#lorata answers

[lorata]

What didn’t you like, and what did you question? There was some stuff I did as well and I’d love to know if we were thinking on the same lines

i'm just gonna talk about one thing that's been sitting with me

under the cut bc i don't want to tag it

so this is an entirely personal choice that affects my enjoyment of a ton of books and movies or whatever but i really hate the more things try to connect & explain every single little thing

i don't love my wife because she likes me to braid her hair and my mom used to braid my hair and my mom is dead and this helps me feel close to her again. i don't love my friends because they remind me of my childhood friends who i don't see anymore or whatever. i love them all for who they are on their own terms and our relationships are ours, we forged all of this together, and what we mean to one another belongs to us and not the ghosts of people past who i see in them and somehow oblige me to care for them

reducing katniss, a character whose agency is constantly stripped away throughout the trilogy save when she's able to claw it back with bloody hands, to someone else's voice, someone else's hair, someone else's nickname, someone else's memory; reducing the relationship she and haymitch very clearly created in the og trilogy together, themselves, in a very unique way, to some sort of fated encounter because she shares jigsaw-puzzle traits with past-life characters slotted in after the fact is not satisfying to me. it denies her agency, it denies haymitch agency, it saps the power out of the relationship and leaves it bland and unfulfilling (to me).

and it's not NECESSARY! we already got it! their relationship made sense on its own terms! we didn't need it to be destiny as well

but people LOVE this cyclical stuff, they find it incredibly meaningful and are constantly looking for parallels (sejanus is peeta! or whatever) and drawing lines, not just in thg but in everything, so like, this is clearly the preferred method of generational storytelling, AND THAT'S FINE i just don't work that way.

[hallibahar]

bb!Calli for @lorata

Decided to rise back from dead and deliver few thousands of words regarding Callista because I can.

Also, Merry Christmas to people who celebrate!

Without further rambling, I present you what happens when you procrastinate so hard

She was born as the clock hit midnight, when October 30th bled into 31st; a sign of power, her parents said and as if to prove that theory, the rosy-cheeked baby hadn’t screamed or shed a tear when she finally took her first breath and nor will she when she rises into the greatness that was ahead of her.

A greatness even this little soul knew already.

—

Callista likes to get what she wants, is the only thing her teachers agree upon describing her ın the parent-teacher meeting conferences. Because even though she is still  a rosy-cheeked five year old, she has a great way to people and the way she acted around them, controlling the very air around her:

Callista is very demure when she says her classmates are good but not good enough and maybe she can help them because they have so much to improve on. (and then she sneakily hides their projects, making them seem irresponsible; always ending up as the one who gets the praise)

Callista is very passionate when she says she can skillfully use her scissors and unlike other kids, she would not try to hurt them with her tools because she is so well-behaved, a favourite and has manners. (if she wanted to hurt them, she definitely would try to find a way without staining her pretty scissors)

Callista is very polite about the way she informs her teachers during recess, she discusses the things her peers say to one another that might be harmful or could possibly paint them in a bad light. (well, she could paint them in a bad light as she is perfect in painting, she just threatens her peers a bit for them to do it for her because she does not want to paint)

Callista is, they say–Callista just is.

—

When she watches her first Games, Callista is six years old and it also happens to be her first Victor, a fact which she cried along with her parents as they wept because Two finished their second decade with success, power and most of all, they had done their duty and are ready to provide for more.

And although they had let their little daughter watch death happen in more ways than she can count at that age, they do turn off the voice of television and bid her goodnight when their latest Victor decides to dissect however the amount of dead tributes left.  

Callista obeys even though she cannot comprehend why the Victor-Adessa, she can say her name now because she is Two’s forever and ever and not buried underground like other twenty three- should not be allowed to murder just a tad more when she can for the last time.

And it’s not like the tributes would feel anything now, she reckons.

—

After less than a year her parents tell her she will -not can, nor chance-- actually be one of them; one of the Victors. And Callista thinks obviously because she knows she is meant for more; not just good or good enough but only the best.

So they take her to Centre to take a test which makes her want to scoff but that would be rude in the public eye, not very demure so she just asks why she should take a test if her capacity is already a fact and proven through the school tests she already started to take.

Her parents smile and say it is for reassurance which makes Callista want to frown but she cannot do that either, no wrinkles are allowed when we aren’t at home, afterall.

When she is a Victor she will make sure people give answers she likes because she deserves to know why, not just reassurances.

When they enter the building she stands up tall among her parents as a lady makes her way towards them. “Ah, I see the last link of the Beauforts ready to shine as well. Calliope, was it?”

“Callista.” she says, pulling her ‘serious’ voice which she uses with adults. She doesn’t know what she is more annoyed at; the way this stranger thinks she isn’t shining already or getting her name wrong or the talk she sure will receive this evening when they get back home about not interrupting the adults.

The lady, however, chuckles. “Well, Callista, nice to meet you. You may go to room six as your parents and I talk.”

Callista opens her mouth again but she can feel the three pairs of eyes burning on her and even though she likes attention, she has a feeling that this is her cue to pretend to listen so she nods and takes a turn to make her way as she hears about the recent changes in the Offering System.

When she reaches room six she stops in front of it and knocks and doesn’t enter until she hears a soft ‘come in’. She smiles just as she had been taught and introduces herself which the woman in front of her takes in with delight. She offers Callista a seat and asks her about her which is Callista’s favourite topic to talk about. 

Then she shows up a few pictures and that’s when she struggle a bit because she doesn’t know what to say to Ms. Ambers in order to make her family look good. It’s not like her eyes are bad or she lacks creativity but she still answers confidently even though it definitely isn’t her best few minutes and she notes to herself to analyse people better.

But apparently Ms. Ambers has a few things to do -which Callista considers unprofessional because who would sign up for things when they have other more important things to do?- and she pardons herself for a few minutes meanwhile Callista can or cannot enjoy the marshmallows that are in front of her- which is another unprofessional thing because aren’t guests supposed to relish in catering?

However she isn’t a guest, she is in a test and things like these might not be applicable here so she waits because she might make up for the picture guessing things by offering the older woman a few of her marshmallows because she is polite and sharing is caring.

When Ms. Ambers turns back she eyes the treats with a glint in her eyes and Callista feels grateful that she doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth even though she smiles all cute and sure and makes her offer but doesn’t wave her hand up in air because then it would be obvious that she is mimicking her parents’ attitude in these situations.

And for being such a good girl, Callista gets to prove her physical strength when Ms. Ambers take her to the playground. She eyes the other kids as she makes her way through them, honestly, they stood no chance to her, they should be aware of that when the trumpets boom. So she mainly shows things she is already excellent at such as flexibility as she climbs up the ropes, the way she pushes kids down but doesn’t let herself lose any progress she made while climbing up.

Callista smiles and it’s not the ‘sweet’ coded one for once but she cannot bring herself to care.

—

And as she always does, Callista dominates; she is the best in her cohort and best overall so far; she is calculating,vicious and powerful and she drinks it up like a cocktail while she breaks other people’s bones. She doesn’t smile much but when she does it smells blood and there is nothing anyone can do; she is perfect because she is and well guess who has to deal with that? Not her.

It is a problem, apparently as she grows older because everyone grows older and it turns from games to Games and the clock ticking like the ones in the Arenas do. There are kids who already are quitting or painfully obvious that they won’t make it until fifteen but also the ones that are becoming more and more insistent and nastier and Callista can’t ignore that. This–everything around here is what she is passionate about and she will not let them take it away so she trains herself even more, pushing her limits until nothing is left to be pushed and it works until it doesn’t.

Arrogance is one of the things what Two looks for in tributes but they prefer not overdosing it and well Callista apparently did because there was no other reason they brought a Victor–her first, Adessa, at that– to show her place which she already knows, obviously, she just wanted to enlarge the narrative but it’s still a good wake up call nonetheless about how extreme confidence may cause great tragedies.

Odin in 32nd proved it to the other children that sometimes too much believing in the death-condition of the last tribute as you turn around for the trumpets might cost you an eye even if you kill them afterwards. And that is one of the lessons Callista listened to in her heart.

And she grows and kills and plays the cameras and when they announce the chosen female tribute she cackles and it’s raw and dangerous and her.

When the trumpets play, Callista grins as she holds herself up from the One tribute who is as naked and as flushed as her but not as alive. This is what she was made for, what her parents told her for and what she made herself as and she is proud of herself and the whole country is and everything is perfect.

—

Hera is waiting for her in the hovercraft and she is still there when Callista takes her well deserved nap and she will be with her as long as Callista requires because she is a mentor with an alive kid for once and her eyes are proud.

She has a house in the village now but it seems to be not ready for her yet which Callista doesn’t really think is justifiable; who else was there but her to win 41st? But she won’t throw a tantrum because she has all the time for eternity and is not a rose-cheeked toddler anymore.

In the months between her win and Tour, she finds the lack of blood too boring. Everything around her is soft and safe and in order which is such a difference from the Arena and from the last eleven years. And when Hera is gone for a bit Callista sneaks a blade –which were hidden away from her except her mentor doesn't know all her skills–and slides it across her skin and inhales the coppery smell of blood; bright and dark and beautiful like her. She patches it up afterwards because she didn’t die from infection then and won’t die now.

Apparently being alive and perfect is not enough to be loved by everyone which confuses her at first. It’s not like she expected outliers to adore her but she didn't anticipate this much hate either and it’s way too obvious, no doubt they don’t have the privileges Two has; one needs to know how to play the game and Callista and the entire district does.

The village feels even more like home after the Tour, however all she can feel now is rage. How dare people not see the greatness behind her? Or was it her price to pay for being herself? 

And that is when the thirst for blood paints her sight red and some lowlife ends up dead by her hands and it should be glorious but it’s not and she’s boiling and she is ready to hunt again but–

Mentors apparently can appear out of thin air and Callista hisses out as she stands up on her feet and braces herself for impact because while Hera is not particularly vicious she definitely won’t let a corpse slide underneath her feet especially if it’s from her Victor’s knives. Hera grabs her by the collar of her jacket and smashes her to a tree. 

“You are out.” Hera says, tone distanced but furious. “You are someone with enough blood on her hands which was allowed then because that is what everyone needs to do there in order to seem worthy of freedom. You have it now and you are not a fool to even think I will tell you throw all that. This is not Games anymore, being alive is not the only rule around here, and you might act like you do not care but we both know if that was the case you wouldn't be covered in blood now.”

Callista doesn’t meets her eyes, for once in her life she feels something similar to shame. Not shame for herself but for her actions which will have consequences she’s sure she could live without. “What else am I supposed to be covered with?” There are a few things in her mind but she definitely cannot say them now.

“Only your flesh. We can’t redo what we had done nor should we, but we can stay true to ourselves and achieve things from there.”

“...so I should kill some more then.” Callista smirks a little, not mean nor innocent, just her. “That’s who I am.”

Hera, points for her, doesn’t take her bullshit. “You know exactly what I mean–”

Footsteps. 

Except they don’t sound massive, and since the guy has been dead for at least half an hour, it is definitely not him.

Hera and Callista share glances and she gives her mentor a knife, just in case. 

“Mrw,” a one-eyed cat is staring at them, defensive with at least half a dozen kittens underneath her and she tries to keep them all in one place as they try to walk away from their mother.

Callista looks at them, strangely marveled as she watches the scene in front of her and Hera probably looks at her Victor the same way as she takes off her jacket and swaddles them in her arms despite the protests. “Hey now–”

Callista still doesn’t look at Hera, this night feels like a fever dream already so why not take full advantage? “Can you help me? They are heavy and I think they find my arms quite tasteful.”

Hera purses her lips as if she’s reconsidering her life choices. “Fine,” she decides and walks towards her Victor who is being playfully strangled by a bunch of mammals. She picks up a few of them carefully. “But–if this happens again, you will not see them ever again. Understood?”

“What if my hand slips or–” Callista starts but quotes down when her mentor gives her a look. “Okay. That is—okay.”

“Good. Let’s take all of you back home.” Hera says and gives Callista a once-over. “And you should take a shower. And probably them too.”

[malkaleh]

I really want to do my end of year sappiness post right now so I am going to do it. This year. This year, this year was the year that the fact that I made it is something I have to talk about it, because honestly I wasn’t sure between everything. And in the trauma (the activated Jewish Trauma Genre), in the hate I have also found love. Am Yisrael Chai. We live. I live.

Which is why I have to first send my love to my Jewish Mutuals/Friends and to Jumblr - @cephalopodvictorious @captainlordauditor and just, every one of my Jewish Mutuals and people who have sent kind words. Who have made me, a patrilineal mizrahi jewish woman reconnecting with her heritage and faith because of abuse feel Jewish enough to go to Synagogue.

This year was, despite everything the year I reconnected with old friends (shout to my friends in physical space - E, R, C and C), I took an art class, I swam more, I wrote a bunch of words, I found my love of art again and discovered that I might, might be good at it, I even asked for things like gifts even though it’s Terrifying.

To my saatis. My sisters. My chosen family. Thank you for everything - the phone calls you let me schedule, the chats and the wise words and the blorbos and from some of you the in person hugs (there will be more I will offer hugs to and I will also hug again). @shes-a-voodoo-child @bibliothekara @wheresonichedgehogwnt @pearlsthatwereeyes @star-anise @notabuddhist @kawuli lemonsharks @maevedarlings @ruffboijuliaburnsides @taibhsearachd @blackeyedgirl-writes @armyofthedaegiloth @strangeetudes @findingfeather

@bessemerprocess @sarking @jesidres @kshandra @amadistuff FRIENDS. FRIENDS. Love you to the moon and back - and we are here. We are here.

And @geeoharee - The Sherlock Content <3.

To the Pocket Friends Who Have/Are Becoming(If It’s okay obviously!) Become Friends: @rahabs whose kindness I will never ever forget. To @theladyelizabeth who patiently answers my questions about all kinds of Tudors Things and who is like, The Best. To @nocompromise-noregrets for Ellie, for answering archives questions and just in general. To @gen-is-gone - a saati in the making, holder of correct Doctor Who Opinions forever. To @herawell - the bravest when scared, indulges my OT3 verse. To @miabicicletta - one of the best fic writers, so generous and kind and whose comments make my entire day. @eidetictelekinetic - my favourite Tudors Fic Writer is my Friend Now and is awesome.

@jkthinkythoughts <333333.

@lorata - whose worldbuilding leaves me in awe and who is just, frankly absolutely great.

@isagrimorie because CORRECT DOCTOR WHO AND BEST META

@feuillesmortes for never failing to make me think, to post beautiful poetry and for the best H7/EOY sources and for always, above all being kind.

@hoursofreading @becauseforoncethisisme (special shout out to you <3) @disredspectful (oh my gosh your words)

@anhaga @goshawke @beatrice-otter @alexseanchai <333333

Also @nurselaney for indulging my Thomas/Mihrimah Content and also the women of the SOE.

@sherwoodknights for Scarlet Pimpernel and also Patrick Gibson feels.

@quillington - for correct Anne Boleyn and Scarlet Pimpernel thoughts and also being The Sweetest.

@lordlykisses - kindness and Taylor Swift. And @cleoselene for Taylor Swift and kind words I will also never forget.

To The Cromwell/James Frain Appreciation Brigade - @uncheckedaggression @reallyginnyf (also a fellow hurt/comfort enjoyer) @cinemaocd - thank you <3.

To all the West Wing Discord People - I adore you. Thank you for being so kind and welcoming and wonderful.

And to all my mutuals. Thank you for bearing with me this year, with so much kindness. I know it’s been A Lot but I have, despite everything felt so so loved.

[crimsonlyinglilly]

22. “Stay with me.”                                 

| Survivor’s Guilt | Succumb | Sedative

another for @juneofdoom I've calculated that i need to finish three a day to complete it which may be hard as before this I've been posting one ever three days, but I'm trying.

Deadstock, Hunger games fic, months following his third year mentoring District Ten's second victor gets a 'invite' and understand there's no escape from the cost winning the games

Callista is @lorata's from their excellent works, which happen to be my inspiration for all of Deadstock

---

“I should have died there.” Lambert allowed the words to slip out as he stared at the paper, an invite to the Capitol for a week to enter-

It wasn’t an invite, it was an order, one he couldn’t escape.

Escape had been years ago when he killed others instead, if he had just let them kill him he could have avoided this

The girl from seven would have been grateful to live, the one from One would have been trained for this part, yet he was here-

“You're right,” The old man agreed flatly, a pitying look on his face that just made Lambert’s anger grow, “it would have been kinder but you wanted to live so I did what I had to, to grant you that.

“You just didn't want to be alone.” he sneered, silence was his answer as Angus looked away.

Victor of the 9th games, the old man had waited 30 years before he managed to get one of his own out, get Lambert out.

Thirty years, sixty children looking at Angus for all the answers and survival and one was all he managed to save and Lambert was getting crushed under six kids, six he had only half mentored.

One, he had poured his all into and still he died, painfully, slowly as Edwin, his confident untouchable capitol mask vanished and he pleaded with the screen to stop.

It wasn’t just the order, the fact he was going to be expected to be charming and sleep with any they gave him the name of. It was a party in honor of the newest victor, Two’s Callista, a Two and so one of the Capitol’s pampered pets and the girl who had spent hours torturing his boy the year before.

His hand curled into fists.

“You should sleep.” Angus told him softly, parentally and Edwin snapped, lunging for the chair to throw at him but Angus was faster.

Edwin stumbled back as he felt the needle in his arm, the room swimming already, Capitol class sedative, the good stuff if either of them used that escape.

Before he could fully succumb to the sudden heaviness of everything he reached and grabbed Angus’ sleeve.

“Stay with me.” his mouth asked without his permission and he hated how much like a child he sounded, he was in his 20s, he had been a killer for years, been an orphan for over a year.

But some part of him had never escaped the games and Angus knew that.

“I’ve got ya, I’ll stay.”

Angus was the same.

[irenespring]

House MD Characters and Their Mentors

Oh look it's more of this very niche character analysis. This time I'm looking at which of @lorata's District Two Victors would be good mentors for House characters. House fans reading this: you would really like Lorata's writing. Only limited Hunger Games knowledge required (basically you need to know the premise); lots of messed up people making the best of things, found family shenanigans, emotional angst, and queerness.

Anyway, time for mentors!

James Wilson: Devon. The essence of a Devon tribute. Really wants to make the world better. Fairly messed up and depressed, but does genuinely care about the district, and even the kid he volunteers for. The one bit of really key information we are provided about Devon's tributes is that Devon's dreamers burn bright, but flame out as the reality of the Games shatters their world view. This reminds me a lot of how House says that "Wilson thinks that if he cares enough he'll never have to die" contrasted with Wilson's feelings of betrayal and devastation that he, a oncologist who gave his life to treating cancer, is dying of cancer. He served the Capitol, believed everything the Center told him, and the truth of the Games ---the pain and the guilt and the injustice of it all--- is a sudden betrayal that completely unbalances him. The only way he wins is through temporary Arena madness, the kind of desperation that caused him to double his dose of chemo in a last ditch effort to survive and make the world make sense again during canon. Devon's main challenge post-Arena is helping him rebuild his shattered sense of self: Wilson thought he was a good person, but you can only win the Hunger Games by being vicious. Devon, as someone who had a similar break, is the best choice to help him form a cohesive identity. Devon can see him for who he actually is, all of it, and still say he cares. Devon can cite his own struggles with accepting care without "enough work" in return to get Victor!Wilson to step back from compulsively ignoring his needs to "earn" affection. Devon can pull him out of spirals about how his mental state is worse than his brother's now and show him how there is a way forward. The Victory Tour almost kills him, all those people hate him even though he only ever did what was asked of him and what he thought was right. Along with Devon, there is probably only one other person who could help him embrace that he does not need to be perfect or liked by everyone, which brings us to...

Gregory House: Adessa. I went through multiple avenues with this one. First I thought Callista, because viciousness and unapologetic attitude. Then I thought Lyme, because abusive childhood, resentment of the rules, and attachment issues. So we had option A and option B...and we somehow landed around option L. I dismissed Callista because of the reasons I thought Lyme. I moved away from Lyme because she works best with tributes who want to open up but can't until after they win. Claudius wants a family, Misha wants affection, etc. House wouldn't want to open up--- he would want respect, validation, and someone to make everything make sense. The reasons Adessa wasn't a good fit for Nero would make her a great fit for Victor!House. Nero wanted to be told Adessa loves him, but House wouldn't trust any obvious display of affection---instead perceiving his mentor's care for him through nonverbal actions she takes: exactly what Adessa expected to be true of Nero. Adessa can make recovery and all the chaotic, swirling feelings fit within a reasonable framework. She can answer his questions and treat him like someone with a rational mind. She knows that if he opens up, he probably doesn't want to be touched. She understands why he doesn't want the cuddly relationship that Victor!Wilson would have with Devon. She wouldn't pressure him to talk about feelings before he was ready and would give him space when he was ready. She understands his intellectual curiosity. She's probably the only one who could get him to invest in therapy. He wouldn't go based on "I've been there" talks or "I care about you" talks, he would go because "after a significant trauma the logical course of action is to seek medical care, so that one can be assigned medications to regulate neurotransmitters, and to remove unwanted chaos so one can better focus on more important matters." Oh, and also if John House every showed up to take credit for shaping his son into a Victor, Adessa has a briefcase full of knives and decades of fantasizing about taking revenge on behalf of her Victors. They would find his body in pieces...probably. If Adessa was feeling nice and wanted Blythe to have closure.

Devon is terrified when Adessa requests a meeting with him. Misha asks him what he did like fifty times and he doesn't know. He almost calls his mentor, but doesn't because he's a mentor too now, dammit and Adessa totally shouldn't scare him anymore. When he shows up she opens with: "Our Victors appear to have significant romantic attraction to each other. Shall we hasten their union via jointly planned manipulation, culminating in an arranged one-on-one meal over candlelight, perhaps involving the exchange of flowers?"

Lisa Cuddy: Nero. This one is hard. Cuddy is a lot more difficult to analyze than House and Wilson even though I actually prefer her over House (Wilson is my favorite, he just has so many problems, weird habits, and hidden depression). She has a lot of contradictions. She's manipulative, but empathetic. She genuinely advocates for the rules, but allows for crazy ass things to take place. She seems to argue for the rules because she has to, but is inherently drawn to the more chaotic, vigilante tendencies of House. She puts on a show of obeying regulations set by those above her, but seeks power so that she can facilitate what she thinks is right (she repeatedly says she's the only one who would employ House). This is reflective of a Nero tribute. She doesn't know why she is drawn to violence and competition of the Centre, but she is. She completes her kill tests with the highest scores in her year, but she mainly only feels guilty for not feeling guilty. She doesn't have a rationalization for why she is like this the way someone with House's history has. She should want to join the Peacekeepers or be a medic. But the more time passes in the Centre, the more she wants to win the Hunger Games. She goes into the Games a year early, the youngest District Two volunteer in history, and even though she knows the killing is wrong she still wants to win because why shouldn't it be her? She's better at this than the others. However, the inner conflict causes problems post-Games, as the criticisms from other districts actually hurt her, because she agrees. She knows there's something wrong, she fears she might secretly be evil. Nero, with a lifetime of dealing with conflicted, crazy tributes, knows how to reassure her that even if that something is actually wrong, she still has people who love her.

Bonus! Ducklings:

Foreman: Brutus. He's just here to do his job. He knows he's better than his Centre rivals, so his job is the Games. Trying to make it right or wrong will only drive you crazy.

Chase: Lyme. Daddy issues, alcoholism in the family history, wants the authority to like him. Lots of weird hidden triggers.

Cameron: Emory. Wants to be a decent person, just kept going in the Centre because she figured no one would pick her and she owed it to her district to keep trying. She had a baby Victor crush on House and Adessa had to take Emory aside and be like "the baby is making my Victor uncomfortable, tell her to calm down."

Thirteen: Misha. Rules are for suckers, enjoy your life while you have it, desperately try to find meaning in the world while pretending you don't give a shit.

Kutner: Lyme. Wants to find a place to belong, shoves his emotional issues down because he thinks nobody cares. Thinks outside the box, but still responds well around authority he respects.

Taub: I have no fucking idea. Seriously, the more I try to think about this the more I have no thoughts, head empty. Maybe Odin? Odin has a "do what you're supposed to do no matter what, no matter the cost" ideology that would cause a mentor mismatch like Adessa and Nero but at least that mismatch is something.

Anyway if one (1) person requests a Victors!House/Wilson I will write scenes so you have been warned.

[thankyoufinnick]

hi I've just finished rereading the entire mags weapon saga alternate endings and all and I've been foaming at the mouth to see if you'd drop any other fics after this long. Do you plan on ever releasing another fic/au on A03/tumblr again?

AAAHHHH, thank you for this comment! I'm always delighted when my work brings joy to someone.

Unfortunately, I have to answer no to your question. I've moved out of this fandom, and I'm no longer posting as thankyoufinnick. If you want to check out my other fanfics, they're under my main AO3 username, mildred_of_midgard, but they're not Hunger Games.

It's not impossible that I might someday come back to this fandom, but we're talking on the order of years from now. At the moment, I'm in a fanfic lull, because I'm focused on academic writing.

But I super appreciate your comment! <3

I recommend you go check out @lorata's THG fics if you haven't already found them.

Cheers!

[crumpledwitchfeet]

Ooh what WMBK character's do you have sketches of? Sincerely, interested and excited anon.

I draw a lot of Callista and Misha (am currently drawing a scene, but my god it’s making me lose my mind, proportion and scale is just…no). I have I think two of Lyme? And I sketch Petra and Selene a lot, but mostly on paper so I’ll have to do more digital! I’m afraid drawing men is my Achilles heel, so none of the boys yet :(

Have a Callista!

@lorata since these are her characters :)

[randomfacter]

(For Lorata, figured it'd be nice to give you something since your ill with Covid. Only I've never watched Family Feud, so this resulted after a quick Google search. I tried my best, but my knowledge of this game is limited.)

Devon's heart pumped in a wild staccato as he surveyed the opposing team on the other couch in Odin's living room. Odin hadn't been happy about that- sticky fingers all over my furniture! On his side sat both his Victor sisters Emory and Petra, as well as their mentor Brutus. Odin sat on a couch with Nero surveying both teams.

Misha sat with Claudius, Enobaria and Lyme on the other side, all with determination drawn in to the lines of their faces.

'Your going down' Misha signed to him. He shook his head, and focused back on the game. Callista and Adessa were the hosts which temporarily shot fear through him. Adessa was explaining the game.

"Both teams will be asked a question, with several options for answers available. The correct answer is the one Ronan chose."

Misha looked incredulous and furrowed her eyebrows.

"So it's a who knows Ronan best competition"

Adessa frowned at her and Misha slid down in her chair slightly.

"For lack of a better way to put it, yes. We will pull a name put a hat for both teams, to make it fair."

Callista jumped in at that, clothing scandalous even for her.

"Let's start!" She beamed, adjusting her orange cat around her shoulders. Adessa looked displeased.

"Let's start with Odin's team." She announced finally and selected a name from an upturned hat.

"Petra" She read out in a steady, clear voice.

Callista followed. "Tell me, what is a common favourite weapon"

Devon directed his attention to the tv, where several answers flashed on the screen quickly.

Throwing knives, swords, spears, maces, machetes, bronze knuckles and poison.

Petra cried in outrage, face burning as bright as her hair.

"Poison isn't a weapon"

Adessa considered her.

"Well technically it is, 8 different games involved the extensive use of it. But if you consider it not to be, we will disallow it for this round. Now your answer please."

Petra looked at the answers intently.

"Swords" She decided.

Callista turned over a card.

"Correct. One point to Odin's team."

She pulled out another name. Misha.

"Your question is what is considered the best time to wake up."

5am, 7am, 11pm, 3am and 8:30am.

"11pm" She answered off the bat.

Callista shook her head. "8:30am"

"Oh come on!" Artemisia cried. "This is bullshit!"

Adessa replied. "Well it's the game, so sit down and get over it."

Misha did as she was told grumbling.

"Brutus" Callista said.

"What is the best food."

The tv lit up again.

Bread. Pasta. Chocolate. Breaded chicken. Yogurt.

Brutus shrugged. "Pasta?"

Adessa nodded, evidently wishing to move the game on.

"Enobaria tell me what is the best sports games?"

Rugby. Basketball. Football. Hockey. Tennis.

Enobaria didn't hesitate, launching her answer like a mutt after a tribute.

"Rugby" She sneered. "Because you get to tackle people"

She grinned, highlighting her teeth when she got the point.

This could be a long game.

Three hours later, and neither team was clear to win. When one got a point, the other team did as well. Everyone was yelling and screaming at this point, apart from of course the respected elders.

"Suck it Caveman!" Lyme yelled. Brutus responded with a rude gesture. A chair had been broken about an hour ago, and it appeared Odin's worry of sticky fingers was starting to happen, when Enobaria managed to spill a cup of juice over the couch.

She swore it was on accident, but Nero had still cuffed her lightly on the back of her head, and muttered a few stern words to her. She had responded sulkily.

Adessa had long given up on trying to continue with the game apparently as she had retreated to the kitchen and was currently boiling some pasta. Callista looked delightedly upon the chaos having transferred her orange cat to Nero's lap where it lay purring.

Misha bounced up to him.

"Isn't this great?"

Devon shrugged. "Looks like the games over."

"Yeah just as well. We would have totally beaten you."

He squawked outraged and shoved her over. She toppled to the floor with a squeal.

"Not true!" He yelled.

"Is true!"

He tackled her as she stood up and they rolled around on the polished floor. Oh, he was so gonna win.

[transrevolutions]

exactly. imo collins (very clearly has the sort of politics that boil down to "world peace good, war bad") wanted to use mockingjay to expand the series's message from "the violence of a repressive and opulent regime against its citizens is wrong" to also encompass "and so is the violence between that regime and another". in this way it is heavily convenient that district 13 appears on the political stage as a hardline, stratified, no-mercy war machine that ends up being portrayed as "just as bad" as the capitol. district 13 also incorporates a lot of post-cold war anti-militancy/anti-communism stereotypes but that's a whole other post.

this notwithstanding there could still be ways that the political line of the books could be salvaged, except collins seems pretty uninterested in exploring them. you could make the argument that katniss is a traumatized 17 year old who never actually wanted to be a revolutionary (<- true) and is therefore a limited narrator and not an objective perspective on revolutionary violence and its morality. you could even bring in a third counterbalance revolutionary militant force that operates without some of district 13's glaring structural issues (@lorata's District 2 At War series explores this in a really interesting way- btw not saying you need to endorse this post or its content, just giving a recommendation). obviously the latter doesn't really happen in the book at all and the former, while a valid textual reading, doesn't really seem to go with collins's assertion that prim dying is "the whole point". she's not saying katniss is an omniscient being of truth, but she isn't really outwardly challenging her conclusions in regards to revolutionary violence in particular.

collins uses mockingjay to say that war is bad and ugly and harms the innocent. and while this is not a false statement in and of itself, it lacks the nuance to be a satisfying or politically relevant answer to the specific circumstances outlined and built up in the earlier books.

the thing is I think the political under/overtones of the hunger games and catching fire are actually pretty good and well-developed. and then you hit mockingjay and that all goes out the window.

[lorata]

I feel like the hitler youth vs regular gymnastics thing exactly encapsulates the point of your D2 series. People want to think that only an organisation that’s considered the embodiment of brainwashing and evil could produce child killers whereas it’s far more harrowing to accept that actually the educational tools we already use could be warped and used to turn children into child soldiers without anyone feeling they’re doing anything wrong. The point of the HG and particularly of the careers is how normal people can be warped / how the capital can be fine with the hunger games and careers can be trained to win and everyone forgets who the enemy is and it’s that idea that’s carried in the centre being modelled on institutions that we currently have accept and wouldn’t even consider fundamentally evil sorry for the long ramble but just love the series

🙌🏻

i want to print this out and tape it to my mirror. i want to pin it to the top of this blog. you and i are prancing through the daisy fields our minds are in sync this is exactly my point

i am an educator and i think that's why it's very easy for me to write this angle, not just in the terms of like ...... taking how i do things from a Not Evil POV irl and twisting it to make it Dystopian, but also constantly thinking critically and reflecting and quite often calling out the system that we are actually in right now. like yes lol sometimes when i'm dealing with a kiddo i have the tiny Career Trainer voice in my head like, and this is what i'd do if i wanted to make them a child murderer and i do the opposite of that, and that's kind of funny, but also even in normal every day life i have to be very aware of power dynamics and racism and propaganda and all the harmful stuff that is constantly perpetuated by the system AND CATCH MYSELF AS WELL like this is ongoing work!

a tangential point to this is how many people point to high fashion / couture as being emblematic of the capitol but forget the other very clear parallel which is professional sports -- the panopticon, the sense of ownership over athletes' bodies/lives, the constant escalation of expectations / entertainment to the point where athletes need to do drugs and/or injure themselves in order to consistently innovate and excite audiences, traumatic brain injuries and death, racism, TBI and its links to erratic behaviour / assault / etc

i could write a LOT more about propaganda in education but i'm going to restrain myself, so suffice to say that you're right. the whole point of the hunger games is that it's about us, it's always been about us, we're the victims in the story AND we're the perpetrators and we're meant to examine ourselves and our choices and see how we are complicit and how we can be better

sometimes my careers worldbuilding is about the armed forces recruitment vans that would park behind our school and we had to walk through listening to the spiel every year

sometimes it's about how i did TKD and one time an 8yo boy broke his arm in a bad block and everyone praised him for not crying and when his dad came he said "i'm gonna go to the adult class and then i'll take you to the hospital, okay buddy?"

and sometimes it's a bunch of other things in the general miasma of growing up in a conservative rural town during the gulf war and 9/11

but yeah. it's not about hitler. it doesn't need to be

[hallibahar]

Adessa & bb!Callista shenanginans

for @lorata

It's like 6am in here but the brainrot is strong and unstoppable which started up as my ramblings about how bb Calli and Adessa met then it evolved into a mini-fic and honestly, we stan two unapologetic, cross-generation murderesses.

Click for absolutely questionable morals

The girl in front of her door is unimpressive with blood soaked up to her elbows and a maniacal look in her eyes. She is new here, Adessa knows this, everyone knows this, they all watched the last days of the 41st to see who was the newest murder-child that will be reborn out of violence and as much as she appreciates a good torture, her appreciation is limited at the ones skills to get away with it—and this girl right here, Callista, is a living proof of it.

Not that any new babies will know how to skin the skin off and get out of the crime scene without leaving a clue behind. It’s sad, but a force of infancy in the end, so Adessa doesn’t dwell on that.

They weren’t introduced to one another yet, but according to that all-teeth-but-no-mirth smile of hers, she already knew who she was, which house she lived in and few key things about her to suggest such an undergrad suggestion to her.

“Go to your mentor.” says Adessa after a well-calculated minute. This winter was the hottest they experienced so far, not a single snowflake on sight thus leaving the children to go wild and do the dumbest things out of sheer boredom.

(Odin, a few days ago, tried to congratulate her birthday by playing a round of chess with her then had the audacity to look insulted when Adessa said she only plays with the intellects that will challenge her, not the ones that use their brains to feed the snails.)

But this one right here, a mere girl who thought she knew everything about killing just because she ripped about bodies and feast on it, tops the cake.

Callista tilts her head, that damn smile never falling, and she narrows her eyes, a failed attempt to scare off a woman who dissected a person on live when the new Victor who probably  couldn’t even read yet at the time. “No,” she says. “I said help me, so you will.”

Adessa raises a brow and tilts her head as well, if this little girl wants to play then she will. “The only person who is assigned to help you is your mentor.” she answers, seemingly calm. “A poorly done job so far as I can see, but trust your elder and go to her.”

Now, this seems to start to annoy the fussy one. Sweet. “And what? So she could ground me once again?”

“Only solution to your murderous outbursts, as far as I’m concerned—which is none.” She reaches for the door knob to close it but a heel gets in between and stops the motion.

“I don’t care what important thing going in your life to not to get me out of this mess—”

“--a lot of things actually, dear. Grown up jobs.”

Callista ignores her as she continues. “--but allowing another fellow murderer to go to prison like a common criminal is not fair in your case.”

Adessa shrugs. “Well, you do act like one.”

Callista breathes out slowly, expression calm but dangerous and oh, it seems like someone will have an outburst yet again and Adessa prepares herself for that lovely scene—except it doesn’t happen. The younger woman squares her shoulders up slightly and grins yet again and huh, now things are getting interesting.

 “Well,” she says after a moment. “It still doesn’t change the fact that some asshole out there is bleeding in some high-class hospital because of a new Victor, a one from Two at that, which would massively affect our, your, future mentorships if you don’t rid me of this. So many kids you helped to raise in that damn Centre just because you decided to ignore me. So…you in or what?”

Adessa doesn’t answer, just stares at the newest Victor like she found a new potential, a promising one at that—unlike Odin who was just too scared to raise a single eyebrow at her let alone his voice. “Well, your first mistake was to admit the body to the hospital.” Adessa says and something shines in Callista’s dark eyes. 

--

Hera is at her door a few days later as predicted and her expression is the one from a statue, stone cold yet passive.“Did you know?”

Which one? Adessa thinks. The fact that your Victor slashed open a sponsor or the fact that I helped her to cover it up for Games’ sake? “Is the thing you want to talk about worthy enough to make me stay in front of my door at the dawn of the day?”

Hera purses her lips at that, probably resisting an eye roll and honestly, Adessa can’t blame her for that. “You decide. Is the fact that the sponsor, who got murdered by my own Victor, the brother of the new President?” she asks and Adessa’s gaze sharpens.

(“Tell me about the details,” Adessa asked as they sat down on her couch. “Did you know who he was or he just was your first trial?”

Callista waits for a second and nods, meaning yes. “Wanted to play the hero for once, I suppose.”)

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

Hera looks at her as if she confessed that she carries the organs of the last tribute she dissected on the Arena in her body. “You don’t particularly seem surprised by it, may I ask why?”

Adessa almost grins at that, almost, but now she has to continue the small game Callista started. “Well, Snow is a new face, it is normal for a girl who got blinded by bloodlust wanted to intimidate him to cause us no harm. It’s a normal reaction from a curious girl, I would assume.”

(“Curiosity can also be channelled by doing morally good things like research or doing some form of art.” Iris had said one day, sipping on her tea on a lovely afternoon. “And no, torture doesn’t counts.” she adds with a small, dark smile, reminding Adessa why she still tolerated her disturbingly decent hearted mentor.)

Hera sighs. “It's a good narrative, but still risky.”

(“You think they will believe it?” Callita asks, slightly unsure underneath her skin but nothing comes to surface. Good enough. 

“People will believe what they want to believe.” Adessa waves a hand. “All you have to do i to give what they want to hear.”)

“Tell your Victor to behave then.” Adessa says bluntly. “I know, with no experience from myself means nothing to you, but perhaps she will listen if you give a serious one-on-one talk to her.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

(Callista nods. “And if it doesn’t, I will just try harder until they do so.”)

Adessa shrugs. “It will if you try hard enough, she still is a human and has 206 bones and numerous systems under her skin. As unruly as she is, she will listen to you if she really wants to continue to thrive.”

(Just don’t let it happen again, dear.” Adessa says. “And we have a deal.”)

--

Darkest consequences, Adessa had learned through many hardships in the mentor station, haunts after most vicious lies.

 Her brand new Victor, Nero, is a living proof at that which only meant one thing—Coriolanus knew. He always knew who was behind the murder of his brother but still played along with it, looked her in the eye and insisted that she must try again to mentor in 42nd as well, even though it would be three in a row.

And here she is now, watching her boy getting crowned out of the Arena which offered nothing; no weapons, no good memories, no healing—just pain but he is alive, at least, he won’t be a corpse even if he was intended to be one by a frenemy of hers.

There is no coincidence in Panem and no good ending for the tributes who got the short end of the stick, so Callista also being here as an observer is a sweet twist in Snow’s bloody game.

 Now, as the trumpets echo through the screens, Callista turns to her, smile as sharp as the non-existent knives in her boy’s Arena and eyes as hard as the rocks he had smashed brains with. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I will remember to do your tricks when he comes up at my door, covered in blood.”

“We will see about that.” she recites without looking a second away from the screen, because this moment here is the closure of what they had done, and she has no intention to let Snow win this.

[malkaleh]

So I saw a very thoughtful answer @lorata gave to a question about writing trauma and it was lovely but if someone asked me I’d just have to be like ‘tbh I’m citing myself here’

[districtunrest]

rules: answer the questions and tag 9 people some people you want to get to know better/catch up with.

thanks for tagging me thelettersfromnoone! 

three ships: Zuko/Katara, Katniss/Peeta, Edward/Winry 

last song: 1234 by Feist - played in a loop with Gimme Gimme Gimme! (A Man After Midnight) by ABBA and My Type by Saint Motel and Peaches by Justin Bieber... yeah I don’t know, either.

last movie: Jojo Rabbit... on Valentine’s Day. I am very behind on movies, lol

currently watching: season 2 of The Chosen and season 11 of Bob’s Burgers

currently reading: The Foxhole Court by Nora Sakavic (it’s bonkers)

currently craving: nothing because I just had a burrito and iced coffee 

and before I leave for the week (yay vacation), I’m going to add some for others to answer for the heck of it...

currently writing (if applicable):

last animal petted:

last ticket (speeding, concert, what have you):

three foods:

one recipe: 

favorite gif:

tagging juxtaposie, lorata, mathgirl24, shesasurvivor, the-sun-and-the-sea, theweekendsinner, warriorlid14, worldwithinworld

[terresdebrumestories]

One night only

FANDOM: DCEU, but I guess more specifically BVS. SERIES: - RATING: Explicit for safety. WORDCOUNT: 7 333 words PAIRING(S): Superbat CHARACTER(S): Bruce Wayne & Kal-El GENRE: Brief encounters of the sexy kind. One night stands. TRIGGER WARNING(S): None that I’m aware of, but it does contain sex and the vaaaaguest hint of strength kink. Also touch!starved Bruce. SUMMARY:

Bruce crashes on an unknown planet as he returns from a League-related mission. Fortunately for him, he manages to survive the accident with nothing more than big bruises to show for it. Even more fortunately, he finds himself rescued by the hottest alien he's met so far.

OR: Bruce Wayne rescued by beefy alien.

DEDICATION(S): To  obviously, who provided the very sexy prompt for this fic, and also to @lorata​, who handled the SPAG betaing of this. I, sleep deprived and unused to GDocs on mobile, may have clicked on the “refuse” button on a couple of corrections so assume any typo left is my fault :P NOTE(S): I don’t know why I was convinced my posting date was July 18th, but I was, which means that the final version of it got finished at 11pm on the 17th, which was a bit of a cardio workout. Thank fuck for timezones giving Lora enough time to hunt my typos without too much pressure :P

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

The cockpit almost looks like a Christmas tree: it blinks in increasingly bright and urgent colors, the high-pitched beep of panicking instruments loud enough to drown Bruce’s thoughts as the jet plummets toward the ground. There are interminable seconds of falling, Bruce’s soul scrambling to think of Alfred, Dick Jason MomDad—

Lead on his eyelids, a ton each at the very least. When he finally maneuvers them to half-mast the light around him is loud enough to hurt. He closes his eyes. Tries again. The bright gold echoes like a bellow between his ears. Wince. Persevere. The world around is too much and too little, loud light and bright noises. He blinks and blinks and blinks until something warm licks at him, and then another noise, salt in the air and oh, Alfred, I really messed it up this—

Blue, blue, blue, blue, the world moving—a voice above, deep and tense, dark fringe over a frown…Jas—

When Bruce wakes up for the third time, there is something floating above him. An oblong shape, dark against the light, and close enough to touch if Bruce’s arm had any strength left in it. It remains there for a while, trembling until Bruce’s eyes finally shape it back into a face. It seems calm for now, not attacking or moving in a suspicious way, but it does stay where looking at it makes Bruce’s eyes water, so it’s probably best not to discount the risk of hosni—hossi—ill intent. Bruce blinks, slow and sluggish, while the head moves and melts into some kind of silhouette.

Bit by bit, the light grows quieter, and Bruce sighs, squinting to make out limb-like shapes—only four, thank fuck—as the presumed-head leans down—and then recoils as Bruce’s hand strikes at it...or, well. Tries to. It gets stopped halfway through, easy as breathing—Bruce winces, breathes in. Blinks until the shape moves around him, the hold on his wrist firm but not painful. Once it’s out of the backlight, the head looks human enough: curly black hair, eyes just a shade too blue to feel real. The kind of jawline you could sharpen a battarang with.

Bruce blinks harder and, in a bout of stupidity barely excusable even in his state, he glances down—wool-like garment, reminiscent of a sweater, but close-fitting enough to let him know he wouldn’t blush at having abs like that—and says:

“I always thought I’d go to Hell.”

The world fades again.

*

The fourth time Bruce wakes up feels like it’s the one that’s going to stick. He’s healed up enough to remember what he said last, for one, and while that’s embarrassing enough to make him groan—religion, really Bruce?—it’s at least a sign of progress. For two: fucking ouch.

It’s a good thing that he can feel the hurt. Bodies that don’t feel it are either traumatized or permanently damaged, or both. Still, if there is a superior entity somewhere, Bruce is determined to make them pay for the fucking nervous system. Aside from his feet, pretty much everything hurts right now—nothing Bruce isn’t used to, though. Healing bruises, decades-old stab wound acting up in humid weather...all in a day’s work for Batman, really, so much as he dislikes the sensation it really isn’t that hard to find a semi vertical surface to prop himself against. The move makes his head swim, predictably, but at least now he can see the person-shaped thing move around when it comes back to the currently-empty cave. If it comes back.

Rather than sit and wait for an answer on that question, which could keep him there a long time, Bruce gives his nausea enough time to subside—he is pushing fifty there, and surprisingly interested on keeping going—swallows around his cardboard-thick tongue, and sets about slowly taking stock of his surroundings.

He can feel rough stone behind his back. There’s another natural wall at his front. Stalactites line the stone ceiling and, to Bruce’s right, slope down until they meet the ground with only a narrow conduit squirreling away under the bedrock. No exit there. Turning back to the left, Bruce discovers the cave widens for about fifteen, maybe twenty feet—depth perception: still AWOL—until wet-dark stone gives way to the sun-bleached gray of fist-sized pebbles and the ruckus of them rolling through the waves. The sea beyond offers a dull brown color tinged with silver, shining under the sleek pewter of the sky.

Bruce thinks, unhelpfully, of Gotham.

He doesn’t dwell on it too much: he’s unbound and, as far as he can tell, alone in the cave. If he’s going to figure a way out of here, now is the ideal moment, though he knows better than to make it too obvious he knows that, just in case there’s some surveillance he hasn’t found yet. There’s no fire, but the air isn’t cold, and when he looks down at himself he realizes there’s a blanket draped over the Kevlar that means he won’t be catching a cold just yet. It also means that whatever found him either has no malicious intent towards him or is very interested in pretending it doesn’t.

Obviously, he doesn’t trust the thing—person? Alien, definitely—that got him here. He’s lived through more than his fair share of people treating him exceedingly well for nefarious reasons, both as Batman and as Bruce; he’s not about to fall for it. Every second he pretends to, however, is more time to recover and plan his escape. It is with that certitude in mind that Bruce leans back against the stone and, keeping his ears focused on the sounds around him, closes his eyes to fake sleep.

He nearly curses when he wakes up to the sound of footsteps on rocks. Obviously, he’s well trained enough to reign the impulse in, but he’s got more than enough brainpower to recriminate himself while he checks out the entrance of the cave. It’s dark by now, which, assuming the days here are roughly the same as Earth’s, means several hours have passed, during which anything could have happened. Fuck. If Alfred learns about this, Bruce will never hear the end of it… At least he’s still up against the wall. Nothing’s coming at him from behind.

The alien doesn’t attack, though. It walks into the cave, familiarly bipedal, dressed disturbingly like the upscale version of a Hollywood fisherman—the sweater even sports a pattern reminiscent of a cable-knit. When it’s done setting up a rough circle of stone near Bruce—with its back to him! If he were at full capacity, that alien wouldn’t stand a chance—and dumping wood into it, it busies itself lighting a fire. Only when it’s done and the first licks of warmth reach Bruce does it turn around.

Bruce, shamefully caught with his eyes open, allows himself to swear internally. An alien it might be, but if Bruce weren’t profoundly aware of this fact it could have passed for a human easily: aside from the too-blue eyes, there’s nothing to make the alien stand out in a crowd. Or, well. There is, but GQ models aren’t generally considered dangers to the general population...although judging from the way his guts twist when the alien smiles at him, right now Bruce is rather inclined to review that particular assessment.

 Come on, Batman. Get a grip.

The alien, blatantly oblivious to Bruce’s internal battle against his...heart...approaches him with an easy smile and a soft voice, moving slowly, like it’s trying to calm a spooked animal. It makes Bruce want to show his teeth, but considering he’s not exactly in a state to follow up on the threat if the alien reacts aggressively, he decides against it. He does grunt though, just enough to show his displeasure at his current predicament, low enough that it doesn’t fall into outright aggression. Not that it matters: genuine or faked, the alien’s current persona seems too cheerful to mind, and it smiles as it speaks.

At least, it sounds like there are words in its voice. Bruce’s Green Lanterns-issued translator is on the fritz, though: all he can do is assume the emotion projected actually is relief, closely followed by concern. It’s...not often, that Bruce is confronted with something like that after an injury. Neither Dick nor—Dick has always been the type to joke, and English blood means Alfred’s physical expressions of concern come in the form of tea and a duster served with the stiffest upper lip on the planet. To be the focus of eyes that blue, with that sincere-looking an expression on that face with that jawline is...Bruce swallows. Hard.

The alien says something else that Bruce, of course, doesn’t understand, and then it turns away to reach inside its bag and produce something round, purple and leathery looking. It might be a gourd or a fruit, Bruce has no way to know. He is parched though, and so he tries to dip down for a drink.

What happens instead is a hand on his shoulder, the pressure dulled by the suit, but there enough to realize he couldn’t easily get out from under it. Slowly, gently, Bruce is pushed back against the rock, intense blue eyes crinkling with a smile that, on a human, Bruce would almost describe as apologetic. One of the alien’s hands comes up to tip Bruce’s head back, fingertips lighting long lines of fire against his throat, catching his breath right in the middle of his chest until he’s tensing without meaning to. Bruce can still feel the path of those fingers against his skin, the phantom sensation pulling at his attention even as the alien’s other hand raises the purple sphere above his head. Bruce’s hand snaps up, catching on a wrist. There is a pause, as if the alien had sensed Bruce’s brief burst of fear through his touch—what if the liquid inside is acid? What if he’s about to be bludgeoned to death? —until their eyes meet. Something shifts in the alien’s face, and he stands up straighter somehow, resumes his movement with a slow grace that somehow makes Bruce want to get up on his knees. He allows the grip of his fingers to soften, thumb resting on the alien’s pulse point—it feels fast, under the thin skin—and watches the purple thing rise above his head.

It pauses right above Bruce’s face, the alien looking at him with something almost like a question in his eyes. Bruce meets his eyes head on, wishing he could think of it as defiance. Then, with his chest heaving and his body straining in the confines of his suit, Bruce tips his head back and opens his mouth.

The alien gasps when the juice—it’s too sweet to be water, despite the clear color—falls into Bruce’s mouth, the blood in his wrist speeding up. Lowering his head a fraction, Bruce meets his gaze again—or tries to. A few drops made their way past Bruce’s lower lips, dribbling down his chin and along his throat, and the alien is clearly too caught in tracking their path to meet Bruce’s gaze. He licks his lips, making Bruce shiver, and just when Bruce is starting to consider releasing the moan bubbling inside his chest, the alien takes the purple thing—the fruit? —away.

Juice splashes on the bridge of Bruce’s nose and he splutters, moment broken and yet still out of breath, fingers still clasped around a wide wrist. He takes his hand away, acutely aware of all the places where it’s not touching skin anymore, and breathes in deep, trying to calm his heart rate as fast as possible while the alien clears his throat and tosses the empty fruit shell away into the water.

He speaks again then, motioning upward with his hand, and although he’s clearly trying to look casual there is a faint dusting of pink over his cheekbones. Given the circumstances, Bruce decides to go ahead and provisionally interpret it as having the same meaning as on Earth. Once that’s done, he tries to follow the other man’s request: he barely makes it to his knees before he topples over, legs reduced to jelly despite his clear mind. For a moment, his rescuer—for lack of a better word—seems almost disappointed. Then he speaks again, slow and soothing, as he steps closer with his arms extended.

Bruce is caught in a bride’s carry before he can even attempt to protest.

For one hysterical second, Bruce’s mind provides an image of Alfred’s—or anyone from the league’s—face should he find out about this. It is mortifying and he vows to take the incident to his grave—but the thought only lasts for that: one second. Right after that, Bruce finally catches up with the fact that his companion is showing no strain whatsoever while carrying him and his thirty pounds of armor and— oh come on Batman, get a grip.

Batman does not get a grip. In fact Batman, who is feeling decidedly less Batmany than usual, slowly unravels as his companion carries him out of the cave and into the open air, the smell of clean seafoam assaulting Bruce’s nostrils while a gentle breeze blows the occasional droplets onto his cheeks. For lack of a more dignified solution Bruce lets himself be carried out to the beach, the view swiftly blocked by a tall cliff of white stone fringed with green at the top, fist-sized gravel crunching under the alien’s feet. There’s a short climb up a gentle slope to a wooden platform, and then Bruce watches as the beach grows smaller under them. The ocean, of course, is endless, but a look to their left reveals a badly damaged piece of rock, deep gouges in the ground leading the eyes to a short stripe of bent metal. There go Bruce’s hope of refurbishing the ship and using it to get off planet. Sure, Bruce is extremely lucky to even be alive right now, let alone as unscathed as he is, but even Batman is allowed a bit of hope now and then. As a treat.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk—or sulking about being stuck on an alien planet without a reasonable means of transportation. Bruce keeps looking. To the right, as far as he can see, is a forest. It rises from the ground in bushes and tall grasses at first, quickly shooting to the sky with ever taller trees that, aside from the height, wouldn’t look all that out of place in the English countryside.

Behind him—under him? Bruce is going to have to figure the logistics of this at some point—Bruce’s companion takes a turn toward the forest as soon as they reach the top of the cliff, and as they come close Bruce finally notices it. It being a tall dome-like structure made of wood and what he can only assume is something similar to glass. It rises out of the ground as if grown there, slender limbs turned to the sky in elaborate latticework, a band of colored windows circling the dome about halfway through.

The whole thing looks airy, the kind of place designed to create refreshing breezes and cool shades, which makes it look entirely incongruous in an environment where cold and damp seems to be the motto. Still, odd choices or no, there’s something appealing about the building. It feels...well, structurally, it is leaning more into something like the Taj-Mahal, which is impressive considering a touch reveals it is made of live wood. Yet as Bruce is carried outside and discovers the furniture—rich embroidered carpets of wool thick enough he could fall asleep there, luxurious piles of cushions in red and blues with the occasional gold accent—he can’t help but feel a little like he’s just entered a large, very elaborate treehouse. Everything, from the sitting space to what seems to be a cooking area to the central staircase—and how did Bruce not see any of that through the windows? He’d love to ask some technical questions about it—feels like it wants Bruce to lie back and relax, maybe even fall asleep. God, this house could probably have entire conversations on this very topic with Alfred—and Bruce is just about exhausted enough to let it.

The air inside is warm but not stifling, like a windy summer day: it chases the chill out of Bruce’s limbs, warms him up from the inside as he’s settled down on a cushion even he has to describe as ridiculously large. Bruce...kind of wants to lean into it. Sure, there’s still a chance he’s about to be hurt, but also it’s not like his host is lacking in strength. Why bother waiting when all the power is on your side? It seems probable that the alien is either genuinely uninterested in hurting Bruce, or playing the long con. Either way, there’s no reason for Bruce not to take the opportunity to rest a little.

“You can lean back, you know.”

Bruce blinks as the gentle golden glow fades from the windows, the seaside landscape once more unobstructed as he looks ahead of himself. It takes some effort to twist around enough to see his host, but when he does it’s—well. It’s worth it. The man has changed out of his Englishman costume and into a pale gold tunic that hugs both his arms and his chest before loosening just a little around the waist and falling past his hips down to his knees. Bruce notices the bottom of fitted crimson pants hugging absolutely lovely calves, and swallows before he asks:

“Is the house translating?”

“Yes,” the alien says with a wide grin. “I am quite relieved that it could do anything for us: you do not seem to hail from a well-known region of the universe.”

“You sound extremely formal,” Bruce remarks without thinking, and swallows again when his host laughs:

“Not to my ears, I assure you. I suppose, however, that where outdated technology is concerned, we had better be grateful we understand each other at all.”

Bruce inclines his head in acquiescence. Sure, he’d like the comfort of his usual translator better than having to deal with the whole house filling with his host’s words—if not his voice—but the perceptible delay between his host’s voice and the house’s isn’t enough to make him wish for the alternative of not being able to communicate at all. Even if going back to that after using the Lanterns’ translators feels a bit like trying to stream a movie with a poor internet connection.

“I guess you’re right,” he agrees. Then, because his mask was already lost in the sea and this is an alien, anyway, he adds: “I’m B.”

“Bee?” his host answers, evidently testing the sound. “That is an unexpected name. Still, I suppose different worlds have different tastes. You may call me Kal.”

Bruce pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Kal says, as if guessing what Bruce is thinking, “I was not—names where I’m from are quite...long. Much longer than yours. ‘Kal’ is only a diminutive.”

“How long is ‘long’?” Bruce asks, eyebrows raised.

In front of him, Kal blushes, and Bruce refuses to admit it’s not exactly an unappealing sight.

“Well, they build up with our history,” Kal explains, still tinged pink but relaxing enough to step closer and sit next to Bruce on his humongous, satiny cushion. “As a man of thirty-five who has not been idle, mine has grown quite long… I am not reluctant to share it, Bee. I am merely aware that many cultures do not share our patience for it.”

“Mmmh,” Bruce says.

It sounds fair enough.

“Now that is sorted out,” Kal asks after watching Bruce’s lips a few seconds too long, “may I interest you in a change of clothing? I assume your uniform is meant to protect you, but it hardly looks comfortable and it seems to me like your body could use something softer to rest in.”

“I have to get off this planet,” Bruce replies.

Kal nods, accommodating, and leans back against the cushions. It’s Bruce’s imagination that provides the sensation of their arms brushing, the warmth of skin on skin—the batsuit won’t allow for anything less than a full punch to be felt. That knowledge doesn’t change anything to the sensation, though, and Bruce shivers with it, all his senses focusing on the area entirely against his will. His brain, for some reason, reminds him that it’s been at least ten years since he stopped playing the incorrigible playboy and sex-enthusiast.

“This is a vacation moon,” Kal says, voice perfectly even despite the heat creeping up Bruce’s neck. “There are daily shuttles for arrival and departures. When the next one arrives tomorrow morning, I can ask them to send you to the nearest Green Lanterns’ outpost, and from there you should have very little trouble going back to….”

“Earth,” Bruce supplies, and winces when that causes Kal’s eyes to widen.

“I have heard of this planet! Some of the more famous Green Lanterns hailed from your world and—ah. Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to be questioned. That is fair, you must still be quite tired from your ordeal.”

Bruce nods, careful not to look too relieved at the prospect. He is tired though. Not as much as he should be by any right, but enough that the prospect of having to balance and measure what he said about Earth to guard it against potentially hostile aliens sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.

“Well, then,” Kal says, still smiling, like nothing Bruce says can possibly alter his good mood. “Shall I renew my offer of clean clothes then? I promise not to touch or alter your belongings in any way. And after that, perhaps a light supper, and then to bed.”

Bruce swallows. Kal, it’s already been established, is not hard on the eyes. At all. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and in a human he’d be pretty much exactly Bruce’s preferred type. As an alien, he still is, but then there’s also the strength, and the entirely unembarrassed curiosity, and the possibilities provided with potentially different anatomies that Bruce has never considered before in his life but now...now Bruce is wondering if it’s a good idea to dress himself in loose fabric.

Then Kal’s eyes catch his, and Bruce decides if he’s only going to spend one night here and never see the guy again, he might as well enjoy it. He says yes, and keeps a very close eye on the way Kal’s ass pushes against his tunic as he gets up, and then retreats toward the stairs.

Of course, Bruce should know better than to let himself get distracted, let alone so easily. He’s still technically on a mission—well, on his way back from a mission—and if anyone on Earth realizes what transpired here, even if nothing else happens, he will absolutely never ever hear the end of it. Ever. And yet….

Well, frankly, maybe Bruce is just getting old, but he thinks he’s allowed to indulge himself here. He’s recovering from injuries that are frankly ridiculously light for the kind of accident he was in, he’s on an unknown planet light years away from home, his transportation is most likely assured—unless he’s really losing it and missing red flags in Kal’s behavior—and he hasn’t had sex in over eight years. He gets to indulge a little. It’s only one night.

“I took the liberty of picking night clothing as well,” Kal calls after a few moments, appearing at the top of the spiral stairs. From below, it looked like the bedroom was empty the whole time, which Bruce must admit is a neat trick. “I figured you would wish to change before retiring for the night.”

Bruce, clinging to the last of his fraying dignity—he’s indulging, that doesn’t mean he has to be proud about it—manages to hum instead of saying something that could be misconstrued as flirting, but Kal doesn’t seem to mind. He says something about preparing the meal while Bruce changes and ‘do not worry, I shan’t be looking your way’, and then leaves Bruce alone.

Peeling himself out of the suit takes more effort than Bruce would like, but it’s also far from the hardest he’s had it, and he gets re-dressed in a decent amount of time. By then, his legs feel less like jelly, and he’s actually able to sit up and scoot on the ground to gather his things in a manageable pile and set them aside in a corner where they should, hopefully, not be disturbed.

After a while, Kal reemerges from the cooking area with a large tray filled with over a dozen bowls of colorful meats and fruits, several things that look like root vegetables, and even a bowl of something that could be a sort of love-child of wheat and rice. It looks both perplexing—Bruce has never had a purple savory dish before—and familiar, which is probably why his hands twitch toward the food before he can remember to ask:

“Anything in particular to eat with?”

“Merely your fingers,” Kal says, rinsing his hands in a silver dish of lightly fragranced water. “Do clean them beforehand, however.”

Bruce makes sure to give him a “duh” look as he reaches for the dish and rinses his own fingers.

“According to the available information, these should be safe for you to consume,” Kal says, grabbing what looks like a grape but turns out, upon tasting, to be a piece of meat.

“Unlike that purple thing before?” Bruce asks, the back of his neck heating up when he thinks back on their interactions in the cave.

“The shell is dangerous,” Kal agrees, “and I didn’t have any way to explain. Doing the pouring myself seemed to be the safest option.”

“I assume you won’t be feeding me for this meal then,” Bruce says.

Then gives himself a mental slap in the face because, really? For anyone else, that would be one thing, but Bruce is, without false modesty, one of the best martial artists on Earth, an honors graduate from the best university the USA have to offer, and the fucking Batman...and there he is, making an ass out of himself just because it’s been a while since he got sexed up and he just happened to fall in the backyard of the most fuckable alien in the universe. Un-fucking-believable.

Kal, either oblivious or going for coy, gives him an amused smile and nothing else, although he does readjust his position until one of his knees points to Bruce, the other leg extended on the other side in a way that must stretch the crotch of his pants under the pooling fabric of his tunic. Bruce is kind of glad for his own, vivid-red flap of fabric at the moment.

“So,” he asks after he’s eaten enough to settle the growl of his stomach, “where are we exactly? You mentioned this was a vacation moon.”

“Indeed. Cidaris orbits around an uninhabitable planet, yet somehow retained an atmosphere for an extremely long amount of time. Kryptonian architects started thinking of kryptoforming it a few centuries ago… It has been a favored vacation post for several decades, now.”

“Are you Kryptonian?”

“I am,” Kal replies, a piece of the grape-like meat resting against his lower lip and staining it purple. “Although I don’t suppose someone whose family possesses as much as mine does can fairly call himself an ordinary one.”

Oh god. He’s a rich alien—for all Bruce knows, he could be a real life, genuine Brucie Wayne with the wits to match, and he sounds like he’s just escaped a Ren Faire. And the worst of it all is, none of that has any dampening effect on the burst of heat that goes through Bruce when their knees brush. There are times when Bruce hardly even recognizes himself.

“What is your home like?”

Bruce throws Kal a look, but he neither looks nor feels like he’s trying to wriggle information out of Bruce...and even if he were, it’s not like he can’t answer without giving away vital information about Earth. He takes a look around before he answers though: the tall, organic and yet intricately carved arches of smooth wood, the invisible shields that leave the eyes free to roam over the infinity of the ocean and a truly spectacular sunset. The quiet, the scent of salt in the air—the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to breathe deeper but quieter, as if it stole all the stress from your lungs and replaced it with a good mouthful of rest.

“Not like this,” Bruce says to start with. “It’s a lot more angular. The buildings aren’t see-through, and you can’t see the stars at night. It’s...an old city. A wounded city. Frankly, with all the terrible things people do to it and in it, it’s probably a miracle it’s still standing.”

That’s...a staggering understatement, Bruce knows. But on the other hand: how do you even begin to explain Gotham to an alien? People who live less than fifty miles outside of it have enough of a hard time trying to grasp its essence as it is—they think it’s a blight on an otherwise very fine state...which, to be fair, it is. In some ways. That’s the easy part, though.

The hard part is trying to explain all the good side, like diamonds in the mud. The way so many people try to turn things around still, in little ways—insignificant ways, but also in the ways that matter most. How do you explain the dirty alleys with their gang fights and their kids laughing around firecrackers in summer? There are no words to convey all of that in a way that even begins to scratch the surface of what the city is—of what it means to Bruce. He knows: he’s tried. Even Dick never quite seemed to get it though—not enough to stay, at any rate. The only one who came close was—Bruce doesn’t have the words to explain it.

And yet, something must show on his face: by his side, still sprawling over the cushion like a particularly content cat, Kal smiles.

“And yet, you would not leave it behind.”

“Never in my life,” Bruce replies.

There’s something trying to creep in his throat as he speaks, and he manages to tamp it down but not before it pokes at his chest in a way he’s wholly unfamiliar with. it’s such a simple statement, and yet somehow, it’s something even his closest friends—inasmuch as he has any—have rarely heard from him, if at all. It’s an unexpected thing to find himself saying to a one-night stand, and Bruce would sigh if he hadn’t accepted the most likely outcome of the evening already.

“If this is a vacation moon,” he asks in a bit to shift the attention, “how come you’re here alone?”

Kal stiffens, and Bruce...deliberately doesn’t wince. He can’t truthfully claim that he hadn’t expected a sensitive topic, but Kal was more than polite about Gotham when, Bruce is very aware, it would have been easy for him to be less than polite about it. It seems...petty, in retrospect, to answer that with a barb.

“In the interest of not spoiling the good mood,” Kal replies with forced levity, “I will say that I was in need of some personal space, and ask that you allow me to stop there.”

Bruce nods. Even if he disagreed, he’s got a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be all that hard for Kal to overpower him. The thought may leave him a little warmer in the neck than he’s ready to admit, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get rude about it. The real surprise, however, comes when Bruce hears himself ask:

“Would you like me to give you some?”

“Space?” Kal asks. He laughs, incredulous, when Bruce nods; the shift of his body making them sink closer into the dip of the cushion. “And waste all the good works of physics when I could just as easily have brought you to a bench?”

Bruce snorts, but it comes out short, almost surprised. He hadn’t realized he’d leaned in too, hadn’t realized how close they were to touching, and now his elbow is resting against Kal’s shoulder and even through the fabric it feels like that’s setting his entire torso on fire, the warmth of it slowly baking up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until every breath of air on exposed skin feels like a caress. Bruce breathes in, deliberately slow, and then allows himself to sink back, just a little. He does, after all, know how to do this.

“You’re right,” he says, faux-nonchalant, “let’s not be rude.”

Kal smiles, bright and brilliant in a way Bruce has only ever seen on Diana before—it’s the kind of smile you don’t often see on adults, and it’s all the more precious for it. Not that Bruce would ever admit it. Still, combined with Kal’s jawline, the blue of his eyes, the circumstances...Bruce leans in closer, half expecting another witty exchange. Kal responds in kind instead and, after a heartbeat’s pause, presses their mouths together. Part of Bruce, up until then, had been expecting something a little different from the usual, but Kal’s mouth has a regular mouth taste, with a thin echo of that purple meat hidden in the flavor. Other than that, and the acute awareness of the damage he could inflict with those teeth of his, it’s no different from kissing a nice, smiley, really good looking human.

It has been roughly a decade since the last time Bruce indulged, though, and he is begrudgingly forced to admit that maybe that’s what makes it so intense, lips so sensitive they almost hurt with it, his chest heaving just from that one point of contact, the rest of his body tensing not to go overboard right away. Around them the lights dim a little, highlighting the transparency of the walls, and the heat spreads from Bruce’s head to his chest, to his groin, and every other extremity he has.

With a sigh, he goes back to kissing Kal, one hand coming up to push at his shoulder...and be met with resistance. He pulls back, body cooling fast enough to feel cold, and asks:

“Did I misinterpret?”

“Not at all,” Kal replies with a satisfied smile and a shrug. “I merely had a different image of the proceedings and failed to consider you might have your own opinion on the matter.”

“I can’t fucking believe I’m about to sleep with a guy who speaks like he’s in a Jane Austen space novel,” Bruce mutters.

If it wasn’t enough to stop him before, though, it’s certainly not enough to stop him now.

“What did you have in mind?”

Kal’s grin turns impish and, in the blink of an eye, he’s on his knees and hovering over Bruce’s lap.

“Do feel free to stop me at any time,” he says. “Things are so much better when both parties feel properly enthusiastic.”

Bruce kisses Kal again as a way to make him stop talking—he does have limits—and it works perfectly except for the part where it sets his skin ablaze again. He doesn’t complain about it though: he may be sensitive to the point of near pain, but he has no intention of giving up on the feeling, and revels in the intensity of it, the feather-light feel of Kal’s fingers against his wrists, Kal’s lips on his neck, Kal’s knees around his thighs.

Bruce sighs when he’s pushed down on the bed, and pushes his hips and erection up against Kal’s ass when he is given a few seconds to object. From there, the heavy weight of another body settles over him, and he pushes up again—the friction against Kal’s clad crotch sends sparks flying all through Bruce’s nervous system, pulling every hair on his body to stand as goosebumps overtake him before there’s even been a move made towards removing his shirt. Bruce really needs to do this more often.

He’s distracted from the thought when, after some awkward maneuvering that almost has them toppling to the side, Kal finally manages to get his hands under Bruce’s tunic and on his waist, barely waiting long enough to get consent before he pulls it off Bruce’s shoulders—Bruce is fairly sure he catches a smug look in his Suit’s direction and...well. Fair. He still reaches up to worry at a nipple in retaliation, satisfied with the reaction he gets right up until he receives the same treatment. Evidently, the days when he was perfectly capable of ignoring his own body until he was sure to leave his partner satisfied are long gone.

He can’t say that he minds too much.

It feels like an eternity before Kal’s mouth finally moves past his pectorals, kissing and caressing his belly, his arms, until it feels like Bruce could come just from that and he makes an impatient noise and pushes down on Kal’s shoulder. It feels a bit like pushing a brick wall, which turns out to be an extremely pleasant sensation, and so Bruce doesn’t even bother with performative annoyance when Kal lifts his hips off the mattress and slides the back of his pants over his ass.

“Oh,” he starts, pleased when he finds bare skin there, “I must say I find this detail very—what is that?”

It’s a good thing no one is here to witness Bruce blink dumbly at the transparent ceiling, or turn around to look past the furniture into the night, where there’s nothing but trees and grass to look at him. Eventually though, he does turn back to Kal and finds him staring at his crotch with a perplexed face. Bruce looks down at where his erection is flagging under the jockstrap he favors with the special fabric of his undersuit. Back up at Kal.

“Problem?”

“Where I am from,” Kal replies with the slow diction of someone trying not to offend, “one may go with underwear or without. This seems like a...an interesting in-between.”

“Do you want me to keep it on?” Bruce asks.

He’s done far more adventurous during one-night stands, and with people he found far less pleasant than Kal. It wouldn’t even be that big a deal. After a moment of consideration, though, Kal asks:

“Is your species capable of climaxing more than once during the night?”

“Yes.”

Given how his body has been reacting so far, Bruce is even cautiously optimistic about attempting a third round, should they be inclined.

“In that case, I should like to admire you in full just now, if you are amenable.”

Bruce has to roll his eyes at that, otherwise he runs the risk of getting caught in the moment and finding this way of talking sexy when it’s anything but. He does dispose of the jockstrap, though, and makes sure to leave it on a nearby cushion where it’ll be easy to retrieve. After that he lies back down on the cushion and gestures for Kal to proceed.

He’s half expecting Kal to take him in his mouth, the break having diminished but not destroyed his erection, but instead the man dives straight for Bruce’s balls—he licks and sucks at them, makes them roll over the bridge of his nose in a way that leaves searing burns over the skin, fills him with heat like a cup in long, slow licks until finally, with one long pull of mouth around his length, he tips over and comes with a silent shudder.

He stays in place for a while, lying down and breathing hard while Kal massages his muscles into a more relaxed state. Eventually—a shorter length of time for him than for most men his age—Bruce’s heartbeat is back to normal, or close enough. Only then does he allow himself to sigh again, and sink even further into the giant pillow.

“Am I to understand you are—”

“Do not say ‘amenable’,” Bruce warns, and Kal chuckles. “But yes.”

“Oh, good. Would you like to proceed as you first intended?”

“Not if you want a third round.”

Kal smiles like a kid at Christmas, and Bruce tries very hard not to groan, even though he knows he’ll get there at some point of the night. He might as well fight for what little dignity he has left, right? Right.

Somehow, he gets even less sleep that night than he’d anticipated.

Bruce wakes up well past sunrise the next morning, the sound of waves in his ears and the smell of salt on his tongue. He still aches in a myriad of different ways, but a lot of them have turned pleasant, and his legs aren’t made of jelly anymore. He takes advantage of the fact to get up and walk to where Kal is seated at a small table turned toward the ocean. The shields, or windows—whichever it is—are gone from between the wooden arches, allowing Bruce to spy the hints of a very large net in the platformed bedroom above before he steps up to Kal. The young alien hasn’t noticed Bruce’s presence, yet, which gives Bruce time to notice he looks extremely pleased with himself.

To be fair, Bruce would be too if he’d managed to bring a near-fifty-year-old, injured man off four times in one night. Not that he’s told Kal about the exceptional aspect of it, but it is possible he was a little too well fucked to hide his own surprise entirely… Either way, Kal is very satisfied, breakfast is still waiting for Bruce, and the mist is only just clearing from around the trees. The air around them is crisp, bracing in a way that makes Bruce half-heartedly wish for Kal’s ridiculous sweater. At the table, Kal still looks entirely oblivious to Bruce’s presence.

Bruce clears his throat, and laughs when that surprises Kal enough to send him sprawling down onto the wooden deck.

“Good morning,” he deadpans while Kal throws a napkin at his head.

“Is that how people on Earth court one another?” Kal asks in mock outrage. “Mind-shattering sex and then heart attacks?”

Bruce doesn’t smile at that, too aware of where he’s going and who he will need to be soon, but he does allow his lips to quirk up.

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d be so affected by something so...inconsequential.”

“Oh, it was plenty consequential enough,” Kal replies without missing a beat with a saucy glance at Bruce’s crotch. “I might even consider letting you know if I ever visit Earth, someday.”

“You can do that?” Bruce asks, satisfied when his sudden spike of stress remains inaudible.

“I do work with the Green Lanterns,” Kal shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it probable, but I suppose it isn’t entirely impossible.”

Bruce hums and, to his relief, Kal doesn’t take offense to it. They share a peaceful breakfast instead, with fruits, fresh water and some kind of crackers that Kal dips into what must be a Kryptonian equivalent to coffee. Bruce tries to get some of it, the house encyclopedia informs them that it might not be safe for humans, and between one thing and the next the time for Bruce to get dressed and follow Kal to the shuttle.

He’s not reluctant about it by far, but if he’s being honest with himself—which he usually tries not to be—Bruce has to admit he’s also not quite as impatient to leave as he thought he’d be.

It was an excellent night, after all.

[thestuckylibrary]

Hi, I was wondering if there are any fics you can rec that have no smut? I don't mind sex scenes but just looking for popular non-explicit fics that might fit the bill? Thank you for all the work you do!

Tags page 1 has fics sorted by rating. These tags might particularly interest you:

G / PG

T / PG - 13

M / R

Also, here are a few to start out with. I’ve organized them with G rated fics listed first, T rated next, and then M rated. 

But We Can Try by hetrez (complete | 10,567 | G ) 

Bucky said, “These are love letters, Rogers. You’ve been drawing me love letters.”

naturalization status by silentwalrus (complete | 807 | G ) 

The official press briefing on the apprehension of the DC14 assailant draws quite the crowd, and not just because Captain America is there.

Steve, Bucky, and the Tinhat Collective by mypedia (complete | 7,039 | G )

The internet and the Avengers fandom react to the events of Civil War.

***

avengers-daily:

How do they get 200% more attractive when they’re covered in dirt

2554 notes

Mistake on the Part of Nature by idiopathicsmile (complete | 1,274 | T )

Steve takes in Bucky’s betrayed look and Sam’s confusion, follows Sam’s gaze to the pile of mangled fruit in the trash can. Sudden comprehension fills his face.

“Oh,” he says. “Bucky found out about bananas.”

In which an American icon is mourned. But probably not the one you’re thinking of.

tin soldiers by idrilka (complete | 19,743 | T ) 

In his 2009 book on Captain America comic books, war photography, and American propaganda, Everett claims: “There is nothing to suggest that either the graphic novels issued during the war or the photographs taken during Rogers’ stay with the Howling Commandos can serve as a basis for a queer reading of Rogers and Barnes’ relationship. But even more importantly, there is nothing to suggest that such a relationship ever existed in the first place, and as such, those queer readings are not only misguided, but also libelous” (197).

[from: Lynn E. Anderson, Captain America: Behind the Mask. Steve Rogers and the Contemporary Hero Narrative (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), p. 242.]

In the aftermath of Steve’s return to the world of the living and the battle of New York, the academia and the Internet react.

A Precarious, Fragile Thing by Taste_is_Sweet (complete | 6,961 | T )

“I didn’t know he did that,” Tony said. He knew Bucky liked tucking himself so far under Steve’s arm that it was like he was trying to climb into his armpit. But he’d always stayed upright, just kind of plastering himself against Steve’s side. This blanket thing was new.

“Seventy years of skin hunger,” Steve said. His voice was just as soft, but for a moment his eyes flickered hot with anger, bright as the candy-colored screen. “He was always tactile. Now, when things get…well, sometimes it helps. The contact.”

And it looked…nice, the two of them together like that: Comfortable. Familiar. Safe. Tony knew what a precarious, fragile thing it was, to feel safe in the middle of the night.

White (Boi) Wolf by Lasgalendil (complete | 3,323 | T ) 

The one where Shuri sciences the shit out of everything and adopts a puppy—er, sad disgruntled POW in desperate need of a snarky little sister and an upgrade.

(Or, Shuri lends a hand.)

Count the Rings Around My Eyes by caughtinanocean (complete | 2,630 | T ) 

In the wake of his time with Arnim Zola, Bucky doesn’t trust anyone to tend his wounds—Steve, however, is not just anyone.

“I know it ain’t as nice as what you see in the mirror, Cap, but that’s not the sort of reaction a guy likes when he strips,” he quipped, face still covered by fabric that had once been white (before all the dried blood and sweat).

“Sorry, Buck.” Steve tossed the shirt out of the way. “Just, I know I owe you a lot of taking care of, but did you have to get it all outta the way in one go?”

Who Let You In?* by birdbrains (complete | 19,635 | T ) *consent issues due to past brainwashing which are eventually resolved 

“Is he here?” Sam asked.“I don’t know,” said Steve. “I’m—hey, Bucky, are you here? Can you hear me?”“Or whatever you prefer to be called,” Sam put in.“Yeah,” Steve said. “It’s me, that dumb guy with all the problems? Remember me?”

Slow Work by lorata (complete | 81,114 | T ) 

It’s 2011, men are allowed to marry, and Bucky is dead.

The future isn’t all that’s strange. Together in peacetime for the first time since before Steve took the serum, Steve and Bucky struggle to find their place – and each other – in the middle of a new millennium, new bodies, and new dynamics.

Or, just because you wake up in a century where everything you’ve repressed is magically okay, that doesn’t make it easy.

The Diaries of Bucky Barnes by afterlifeoftheparty (complete | 15,208 | T ) 

“This young soldier was writing about war, but not only that. No, the most remarkable extracts from his diaries are the ones about emotions; those passages in which he writes about loss and pain and loyalty and love.”

When Bucky Barnes’ diaries are leaked in the 70s, reactions vary from one thing to another, even decades later.

Blood* by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen) (complete | 45,682 | T ) *fantasy AU

In a world where magic is as commonplace as electricity, HYDRA worships a god who craves order through death. They used His blood to create fierce Soldiers then enslaved them by chaining their souls.

The man who was James Barnes is the last Soldier, the rest having been put down after succumbing to the call of the Blood. One night, out of control after a mission, the increasingly unstable Soldier runs into Steve Rogers. Instead of being turned into a red smear on the ground, Steve successfully talks him down. HYDRA decides to keep him. The Soldier’s the last one they’ve got; if Steve can keep him calm he’s going to do it whether he likes it or not.

Like fractious racehorses have companion goats, they hand Steve off to the Soldier as a kind of pet. But studies have shown pets can ease depression, despair and loneliness, lead to an increased sense of safety and well-being, and provide a source of protection and unconditional love. HYDRA really should have reviewed the literature before they decided to give Steve to the Soldier. Especially since, once Steve Rogers is involved, protectiveness can get slightly out of hand.

United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015) byfallingvoices, radialarch (complete | 20,605 | T )

The Associated Press @APWinter Soldier set to stand trial for Washington D.C. massacre and treason apne.ws/1og6SWE

the inaccuracy of historical wartime dramas by Mici (noharlembeat) (complete | 3,039 | M ) 

There was nothing wrong with Howling Commandos, not really. It was new and shiny, made only six months before Steve woke up and on the brink of cancellation until it was announced that Captain America was found, at which point ratings skyrocketed. Steve would have heard of the series, except that he was too busy figuring out his phone, handling alien invasions, and battling crippling depression (that he would not admit to anyone, even himself). The result was that 25 episodes later, Howling Commandos was the most popular television shows about the war on the planet, with a loyal following, and Steve was almost totally oblivious.

(or: Steve has feelings, and shouldn’t ever watch television)

i heard love is blind by girl0nfire (complete | 1,159 | M ) 

Steve keeps bringing home guys that look like Bucky; Bucky keeps bringing home guys that look like Steve. Sam just wants to drink his coffee in peace. (Guest appearances by nearly every character Sebastian Stan and Chris Evans have ever played. Really.)

winter wheat, sunflower peat by newsbypostcard (complete | 25,284 | M ) 

In the dead of the night, a man pulls over for a hitchhiker.

i was found and now i don’t roam these streets by hipsterchrist (complete | 15,613 | M )

They’ve decided to start producing Bucky Bears again, now that he’s all shiny and redeemed and fighting for good on this big Avengers misfits team. “He has a little shiny gray arm,” Bucky says, wiggling the stuffed arm in question, one of the tweaks made in the new model. It takes Steve a second to realize that Bucky’s got a small smile on his face, actually looks a little bit proud around the eyes.

Or, Bucky relearns himself and how to be on a team, the rest of the Avengers try to get answers, and everyone watches too much Criminal Minds.

New Tricks by OddityBoddity (complete | 18,520 | M )

The one where Bucky busts up a dog-fighting ring.

Don’t Ask* by AnnaFugazzi (complete | 21,491 | M ) *period typical attitudes ; canonical character “death” 

Captain America and Bucky Barnes were like brothers. Everyone knew that.

[randomfacter]

So I’ve got a question. I saw your latest texting story, featuring Adessa and Beetee, and this has me wondering, “does Wiress exist?” Ik it says Universe B, so maybe she doesn’t exist in Universe B, so he’s friends (maybe lovers) with Adessa instead. Just curious

So yeah there's two universes A and B. Universe A is the main hunger games universe created by Suzanne Collins without any extra worldbuilding. Universe B however is the universe I play more with. A lot off it is based heavily off the worldbuilding @lorata has done with a few tweaks of my own here and their. Lorata mainly focuses on district 2 and it's victors and if haven't checked Lorata's stuff out I do highly recommend it! Now I really love Lorata's two victors and I like to mess around with them and other aspects of that universe. In that universe true to worldbuilding by Lorata Adessa ( a two victor) is involved with Beetee and I love their relationship. Wiress does exist in universe B she's basically one of Beetee's victors and unlike two with their mentality of the victor is not equal to the mentor, it's more I've graduated university and now I go out to drink with my former professor, she's he's closest friend. Their not romantically involved in this university and I'm not really sure if their involved in universe A either. She knows about Beetee and Adessa's relationship and teases him mercilessly about it with questions like if she can be the godmother or a bridesmaid. This sort of helps distract Beetee from the knowledge that he and Adessa cannot marry or have children, at least not while Snow is in charge. And by the time Snow is overthrown their too old to have children and Wiress is dead. And I've gone off in to a rant, but what I was trying to say is that Wiress does exist in both universes, she and Beetee are not romantically involved in Universe B and they may be in A, I don't really have a definite answer. Of course if you join in the group of us who are involved in Lorata's universe you can Adessa and Beetee just be friends if you or get rid of Adessa entirely. It's a bit quantum fluxy because there are quite a few of us with differing headcanons and ideas, though there are main staples that appear in all of worlds. So if you join don't feel like you have to try and make it match any of ours. It's sort of just have fun and Jesus this got long. Sorry it wasn't meant to get this long. Oh and the texting stories are entirely separate from my main stories. It's basically a branch off so those stories don't really match my main lorata universe. I have a lot of branch off's though I haven't posted stories of those on Ao3 or tumblr. Sorry if it's a bit confusing. And a lot of the branches really don't make sense with the main universe because they are results of me procrastinating and not writing my stories in the main universe, so yeah.