hearing everything that I shouted at Ben yesterday.

“If I had known what happened between the two of you I would have tried harder to keep Butcher from bringing him here.” Hughie rubs the back of his neck and scrunches up his face sheepishly.

Again, what is he doing hanging around Butcher? Hughie seems to care about other people. And Butcher just seems like-

Your eyes skate to where Butcher is drinking from his cup of coffee unamused. And Butcher is just an asshole.

"It's okay. I'm glad you did. I've been holding on to some stuff for a really long time and Ben has been too. I’m glad that we got to talk things out.”

“So you're okay now?" Hughie raises an eyebrow. "He didn't-“ He pauses as if he's uncomfortable saying what comes next and you try to understand why.

“Didn't?” You ask confused.

“He's kinda rough I was worried that he would-“

He thought that Ben would hurt me.

“Ben might seem a little gruff, but not with me. He's never-“ You stop remembering the premiere and adjust your sentence. “He wouldn't hurt me. And if anything you saw that I can handle him pretty well.” You can't help, but smile and nod your head back towards the couch.

“Yeah. That was intense.” Hughie cracks a nervous smile.

“Yeah” You laugh awkwardly. “ I didn’t mean to lose my shit like that. I’m usually pretty good at controlling myself-"

“Is that what happened to Countess?” Butcher interrupts.

You blink at him surprised. “Yeah. She tried to kill me and she- she said a few things not worth repeating. I didn’t go there with the intention of killing her, I actually just wanted to talk but it got out of hand.”

"What exactly are your powers anyway? Vought's files said you were like him." Butcher nods his head in the direction of where Ben disappeared to.

"I am." The lie is easy. It was the secret that you kept for eighty years, the secret that only Ben and Rosemary knew. Because you knew that particular power made you different than other supes. You had been disappointed to learn that Rosemary's power also made her different than the usual roster of other supe powers that you had encountered in your lifetime. And it made you worry about Lou. Rosemary and you were waiting for the day that Lou's powers manifested and you hoped that Lou didn't have any.

Butcher's eyes narrow like he doesn't believe you, but you shrug it off.

“But I’m going to go check on him so I’ll be right back.”

And you leave your kitchen before Butcher and Hughie can ask you anything else.

When you walk in through the door of your bedroom, Ben is changing into his suit. He’s wearing the dark pants, but the top half of his suit is aying on your bedspread, and that means that you can see every perfect indention of muscle on Ben’s torso.

You'd seen him without a shirt before, obviously, many times, but each time it did the same thing. Again you curse him for looking this good after being trapped in a Russian lab for 40 years.

Did they let him work out there? Was the lab the same place Ivan Drago trained before he faced Rocky? How is any of this fair?

Your cheeks warm and your heartbeat thuds loudly in your chest as you gaze at him, so you turn back to close the door behind you to clear your head.

"You also get me pretty excited when you take your shirt off Sweetheart." Ben smirks at you with a wink as he picks up the top half of his suit, sliding it on over his head, but his helmet is nowhere to be seen.

Guess he wasn't trying to hide anymore.

You stand there for a minute watching him. "Are you sure about Butcher?"

"What about him?"

"I don't know. I don't understand why he's helping you with all of this-"

Ben goes silent and he turns towards his toolbelt, gun, and knife on your bed.

"What did you promise him?" You take a step towards Ben, to catch his eye.

He doesn't answer immediately, instead he buckles his toolbelt around his waist. "He wants me to go after Homelander. He said that he would help me find what's left of our old team if I do."

"Homelander?" You sputter. "You're kidding right?"

"What? He looks like a pussy-"

You could see some of the macho version of Soldier Boy beginning to unfold from the man who stood in front of you and you didn't like it. It wasn't that you hated the protective side of Ben, the side that always made you feel safe, it was the other side, the side that beat others into submission after they had surrendered that you didn't like.

"Do you even know anything about him?"

Honestly you didn't know too much about Homelander either, just that he was Vought's new golden boy and seemed incredibly shallow, not to mention each time you saw an interview or a picture it unnerved you.

Homelander's eyes were cold, lifeless, and empty. Each time he smiled you could see a glimmer of something dark behind them. You had seen it before, seen it in the eyes of supes like Liberty who believed that nothing could stop them, supes who believed that they were gods and everyone else was below them.

"Doesn't matter. Butcher thinks that whatever the fuck is in my chest will wipe him out."

"And you believe him?"

"Maybe-"

"Ben."

"What? You don't think I'm strong enough to take him?" His entire body turns back to look at you, something dark lurking behind his eyes that reminds you of the day you stood between him and Noir.

"That's not what I said. It's not about being strong enough to kill Homelander, it's about you trusting Butcher. You don't know anything about him and he's using you to live out his fantasy of killing Homelander. Legend told me that Butcher has this thing about killing supes and he has a bone to pick with Homelander because he did something to Butcher's wife."

"So?"

You shake your head in frustration, trying to get Ben to understand what you were saying. "Ben please, listen to me. I don't care about Homelander, I don't care about Butcher, I care about you-"

Going after Homelander was crazy. The one thing you knew about him, was how Vought continued to stress how indestructible he was, the exact same thing they had said about Ben and you. But leaving Ben with Butcher was crazier. Butcher didn't give a damn about Ben, he was just using him to do the one thing that he couldn't do himself.

"I know that." Ben sighs. "I care about you too."

"And I don't think it's a good idea for you to be doing everything he says-"

"I'm not doing everything he says. We have a deal. And if this is about you being upset with me going after our team, you can't talk me out of it."

“No Ben-“

“Fuck whatever Butcher says about Homelander. I have to do this.” Ben's jaw tightens, eyes flashing with anger as he remembers what happened in Nicaragua.

“Ben-“

“You weren’t there when it happened. You don't understand what they did to me, what it was like to be in that fucking lab! And I’m not going to let those incestuous fucks get away with it.” His teeth grind down together. "I'm not going to let any of them get away with it."

The air in your bedroom begins to get unnaturally warm, a orangish tinge beginning to peak through Ben's suit as his new power begins to manifest.

“Ben!” You shout, stepping towards him and laying your hands against his chest to snap him out of it. Your hands burn as they press against his suit, but you don’t let go of him.

He blinks a few times, gaining control, the brightness fading as he does so, but you don't drop your hands from over his heart.

“What?”

“I know.” You say gently.

“Huh?”

“I know you have to do this and I’m not going to try and stop you from going after our team. They deserve to pay for it. I was going to say that I’m going with you.”

“No.” His answer is immediate.

“What?”

“No.”

“What happened to not wanting to leave me?”

“I don’t want to leave you. But I have to, just for a few hours. I’ll come back I promise-“ Ben's hand falls on your waist, right where your shirt meets the top of your sweatpants, allowing you to feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric.

“No. The last time I let you go alone Countess told me you died and then you got taken away to Russia. I'm not letting you go alone."

The fear of him getting taken all over again squeezes your heart in your chest, because yes, maybe Butcher wanted Ben to go after Homelander, but what would Butcher do when Ben finished the job? Would he send him back to Russia? You weren't going to sit around and find out, you were going to make sure no one did that to Ben ever again. And if that meant him not leaving your sight, you were okay with that.

Ben continues to frown at you, before an odd look crosses his face. "Did you kill her?"

"Yes." You chew the inside of your cheek. "I didn't mean to, she said a few things and she killed me-"

“She killed you?” Ben growls and he begins to lift the bottom of your shirt to find the scar forgetting himself, but you drop your hand over his to stop him.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”

She might be dead, but what she said rings in your ears and the proud smile Countess had flashes through your mind. The triumphant look on her face after she told you why she had sex with Ben. The same look that was on her face, before you ripped her head off.

"What did she say?" Ben asks, but then he realizes after the question passes through his lips, noting your expression and remembering what you yelled at him yesterday. "Sweetheart-“

"It's okay-" You shake your head to dissipate the memory of Countess.

“No it isn’t.” Ben's hand cups your face. “What she said wasn’t true. That night meant everything to me. It wasn’t a mistake and it wasn’t disappointing in any way. Believe me.” His thumb brushes against your cheek and you lean into his touch.

“I do. I shouldn't have let what she said get to me and I shouldn’t have believed her. I can't remember the last time I lost control. I hadn't used my powers in a while-"

"Which is why you shouldn’t come."

“I don’t want you to get taken or hurt." Your hand comes up to hold his hand against your cheek.

Ben rolls his eyes at you, cracking a smile. "I won't get hurt."

"It doesn't matter what you say. I'm going."

His smile drops. “No.”

You really couldn't figure out why Ben was doing this. You both had powers and you trained together. You had been on "missions" for Vought before, and before everything happened, you were going to be in Nicaragua with him. So why was this any different?

“Why not? I’m just as strong as you. I’m just as indestructible-“

Ben pulls his hand from your face. “But you’re not indestructible! You die."

"I come back-"

"Have you thought that maybe I don't want you to come because I hate watching you die?" He snaps angrily.

"What?"

"Do you have any idea what that’s like for me?" He shouts eyes blazing through the soft light in the bedroom. “Hearing your heartbeat stop, watching you take your last breath, knowing that there’s absolutely nothing I can do?”

Whatever thoughts or words you were going to say shrivel up on the tip of your tongue. You'd never thought about it like that before. You'd thought that your ability to come back to life after would have reassured him.

He knows what my powers are. He knows what I can do-

"I hate feeling fucking helpless and every time you get hurt I’m reminded that I can’t help you! That I’m not strong enough to protect you!” He sits down on your bed, hands clenching into fists where they rest on his thighs.

"Ben-"

“When you came with me I promised that I would be strong for both of us, that I would always protect you and every time you die it just makes me feel like I’ve failed!” His gaze is leveled at you feet.

You inhale sharply with his confession. It was what he promised you the night he told you to say no to Howard, the night that you thought he was asking you in his own way to marry him. You could remember the promise, remember the way he held you close to him, eyes wide and vulnerable when he spoke it to you. That night anything had seemed possible. And despite everything that happened with Countess, Ben had never broken that promise to you. He had protected you, he had been strong for you when you needed him to be.

You remember the night of your brother's funeral when he drove all night to be there for you, and how he continued to show up in your life when you were having a hard time as if he seemed to know when you needed him the most.

"Ben-” You try again, this time a little softer.

"Do you have any idea what it’s like to exist in those thirteen fucking seconds wondering if you’re going to come back or not? If that’s the last time I’ll ever see you smile? If you’ll ever open your eyes and look at me ever again?" This time he raises his green eyes to yours and you see a lifetime of emotion reflected in them. It's the same look he had when you woke up after you took a bullet for him and died for the first time. He had yelled at you for it, told you never to do it again, shouted that he could take care of himself and he didn't need you to protect him.

And you suddenly understand, you understand why Ben knew it was thirteen seconds, why he was the first one to ever tell you that it was thirteen seconds. Because each time he counted hoping that you would come back to him.

He doesn’t say anything just continues to sit on the end of the bed, dropping his eyes to the floor again, and wringing his hands together.

You sit down next to him, the bed dipping beneath you, and reach for his hands, but Ben has other plans. He grabs your waist and pulls you up into his lap so you're straddling his thighs. You don't have time to be shocked, because Ben presses his face into your neck and brings both of his arms around your torso to hold you to him. Deep down you know that this is the opposite of taking it slow, but you can't bring yourself to push him away. Because again he was showing the vulnerable side of himself that made you want to comfort him, the side of him that he hid from you for so long.

"You’ve seen me die before.” You breathe, running your hand up and down his back in a soothing motion.

“Doesn’t mean it gets any easier.” He mumbles and you feel his lips brush against the half moon shaped scar over your heart, a reminder of the bullet you took for him all those years ago.“I thought I lost you that day.” Ben mutters into your shirt. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had-“

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have. “I hated that you did it. That you were willing to die for me. You’re worth so much more than I am-"

“The fact that you think that means the opposite.” You run your fingers through his hair, feeling his arms tighten around your hips. “Your father may have made you believe that, but I don't. You’re not a failure Ben. And you could never disappoint me.”

“I already did.”

“Hey we’re moving past that. And I’m sure that I’ve disappointed you plenty.”

“Never.”

“I find that hard to believe.” You snort, and for a moment, you think Ben is going to look up at you and smile, but his face stays buried against your chest.

“Hmm.”

You wait for a moment, stroking your fingers through his hair. “How do you think I felt when they told me you were gone? That I’d never see you again?"

“You were angry at me-“

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t devastated when they told me you died. I thought that the last thing I’d ever said to you was that you were like your dad and that I regretted having you in my life.”

That was something that you had to live with over the past forty years, because even though what Ben did hurt you, you hated that the last time you saw him was like that. You hated the thought that Ben died believing that you didn't care about him.

Maybe in some ways he did die believing that. All those years at that lab weren't easy for him.

“I-“

“I swear if you say ‘I deserved it’ again I will kill you.” You say pulling his face up to yours and frowning at him.

“I won’t.”

"Good. Now are you done coming up with ridiculous reasons why I can't come with you to see our old friends? Because I'm genuinely curious to know if they're still pretending that they're not fucking."

Ben cracks a smile. "Yes. But only if you promise me that you'll stay behind me."

"Can't." You start to get off of him, but Ben tightens his grip preventing you from leaving.

"Why not?"

"Because I've never broken a promise to you and I'm not going to start now."

"I just don't want you to get hurt." Ben sighs.

"I know. And I don't want to lose you again." You press your forehead against his, threading your fingertips in his dark hair.

You weren't sure what it would do to you if you did lose him, if he walked out of your life or if he went by himself to face your old teammates and vanished. You had been destroyed when everything fell apart the first time, and you knew this time would be worse if it happened. You could feel it in every fiber of your being, just like somewhere deep down you could feel that what was happening now between him and you was different somehow, that it had changed, but not in a bad way.

"I don't want to lose you either Sweetheart. I love you."

"I love you too."

And when Butcher beats his fist against your bedroom door a few minutes later, you're still in his arms, allowing him to hold you close and allowing yourself to begin to trust him again.

A/N: Sorry it took me a long time to get this one out! I had a hard time writing this chapter, and honestly it's still not my favorite, but big things are coming!!!

Thank you so much for reading!! If you'd like to be added to my taglist please let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303

@deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

@bughill126 @simplyfixated @sleepjam @tiredstrangerr @freefallthoughts

@onlyangel-444 @lov3vivian @mxltifxnd0m @mayafatimakhan @marvel-mistress

@my-obsession-spn @lifeonawhim @soldirboy @liuope @brynanna

@carpenterswife @xxannyxx @babyinatrench-coat1 @the-gentle-spirit

@valryomen @cassieriddle713 @shaggzthatsnottheworm @lil-soup @ej13928

@topstory21 @boywivlove @mrsjenniferwinchester @vivre-dans-la-nuit @megara0224

@daisy-the-quake

#soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy #soldier boy/ben #jensen ackles #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #jackles #the boys #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x y/n #the boys series #the boys season 3 #You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

420 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 14 days ago

Text

Semantic drift versus ethical drift

More than a quarter-century ago, a group of hackers decided that, as a label, "free software" was a liability, and they set out to replace it with a different label, "open source," on the basis that "open source" was easier to understand and using it instead of "free software" would speed up adoption.

They were right. The switch from calling it "free software" to calling it "open source" sparked a massive, unbroken wave of adoption, to the point where today it's hard to find anyone who will profess enmity for "open source," not even Microsoft (who once called it "a cancer").

Two motives animated "open source" partisans: first, they didn't like the ambiguity of "free software." Famously, Richard Stallman (who coined "free software") viewed this ambiguity as a feature, not a bug. He liked that "free" had a double meaning: "free as in speech" (an ethical proposition) and "free as in beer" (without cost). Stallman viewed the ambiguity of "free software" as a koan/conversation-starter: a normie, hearing "free software," would inquire as to whether this meant that the software couldn't be sold commercially, which was an opening for free software advocates to explain the moral philosophy of software freedom.

For "open source" partisans, this was a bug, not a feature. They wanted to enlist other hackers to develop freely licensed codes, and convince their bosses to adopt this code for internal and public-facing use. For the "open source" advocates, a term designed to confuse was a liability, a way to turn off potential collaborators ("if you're explaining, you're losing").

But the "open source" side wasn't solely motivated by a desire to simplify things by jettisoning the requirement to conscript curious bystanders into a philosophical colloquy. Many of them also disagreed with the philosophy of free software. They weren't excited about building a "commons" or in preventing rent extraction by monopolistic firms. Some of them quite liked the idea of someday extracting their own rents.

For these "open source" advocates, the advantage of free software methodologies – publishing code for peer review and third-party improvement – was purely instrumental: it produced better code. Publication, peer review, and unrestricted follow-on innovation are practices firmly rooted in the Enlightenment, and are the foundation of the scientific method. Allowing strangers to look at your code, critique it, and fix it is a form of epistemic humility, an admission that we are all forever at risk of fooling ourselves, and it's only through adversarial peer review that we can know whether we are right.

This is true! Publishing code makes it better, and prohibitions on code publication make code worse. That's the lesson of the ransomware epidemics of the past decade: these started with a series of leaks from the NSA and CIA. Both agencies have an official policy of researching widely used software in hopes of finding exploitable bugs and then keeping those bugs secret, so that they will be preserved in the wild and can be exploited when the agencies wish to attack their enemies.

The name for this practice is NOBUS, which stands for "No One But US": we alone are smart enough to find these bugs, so if we discover them and keep them secret, no one else will find them and use them to attack our own people. This is a provably false proposition, and a very dangerous one.

The Vault 7, Vault 8, and NSA cyberweapon leaks blew a hole in NOBUS. Failures in the agencies' own security protocols resulted in the release of a long list of defects (mostly in versions of Windows, but other OSes and programs were affected). Malicious software authors used these as can openers to pry open millions of computers, enlisting them into botnets and/or shutting them down with ransomware.

These leaks also provided some "ground truth" for researchers who study malicious software. Once these researchers had a list of which defects the spy agencies had discovered and when, they were able to compare that list of defects that malicious software authors had discovered and exploited in the wild, and estimate the likelihood that a spy agency defect would be independently discovered and abused by the agency's enemies, who they were supposed to be protecting us from. It turns out that the rediscovery rate for spy agency bugs is about 20% per year – in other words, there's a one in five chance that a bug that the CIA or NSA is hoarding will be used to attack America and Americans within the year.

NOBUS is a form of software alchemy. Alchemy is the pre-Enlightenment version of scientific inquiry, and it resembles science in many respects: an alchemist observes phenomena in the natural world, hypothesizes a causal relationship to explain them, and performs an experiment to test their hypothesis. But here is where the resemblance ends: where the scientist must publish their results for them to count as science, the alchemists kept their findings to themselves. This meant that alchemists were able to trick themselves into thinking they were right, including about things they were very wrong about, like whether drinking mercury was a good idea. The failure to publish meant that every alchemist had to discover, for themself, that mercury was a deadly poison.

Alchemists never figured out how to transform lead into gold, but they did convert the base metal of superstition into the precious metal of science by putting it through the crucible of disclosure and peer-review. Both open source and free software partisans claim transparency as a key virtue of their system, because transparency leads to improvement ("with enough eyeballs, all bugs are shallow").

At the outset, "open source" and "free software" were synonyms. All code that was open was also free, and vice-versa. But over the ensuing decades, that changed, as Benjamin "Mako" Hill explained in his 2018 Libreplanet keynote, "How markets coopted free software’s most powerful weapon":

https://mako.cc/copyrighteous/libreplanet-2018-keynote

As Hill explains, the philosophical differences between "open" (making better code) and "free" (making code to enhance human freedom) may not have mattered at the outset, but they each served as a kind of pole star for its own adherents, leading them down increasingly divergent paths. Each new technology and practice represented a decision-point for the movement: "Is this something we should embrace as compatible with our project, or should we reject it as antithetical to our goals?" If you were an "open source" person, the question you asked yourself at each juncture was, "Does this new thing increase code-quality?" If you were a "free software" person, the question you had to answer was, "Does this make people more free?"

These value judgments carried enormous weight. They influenced whether hackers would work to improve a given package or pursue a use-case; they determined who would speak or exhibit at conferences, they created (or deflated) "buzz," and they influenced the direction that new license versions would take, and whether those licenses would be permissible on influential software distribution channels. For a movement that runs on goodwill as much as on dollars, the social acceptability of a practice, a license, a technology or a person, mattered.

Hill describes how chasing openness without regard to its consequences for freedom created a strange situation, one in which giant tech monopolists have software freedom, while the rest of us have to make do with open source. All the software that powers the cloud systems of Facebook, Google, Apple, Microsoft, etc, is freely licensed. You can download it from Github. You can inspect it to your heart's content. You can even do volunteer work to improve it.

But only Google, Apple, Microsoft and Facebook get to decide whether to run it, and how to configure it. And since nearly all the code our users depend on takes a loop through a Big Tech cloud, the decisions made by these Big Tech firms set the outer boundaries of what our code can do. They have total freedom while we make do with the crumbs they drop from on high.

In other words, the freedom mattered, and when we forgot about it, we lost it.

Which is not to say that free software doesn't benefit from open source's popularity. The vast cohort of people who have been won over by open source's instrumental claims to superior code are the top of a funnel that free software partisans can operate to convince these people to consider the ways that their lives have been made more free through open code, and to prioritize freedom, even ahead of code quality.

The free/open source movement is actually a coalition of people who share some goals even if they differ on others. Coalitions are politically powerful. Nearly everything that happens, happens because a coalition has been pulled together:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/06/how-the-sausage-gets-made/#governing-is-harder

But coalitions are also brittle, because after they get what they want (transparency for code), then they have to resolve their differences, which means that some members of the coalition are going to be bitterly disappointed.

After all, there's code that we don't want to make better – at least, not if we care about human freedom. For example: code that helps ICE kidnap our neighbors. Code that powers drones. Code that spies on us, both for governments and for private-sector snoops, like the data-broker industry. Code that helps genocidiers target Gazans. Code that helps defeat adblockers. Code that helps locate new sites for fossil fuel extraction, and code that helps run fossil fuel extraction operations. Human freedom has an inverse relationship to this code: the better this code is, the worse off we all are.

Periodically, some free software advocate will follow this to its logical conclusion and propose a new free software license that prohibits use for some purpose: "you may not use my code in the military," or "you may not use my code for ad-tech," or "you may not use my code in ways that despoil the environment."

It's not surprising that this is a recurring event. After all, if you care about software as a tool for enhancing human freedom, and you notice that your code is being used to make people less free, it's natural to want to do something about it.

And yet, every one of these efforts have foundered – and I think every one will. This isn't because ethics clauses in license are a foolish idea, but because they are logistically transcendentally hard to get right.

First, there is the problem of writing good "legal code." Free software licenses are extraordinarily hard to get right. Not only do the terms have to spell out the rights and obligations of participants in the software project, but the whole system needs to be designed so that these clauses can be enforced. The right to sue for breaching a license is determined by "standing" – only people who have been injured by a license violation have the right to seek justice in court. This has proven to be a serious technical challenge in free software licensing, and if you screw it up, you'll end up with an unenforceable license:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/20/vizio-vs-the-world/#dumbcast

Even if you figure out all that stuff, it's possible for even extremely talented lawyers working in collaboration with the most ethical of technologists to make subtle errors that take years or decades to surface. By that time, there might be millions or even billions of works that have been released under the defective version of the license, and no practical way to contact the creators of all those works to get them to relicense under a patched version of the license.

This isn't a hypothetical risk: for more than a decade, every version of every flavor of Creative Commons license had a tiny (but hugely consequential) defect. These licenses specified that they "terminated immediately upon any breach." That meant that if you made even the tiniest of errors in following the license terms, you were instantly stripped of the protections of the CC license and could be sued for copyright infringement. Many billions of works were released under these older CC licenses.

Today, a new kind of predator called a "copyleft troll" exploits this bug in order to blackmail innocent Creative Commons users. Multimillion dollar robolawyer firms like Pixsy represent copyleft trolls who release timely images under ancient CC licenses in the hopes that bloggers, social media users, small businesses and nonprofits will use them and make a tiny error in the way they attribute the image. Then Pixsy helps the troll extort hundreds or thousands of dollars from each victim, under threat of a statutory damages claim of $150,000 per infringement:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

Creative Commons spent millions over years, working with a who's-who of international copyright and licensing experts, and it took them more than a decade to fix this bug, and the billions of works released under the old licenses are ticking time-bombs. After all, the copyright in those works will last for 70 years after their authors die, which means that anyone who acquires the copyright to those older images could turn troll and go hunting.

There's a reason that old FLOSS hands react with instant derision whenever someone proposes making up a new software license. It's the same reason cryptographers are so hostile to the idea of people rolling their own ciphers: no matter how smart and well-intentioned you are, there's a high likelihood that you will screw up and irrevocably place innocent people at risk. Yes, irrevocably: getting all those creators to relicense their works under a modern CC license is effectively impossible. Even projects with a relatively small number of contributors – like Mozilla – had to resort to throwing away chunks of code whose authors couldn't be located and paying someone to rewrite them under a new license.

Those are reasons not to come up with new free and/or open licenses, period. But on top of that, there's a special set of perplexities and confounders that arise when ethics clauses are added to free/open licenses.

The first of these is the definitional problem. Even seemingly simple categories can elude consensus on definition. Again, the Creative Commons licenses are instructive here: from the outset, CC licenses let creators toggle an ethics clause, called the "NonCommercial" (NC) flag. Works licensed under "NC" couldn't be used commercially. Seems simple, right?

Wrong. For years – and to this day – CC creators and users have been unable to consistently agree on what constitutes a "commercial use." If you post something, in your personal capacity, to a commercial service, is that "commercial?" Well, it had better not be, because anything you find online is going to have some kind of commercial enterprise involved in getting that file to you: a long-haul fiber provider, a data-center, a hosting company, a cloud company, a social media service, etc, etc. If "noncommercial" means "no one can make any money as a result of the distribution of this work," then an NC license would mean that works couldn't be distributed at all (even if you're just printing off copies of a cool image at home and stapling them to telephone poles, the printer ink company and the staple company are making money off of every copy you post).

The CC organization did extensive polling, conducted seminars, consulted experts, and produced a 255-page document that is fascinating and subtle:

https://mirrors.creativecommons.org/defining-noncommercial/Defining_Noncommercial_fullreport.pdf

And even with this document, CC users and creators still argue about whether some users are in and out of bounds.

Now, the CC NC ethics clause is the best case for an ethics clause in a license. CC is a centralized organization that has total authority over the text of CC licenses and exercises near-total control over their interpretation.

Now imagine how a hypothetical ethics clause in a software license would perform, given the CC NC experience. Compared with, say, "military/nonmilitary," the "commercial/noncommercial" distinction is trivial to draw. Is Ford – whose cars are in DoD motor-pools – a "military" user? What if Ford decides to boycott the Pentagon, but the Navy still buys a bunch of used Ford Focuses from a wrecking yard and fixes them up with Ford parts they buy at an Autozone: does Ford now become a "military" user of free/open software?

Categories are clusters, not shapes. This is why the right wing troll mantra "What is a woman?" is so effective: women aren't whats; they are whos, and if you try to come up with a definition that encompasses all the people who are women, it will stretch to dozen of pages and still miss people out. This isn't unique to women – almost every category defies exhaustive definition. Famously, there is no such thing as a fish:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Such_Thing_as_a_Fish#Title

Neither is there any such thing as a name, an address or a date:

https://github.com/kdeldycke/awesome-falsehood

Obviously, the fact that "name" is a slippery concept doesn't stop us from introducing ourselves and referring to one another. But imagine now that we are going to create billions of works whose copyright will endure for more than a century, and if any of them fails to refer to someone by their name correctly, then any of millions of people, some of them not even born yet, could ruin some software contributor's life and maybe the lives of thousand or millions of users of their software.

And "name" – like "noncommercial" – is an easy case. The hard cases are things like "military/nonmilitary," "fossil fuel-sector/non-fossil fuel sector" etc etc. Big, distributed projects with informal institutions and leaders are poorly suited to adjudicating any of these definitional questions, but toothy ethics clauses require these loose ad-hocracies to create and enforce definitions of the most pernicious and slippery concepts of all.

I want to be clear that I'm not opposed to the idea of an ethics clause in free/open licenses. I make extensive use of both the NC and commercial CC licenses, after all. My objections are practical, not philosophical.

A couple weeks ago, I traveled to Rochdale in Greater Manchester to give the opening keynote at the 2025 Coop Congress. After my talk, I was on a panel with Chris Croome, who has been campaigning for a co-op software license:

either enforce co-operation and sharing and do not allow code to be privatised (made proprietary) or code that is released under terms that dictate that if the code is used to run a business the nature of the business must be a co-operative.

https://community.coops.tech/t/co-operative-software-licenses/4421/10

I've been thinking about this ever since and I think all my concerns about other ethics clauses apply here. Admittedly, there is a widely accepted and mature definition of "co-op," the seven "Rochdale Principles":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rochdale_Principles

These have been around since 1937, and many of the seeming ambiguities in the language have been resolved through debate over the past 88 years. But there are plenty of entities that are recognizable as "co-ops" that exist outside of the UK, the Anglosphere and the global north that don't embrace all of these principles, or embrace them in ways that fit into the consensus as to their meaning that has emerged among Rochdale-derived co-ops. It's not merely that a "co-op" license might exclude these co-ops, but also that the enforcement mechanism for software licenses is that individual software authors retain the copyright to their lines of code, and use copyright law to threaten and punish people who violate the license terms.

This means that you could have a pool of potentially thousands of software authors, and their literary estates, who would have the right – for more than a century – to attack co-ops that use "co-operatively licensed" software on the grounds that the differ in their interpretation of what is – and is not – a co-op.

What's more, there are plenty of groups that could organize as a co-op and satisfy the software license's definition, who might nevertheless not be "ethical" by the lights of the co-op movement. Think of a firm of mercenaries that set up as a worker co-op (if this strikes you as implausible, I remind you that the most vicious, human-rights-abusing cops in the world are mostly members of "unions").

So a co-op license creates three risks:

Excluding co-operators because of small differences in which co-op principles they adopt;

ii. Including co-operators who are structured as compliant co-ops, but do terrible things; and

iii. Putting license users at the risk of copyleft trolls who exploit ambiguity in the definition of "co-op" to extort massive "settlement fees" from software users.

That all said, a co-op license has positive aspects as well. Remember what happened when we stopped stressing "freedom" in our software licenses: we got the code quality of "open," applied to all kinds of code, including code that destroys freedom. I've been involved with co-ops since I was a pre-teen, and I've experienced firsthand what happens when a co-op forgets its ethical basis in favor of instrumental goals.

Take the Mountain Equipment Co-Op, Canada's most beloved and successful consumer co-op. MEC was inspired by the US outdoor gear co-op REI, and it served Canadians proudly for decades. But like most consumer co-ops, MEC had very low member involvement, so a cabal of MBA-poisoned looters were able to take over MEC's board, change the bylaws, and then flip the co-op to a ruthless American private equity fund:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/16/spike-lee-joint/#casse-le-mec

MEC isn't a co-op anymore. The board's argument was that keeping MEC a co-op wasn't as important as infusing it with capital so it could source the goods its members wanted and offer them at reasonable prices. Joke's on them: after five years of PE looting, MEC's quality sucks and its prices are sky-high.

Institutional structure (like whether you are a co-op or not) can influence the kind of activity an organization engages in, but it can't control it. Keeping enshittification at bay requires multiple, overlapping constraints that prevent the institution from caving into the worst instincts of its worst members. That's why I'm rooting for Bluesky to become more federated. It's nice that they're structured as a B-corp, but that alone won't stop a dedicated investor class from replacing the current management with enshittifiers who destroy the lives of tens of millions of Bluesky users. However, if a large plurality of Bluesky users weren't actually on Bluesky, but on federated servers, they could credibly threaten Bluesky's business by defederating with it if it enshittified:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/23/defense-in-depth/#more-10160

So maybe the prospect of losing access to all of its business-critical software could have acted as a check on MEC's board and prevented them from sleazing up to private equity vampires. This is certainly a possible benefit to a co-op ethics clause in a software license. I'm not convinced that it outweighs the risks, though.

I'm a free software person. There are bitter free software partisans who think that the open source people stole our revolution. I understand their outrage. But I also think we left an open goal. In retrospect, choosing a deliberately confusing name in the hopes of sparking conversations was a tactical error. The cohort of potential movement supporters who also enjoy word-games is smaller than the cohort who are put off by being deliberately confused.

I also don't think it's a problem that the software freedom coalition includes people who value software freedom for purely instrumental reasons – because open code is better code. I do think it's a problem that they are the senior partners in the coalition and have steered it for a quarter-century. After all, they steered it into this ditch where tech monopolists have free software and we all make do with open source.

Coalitions, though, are hugely important. Take the as-yet-nameless coalition lined up against corporate power, which has defied political science's laws of gravity, pushing antitrust enforcement across the world, against the world's largest and most powerful corporations:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/28/mamdani/#trustbusting

This coalition needs a name. I often cite James Boyle's explanation of the role the word "ecology" played in bringing together thousands of disparate issues (spotted owls, ozone depletion) under a single banner and turning them into a movement. The anti-corporate-power movement doesn't have a name that can unite labor, climate, environment, antitrust, anticorruption, antigenocide, antiracist, antisexist, antitransphobic groups under one banner. Almost all of our definitional terms are "anti-something," from "antitrust" to "antifascist." We have no end of words to describe what we stand against (even "enshittification"'s opposite is "disenshittification"), but we still lack a word to express what we're for.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/07/14/pole-star/#gnus-not-utilitarian

Image: Muhammad Mahdi Karim https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blue_Wildebeest,_Ngorongoro.jpg

GNU FDL https://www.gnu.org/licenses/fdl-1.3.html

EC https://www.flickr.com/photos/baumderjustiz/4797771263/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #language #activism #floss #foss #free software #gnu #open source #oss #open source software #technology #pluralism #mako #benjamin mako hill #benjamin hill #copyleft trolls #semantics #semantic drift

280 notes · View notes