#he is serving professional and he's serving royal

[thriftedtchotchkes]

his favorite girl, part ii

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: keeping things professional only works if both parties are in agreement. after a heated first lesson, it's clear you and joel aren't.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, no outbreak, guitar teacher!joel, age gap (30 years), slow-burn, smut, angst, m&f masturbation, mentions of regret and shame

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | part i

Adrenaline hasn't stopped pumping through your veins since you left your guitar teacher's house. Joel's house.

It's hard to even think his name now that you know what it's like to moan it for him, to feel his body tense and tighten like nylon strings as you tune him to your pitch. The things that man could teach you with all of his experience and endless patience...wait, no. No.

How to play guitar—that's the only thing you need from Joel Miller. Nothing else. God, what the hell is wrong with you? That stupid daydream has been running through your head on a loop ever since you got home and it really shouldn’t be. It was a mistake, one that almost cost you your entire future, and yet you’re still so hung up on it.

On everything you learned during your short, disastrous guitar lesson, the intimate knowledge you’ll never be able to forget. Like the fingering for the chord he showed you, or that he makes the neediest sounds when his body's pressed up against yours and his fingers are so close to where you need him, inches away from—

Stop.

The freezing cold shower you just took is about to be rendered useless at the rate you're going, and tomorrow’s lesson won’t be far behind if you can’t get your shit together.

But you can’t stop yourself from wondering—how much of it was real? You toss your hair over your shoulder, ignoring the icy droplets trickling down your back, and the bruise you’d imagined he left isn’t there. Instead, the mirror taunts you, reflecting smooth, unmarred skin that only serves as a harsh reminder of your fuck-up.

You’re more disappointed than you should be. It would've been the only piece of physical evidence you had proving what happened earlier wasn't all in your head. That maybe he reciprocates even a fraction of what you feel. But it's for the best. Now you can move on and focus all of your mental energy on staying present tomorrow so he won't rescind his offer to continue your lessons.

You'll have to keep things totally professional. The diligent college student, eager to learn and dedicated to her studies—that’s you, all right. It shouldn’t be that hard to stay focused for one measly hour, not when those thick, talented fingers of his are so captivating and capable of so many useful things. Guiding you through the next few bars of that song, slipping beneath the waistband of your—

Fuck it, you're doomed.

There's no way you can handle this. He's just too distracting, and you're way too easily distracted. Judging by the way he reacted to your inappropriate behavior earlier, you're starting to wonder if he can handle it himself. He was a little too quick to touch you, to sit so close that you could feel every instruction he gave you rumbling in his chest.

That familiar heat’s starting to build in your belly, and you know it’ll boil over the second he’s within reach again. You have to get this in check before you see him tomorrow or you’ll be royally screwed, and not even remotely in the way you’d like to be.

But it’s getting harder by the minute. It’s all too fresh in your mind, and you can practically still feel the drag of calluses across your skin and the weight of his arm slung over your shoulder. His fingers twitching in your desperate grasp like he was just itching to trace a knuckle down the soaked fabric between your legs.

You don’t remember how or when you got into bed, but you suddenly find yourself lying on top of your damp, unfastened towel, your bare breasts exposed to the cool air of your bedroom, and your fingers grazing your hardening nipples as you snake them down your body.

The second your fingers slide through your embarrassingly wet folds, you're a lost cause. God, that's good. You're so wet for him, and he's not even here to see you, to feel what he does to you.

You press down on your clit and pretend it's his solid chest tucked against you instead of your shitty dorm mattress, and his rough fingertips swirling masterful circles around your slick nub before dipping achingly slowly inside you.

Shit, you're going to cum soon, so much quicker than you normally do. But maybe this is exactly what you need to get him out of your system. Maybe cumming as many times as you can to the thought of your hot, middle-aged guitar teacher is all it'll take for you to finally get over this stupid, dangerous schoolgirl crush. To get on with your life and earn your fucking college degree.

Joel Miller. You erupt around your fingers with his name hot and heavy on your lips, but it’s…not enough. It's fine, that's totally fine. You'll just go again. As many times as it takes.

But by your third orgasm in as many hours, you realize you’re only making it worse. The aching emptiness you feel every time you cum is almost unbearable. Even as you fuck yourself on three of your fingers, desperately trying to fill yourself up the way he would, it's still not enough.

It’s not him.

God, what are you supposed to do now? Can you really face him tomorrow knowing that you spent the entire night gushing around your fingers, pretending they were his?

And what if he tries to touch them again? Shit. Shit. You just keep making dumber and dumber decisions when it comes to him.

So...maybe you can forgive yourself for making one more. You know that you couldn't have imagined everything earlier. That dark, hungry look in his eyes when he told you flat out that he didn't pull away from you on purpose—he has to want you as much as you want him. Right?

He just needs a nudge in the right direction. A green light so he can push aside those polite, southern manners just long enough for you to both get what you need. Then, you can continue your lessons distraction-free.

After all, you did your finger exercises tonight just like he told you to, and teaching is always more effective with a little positive reinforcement.

Yeah, this will totally work.

Joel’s been rock hard ever since you left his house.

He’s still sitting on the couch in the same spot you occupied just a few hours earlier, his mind running a mile a minute, hands clenched painfully at his sides so he doesn't touch himself.

Christ, you're young. Much too young to be this desperate over or to consume his every thought the way you have since you shoved his hand between your thighs, moaning his name like his fingers were already buried in your tight cunt.

He can't do this. His own fantasies are starting to concern him. He's never this vulgar. Not since he was a stupid kid in high school, picking up girls and bragging about it to his buddies. But that's how you make him feel. Like a stupid, horny kid.

C'mon, dirty old man. Get your shit together.

This is why he never should've agreed to start taking on students. The second you walked through his front door, he should've known he was in for it. Those bright eyes, ever-observant and eager to learn, and delicate hands, clutching the handle of a guitar case much smaller than his own. He wanted to help you with your class, he really did.

Wants. He wants to help you, but he feels like he can't trust himself around you anymore, if he ever did in the first place. Still, he made his old bandmate—your professor, now, he guesses—a promise that he didn't intend to break. Not until he actually met the student in question and discovered, to his horror, that you were his every wet dream come to life.

When you picked up your tiny guitar, a baby version of his own Taylor six-string, and began to strum clumsily with your beginner's touch, he couldn't help himself.

All he could think about were those dainty fingers wrapped around his cock. Teaching you how to stroke him just right, his hand guiding yours up and down his length the way yours were shifting up and down the neck of your guitar as you hopped from fret to fret.

Shit, he's fucking hard.

It's not going away anytime soon, either. Maybe if he just...takes care of it. Jerks off, quick and dirty, thinking about the smooth pad of your thumb circling the head of his cock while he leaks precum onto your fingers. He'd cum so quickly imagining himself splattering his release across your plush lips, his name on the tip of your tongue.

His jeans are halfway down his thighs before he can think twice about it, and he hisses in a sharp breath when he finally begins to pump himself, tight and focused toward the tip just like he'd tell you to.

He was right. He's not going to last long. That's probably a good thing. The faster he can get you out of his system, the better, and then he can forget all of the things he did to you. He's more than ashamed at how quickly his balls start to tighten when he remembers how intimately you let him touch you. How fucking crazy you drove him.

The living room fills with the echoes of his stuttered groans and skin slapping against skin as he frantically fucks his fist, lost in the memory of his lips dragging across your bare shoulder and the heel of his hand grinding into your soaked, clothed pussy.

Then, he hears it so clearly through the haze of his pleasure—your voice whimpering his name, begging him to take care of you. He barely has enough time to tug up his shirt before he's cumming hard across his stomach and dribbling down his knuckles. Christ, you'd look so fucking good on your knees right now, sucking the release off his fingers.

Not good.

What the hell is happening to him? This desire, this need, it isn't who he is. And all of it over a beautiful girl. A very, very beautiful girl. He sighs, running his clean hand frustratedly down his face, fighting to ignore the cum drying uncomfortably on his skin.

It's not just that, and he knows it. It isn't your youth, either. It's...your passion. Your kindness and determination, even in the face of adversity.

It's you.

But he can't have you, no matter how much he aches to. You deserve better than an old, washed-up musician with bad knees and high blood pressure. You need someone who can really take care of you, and he's already decided that isn't him.

Come tomorrow, he'll keep things professional like he said he would. He'll keep his distance and teach you everything he has to offer. Be the guitar teacher he should've been from the beginning.

You're both adults, perfectly capable of controlling yourselves long enough to get through an hour-long lesson.

Yeah, this'll work.

You're late.

Not a great start to your second lesson, but then again, that seems to be your M.O. these days. Not this day, though. Today, all of that changes.

You take a deep, steadying breath before your fist connects with sun-bleached oak, and do your best to focus on the warm, mid-September breeze instead of the impatience and anticipation threatening to swallow you whole.

Now that you're back here, standing on his porch, you're beginning to realize you're actually excited to see him. The anxiety you felt last night has given way to a strange sense of relief and a fresh wave of want. It's like your body can sense him and all of the things you're about to learn and experience.

His broad figure comes into view through the foggy glass paneling of his front door, and then after a strenuous 24 hours, your guitar teacher is within reach again—Joel. His name is Joel. You’re going to have to get used to saying it without your breath catching in your throat or he’ll know. He'll see your intentions clear as day and you'll never get to moan it for him again.

“Hey, you, uh...ya made it," he says breathily, frowning down at his watch. He's panting, and there's a gentle flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck, disappearing under the collar of his navy blue T-shirt. “I was startin' to get a little worried there."

You smile apologetically, turning to nod back at the piece of shit Chevy parked in his driveway. It's old as dirt and somehow always manages to act up when the weather gets too hot.

"I had some car trouble," you tell him sheepishly, throwing a disdainful look over your shoulder before facing him again. "I should've called. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, offering you a small, if not subtly strained, smile in return. You can tell he's relieved you didn't call, even if he's too polite to say it.

"S'alright, m'just glad you're here now," he says tightly, shifting from one foot to the other as he continues to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

Well, this isn't good. You can take a pretty decent guess as to why he's acting so strange, but you're not sure how to even begin diffusing the situation. Inviting yourself in wouldn't be a terrible first step, but he already seems nervous as hell, and you're afraid he'll spook.

He's still thinking about yesterday. It's evident in his stance and the tension visibly building in his biceps and shoulders. What you wouldn't give to relieve some of that stress—but you can't do much of anything while you're still stuck at an impasse, sizing each other up for two very conflicting reasons.

Hiking your guitar case higher up on your shoulder, you gesture as delicately as you can to the door he's still hiding behind.

"Is it okay, um—should I...come inside?" you stumble over your suggestion, your words conveying none of the confidence and allure you'd hoped for.

Come on, buck up. Be the girl who made him question his self-control; the girl who made his eyes turn so dark, you thought you'd lose yourself in them and never find your way out. You meet those same eyes again with a playful darkness of your own.

"Or did you wanna continue what we started yesterday out here on your porch?"

He does startle at that, but luckily it's the push he needs to finally let you into his home.

"Y-yeah, yes. M'sorry, 'course ya can," he mutters, shaking his head as if he'd been in a trance the entire time. "Didn't mean to keep ya standin' there. Come, uh...Christ, come on in."

Good. Entranced is good.

He holds the door open for you like a perfect gentleman, and your chest drags across his as you squeeze past his large frame and into the entryway. It’s an unsubtle and potentially cheap move, but neither of you pretends it wasn’t on purpose. He sucks in a harsh breath, seizing up until you're past him and taking in the quiet comfort of his living room.

Last time, you'd been too distracted to notice all of the little details and odds and ends that make the space so distinctly Joel, but now that you're really paying attention, it's...charming. The stacks of CDs next to his guitar stand, some in cases and some not, and the varying brown tones of his shag rug and leather couch feel warm and inviting. Just like the man who spends his days and nights here.

Being here suddenly feels intimate in a different capacity than before. Heat begins to bloom in your chest instead of between your legs at the idea of creating music together, a variation all your own, heavily influenced by the history all around you. The abrupt shift takes you by surprise, but it's not unwelcome. If anything, it increases your sense of urgency.

So you let it draw you in, back to where your next lesson and, hopefully, everything you have in store for Joel will take place. That same cushy spot you dreamt about all night while you fucked yourself with your fingers, and that he, unbeknownst to you, lingered while he fucked his fist to thoughts of you.

Looking back over your shoulder, you catch him watching you. There's a curiosity there and an undercurrent of something darker that makes your stomach swoop. He's still flushed, even more so than before, despite his AC kicking to cut the heat and oppressive humidity you brought in with you.

But then he blinks and it's gone again. Left in its place are the kind, if not extremely guarded, eyes of your patient guitar teacher. He's so good at that. Maybe a little too good.

You twist around, heaving the soft case off your shoulder so you can plop down on the couch. He winces out of the corner of your eye when you land on his spot, and his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as you pull out your guitar and set it across your lap. Lifting an eyebrow, you wait for him to make a move, but he seems stuck in place. Conflicted, almost, like he's fighting himself.

You need him closer. You need him to loosen up. Most of all, you need those thick, insistent fingers inside you before you lose your damn mind.

"Joel? You coming?" you ask expectantly, moving your hands into place over the frets and strings.

At that, he downright grimaces but nods nonetheless. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like self-admonishment as he putters across the room to pluck his guitar from its stand.

Instead of sitting beside you, he pulls up a chair in front of you, putting enough distance between himself and the couch so you can heed his instructions, but not be tempted to touch. Whether that's for his benefit or yours, you're not entirely sure, but you shiver at the thought. He notices.

"Y'need me to turn down the AC? 'Cus I can handle that real quick before we get started," he sounds a little too eager to get away from you again, so you hurriedly reach out to grab his hand before he can make his escape.

"Woah, hold your horses. It's totally okay. I'm not cold, I promise," you try to reassure him with a chuckle, attempting to soothe the palpable tension in the air. Those rough, time-hardened fingertips brush against the delicate skin of your inner wrist, and you instinctively tug him closer.

But he resists. He carefully pulls out of your grasp and sits back down, returning to a safe distance and refusing to make eye contact.

That's not a good sign. At all. You can't help but feel a little ashamed at his reaction. It was never your intention to push him, but you also hadn't expected him to be repelled by just the sight of you.

Maybe you misunderstood your last conversation? Or maybe it really was all in your head, even after you stopped daydreaming. It's entirely possible you only saw what you wanted because you wanted him. You bite your lip anxiously, shifting away to offer him more space.

"Hey, is everything okay? You seem kind of...off today," you press him hesitantly. "Look, if this is about yesterday—"

"S'nothin' like that. We agreed it was water under the bridge, right? Two adults keepin' things professional," he cuts you off, kindly yet firmly dismissing your concerns.

He meets your eyes again, and they're clearer, now. His voice, too—unwavering and more sure than it's been since you got here.

Oh. This is a reminder. A gently worded warning for both of you.

Okay, that's totally okay. It has to be. He's right, anyway. You keep forgetting how important these lessons are, and he's just being the reasonable, responsible adult who wants to keep you on track, no matter how nervous you make him.

Shit, you wish that didn't turn you on so much. You tell yourself to ignore it. Your mission's a bust, anyway, and he's clearly not interested. You ignore how badly that hurts, too, while you're at it.

"Yeah, of course. Totally professional," you repeat back dejectedly, and you will yourself to mean it. But he never makes it easy, does he?

"That's my girl," he smiles so, so handsomely, and you're forced to bite back a frustrated groan.

How he manages to look so genuine and innocent while he says things like that, you'll never understand. What's worse, you have no doubt he actually is.

Joel Miller. 56 years old. Your generous guitar teacher whose only goal is to share his craft in that syrupy sweet twang that sounds like the sweetest music to your ears.

Just your luck.

thanks for reading & stay tuned for part iii <3

(dividers by @saradika & @inklore)

[atinycafe]

San traces gentle patterns on the exposed part of your waist, his gaze fixed on the subtle shift of your breathing. With your back turned to him, he can't see your face, but he's certain you're fast asleep. If you were awake, he wouldn't dare to touch you. Arranged marriages aren't uncommon, especially among royal families. They serve to solidify bonds, bringing prosperity and peace to kingdoms, but not necessarily to the individuals involved - the groom and the bride.

It wouldn't be truthful to say that you two love each other or even that you are friends. Even after two years of marriage, your professionalism remains the primary barrier. Since childhood, you've been immersed in rigorous studies to prepare for your role as the empress of the nation. Your life was predetermined long before you were born. Hence, San comprehends completely why you maintain such a cold demeanor toward him.

But, he can't help but yearn for you. His thoughts constantly gravitate toward you, in a way that should be ordinary for a husband but not in your circumstances. He shouldn't love you, but you're making it incredibly difficult for him. Your conduct with those around you, the way you carry yourself, and the genuine kindness you extend, even to those beneath your station, it all makes it harder for him. He sees how you pay attention to your advisors during crucial meetings, noticing the subtle furrowing of your brows when issues with the crops or markets are brought up. Your effortless thoughtfulness is simply captivating; how could he not fall for you?

San places a quivering hand on your hair, toying with a curl between his fingers. He leans in to plant a tender kiss on it, but as you stir slightly, he withdraws his hand abruptly, pretending to be asleep, shutting his eyes tight.

You turn, still in your slumber, but San doesn't open his eyes. He knows you'll wake soon, as the sun begins to filter through the balcony, altering the hues of the sky. You emit a soft murmur, and San senses your eyes opening as you let out a gentle gasp. He feels you shift away slightly, understandable since your noses were nearly touching. San remains motionless, his eyes closed, his breath held.

He remains that way for several minutes until he feels you sit up on the bed. You sigh and stay put. San softly opens his eyes, stealing a glance at your profile. Your gaze is fixed on the horizon, the soft morning light accentuating the curve of your cheek.

"I need to get pregnant," you murmur softly, a tender hand caressing your belly, your eyes glazing over, lost in thought as usual.

"What?" San blurts out, rising to his knees, his eyes wide. "What did you just say?"

You turn to him, embarrassment flushing your face. You open your mouth, then close it, resembling a fish caught off guard. You didn't expect him to be awake this early. "No—I—I just—"

"I'll give you a son," he interrupts, his voice trembling, his hand running through his hair. "If you let me, I'll give you anything." His tone carries a hint of desperation. He had refrained from any physical contact since the beginning of your marriage. It would have created more distance between you, rather than bringing you closer. He didn't want your first night together to be the result of obligations. That would have been too cruel for his heart—feeling you so close, yet your heart so far away. No.

Your face flushes, and the overwhelming urge to conceal yourself becomes unbearable. You shake your head, swiftly discarding the golden covers from your body. "You must have misheard me," you hastily interject, planting your bare soles on the chilly floor. Before you can rise from the bed, San seizes your forearm and gently guides you back, prompting an unqueenly gasp to escape your lips.

He remains silent as he caresses your hairline with a tender hand, peering at you beneath his long lashes. Both of you linger in silence for a moment, locking gazes. The room is so quiet that you can almost discern the rhythmic thumping of his heart, although you can only feel it through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

"I like you," he murmurs into the void. You part your lips to reply, but he doesn't allow you to continue. "I don't know you, but I like you. I would say I love you, but I don't want to push you. So I'll settle for 'I like you.'" He concludes, his lips pressed together in an anxious frown.

You remain silent for a while, simply gazing at him, your eyelashes fluttering. San senses that he might be on the verge of being sick, until you break into a faint smile. Your hands find their way to his face, both of them cradling his cheeks, as your thumbs stroke gently.

"I don't… I don't know you," you mumble, and it's the truth. You hadn't taken the effort to learn more about him beyond the superficial information an empress should possess about her emperor, essential for ruling over a country by his side. "But I can learn. I can try."

Your voice barely rises above a whisper, and you both chuckle like children discovering something shiny.

He leans down over your body, planting a gentle kiss on the gold earring adorning your left ear and then another at the juncture of your ear and neck. He lingers for a few moments, inhaling your natural scent as he feels you shudder at the touch of his lips against your skin. A smirk tugs at his lips before he swiftly jumps out of bed, leaving you alone in the opulent chamber. You hear him exuberantly cheering with the knights outside the door, and you can't help but smile at his youthful enthusiasm. He's making a complete fool of himself, and you turn in the bed, burying your face in his pillow, releasing your own muffled scream of excitement, your feet kicking up in the air. You find yourself laughing, carried away by the rush of adrenaline.

Suddenly, someone clears their throat from behind you. You turn to find the rotation of maids, poised and ready for your daily morning routine. Flustered, you promptly compose yourself, rising to sit and smoothing down your hair. The youngest maids attempt to stifle their laughter behind their sleeves, while you attempt not to perish from embarrassment.

masterlist | taglist in comments

[ot3]

to be honest i dont think either kristoph or phoenix considers the other to be their mortal enemy. i think kristoph thinks of phoenix as someone who Was Once great but now has been successfully browbeaten and humbled to the point where he is no longer a threat and instead serves as a trophy/object of scorn & fascination/a peer emotionally but notably Not professionally. and i think phoenix thinks of kristoph as sort of the living embodiment of every emotional misconception he's made in his entire life, karmically manifested into reality to teach him about Adult Relationships. and obviously, critically, this fucks them both over royally.

[goodgirlofglory]

A successful trial run/ One-shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 9,2k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, smut, making out, nipple-play, dry-humping, coming in pants hehe, me making up a lot of unconvincing sciency talk about tech and engineering and whatnot.

Summary: As a newly recruited scientist in the royal technical institute of Wakanda, your first task involves a certain Winter Soldier fresh out of cryostasis and in need of a new arm. Intrigued by his mysterious figure since forever, you’re brimming with fascination over the subject. Little did you anticipate capturing his eye in return. 

Note: This takes place somewhere between Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Avengers Infinity War. Kinda wanted to write something from the time Bucky spent in Wakanda. I enjoyed writing this one, hope you enjoy reading it😘 Likes, replies and reblogs are amazing. Luv you guys, you are the best, i am always so grateful and excited to receive all your feedback💕💕🦋

The first time the Winter Soldier entered the lab, he was flanked by the entire Dora Milaje and led by the king himself. Apart from the usual ceremony of greeting the king and his guest of honor, no one seemed jittered nor particularly preoccupied with the new project - or its primary subject. The engineers, scientists and technicians of the royal technical institute and Wakandan Design group were used to making much more extravagant and complicated designs than a prosthetic arm. 

It was a regular Tuesday for everyone - except you, that was. Extraordinarily gifted from a young age, you had quickly advanced and surpassed your peers and even superiors in your studies at the university of the capitol. Subsequently, you were the youngest person in the lab - apart from princess Shuri herself. 

And you were almost jumping out of your skin with excitement at having the Winter Soldier as your very first test subject. Or rather, you were on the team that was to build his next vibranium arm. You’d read all about him and watched all the news over the years, but you had started working in the lab after he’d been brought to Wakanda and put in cryostasis, so you’d never actually seen him in the flesh. Now he was out of cryo for rehabilitation and with that came the need for a new arm. Shuri had picked the team herself, and to your utter surprise, chosen you as a part of it. 

Your task was fairly simple: organize and execute the fitting of the prosthetic prototypes with the subject himself, take notes and report to the team whatever adjustments the soldier would prefer. The others would do most of the engineering, creative modeling and building - the more prestigious work. You didn’t really care that your tasks were relatively simple and low level though - it was an amazing learning experience for a newbie like you. Plus, it meant you were the primary contact person for the soldier himself, which had you flushing hot for both professional and decidedly less professional reasons. 

The soldier was an enigma; lethal chaos and extreme discipline spliced inside the body of what was once a regular American. His mythos was both intriguingly detailed and all at once a mystery - a sort of dangerous puzzle you couldn’t help but be drawn to like a moth to a flame. Everything he had lived and experienced and represented was so very very far from your own safe and mundane world. It wasn’t that growing up in Wakanda had been boring per se, but everything was just so… perfect, and despite yourself, you were drawn to the Winter Soldier and the extraordinary case of his unusual life. And from the moment you’d laid eyes on him, you knew you were out of your depth. 

He was beautiful - in a rugged, unpolished sort of way; raw and hauntingly real, he only seemed to move when it served the explicit purpose of his visit. Otherwise, he stood still as a statue. He had an air of mystery to him, but despite his huge, menacing and burly form, he wasn’t scary. His eyes were soft, the babiest of blue, his stubble revealed tiny streaks of silver, and his hair, though washed and groomed, had a consistently shaggy look to it that made him seem…human. Just another regular white guy to everyone else in the lab - the most intriguing person in Wakanda to you. 

Along with the king, the soldier had silently shaken the hand of everyone on the team, looking them in the eyes with a polite, though quite stoic expression that betrayed nothing of what was happening on the inside. You’d stared at him as he'd made his way down the line, scrutinized every inch of his face, trying to gauge the tiniest twitch of muscle, any indication or hint of emotion - to your utter astonishment, you could see nothing. Then he'd reached where you stood at the end of the line of team members, and your heart'd kicked into a sprint at the way he suddenly loomed before you in all his muscled, mystical and deadly glory. Holy shit, he was huge, surely a foot taller than you, with the most obscenely broad shoulders and thighs that bulged in a way that had your mouth going dry.

Get yourself together! Stop ogling the subject!, you had admonished yourself harshly.

By the time you got back in contact with your body and reached a hand out to him, your palms were sweaty and your face hot. And then, as he engulfed your hand in his pale, calloused one, hot like a multilayered sonic solar panel during july, you thought you saw a muscle near his eye twitch, catching your gaze the same way his eyes did a moment later when they glinted with something suspiciously alike curiosity, a flashing moment of undivided interest that had you flushing even hotter. 

Oh yeah, you were in big, big trouble. 

§

Three months later you no longer broke out in panicked sweating whenever Barnes came in for a fitting (most of the time). You’d had a total of four meetings so far, all of which had been professional, short and silent. Barnes hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you in all your time together in the lab, and none of them of much importance.

("Here?" he'd asked that first fitting when you’d asked him to take a seat on the surgical bench. 

"No" he'd said when you asked if the new fastenings at his shoulder were uncomfortable.

"Yes", he'd said when you’d asked if the first prototype arm was lighter than what he was used to.

Other than that, the winter soldier mostly communicated in grunts, nods and shakes of his head.)

The hiss of the sliding door alerted you to his arrival as you were readying the newest prototype for the fitting, and just like always, the door was the only sound even hinting at his presence. He was impossibly silent for a guy his size. 

“Sit down, please, I’ll be ready in a moment,” you threw over your shoulder, keeping your eyes on the clasps you would try on the shoulder today. 

When he didn’t answer and you could hear no sound of the shifting padding on the surgical bench, you threw a look over your shoulder and froze. 

Barnes stood by the bench, his one flesh arm raised high, fingers adjusting something on the…bun on the back of his head. His…bun of…gorgeous, thick locks of shaggy brown hair. You gulped, a tingling sensation of adrenaline starting to well up in your chest. He hadn’t worn his hair like that before, at least not around you, and man were you a sucker for a nice hair do on a man. Combined with this man it seemed to be suddenly and quite effectively lethal. His locks were collected and pulled away from his face, revealing high, chiseled cheekbones and a jawline that could cut diamonds and -

A screw fell out of your hand as your mind worked overtime to process the image before you, and then, so quickly you didn’t even see him move, the soldier was there, crouching at your feet, catching the screw before it could clink onto the floor. 

It felt like an eternity went by as you stared at his bent form slowly straighten up up up to his full height, the screw looking more like a grain of sand in his big, calloused and rough hand, his body so close you swore you could feel the warmth radiating off him. The lulling scent of fresh earth and spices filled your nose, taking you to luscious lands far away. 

You heard the hitch in your tiny, involuntary intake of air like a siren in a dead silent night, and your face blazed to a million fucking degrees, your heart galloping in your chest. Swallowing thickly, you looked up into his pale eyes - eyes that betrayed nothing in an equally neutral face. 

Fuckfuckfuck, he’s so close. Fuck, his eyes are so blue, shit, he smells good, is that freckles on his cheek bones - 

He held the screw out expectantly, and you mentally shook yourself for being so fucking slow. Stop ogling him! Take the screw! With fingers you were relieved to see didn’t tremble, you reached out and plucked it from his light grasp, furiously not hyperfocusing on where your skin grazed his. 

“Um,” you started, and painfully cleared your throat before trying again, cheeks burning, “t-thanks. Please, sit.”

He stayed unmoving for half a second longer than was strictly necessary, and then he turned and moved to sit on the surgical bench. 

Turning back to your table of tools, you took a few calming breaths, breathing as softly as you could in case the soldier could hear you (which he probably could quite well considering what you’d read about his enhanced body and senses.)

You turned back to find him watching you from a seated position on the bench, eyes following your movement as you walked up towards him, pulling your table behind you. You plastered on your best carefree smile and picked up the prototype vibranium arm, sleek black with silver accents, and like you always did, held it up so he could inspect it if he chose to. Like always, he didn’t seem remotely interested in the design. Only, he didn’t stare ahead out into the room like he usually did during these parts of the fittings. Instead his eyes remained on you, his form so fucking unmoving he could be a statue. You swallowed thickly, absurdly nervous. His scent still lingered in your mind. 

He’d removed his shirt, revealing the new shoulder prosthesis in the same black as the arm, fitted to mold over his scarred tissue and make a clean transition from steel to skin. Your eyes caught on the tiny sliver of golden, muscled skin peeking out from where his white t-shirt had been cut above the shoulder, and you quickly averted your gaze even as your mind started conjuring images of wide expanses of soft, golden skin under the tips of your fingers as you explored under rays of soft, morning sunlight. 

Why did he have to look so god damned good, with his stupid hair up in a stupid bun and stupid t-shirt that dared show even a square centimeter of his stupid skin, you thought perturbed as you started fitting the arm to the shoulder, hands working on autopilot while your mind frayed at the edges. 

All through the fitting, you felt his eyes linger on you, not staring per se, just…observing. Three times you peeked up from your work to catch his eyes on yours, and three times you hastily averted your gaze back, your cheeks heating anew, your heart picking up speed. He’d never done that before. He’d always just stared at the floor or the wall during his fittings, eyes vacant, seemingly far far away. He’d never been fully present, never watched you, very rarely met your eyes. It was what had kept your own visceral reactions to such a minimum you could easily manage them. But now, under his weighty gaze, your body started tingling all over, sweat gathering on your brow, your breathing going just slightly too fast. You didn’t know if it was excitement or some instinctive fight or flight-reflex kicking into gear. Why was he looking at you like that?

“There,” you said just a little too hastily when at last the final screw was in place. You retreated to the other side of the room under the guise of organizing your tools back into their rightful place on the wall. “Please test it out, feel how it fits, tell me how it feels,” you said with your back to him, reciting the instructions you always gave him during this part of the fitting. Usually, you observed him closely as he walked around the room, lifting the arm, flexing the fingers and grabbing at random objects to test grip and reactivity. Now it was all you could do to not flee the room all together due to how embarrassingly flustered you were. The fittings in themselves weren’t really necessary from an engineering perspective - the royal technical institute all but guaranteed the highest mark of quality and a near zero percent chance of faults. The fittings were more beneficial from a psychological point of view - to give the subject a smooth transitional introduction to their new limb. 

You heard him shuffling about for some time while you randomly moved tools and screws around your table while trying to collect and promptly ban all the inappropriate thoughts running wild in your head. It was so unprofessional to be affected like this! Sure, he was handsome (wildly so) but you couldn’t call yourself a proper scientist if you acted like this! It was disgraceful! Even as you scolded yourself for being this way around the poor, innocent hunk - SUBJECT - your mind flooded with the thoughts you tried so hard to keep at bay. What did his hair feel like sliding through your fingers? Did he always gaze so intently? What would those eyes look like in dark rooms surrounded by soft sheets? What would that new metal hand look like wrapped around your - 

The sound of a throat clearing had you yelping - for fuck’s sake, girl - and whipping around to find him right behind you, looking down at you with that expression that betrayed nothing. 

You stared up at him for a moment, heart thumping in your chest, stunned to silence by his clear initiation of contact, and then abruptly found your sense. 

“Does it feel right? Is anything uncomfortable or -”

Your words died out as he extended the vibranium hand between you. He let it hover there, hand straight, expectant. You stared for a moment, and then praised yourself for daring to reach your own hand out to clasp his, a bit unused to the flip to using your left hand to shake his, hoping to God this was what he was getting at and that you didn’t just make a fool of yourself. 

Your interpretation was correct, and the smooth, slightly cold metal closed around you, dwarfing your hand. The soldier squeezed your fingers and then shook your hand a bit stiffly a couple of times before stilling. You gulped, acutely aware of your heartbeat running a gallop in your chest, the silence around you so severe you could hear your own breathing like a wind tunnel. The feel of the vibranium, so alive in this form and shape, squeezing your fingers in a firm, unyielding grip had new, strange sensations slowly trickling south, and you fought the instinct to clench your thighs as unwelcome heat pooled in your lower stomach. Mortified by your own, inappropriate and decidedly unprofessional reaction, you hoped to all the dead kings and Bast herself that the soldier didn’t notice. Disturbingly, there came no sound from the soldier, not even from his breathing. 

After a moment of nothing happening, the both of you just standing there, clasping hands, you dared a peek up at his face. He was watching you again, but instead of pale, dead eyes, the blue of his irises simmered with something…something hot and wicked and - 

You abruptly pulled your hand out of his grasp, and gave him a far too fake gleeful smile. “Good grip,” you jipped, voice coming out far too strained and shrill to be casual. Barnes looked at you with those captivating eyes for a moment longer before looking down at his vibranium hand, flexing the fingers a little. 

“It’s perfect,” he said. 

It took you a moment to register the words, and then elation swept through you. You smiled and clapped your hands together and spun to go note his comment down.  “How wonderful, I’m so glad,” you said, not able to keep the excitement out of your voice.  A happy subject meant you’d fulfilled your task! The project could move onto its final stages of rendering and documentation. Happy progress!  You scribbled down some fast notes on the screws and fastenings, how he’d tested grip by shaking your hands and his own feedback, putting his exact words down as a quote. 

“The team will be so happy to learn you’re satisfied, they talked so much about the latest updates on the interface between sensory input and mechanical automobility - they wouldn’t shut up about it for days, I swear to Bast,” you said, the words falling out of your mouth in your excitement, and then you turned back towards him and again fell silent. 

He was staring at you, and for the first time, you could actually detect emotions on his face. He looked…dumbfounded, or something akin to that, watching you with avid eyes, mouth slightly open and brows for once out of their trademark downturned frown. You were stunned yourself for a moment seeing him so out of character, and then you promptly lowered your gaze. 

Oh great, first you’re fumbling and awkward and then you start rambling like a lunatic. What is wrong with you?, you asked yourself silently.  You cleared your throat and motioned for him to sit back on the bench. He obliged, and you found yourself slightly disappointed to see him schooling away his emotion behind the stoic mask. 

“So, I’ll have to take the arm off so it can be finalized, and then you’ll just have to have it fastened a final time, and then you’ll have your arm, Mr. Barnes,” you said as you got to work unscrewing and removing the prosthetic limb. He nodded, eyes glued to you like before. He didn’t seem happy, or if he was, he didn’t show it. You hoped he’d feel elated like you did, but considered how the whole metal arm thing might still be a little complicated for him. You wondered if he was going to a therapist, or a support group or anything. You didn’t dare ask, though. “I imagine the finalizing process won’t take much more than two weeks. I’ll send you a suggestion for the next appointment once it’s clear, and you can confirm using your compad like before. Sound good?” you asked, thankful you could keep a clear head through this part at least. 

“Yes,” he said, still watching your eyes as you removed the arm and returned it to the table. You nodded to him, and managed to stay upright until the door hissed shut behind him as he left. Then you curled into a mortified little ball and hid your flaming face in your hands. 

§

Fucking. Great. 

Your heart had been hammering harder for every mile that passed as your cruiser made its way into the heart of the Wakandan landscape. The prosthetic arm had been finalized within a couple of days and your superiors thought the best course of action was sending you out to fasten it instead of demanding Barnes make his way into the capitol on such short notice. Which meant you were on your way to his home, to be completely alone with him…in his home.   

Part of you was insatiably curious to see how he lived, to peer into such a private, revealing place. Everyone knew seeing how a person lived was like seeing a reflection of their soul. Your apartment for instance, was a hot fucking mess, but one you could navigate perfectly. You hadn’t allowed yourself to picture Barnes’s home, though, or make any assumptions. How he lived was of no scientific interest, and therefore no interest to you! Or so you told yourself, at least…

It’s fine. Everything is fine, you chanted in your head as the cruiser arrived at its destination, the small hut Barnes had been gifted as his indefinite residence. It was a beautiful place to keep a residence, right by the river, the surrounding trees providing plenty of shade from the hot sun and a gorgeous view over the plains. It only made you more curious about Barnes, and subsequently, more furious with yourself. 

Everything is fine. 

As you shut the motor down and climbed out of the vehicle, his large, burly figure emerged from the hut, and a spike of energy went off inside you as you locked eyes with Barnes. He was as stoic as ever, but he walked up to meet you right away and surprised you when he reached to grab the case with the arm in it to carry it for you. 

“Hi,” you said, and quickly added, “um, thanks for being available at such a short notice.” 

You’d felt kinda foolish for giving such a roomy deadline prognosis at his last fitting only for it to take a few days, and were sweating with the hope it hadn’t inconvenienced him in any way. There was a whole delicate, psychological process involved in getting a new limb - a process one shouldn’t meddle too much in - especially when there was significant trauma involved in losing the original limb. Fuck, you were so nervous.

He looked a bit puzzled for a moment, brows drawn down in consideration. 

“No. Thank you for coming all this way,” he said a bit haltingly, and to your astonishment, he sounded almost as unsure of himself as you felt. Uncomfortable warmth spread in your chest. That must have been the longest sentence he’d ever spoken to you. His voice was low and gruff, a smooth rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground, across to you and straight into your chest. Fuuck, how were you supposed to survive that voice, and with him being uncharacteristically timid and polite?

Suddenly you felt like laughing. Here you were, both of you so awkward and unsure, and what for? This was a joyous occasion, for Bast's sake, and you were being silly! Forcing your nerves down, you leveled him with a smile. 

“Not at all. Let’s get that arm on, shall we?” you said, letting your actual excitement for the happening fill you instead. You were after all, genuinely excited to finally give Barnes his new prosthetic limb, and see him back to full mobility. 

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes fluttering around your face, and then abruptly stepped aside and gestured for you to proceed him into the hut. You obliged, holding your spirits high as you dared venture past the curtain and inside the hut. 

Barnes’s home was sparsely furnished but…surprisingly cozy. Brightly coloured pillows, blankets and tapestries lay everywhere, a window to the right letting in the bright, midday sun, casting a glowing light on everything. You recognised the patterns and color scheme from your own parents and grandparents houses, it was a traditional home in all senses of the words. You’d think Barnes would stick out like a sore thumb here, but really, he seemed to fit in well. There was a low table to the left with stacks of books and a mug on it, surrounded by more pillows and blankets. Your eyes caught on and swiftly ignored the cot at the back of the hut, made perfectly with a mountain of pillows. 

That’s where he sleeps. That’s where he rests. That’s where he’s most vulnerable. That’s where you would lay if he - NO!

Barnes squeezed around you where you stood just inside the entrance studying the space, and you quite viscerally realized how small the hut was for the two of you, how small it was for him alone really. This was gonna be way more tight and intimate than the lab, you thought with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Barnes put the case down by the low table and proceeded to start clearing the table of books and pens and the mug. He looked down into the mug and then over at you. 

“Coffee?” he asked, and taken aback by the unexpected question, you shook your head quickly before immediately regretting it. It would’ve been more polite to accept, and you did feel a bit strung out by your morning so far. 

Barnes nodded in response, and then seemed at a loss, turning the mug in his hand. Was he…fidgeting? 

“Where do you -?” he started, and you cut him off. 

“Right there is fine. We can sit on the floor, no problem,” you said reassuringly, giving him another smile, suddenly filled with sweetness for this big hulk of a man and his nervous fidgeting. He nodded and proceeded to plump down where you assumed he normally sat. You quelled a smile at how normalcy seemed to bleed through even this exceedingly awkward situation, and was kind of enamored by the way Barnes seemed to relax once he was seated in his usual spot. It gave you the impression that this space was a comfort to him, which you were glad to see. 

You neared and sat down on your knees at his side, opening the case and swiftly taking out everything you needed as he took off his shirt to reveal the same t-shirt he used to wear underneath, sleeveless on the left side. Without further ado, you started the process of permanently fastening the arm. You slipped into a calm concentration as you worked, the familiarity and comfort of your skills calming you, a comfortable silence descending upon you both, only interrupted by the sounds of your electric screwdriver. The whole thing took no longer than ten minutes, and then you sat back and looked upon Barnes in silence as he took in his new arm, knowing it was finally, and wholly, his. 

He stared down at it for a long while, and then the hut was filled with sounds of gentle, almost silent whirring as he started flexing mechanical muscles, then fingers, then the whole arm, lifting it to examine and compare to his other arm, running them both through his loose hair and picking up different items on his table and tossing them lightly from hand to hand. He seemed completely engrossed, and for long minutes it seemed almost like he’d forgotten you were even there as he explored his new arm. 

It was awe-inspiring to see, to be allowed to observe such a vulnerable moment, to witness him seemingly letting himself really connect to this new possibility of having two arms and two hands again, in a way he hadn’t even seemed to entertain while in the fittings. It touched something deep inside you, witnessing with honor what you hoped might be a moment of healing, and tears pricked the back of your eyes. It felt so incredibly moving to be part of a team that could give something like this to a person who’d been through so much hardship, and the feeling filled you, making you feel all warm. This was why you’d gotten into this field, this was why you wanted to be a scientist. To be able to help people recover precious things lost. 

Your heart swelled with emotion, and then Barnes looked at you, his own astonished joy blasted clear across his face, completely unencumbered, letting you see it without any pretense or facades. Your breath caught in your throat at the sheer volume of his joy, and how intimate him sharing it so openly with you was. You were stunned. 

And then you kissed him. 

One moment you were looking at his broad smile full of slightly crooked, white teeth, and then you’d leaned across your own knees and half across his and unceremoniously pressed your lips to his. It was closed-mouthed and a bit off-center, your bottom lip caught awkwardly on his top one. But sparks crackled through your body all the same as you felt how soft his lips were, how warm his skin was, the slightly surprised gust of warm, gentle air from his nostrils. 

And then your senses kicked in, mortification hot on their heels, and you broke the kiss abruptly, all but ready to flee the hut. You didn’t get the chance to move away though, before cool metal fingers slid up the sensitive skin of your throat and back to cup your neck, gently, but firmly pulling you right back into the kiss.

A fire caught in your loins, sizzling hot sparks shooting up your body and you drew in a shaky breath through your nose only for the air to be caught in your throat, making a small, needy, desperately embarrassing sound. The metal fingers on your neck tightened at the sound. 

You felt completely blown off your center. Nothing had felt this good before, nothing in your whole, perfect life full of joys and pleasures and fulfillment had felt so sensationally good as James Buchanan Barnes's lips on yours while his brand new prosthetic hand cradled your neck.

The surge of desire that welled from that feeling propelled you to buck forward and crawl into his laps, straddling him with even more clumsy frenzy as you kissed him again. He answered in kind, his flesh hand landing tentatively on your hip before moving up your back to pull you tighter against him once he seemingly caught on to the fact that you were there in his lap of your own fruition. 

You kissed again and again, hungry, exploring, closed-mouthed but growing more desperate, more daring. You opened your mouth to catch your breath and was met by the shy swipe of his tongue just inside your mouth, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation before you wrapped your arms around his neck and swiped your own tongue to meet his. 

A growl came out of nowhere and exploded in Barnes’s chest as you tongue-kissed him with everything you had, and then the world was spinning, and your back hit the brightly earth-coloured rug. Barnes followed you closely, and laid down on top of you, pinning you down with his huge, burly body, claiming your mouth in an honest-to-Bast breath-taking kiss. 

It was explosively good, this gorgeous, muscled beast of a man pinning you to the ground, broad shoulders shielding you from everything above, leaning on his elbows while his hands cradled your face, holding you perfectly still as his mouth descended upon yours again and again, growing hungrier with every kiss. Your mind whirled with images of his metal arm wrapping around your throat, pinning you down, tearing your clothes to shreds and holding you put exactly where he wanted while the soldier ravished you, and it became even harder to pull air into your flaming lungs. You heard yourself whimpering into the kisses, your own desperation growing like a galloping crescendo inside you. You were suddenly, unexpectedly, and totally irrationally ready for him to tear your clothes off and take you right there on the floor of his hut, heat flaming in your lower stomach, a molten ache starting to let itself be known between your legs, everything else in the world be damned and forgotten if you could just feel him ins - 

A small beeping sound cut through the fog of desire overtaking you, and it took you a moment for your melting brain to recognise it as your pager. You wrenched out of the kiss and put your hands on Barnes’s broad, warm chest, feeling his strong heartbeat jackhammer beneath the layers of clothes and flesh. His lips followed you for a split second, his eyes opening to slits in order to find you again. Then, as he realized you’d intentionally ended the kiss, he immediately let you push him half-way off you to fish the pager out of your pocket. It was your boss, they needed you back by lunch. 

Fuck

Fuck, what the fuck were you doing? It dawned on you the incredibly inappropriate situation you were in, had put yourself and Barnes in. This was reckless and rash and completely not who you were or had ever been. With anyone! No, no, no, this was bad, you were so fucking stupid. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes as you pushed him gently all the way off you to sit back on his haunches and swiftly extracted yourself from under him and got to your feet. 

You were mortified, absolutely mortified, shame and embarrassment and guilt washing over you in tidal waves, slamming into your chest. 

“I’m so sorry, that was so…um…I have to go, but er, enjoy your hand - ARM and hand,” you sputtered out as you began fleeing the hut all together. Then you remembered what you were supposed to say upon leaving, and turned while halfway out the door, “If you have any trouble or complications, don’t hesitate to contact the institute. On behalf of the technical institute and design group, we hope you will be pleased with the product. Um, bye!”

Barnes remained in the same seated position on the floor while you made your stumbling exit, and you missed the look of longing in his eyes as you left. 

§

A week passed while you marinated in your own embarrassment and guilt, trying and failing to get the whole incident in the hut out of your mind. Partly because it was the most unprofessional and out-of-control thing you’d ever done, and partly because you just couldn’t get the memory of Barnes’s lips out of your head. The warmth emanating from him like a furnace, the way his hands gripped you gently, but possessively, the thrill that had gone through you when he flipped you and pinned you to the floor like you were nothing more than a rag doll. Had he been as turned on as you? Had he enjoyed himself? Surely he’d enjoyed it a little bit with the way he’d reciprocated, but had he really wanted it?

You shook yourself out of your daydream for probably the dozenth time that day, not a single word written on the personal essay you were to turn in with your other documentation in a couple of days. Fuuuck, this was so bad, you had to be able to focus and put this from your mind! If you were lucky and if everything went as it should with the prosthetic, Barnes would have no reason to contact the institute and seek you out ever again, and you would never have to see him again after your blunder. 

The project would be over soon, you would move on to new ones and the one tether you had to Barnes would be severed. It was best for everyone if you just forgot the whole thing. 

Except, in your panicked flight from his home, you’d completely forgotten the case that had contained the prosthetic arm, along with some screws and your most beloved screwdriver. You hadn’t even noticed it was left behind until you were halfway back to the lab, and had been completely at a loss on what to do. You couldn’t go back after the way you’d left, but you couldn’t just leave it either. The equipment wasn’t of that much value and the lab had plenty more, so that wasn’t the greatest issue. But you loved that screwdriver, and felt it as an obligation to retrieve it. Plus, it wasn’t fair to just leave it there, in Barnes’s home, what use did he have of it? Still, you couldn’t bear the thought of going back after the way you’d left….

Your head thumped down onto the workbench at the back of your lab. You were spiraling down the rabbit hole of warring thoughts for the upteenth time that day and was about to hurl something at the wall when the clearing of a throat came out of nowhere. 

Whipping your head up, you practically leapt from your chair when you saw Barnes standing  in the middle of your lab, clad in light pants and a loose-fitting half-sleeved shirt, completely unexpected, looking exceedingly unsure of himself (...and obscenely gorgeous)

Your immediate thought went to his arm, but as far as you could see, it was still intact and working perfectly from the way he clenched and unclenched the vibranium hand at his side. Then your eyes slipped to his other hand, and saw the case he held in it. 

“I, um, hello, I thought you might like this back,” he said, looking down and holding out the hand with the case. You immediately walked up to him and took it. 

“Thank you! So much, you didn’t have to come all this way just for that,” you rushed to say, feeling sheepish and grateful at the same time. 

“Oh no, I, uh…I…I have some errands in the… uh, the city and whatnot,” he said, and you almost smiled a little at the way he suddenly fumbled for words. Was this even the same guy that had pinned you to the floor and ravished your mouth a week ago? The same guy that had walked into the lab that first day, all menacing silence and calculated movement.

“Oh, okay, well, this was really nice of you, thank you again. Um, what did you say to the guards to get in here?” you asked, suddenly remembering the levels of clearing he had to go through to get here. Did he tell the truth? Would your superiors know you forgot the case? That you’d made a fool of yourself and made the whole institute look chaotic and unprofessional?

“I told them I had some more questions about the arm, and that I wanted to speak with you since you’re so knowledgeable and good at your job,” Barnes said, waving his metal hand in the air a little as if to show you it was indeed made of vibranium. 

He’d protected you? Kept your secret? A warm sense of giddyness spread through you, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling to broadly. 

“God, you didn’t have to tell them all that,” you said, feeling warmth bloom on your cheeks from his compliments. 

“I meant it, though,” he said seriously, and then he took a step towards you, “And I wanted to, needed to apologize…for what happened at my house…last week.”

Your heart surged in your chest and you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Apologize? What could he have to apologize for? You were the one who’d acted out of line. Did he regret what’d happened? What if you’d overstepped his boundaries and added more to his trauma?

“No, no, please, I’m the one who should apologize here. It was completely unprofessional to do that when I was working on a project with you, and so inappropriate to force myself upon you like that, all in this emotional moment and without knowing if you’d enjoy it or -”

“I enjoyed it,” he interrupted, voice clear and strong.

You looked up to find him another step closer. So big, and strong, and handsome, your insatiable desire whispered to you as he gazed down into your eyes, only inches between you. You wanted to kiss him again suddenly, your lips tingled with it. 

“You did?” you asked, only half paying attention as you lost yourself in his heavenly baby blue eyes, framed by thick lashes paled by the sun. Your eyes flicked down to his full lips, and when they went back to his eyes, they glinted with a spark of that same ferociousness that’d awakened in him on that floor in his hut. A glint that had your lower stomach going all molten. 

He nodded, breathing a little laugh that surprised you. Your heart started soaring in your chest despite your best efforts to keep from getting ahead of yourself. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, swallowing and licking his lips, “a lot. I, uh, I was really sorry to see you leave so abruptly too  - before I could speak with you,” he said. 

Arousal welled up in your body, and you felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. He’d enjoyed it…

“Me too,” you whispered, not trusting your voice not to crack. 

He took a final, tiny step closer, too close for any kind of professionalism or even decency, really, so close you could almost sense the atoms sparking to life in the tiny space between your bodies. Just like that, you were back in his hut, the moment swelling to level with the heavy, sizzling churn of when he'd flipped you to the carpet and caged you in underneath him. He had such a presence, his body thrumming with life and power and fuck, you wanted it on top of you. Again. 

“I’m relieved to hear that. And,” he said, slowly reaching his flesh hand to tentatively cup your neck, hot and possessive in one, tender gesture, his calloused thumb coming up to stroke over your jaw, the intimate touch sending fireworks through your nervous system, ”though I don’t want to disrespect your work ethic, I’d like to point out that we’re not working on the same project anymore, so if you’d like to -”

The case hit the floor with a loud bang the moment you wrapped your arms around Barnes’s neck and threw yourself into his arms, your lips meeting in a sizzling kiss. Barnes caught you around the waist and hauled you up into his arms, your feet dangling off the ground as he crushed you to his chest, returning the kiss tenfold. 

His tongue was immediately in your mouth this time, licking hot and wet and dominatingly over your own, and you whimpered at the sheer intensity, the way it blazed to a fire in your loins.

You clung to him like your life depended on it, and moaned into his mouth as you felt him turn and lower you to the bench in the lab, not letting much space get in between you before he draped himself over you and continued putting his mouth to yours. Your hands found their agency and started moving, mapping out his shoulders, feeling the muscle ripple under your fingertips as you caressed down his chest and around his sides to stroke his long, chiseled back.

His loose cotton shirt rode up as he moved to step further in between your opening legs, pressing himself closer, and your hands were unable to resist the pull as your fingers met the hot flesh of his lower back, stroking over silky smooth skin up again under his shirt. 

His whole body shuddered against you, a small gasp emanating from him as he broke the kiss, and your excitement went through the roof. You opened your eyes and stared at his expression going lax, eyes closing and mouth hanging slightly open as you continued your caress up his back. You hooked your hands over his shoulder and pulled him down to you again, nibbling on his lip before kissing his open mouth, your fingertips dancing in swirling patterns down his back. 

His body shuddered again. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered a little breathlessly against your mouth, mostly to himself it seemed, and your discovery made you almost feverish with desire. 

He was sensitive, and probably more than a little touch-starved. 

You brought your hands forward and found the top button on his shirt, staring to undo it as you breathed into each other's mouths. You’d gotten to the third one when Barnes gave a (admittedly adorable) little huff of impatience and pulled free to wrench his shirt over his head, revealing a sculpted torso right out of your wettest dream. You had to take a moment just to stare at him, hard abs, flat stomach, pecs that stretched into rounded, muscled, obscenely broad shoulders. Tight, sculpted muscles that shone in the dimmed, bluish fluorescents of the ceiling lights, one muscled arm with prominent veins running down to a calloused hand, one arm reflecting the lights in shiny, sculpted, black vibranium.

His chest rose and fell with his labored breath, his abs flexing, the muscles of his torso and arms tensing and shifting as he stood before you and it was just so different from the statuesque, almost frugal way he’d moved before, when he only exerted energy at the utmost importance. This man was alive in a completely different way. And he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you. 

You’d barely raked your eyes up to his and caught the feral glint in his eyes before he was on you again, ripping your lab coat open and sliding his hands up and down your sides. His touch sent shivers of warmth through you and you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. That only seemed to spur him on. When his hands slid under the cotton sweater you wore, exploring the folds and dips of your abdomen, you shuddered. He was touching you like he hadn’t touched anyone before, all curious and explorative with just the hint of inexperienced clumsiness, fingers curious for such a mundane thing as the fold of skin over your ribcage as you lay there crouched beneath him. 

Bast, you needed more, his touch sending you into a frenzy. You wanted him, all of him. 

You started awkwardly extracting your arms from your lab coat, and when Barnes caught on, he was more than willing to help you shed it before his fingers went to the hem of your sweater. He paused then, and looked into your eyes for permission. You nodded, a bit eagerly perhaps, but whatever. 

He slowly slid the fabric of your sweater up your torso, and in a move more gentle than you’d anticipated from the way he removed his own clothes, he bent down and tentatively kissed your stomach - right on your tummy, soft kisses following the fabric up. It stole your breath away as you watched the movement avidly. 

He pushed the fabric all the way up over your bra, and reached with a curious hand to tug the cup down, revealing a hardened nipple. You were nearly shaking with want at this point, and shuddered embarrassingly hard when he took the nipple in his mouth and swiped his hot, wet tongue on it, nibbling gently and curiously with his teeth until you shuddered again.

You let your hands wander and found his hair, finally, finally getting to feel the soft, straight locks of hair sift through them, basking in the opportunity after having snuck peaks at it for months. It was even silkier than you’d imagined, despite its shaggy appearance. You combed your hands through his hair as he moved to suck on your other nipple, pulling the cup of your bra down to free your breast to the open air of the room. 

Scraping your nails over his scalp, you felt the way his form trembled atop you, and he almost purred, a deep, rumbling groan vibrating through you and into the very bench beneath you. You scraped over his scalp again and bit your lip as it elicited another rumble.

He let your nipple go, puffy and a shade darker than usual from his bullying, and you watched the string of saliva connect it to his lips with a blush burgeoning on your face. Oh, this might get filthy, you thought to yourself, almost embarrassed by how much you liked it when he closed the distance between you and licked into your mouth again, seemingly not caring about his spit getting everywhere, the kiss messy and wet. 

There was a tell-tale hard bulge pressing against the heated spot between your legs, and you rolled your hips down on it. Barnes gasped out of the kiss, looking almost shocked as he quickly looked down between your bodies to where he was pressed against you, and you wondered if he might’ve forgotten where all of these horny urges came from. You rolled your hips into him again, experimentally, and watched as realization hit him, as his eyelids drooped and a tiny groan escaped him. Then he rolled his hips to meet yours and it was your time to groan. 

“Just like that,” you whispered encouragingly, and met his gaze as he returned his eyes to yours, watching you intently as he rolled his hips again and again, grinding himself between your legs. 

He felt…big, to say the least, and he was grinding against your clothed clit in a way that you knew had you gushing into your panties. You could already feel the fabric getting soggy, sliding along your flesh as Barnes widened his step and grinded against you with more grounded precision. 

Fuck, it felt so good it was getting hard to think, and when his - oh god - vibranium hand slid down your side to grab your hip, effortlessly pinning you down into the bench so he could grind even harder against your core, the breath in your lungs fucking punched out of you. You knew just how much strength was packed into that metal arm. Knew there was a fine line between using too much strength and keeping you pinned firmly enough so you couldn’t move your hips an inch. Barnes traversed that line perfectly. 

Your pussy was on fire, the grinds of Bucky’s big, hard bulge against your clit too much while - simultaneously - the layers of clothes between you made it somehow not enough. It had been so long since you’d just frotted, clothed, like this, and you now wondered how you could’ve forgotten how fucking good it felt - or if it’d ever felt this good at all before. You seriously doubted it, for you couldn’t really believe it, but the rhythm and weight of Bucky's hips while his mouth lowered to mouth at your neck was somehow actually propelling you towards the edge. 

You tried to move your hips to grind back, to make him go faster, harder, but found yourself utterly - and deliciously - fully at his mercy as he nuzzled the crook of your neck and laved his tongue on your skin, tasting it in that fascinating curiosity of his. 

Fuck, it was right there, you could feel it, he was gonna make you come, you just needed a little more. 

Through the haze of your impending, building release, you could hear yourself start to whimper. Needy and a little embarrassing, the sounds escaping you despite you biting your lip and clutching at Barnes’s shoulders, barely holding on as he hurled you towards that precipice.

His face suddenly appeared from the crook of your neck, and it took you a second to realize he had a look of confused concern on his face as he looked down on you. 

To your utter distress, his hips slowed their steady, hard thrust against yours, and he gave you a once over you had a hard time understanding. Then it hit you that he must be concerned he’d done something wrong; that he’d mistaken your sounds of need for ones of pain or that you didn’t want it or something utterly ridiculous like that. Sweet, respectful, slightly confused and apparently wildly inexperienced man, you thought with an almost woeful endearment. You could feel yourself slipping further under the power of his spell as his eyes returned to your face, flitting about to try and decipher your expression.

That elusive orgasm you were dancing up to started to slip away as his hips grinded to a halt, and you reached out to cradle his face in near panic. 

“No, please, please, please don’t stop. It’s so good, please,” you practically whined, trying to move your own hips to get more of that sweet, intoxicating friction. You barely managed a little squiggle under the pinning strength of his hand on your hip and his body on top of yours.

A great gust of breath whooshed out of him, and he started up his rhythm again almost immediately, meeting your tiny writhing with thrusts of his own like he just couldn’t help it, and you threw your head back, biting your lip and nodding frantically as the pleasure built inside you again, picking up just behind where you’d left off. 

His hand, the one of flesh, slid up your torso to caress the exposed column of your neck, almost curiously, exploring, holding it in an almost tender grip as you moaned in delirium. His thrust grew harder, your moans louder and his hand gripped harder like he enjoyed the feeling of your moans being forced from you by his moving hips. 

You could tell the moment he started climbing his own precipice, how his movement grew more focused, more intent, leaving all exploration behind to chase a goal with an almost singular, feral possession. His breaths turned to gasps, which turned to grunts and then low growls. His movement turned frantic, almost feral in their one mindedness. He was losing himself to the pleasure and you whined, mind turning to slush under the onslaught of his ferocity. You were going dumb on his cock and he hadn’t even taken it out of his pants. Didn’t matter, you were done for. 

The wild, animalistic abandon with which he chased his own high was so blastingly hot it sent you tumbling over the edge almost entirely on its own. You gasped, your body tensing and then exploding under his as his grinding thrusts sent wave upon wave of searing, orgasmic bliss crashing into you, riding you so hard you nearly passed out. 

Your sight went blurry, blood roaring in your ears, but you heard the moment his breath caught in his throat, such a vulnerable sound, and then the bulge pressed to the sticky, clothed cunt between your legs started throbbing in an uneven, staccato rhythm, which you could feel against you even through the layers of clothing separating you. His grip turned to bruising steel and you gasped anew as the intensity of the pain mixed with your abating orgasm, making a shocking, intoxicating cocktail of sensation blast through you. 

He threw his head back, the thick column of his neck stretching taut, and growled like he was in pain, and it sent vibration straight through you down to the table beneath you. Fuck, he was like nothing you’d ever experienced - pure, raw power, lust, shocking honesty and a sense of almost ardent fascination - mixed together in this anomaly and mystery of a man.

It felt like several minutes passed as you tried to catch your breath and gather your mind from where it’d melted out of your ears to puddle on the bench around you. Bucky’s face had made its way into the crook of your neck, where he seemed just as slow and sluggish to come back down to earth. He was like a furnace on top of you, even hotter from his exertion, forehead damp and hot where it pressed to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

His weight on you was a comforting one though, making you feel safe and protected, covered and nestled into a cocoon of muscles and warmth and soft, puffing breaths. Taking a cheeky chance, you carded a hand through his hair, the brown strands soft, glinting in the fluorescents above as they shifted through your fingers. Bucky’s whole form shivered as you raked your fingernails along his scalp, and the bulge nestled tight between your thighs and his body throbbed once as he grunted softly, neck twisting to push his head into your hand, almost like a cat rubbing against your palm to get more scritches. 

A chuckle left your mouth as you kept carding your hand through Bucky’s hair. He looked up at you then, and the moment caught up with you. A blush had the audacity of spreading on your cheeks even after everything you’d just done. He looked into your eyes, silent but for your deep, still slightly labored breaths. You couldn’t help smiling. 

He looked a little dazzled for a moment, then a slow, beautiful smile spread on his own lips to answer yours.

"Um, it's been a long time, and I d-don't remember much, but I'm pretty sure this is not how you court a lady properly," he said a bit self-deprecatingly. You chuckled again, and he joined, his form vibrating with myrth. He made no move to get off you though. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I don't know, this doesn't feel too bad," you said, and you could practically feel the relief in Bucky as he let you keep him laying draped across you.

"Still. I'd like to take you out sometime. It was the real reason I came here, after all," he said.

You felt your smile turn wry.

"I thought you said you had errands...and whatnots," you said.

His gaze wavered for only a moment as he realized he'd revealed his own bluff. Then his smile grew sheepish, and so warm it sizzled.

[batchilla]

Fata Morgana Chapter one: A Favor Given.

Content warning for some … outdated views on women. Don’t worry, you can fix him.

The tournament of Fata Morgana brought with it all the excitement of a tournament, but given it fell so close to the annual Festival of Cupid, it held more still. For as well as the honour of victory, a gold purse and acclaim, the winner was given a crown of roses, to give to any maiden he saw fit to choose, and to open the Ball of Cupid by sharing a dance with said maiden. Captain Jason Todd, the knight of Arkham, had won the past three years, and each year, the same maiden had been given the crown.

You.

You, the princess, and only daughter of the king of a small yet ambitious nation. You, who while understanding that your affection for the hero of the battle of Arkham, the captain of your personal guard, could never be fully realised or acted upon. You, who had the last three years watched him compete with baited breath hoping to dance with him once more. You, who after he had first presented you the crown three years hence, had given him a favour the next two years. You, who on the eve of his fourth tournament, are sneaking down to where the competitors have pitched their tents around the competition field, to do so once more.

The air is warm, crickets and the nickering of horses punctuated by the occasional voice. They are stoic, not rowdy or drunken, that will come tomorrow when the contest is over. Tonight, the sense of anticipation and solemn preparation lingers over the field. You find his tent with relative ease, it’s blood red fabric near black in the darkness, but his steed is tied outside and pays you little mind as you hesitate outside the tent flap. There had been no hesitation when you slipped past your guards. No hesitation in deciding to come here. Still, you hesitate now, when the only thing separating you from him is canvas, struck with nerves over what exactly you would say to him.

Your stalling is ended by the tent's flap opening to reveal the Knight of Arkham standing there, staring you down looking less than impressed. Your mouth goes dry as the desert.

He stands there in loose pants, and a white shirt with the top eyelets undone to just above the lowest point of his pectoral muscles. His hair is mused and out of order. You feel your breath catch, and it is only your lifelong etiquette lessons that prevent you from doing something completely humiliating and degenerate like bite your lip. Granted you saw him nearly every day, but there was something about seeing him out of plate, seeming so much himself rather than maintaining stoic professionalism.

“Your royal highness, you ought not be here so late - and where is your guard? God preserve me…” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

You try not to stare at the way the action causes his arms to move and flex, or how soft his hair seems. Instead, you force yourself to look him in the eyes, and reply.

“All is well, surely. These tents are filled with knights. Men of honour. I am perfectly safe.” You speak softly, so as not to draw attention to your presence, despite what you verbally claim, you know full well that being undiscovered will better serve you.

Captain Todd-Wayne opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Sighs. You suppress an urge to smile, practically able to see his mind working on how to respond to that without offending your feminine sensibilities.

“Your Highness while your father’s knights - myself included - would of course never consider harming you, the matter persists you are without escort.”

You bat your eyes, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “You are the captain of my guard, and have acted as my escort a great many times.”

His jaw clenches, and he makes no attempt to rebut the statement. “Who was meant to be guarding your door this evening?” He asks tiredly.

“Sir West.” You supply.

“Well. Rest assured that by sundown tomorrow he shall be thoroughly reprimanded for allowing this to happen.” He says, anger brewing under his carefully stoic features.

You sigh, but do not argue. You came for a reason, and you will not be distracted by his ire in your goals accomplishment.

You reach into your pocket, and produce a thick, blood red ribbon of finest velvet.

You hold it out, and he takes it, carefully not touching your hand, but where the ribbon hangs from your fingers.

“Best of luck in the morrow.” You say softly. You hope he understands what you really mean. What you cannot say.

You hope he knows you love him.

You turn back into the night before he can respond, the soft look of awe on his face, though the same each year, too great a source of pain and longing for you to take.

___________________________________________

Later that night, Jason lays on the temporary bed in his tent, staring at the ceiling as he idly runs the ribbon through each digit, feeling its weight, its softness. He slides it through his fingers, pulling it through and winding between each with his opposite hand. He closes his eyes and his breath shakes as he recalls its owner. Imagines it in her hair, tying it up, exposing her neck and …No. No. No.

He clenches his hand into a fist, his eyes snapping open. He was a knight. Her Knight, Her protector.

He would not dishonour her with his perverse thoughts.

He refused to.

She had done him a great kindness, in extending her favour. Clearly she knew of his affections, given his actions at the three Tournaments of Fata Morgana past even a woman could deduce the truth of his pathetic circumstance.

It was a great kindness indeed that she allowed him to indulge, one night a year in an unreciprocated fantasy, even feeding into it with this, the most generous of gifts.

Fata Morgana. An illusion. How terribly fitting, his lone solace, the one mercy he allowed his starved soul. To dance with her, once a year. To lay the wreath of roses in her hair, and pretend he was more. That he was worthy.

That he was not the second, adopted, common son of his father. That he hadn’t been sent off to be a squire so young that the Wayne estate no longer felt like home. That he had risen to his honoured rank of his position because he deserved it.

They’d said he was. The king had called him a hero. The people called him a legend. It would not surprise anyone if his story outlived him three generations. Jason Todd, the hero of the battle of Arkham. He had rallied his men, and turned what should have been a massacre into an unparalleled victory, but when the screams fell silent and the dust settled, he had disappeared. He had been declared dead. Turned into a martyr. A fallen hero.

Until he had been found in the woods of the Al Ghul estate, with no memory of who he was or how he came to be there, six months later.

The greatest of healers had helped his mind return - but what happened to him in the lost six months escaped him still.

His Father had asked him to recover at the Wayne estate. He had refused. He said it was duty. It was. But not to his king. It was duty to her, and to his heart. He had not spoken to his father since.

He knew she surely saw only a knight. How could she see more, given how little he was? A knight pinning after her to be sure, but not one she would seriously consider as a marriage prospect. He was not heir, afterall. He was not respected, he was a novelty. A fearsome novelty.

Sleep finds him eventually, a merciful reprieve from his spiralling consciousness. Only to take him away to the same nightmare he has had each night since his return.

That flash of sky, of rocks ascending skyward, the smell of salt and of decay. Pain. Nothing.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

$100 billion later, autonomous vehicles are still a car-wreck

Autonomous vehicles were always a shell-game. The last time I wrote about them was a year ago, when Uber declared massive losses. Uber’s profitability story was always, “Sure, we’re losing money now, but once we create self-driving cars, we can fire our drivers and make a bundle.”

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/30/death-to-all-monopoly/#pogo-stick-problem

But Uber never came close to building an AV. After blowing $2.5b, the company invented a car whose mean-distance-to-fatal-crash was half a mile. Uber had to pay another company — $400 million! — to take the self-driving unit off its hands.

It’s tempting to say that Uber just deluded itself into thinking that AVs were a viable, near-term technology. But $2.5b was a bargain, because it allowed the company’s original investors (notably the Saudi royals) to offload their Uber shares on credulous suckers when the company IPOed.

Likewise Tesla, a company that has promised fully self-driving autonomous vehicles “within two years” for more than a decade. The story that Teslas will someday drive themselves is key to attracting retail investors to the company.

Tesla’s overvaluation isn’t solely a product of the cult of personality around Musk, nor is it just that its investors can’t read a balance-sheet and so miss the fact that the company is reliant upon selling the carbon-credits that allow gas-guzzling SUVs to fill America’s streets.

Key to Tesla’s claims to eventual profitability was that AVs would overcome geometry itself, and end the Red Queen’s Race whereby adding more cars to the road means you need more roads, which means everything gets farther apart, which means you need more cars — lather, rinse, repeat.

Geometry hates cars, but Elon Musk hates public transit (he says you might end up seated next to “a serial killer”). So Musk spun this story where tightly orchestrated AVs would best geometry and create big cities served speedy, individualized private vehicles. You could even make passive income from your Tesla, turning it over to drive strangers (including, presumably, serial killers?) around as a taxicab.

But Teslas are no closer to full self-driving than Ubers. In fact, no one has come close to making an AV. In a characteristically brilliant and scorching article for Bloomberg, Max Chafkin takes stock of the failed AV project:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/features/2022-10-06/even-after-100-billion-self-driving-cars-are-going-nowhere

Chafkin calculates that the global R&D budget for AVs has now exceeded $100 billion, and demonstrates that we have next to nothing to show for it, and that whatever you think you know about AV success is just spin, hype and bullshit.

Take the much-vaunted terribleness of human drivers, which the AV industry likes to tout. It’s true that the other dumdums on the road cutting you off and changing lanes without their turn-signals are pretty bad drivers, but actual, professional drivers are amazing. The average school-bus driver clocks up 500 million miles without a fatal crash (but of course, bus drivers are part of the public transit system).

Even dopes like you and me are better than you may think — while cars do kill the shit out of Americans, it’s because Americans drive so goddamned much. US traffic deaths are a mere one per 100 million miles driven, and most of those deaths are due to recklessness, not inability. Drunks, speeders, texters and sleepy drivers cause traffic fatalities — they may be skilled drivers, but they are also reckless.

But even the most reckless driver is safer than a driverless car, which “lasts a few seconds before crapping out.” The best robot drivers are Waymos, which mostly operate in the sunbelt, “because they still can’t handle weather patterns trickier than Partly Cloudy.”

Waymo claims to have driven 20m miles — that is, 4% of the distance we’d expect a human school-bus driver to go before having a fatal wreck. Tesla, meanwhile, has stopped even reporting how many miles its autopilot has mananged on public roads. The last time it disclosed, in 2019, the total was zero.

Using “deep learning” to solve the problems of self-driving cars is a dead-end. As NYU psych prof Gary Marcus told Chafkin, “deep learning is something similar to memorization…It only works if the situations are sufficiently akin.”

Which is why self-driving cars are so useless when they come up against something unexpected — human drivers weaving through traffic, cyclists, an eagle, a drone, a low-flying plane, a deer, even some pigeons on the road.

Self-driving car huxters call this “the pogo-stick problem” — as in “you never can tell when someone will try to cross the road on a pogo-stick.” They propose coming up with strict rules for humans to make life easier for robots.

https://www.theverge.com/2018/7/3/17530232/self-driving-ai-winter-full-autonomy-waymo-tesla-uber

But as stupid as this is, it’s even stupider than it appears at first blush. It’s not that AVs are confused by pogo sticks — they’re confused by shadowsand clouds and squirrels. They’re confused by left turns that are a little different than the last left turn they tried.

If you’ve been thinking that AVs were right around the corner, don’t feel too foolish. The AV companies have certainly acted like they believed their own bullshit. Chafkin reminds us of the high-stakes litigation when AV engineer Anthony Levandowski left Google for Uber and was sued for stealing trade secrets.

The result was millions in fines (Levandowski declared bankruptcy) and even a prison sentence for Levandowski (Trump pardoned him, seemingly at the behest of Peter Thiel and other Trumpist tech cronies). Why would companies go to all that trouble if they weren’t serious about their own claims?

It’s possible that they are, but that doesn’t mean we have to take those claims at face-value ourselves. Companies often get high on their own supplies. The litigation over Levandowski can be thought of as a species of criti-hype, Lee Vinsel’s extraordinarily useful term for criticism that serves to bolster the claims of its target:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/02/euthanize-rentiers/#dont-believe-the-hype

Another example of criti-hype: the claims about the risks of ubiquitous drone delivery — which, like AVs, is half-bullshit, half self-delusion:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/05/comprehensive-sex-ed/#droned

Today, Levandowski has scaled back his plans to build autonomous vehicles. Instead, he’s built autonomous dump-trucks that never leave a literal sandbox, and trundle back and forth on the same road all day, moving rocks from a pit to a crusher.

$100 billion later, that’s what the AV market has produced.

Image:

Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Gartner (modified): https://www.gartner.com/en/research/methodologies/gartner-hype-cycle

[Image ID: A chart illustrating the Gartner hype-cycle; racing down the slope from the 'peak of inflated expectations' to the 'trough of disillusionment' is the staring eye of HAL 9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey, chased by speed-lines.]

[aimeedaisies]

On the road with the inexhaustible Princess Anne

8am 800 miles travelled, 12pm 650 hands shaken, 9pm 0 cups of tea drunk

By Hannah Furness, 9 May 2024

The Princess Royal is standing up a 42ft tower, looking out to sea in a north-westerly force six wind. Her hair, that neat up-do that has barely changed in 40 years, does not move, even as a sudden gust blows a seagull past her eyeline.

‘It’s quite exposed,’ she says, with understatement, then gets on with peppering her hosts with questions about tides, volunteer timetables and what precisely the diggers on the beach below are doing.

Outside the watchtower, her arrival in the Lancashire seaside town of Fleetwood has caused the smallest of stirs. A handful of curious dog-walkers gaze at her, camera-phones aloft, and she offers them a brief wave.

Inside, the volunteers of the National Coastwatch Institution (NCI) could not be more excited for a visit from their royal patron. The chairman, Stephen Hand, launches into a stream of compliments about the Princess’s work. ‘If I haven’t made the point clearly enough,’ he finishes, ‘we love her.’

This is her first engagement in a day that will see her travel 421 miles from Gloucestershire to Lancashire, then Merseyside, and back again via helicopter and Range Rover. It is one of 10 engagements in this typical week; she will complete about 450 this year.

‘She’s a dynamo,’ says the CEO of The Pony Club. ‘The best president imaginable,’ agrees the chairman of Carers Trust. ‘She should be queen,’ offers a member of the public. This is said at least once a day.

Not for nothing does she have the reputation as Britain’s hardest-working royal. In numbers of engagements, she and the King vie for the top spot each year. While he and the Princess of Wales have taken time off from public engagements to undergo cancer treatment, the 73-year-old Princess Royal has ploughed on with her head down, her work the definition of ‘unsung’.

Most of the time, that is how she likes it. She has eschewed the ‘rota’ system of journalists, photographers and broadcasters who cover her family’s outings. ‘I don’t go for their benefit,’ she once said of the press. ‘I go for the people who ask me.’

This week, in the middle of April, she has made an exception to grant vanishingly rare permission for The Telegraph to follow her on the road, for a snapshot of her work.

At no small effort from her close-knit team, which has accommodated me in its nomadic office, I have been allowed to document her encounters with the approximately 650 people she has met, the many charities and organisations she has put in the spotlight – and report from inside a Windsor Castle investiture for the first time.

I’ve spent seven years writing about the Royal family, travelling across the UK and the world to watch them at work, but Princess Anne’s no-fuss, no-frills team is unlike anything I’ve seen up close before. Professional and precise, she barely stops – every hand is shaken and every minute counts.

The Plan

The Princess’s diary is set months in advance. Twice a year, her office sends an invitation to 300-plus organisations she is affiliated with, asking for their requests for her time. Typically she’ll receive 1,000 to 1,200 requests a year – some suggest a visit, others ask her to write forewords to books, or ask for meetings. All are compiled into a database, arranged by date and region, and printed neatly in a book for the Princess to study. ‘[She] goes through everything required and decides what she’s going to do and when,’ says a member of the team. A planning meetings follows – and ‘once [the programme is] set, she sticks to it’.

Across the year, the Princess Royal travels the width and breadth of the United Kingdom

Her staff then go through it again to add last-minute audiences into the gaps. ‘The week is there to be filled,’ one long-serving team member tells me. ‘If she’s got a free hour and a half in London, we’ll look again to see what else to add.’

The Princess’s team is small but mighty. There’s her private secretary, Colonel John Boyd, who is fresh from 32 years in the British Army; her deputy private secretary, Commander Anne Sullivan (the double Annes occasionally cause confusion for outsiders); as well as five programme managers tasked with ironing out the exact schedule, right down to how long the Princess can spend talking to each person.

They are aided by 13 ladies-in-waiting, spread geographically, who accompany her out and about. Some of her first, who began working with her in the early 1970s, have only just retired.

‘You never quite know what she’s going to say yes to, but it’s never an outright no,’ says the long-serving team member of her schedule. ‘She’s probably been to more industrial estates than any other royal.

Monday - Estimated miles travelled - 0 (worked from home)

Hands shaken - 8

‘It’s a balance of what do the organisations want, what could she hear or learn or teach here? Every day is a school day where the Princess is concerned.’

At Gatcombe Park, her Gloucestershire home, the Princess’s assistant, Donna, welcomes a small group of eight smartly dressed representatives from the Royal Dairy Innovation Award with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

The Princess joins them once they are settled, in a homely barn conversion with framed seascapes on the walls. She reassures them that it’s ‘not going to be one of those formal events’, then starts grilling them about the Nova Scotian dairy industry and on-shore salmon farming.

Ash Amirahmadi OBE, winner of the prestigious Princess Royal Award, is there to officially collect the certificate honouring his leadership in the dairy industry. Afterwards, when the private engagement has sunk in, he tells me: ‘We had practised our formalities but she immediately put us at ease.

‘I was thinking, “How does she know this stuff, and how does she remember?” I come across eminent scientists and business leaders and not many have a better understanding of the food system than the Princess Royal.’

Ash Amirahmadi, the winner of this year’s Princess Royal Award, pictured with the Princess Royal

Before he leaves, the Princess tells him that she’ll be in touch to sign him up to deliver a speech at a conference next year.

She fits in a horse ride, dodging the worst of the day’s rain and hail she feared could be ‘painful’.

‘There’s no such thing as bad weather,’ she says later, with satisfaction. ‘Only inappropriate clothing.’

Tuesday - Estimated miles travelled - 421

Hands shaken - 200+

In Fleetwood, the wind whips across the sandy beach and the Princess Royal doesn’t flinch. She is there with a handful of volunteers from the NCI, celebrating its 30th anniversary. With an average age of 69, these are the local ‘eyes and ears’ that saved 22 people from trouble in the water last year by raising the alarm.

After a turn with the telescope, the Princess – wearing a navy-blue coat, colourful silk scarf and (the now famous) wraparound sunglasses – reaches the top of the Rossall Point Observation Tower, which looks out over Morecambe Bay, where conditions can be treacherous.

The Princess Royal inspects the Rossall Point Observation Tower

‘It really is extraordinary,’ she says. ‘Classically people say the sea is never the same, but in a place like this it really never is the same. The seasons, the bird life, the activity…’ Everyone nods.

This visit, it emerges, has little in common with most royal engagements, where guests of honour hear how things work. This has more of an air of a diligent business manager checking in on a regional branch. Nothing needs explaining to the Princess, a keen sailor and lighthouse aficionado, and she wins the approval of what could be a tough crowd with on-the-money observations about tide timings.

She speaks sparingly. Questions and remarks are formed from one or two words: ‘Since?’ ‘Previous experience?’ ‘Quite handy.’ She has a reply to everything, having travelled every inch of Britain in the line of duty.

John Bradford, who at 77 is the longest-serving volunteer, waits on the tower to shake her hand, but he is accidentally missed. The Princess is swept on to the next part of the engagement, presenting long-service awards and meeting 25 more volunteers in the nearby Marine Hall, accompanied by her new lady-in-waiting Dolly Maude, a midwife and friend of Zara Tindall who wastes no time in charming the room.

When her team discover someone has been missed out, they tell the Princess directly and Mr Bradford is whisked into the very last line-up.

‘I’m very glad you made it in,’ the Princess tells him, spending an extra few moments in conversation.

Then, plaque and certificate duties completed, she disappears to a back room where sandwiches are on offer. Ten minutes later, she’s back on the road.

It is a cliché that the Royal family thinks the world smells of fresh paint. The ground floor of the watchtower was drained of flood water shortly before the Princess’s arrival and the corridors at her next engagement in Merseyside have the distinct smell of bleach – but at the Wrea Green Equitation Centre in Preston, it is quite the opposite: a muck heap has been left intact. The hosts deem futile any attempts to fool the Princess into thinking it didn’t exist. She is, after all, a life-long equestrian.

She arrives on time; I do not. Without a helicopter, it’s impossible to keep up with her formidable itinerary.

Skipping the champagne reception and tea party, put on to celebrate 25 years of the Pony Club Centre Membership Scheme, the Princess instead strides around the yard watching the young riders and their parade of ponies.

She tours the stables and classrooms, chatting to children about horse massage and how side-saddle is still relevant for people with prosthetic legs, then she holds a presentation of commemorative plaques to 20 proprietors, each of whom has a different chat with her.

When a ‘naughty pony’ in a stable behind her unties itself to join the royal party, she is entirely unfazed.

‘She didn’t mind a bit,’ says Marcus Capel, CEO of The Pony Club – she simply carries on talking while stroking the pony’s ears.

The third engagement of the day: Sefton Carers Centre at Waterloo in Merseyside, which supports unpaid carers. Some of those assembled remember the Princess from 30 years ago, when she opened the centre. She is back to celebrate the anniversary.

Wearing a red jacket that looks strikingly similar to the one she was wearing back then (only the length and buttons are different), she hails a stream of people with a cheerful, ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ and, ‘This has changed a bit.’

The Princess Royal visits the Sefton Carers Centre to celebrate its 30th anniversary

Everyone is assembled in horseshoe shapes – her preferred arrangement for talking – and she ploughs on with gloved handshakes, getting through five large rooms of people. Among them are two men in their 90s who care for their wives with dementia, an eight-year-old girl in a wheelchair dressed as a princess, and teenagers who look after siblings and parents before and after school.

Some are nervous; a few curtseys are a little shaky. The Princess has a neat trick: her questions get more specific – no opinions are required, just short, easy-to-recall facts, to help ease them in. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘How long have you been coming here?’

Her own opinions are brief, delivered as common sense. On hearing that GPs don’t see the same families from cradle to grave any more, so find it difficult to support carers, the Princess says: ‘That’s part of the way people live their lives.’

She spends a few extra moments talking to the building’s cleaner, loudly declaring her ‘very important’. When one woman jokes about her long service, adding, ‘I think my face shows it,’ the Princess does an exaggerated double-take and says, ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

She has another habit, shared with King Charles, of ending engagements by turning back for one last comment, leaving the impression she wishes she could stay.

The Princess Royal cuts the cake, on the promise it will be eaten

Downstairs, she unveils her third plaque of the day. There is a celebratory cake on the table in front of her and an expectant crowd waiting. She takes control of the moment. ‘You want the cake cut? On the basis that you’re going to eat it? Otherwise it’s just vandalism.’

Before she leaves, she is presented with a large rose planter. ‘Oh my word, a monster!’ she marvels. ‘What a lovely thing… I hope the helicopter can cope.’

By the end of the day, in small heels and with the briefest of breaks, she has spoken to at least 250 people. If she’s flagging, it doesn’t show.

Wednesday - Minutes of continuous conversation - 180

Hands shaken - 140

At 11 o’clock in Windsor Castle, Yeomen of the Guard stand on duty in the Grand Reception Room, as the Countess of Wessex’s String Orchestra plays quietly. The Princess Royal moves into position, wearing naval uniform, and the orchestra strikes up with God Save the King. Standing on a dais, a red velvet stool placed in front of her, she is ready for a full day of investitures.

The Princess is one of only three members of the family who perform them and while the King and the Prince of Wales have been needed at home, she has been carrying the load.

Some 140 people will receive an honour today, among them Paul Hollywood, who is being made an MBE. The pair discussed the smells of baking, he says later. ‘She loves Chelsea buns. I did promise her some so I’m not quite sure how I’m going to sort it out.’

The Great British Bake Off judge Paul Hollywood was among those honoured by the Princess Royal

Diana Parkes, a domestic violence campaigner who has worked with Queen Camilla in memory of her daughter, is made a CBE. She finds immediate common ground with the Princess via a family member who sold her horses.

One of the large team that makes the investitures happen tells me quietly that ‘you can always tell when it’s HRH’ on duty, because the day takes longer.

In theory, the Princess has her deputy private secretary on hand to jog her memory with details about people as the Lord Chamberlain announces each name. In practice, says a long-serving aide, she sends investiture notes back with her own comments about where she has met people before and which of her patronages they have links to. This is the case ‘95 per cent of the time’.

‘She’s got such a great brain. We often hear, “You must have briefed her really well,” but no, it’s all her. She makes it very easy in that respect.’ As each encounter winds up with a brisk handshake, recipients walk backwards to bow – desperate to get it right before rejoining their watching families. The Princess smiles at each one like they could not have performed it better.

After the 90-minute session has overrun slightly, she takes lunch in the private apartments before repeating it all in the afternoon.

Thursday - Core working hours - 9

Hands shaken - 250+

London’s Guildhall. The Princess Royal arrives via train for The Lord Mayor’s Big Curry Lunch, a City fundraiser for military veterans which has raised more than £3.3 million since it began in 2008.

To walk in as an outsider is to enter a new world where London’s livery companies (guilds dating back to medieval times) line the corridors with stalls – the Worshipful Companies of Bakers, Fruiterers, Gardeners, Pewterers and Framework Knitters are all there.

The Princess has no entourage, only her protection officers and one lady-in-waiting. She does not bat an eyelid at being escorted in by members of The Company of Pikemen & Musketeers, who wield weapons from the Charles I era and take their roles seriously.

Guests are an eclectic mix – a pearly queen mingles with barristers and bankers, alongside the military. An injured veteran in his mid-30s tells me: ‘In the Army, I’ve often been in front of high-ranking people who don’t care what you have to say at all… She’s different.’

Michael Hockney, co-chairman of the event, says the Princess is ‘very well-known and popular in the City because she’s involved in the livery movements’.

The Princess Royal greets the traders at London's Guildhall

Lunch is served on long tables. The Princess sits with servicemen and women, eating from an identical plate piled with chicken tikka masala, prawn malai, dal, rice and mango chutney.

Ballanupalli Sainath Rao, executive chef, asks if she remembers her last visit, in 2015, when she said she knew the factory of the company supplying the food and thought they could offer more variety than chicken every year. ‘Two meats and three vegetables,’ she suggested. Chef Rao added the prawn dish on that advice. ‘We had a lot of compliments.’

The Princess is plied with goodie bags, including matching socks for her and Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, her husband. On her way out, she views a small garden with artwork by children from forces families and inspects a stall from the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers (est 1272); the stallholders have been hastily restocking ice and swatting away flies as they wait in the sunshine.

‘She was saying it’s great to see the array of fish,’ fishmonger Andrew Kenny explains afterwards. ‘She asks really precise questions… It’s very disarming.’

Climbing into a waiting car, the Princess tells the organisers: ‘[I’m] not causing too much chaos, I hope.’ And then she’s off – next stop Buckingham Palace.

At 7pm, the Princess Royal walks through the ‘secret door’, disguised as a mirror and cabinet, which links the Palace’s private rooms to the White Drawing Room, a State Room with a gold piano, familiar from some of the late Queen Elizabeth II’s Christmas broadcasts. Tonight, she is hosting a black-tie dinner to celebrate The Duke of Edinburgh’s Commonwealth Study Conferences, which bring together future leaders to address pressing problems facing the world. In particular, she is saluting the Canadian team, which has led the way in hosting the conferences and keeping her father’s vision alive.

The Princess Royal enters Buckingham Palace's White Drawing Room via the secret door.

Wearing a long skirt and sequinned jacket in red to match the Canadian flag, she carries a handbag under her arm and wears her late mother’s three-strand pearls. Unlike other royals, the Princess’s team won’t confirm to the press what exactly she is wearing. One suspects anyone who asked would get short shrift.

She spends roughly an hour in the Picture Gallery, working her way through a crowd. One guest tells her of her memories of a drinks reception with the late Queen and Prince Philip on Britannia, during their visit to Ontario in 1984. Asking another about their trip to London, she agrees that walking is the best way to get around, although ‘not at this time of night and dressed like this’.

Ahead of a dinner of poached citrus salmon salad, roasted lamb, and crème brûlée with poached rhubarb, the Princess delivers an eight-minute speech. At one time, she is said to have written every speech herself. Nowadays, she often works from prepared notes, which she edits ruthlessly with liberal red pen strokes and capital letters.

The conferences, she says, were ‘envisioned by my late father, but I suspect he never thought it would last this long.

The Princess Royal greets guests at the Duke of Edinburgh's Commonwealth Study Conferences dinner.

‘At the moment, in these rather difficult times – post-Covid and just generally complicated – it’s just as important to have the ability to bring people together across the widest possible range.’

The Princess will stay on for dinner, sitting at a round table and entertaining guests until long after sundown.

Friday - Minutes on feet presenting honours - 90

Hands shaken - 79

Friday morning and the Princess is back at it with an investiture. There are 79 people this time, with their families, in the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace.

Neil Constable, former CEO of Shakespeare’s Globe, is here to receive his OBE for services to theatre. He says afterwards that the ‘professional’ Princess knew the brief so well that she could make conversation about both his previous job and his next, at The Musicians’ Company. She told him she had just been to the Guildhall that week for the Big Curry Lunch, adding, ‘You’ll have a great time with them.’

‘You leave thinking, wow, actually we had a really good conversation,’ he says. ‘We talked about her late father Prince Philip being a long-standing patron of the Globe and how some of the timber from the Globe came from Windsor Great Park’, donated by Prince Philip.

‘[She] made it a very special day.’

At this point, I close the notebook that clocks in at 84 pages of shorthand. Everyone – kindly, warmly, generously – is saying the same thing, and we have run out of superlatives. The job, too, must get repetitive but you would never know it. In continually asking questions, the Princess has found a way to keep interested even after all these decades.

Princess Anne salutes at the conclusion of a commissioning ceremony aboard HMCS Max Bernays as part of Fleet Week, in North Vancouver, B.C

She treats her work as a ‘nine-to-five job’, one Palace source tells me. ‘Except it doesn’t often finish at five.’ I have barely seen her sit and haven’t seen her accept a single cup of tea while working.

The week after we meet, the Princess will be in Windsor, Shropshire, Cambridgeshire, London and Cornwall. After that, she will go from the Royal Windsor Horse Show to Canada for a three-day trip with Sir Tim.

She will be 75 next year but shows no sign of slowing down. I am half her age – and after barely a week of trying to keep up with her, I’m off for a lie down.

Weekly total

Estimated miles travelled - 818

Hands shaken - 677+

[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 3 || KTH

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @/sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

//

Section Warnings: language, tense situations with dangerous vampires

wc: 5.1k

“We’ll be fine,” you tell Namjoon quietly. “Shake off the nerves. Let’s go be professionals.”

He looks at you like you’re a little crazy. Maybe you are. “No one’s ever done this,” he says a bit hollowly. “You know that, right?”

“Which part?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

He laughs under his breath and starts to move forward through the decorated doorway and into the empty, echoing throne room. You hurry to catch up, keeping pace with him.

“Any of it,” he mutters, and then lets his face fall into something blank enough to pass as professional.

The throne room is magnificent, the ceilings impossibly high and painted with beautiful scenes of forestry and rivers. The royal family seem to favor a jewel-tone blue, as you find it in the draperies, the lush carpet that leads to the steps, and the cushioning on the thrones at the top of those steps.

The King and Queen sit straight-backed, eyeing you as you step cautiously forward, but you’re watching the prince, seated just slightly behind the Queen, flanking her left. He sits slightly sideways in his seat, mouth turned down on each side. He eyes the ceiling, not you humans. He gives off an air of cold boredom. 

He does not seem like he is in distress, in particular need of saving. 

His dark hair falls near his eyes in delicate waves, and his body seems to be nearly all leg. He’s beautiful - the most gorgeous man you think you’ve ever seen, no wonder he isn’t human - and you try not to gawk, or worse, blush. Unlike his parents, his eyes look human today - whites present and surrounding deep, beautiful brown irises.

You imagine he’d look quite haunting if he let them go into the swirling, all-black that is natural for his kind.

You are so caught up in your mental cataloging of the prince of Infracticus that you miss the sharp look that his parents share as you draw close.

As you reach the foot of the stairs, you and Namjoon bow in tandem. You realize you should have prepped him for this - the manners, the social expectations - and you’re relieved that he seems to be able to hold his own.

“Thank you for the warm invitation,” you say upon rising, casting your words towards the King. “We’re at your service for as long as you need us.”

The King nods once, looking you over. 

“So you’re the curse-breaker,” he says. “Welcome to Infracticus. We’re thankful for your presence.”

“It’s our honor to serve you,” Namjoon says.

“We were told you’re good at what you do,” the Queen says, her voice cool and even, putting the image of still water in your mind. “As long as you are here for your task, we promise your protection and offer our hospitality. Whatever you need, simply ask.”

“That’s very generous of you,” you say, eyes on the ground. “I promise I’ll - we’ll - work hard.”

“Your utmost discretion is paramount,” the King says, sitting forward to look at you more closely. “I must reiterate that the prince’s state must be kept absolutely secret. While it will be close to impossible to keep your presence here a complete secret, I ask that you stay in your quarters unless your staff are escorting you.”

Your stomach twists. You weren’t planning to go gallivanting around the palace anyway - for your own safety. But being told to stay in, even if your rooms are spacious and beautiful, feels a bit like being held prisoner. 

“If, somehow, you are asked about your purpose here,” the Queen cuts in, “the official response is that you were invited here as ambassadors from the human world, and that our work is confidential.”

You sneak a glance at the prince again as you listen. He’s watching you and Namjoon a little more carefully, no longer slouched in his seat. Instead, he regards you both steadily.  

“We understand,” Namjoon says, and you nod automatically, bringing your gaze back to the Queen. 

“Is there anything you need to begin your work?” The Queen asks, directing the question to you. 

You shake your head, considering. “Not yet,” you say. “I’ll have a better idea what we’re up against after I spend some time speaking with the prince.” You incline your head towards him when you refer to him, so that it will feel less like he’s being talked about instead of talked to. 

“Very well,” the King says, waving a hand as if you’re dismissed. “Prince Taehyung will accompany you to your rooms, and you can begin your work.”

You turn to the prince, whose cold expression remains unreadable, and wait for him to move.

The prince rises obediently, and you watch him carefully as he unfolds himself from his throne and takes the steps at a clip. He moves fluidly and gracefully, brushing past you and pausing near the doorway, turning to see if you’re following. 

You shoot Namjoon a quick glance to check that he’s with you, and you both give the King and Queen a respectful goodbye. Prince Taehyung waits at the door, expression cool and impassive. Servants scuttle out of his way as he finally leads you away, down a corridor back towards your assigned chambers, flanked by Dansoo and Satuel. 

At first he leads you in silence, his heeled boots striking the stone floors a few paces ahead of you and Namjoon. Eventually, though, he looks at you both over his shoulder and says, “Thank you for coming, and for your discretion.” 

His voice is low, calling to mind water - as his mother’s did. But his doesn’t remind you of cool springs amid misty mountains. His calls to mind the ocean, roiling and unknowable, deep and icy cold. 

“It’s our honor,” you repeat. Then, a bit more genuinely, you add, “I hope I can help you.”

Prince Taehyung continues in tight silence for another moment, and then says, “So do I.”

When the group reaches your quarters, the two guards take their place on either side of the doors. Prince Taehyung puts his hand on the door’s handle and pauses, looking back as if to ask for permission. You almost laugh. It’s his home.

At your quick nod, he pulls the doors open and leads you into the main room with the fireplace. He stands near the couches, casting his gaze around as if he’s impressed with the guest rooms. 

“Very well,” he says briskly. “Should I introduce myself more properly? I suppose I should.” He gives you each a sharp bow and then sticks out his hand to shake. “I am Taehyung of Rune, Prince of Infracticus.”

You hesitate, your right hand still bandaged messily with a strip of an old band’s t-shirt. He follows your gaze.

“Ah,” he says, realizing why you’ve frozen. “May I?”

Uncertain, you lift your bandaged hand. He reaches forward and unties the sloppy knot, letting the fabric fall to the ground. He holds out one hand expectantly, palm up.

You eye the gash and place your hand in Taehyung’s outstretched one. His skin is cool to the touch - not cold, but lacking any warmth.

He rubs his thumb over the cut, and it tingles so intensely that you’re tempted to wipe your hands on your pants, to try to rub away the sensation. But when he pulls his hands away you can see that the skin has stitched itself back together, your palm as markless as it had been when you awoke that morning. 

“Yours too, I assume?” Taehyung asks, and you realize he’s offering to heal Namjoon as well.

“I thought - only Cleaves could heal?” you stutter, your eyes on your healed palm. The tingling fades, leaving no proof that the cut ever existed.

Taehyung sends you a twisted almost-smile from where he stands with Namjoon’s beefy hand in his own slender ones. “When you have a bloodline as long as mine,” he explains, “you always end up a bit of a mix.”

When he’s done, Namjoon staring in quiet awe at his healed palm, the prince looks at you again. “Well?” he says, and it takes you a moment to remember that he’s here so you can work on unraveling his curse. “Should we get started?”

“Right,” you say, rubbing your hands together awkwardly. “I have some questions to ask you about the curse. Would you be more comfortable here, or in the study?”

“I believe we could begin here,” he muses, gesturing at the couches. Namjoon slowly settles in a chair the color of deep-forest foliage, somewhere between green and black. The prince heads to a wingback chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning back, peering at you through tight eyes.

Guarded, you think. That’s how he looks. Wary, at best. Maybe even afraid - which strikes you as almost funny, since he’s not the bottom of the food chain in this room. 

Shaking yourself free of this thought, you duck into the little office they’ve fashioned for you and grab a pen and a pad of paper, knowing you’ll want to take notes as you talk.

“Okay,” you say, finally getting seated on the couch opposite the prince and taking a steadying breath. You cast a look at both men, who stare at you expectantly. “Let’s start with this - pretend I know nothing about the situation - really, it’s practically true. Tell me everything that happened. No detail is too insignificant, I can’t stress that enough. Start at the beginning.”

The prince twists his mouth to the side, considering this. 

“Everything that happened,” he repeats thoughtfully. His deep voice and the hint of accent cast the words as a little musical. “I woke up in a strange part of the palace with no memory of the night before, and then I was informed that I’d left Infracticus and murdered two innocent people. Is that what you need to know?”

He speaks evenly, but you sense fire simmering behind his words.

“What happened the night before?” you ask, fighting to stay calm, despite the very real danger of being tucked away with an angry Infracti.

He rotely recounts an uneventful night - dinner with his family, some time spent with his closest friend, a walk through the palace’s arboretum, a long bath in his own quarters. 

“How did you feel when you woke up?” you ask next, your eyes on your notepad. 

“How did I feel?” he echoes, a bit of a bite to it. His tone gets your attention and you look up at him. His brows are furrowed, his dark eyes - the whites showing, as they have been the whole time you’ve been here - swimming with fury. Across the room, Namjoon has leaned forward, alarmed. “How do you think I felt, hearing -”

You will yourself to stay steady. “Physically,” you clarify. “When you woke up - did you experience pain? Confusion?”

He’s experiencing confusion now - looking at you blankly, as if he doesn’t even understand the question. But at least the anger has melted away, replaced with bafflement. 

“When someone places a curse,” you explain slowly, putting your pen down and looking at him carefully, “what they are doing is weaving many threads of intention. If you experienced pain, that is one thread. If you were confused, that’s another. Your lack of memory is certainly one. Your loss of control, loss of sense of self - those would be individually added with intention as well. Every piece of it matters. To completely, successfully undo it, I need to identify every thread and properly counter it. These details - the things I’m asking you - they may inform me of a thread, a piece of intention from the original curse.”

Making sure he’s looking at you, you say it very seriously, urging him to understand. “If I miss even one thread, or counter one thread incorrectly, the counter-curse will not work.”

You wait, letting this sink in.

Finally, he inclines his head. “I understand. I apologize - this has been… difficult for me.”

“I can only imagine,” you say gently. “Try to remember that I’m here to fix it. Or… at least to try.”

He presses his lips together, eyes on the floor. You exchange another uneasy look with Namjoon, who shifts his weight slightly but doesn’t speak. The prince wets his lips quickly and pulls in a bracing breath and then begins to speak.

“My night before was very normal,” he repeats. “I felt normal. The things I did were within my normal routine. When I… woke up? Came back to myself? I was confused, yes, but I think that was because I couldn’t remember how I got there. My thinking was not confused, or muddled.”

You nod, feeling a rush of relief at his understanding, at his willingness to cooperate. You write this down, then wait for him to continue.

“I did have pain,” he recalls thoughtfully. “I am not sure if you are aware, but Infracti don’t feel pain easily, or often. My muscles ached - my back, my arms. My legs felt very heavy. I had never experienced any of those sensations before.” 

There’s a bit of pout to his voice - if he weren’t so intimidating, it might be cute. 

“And my head,” he continues with a frown. “I had pain inside my head. Across the front.” He rubs a hand across his brow to show you the spot. 

Cute. 

You write it down, scolding yourself for your lack of professionalism. 

“What about the rest of that day?” you ask, when you’re done writing. “How long did the pain last? How did you feel throughout the day?”

“Better and better as time went on,” he allows. “Though I was… very upset. So I did feel… unlike myself, a bit… like my emotions were a storm.” 

You nod, drawing a little sideways arrow and jotting it down. “When would you say the pain completely faded?”

“By early afternoon?” the prince guesses, gaze floating to the ceiling as he tries to remember. “After I’d had a midday meal in my room. My father had asked me to stay in my wing until… until we’d found out an answer.”

“That was probably wise,” Namjoon says quietly.

“We didn’t know if it would happen again,” the prince explains, a bit sadly. “I asked for extra security outside my chambers that night.”

“And what happened?” 

Prince Taehyung doesn’t answer. He presses his lips together again, flexes his fingers against his thigh. He radiates shame, so thickly it’s like molasses in the air. 

“Maiesti,” you prod. He raises his eyes from the floor to meet yours at your use of his own language, and you hold his gaze steadily. “I am not here to judge you or your actions,” you assure him. “Only to try and make you well again.”

He nods, lowering his gaze again, no less shamed despite your reassurance. “I watched the clock so I would know exactly what time it was when I lost myself,” he says, voice suddenly tiny. You lean closer to hear better, and in your periphery you see Namjoon do the same. “It was midnight. I came back to myself sometime before six o’clock the next morning, in my room, which was… destroyed.”

You’re writing fast, trying to catch every detail. “Destroyed?” you echo.

“Tables overturned, bedding shredded,” he lists robotically, ticking the list on his fingers. “Scratches in the wood of the door.” Pain laces his voice as he adds, “It was like I turned into an animal for the night. I attacked the men stationed at my door. They reported to my father that it took six of them to get me back inside, and then they barred the door. I must have spent the whole time trying to get through.”

He glances down at his hands and you follow his gaze. His nails are wrecked, fingertips still sporting scrapes and cuts, though they’ve clearly been cleaned.

It occurs to you that he could heal himself if he wanted to.

“How did you feel - physically - when you woke up?” You do your best to stay clinical despite the quickening of your pulse.

“The same as the day before - the same pains. The Elders came and told me that… they believed this is the work of a curse. I think you were contacted immediately.”

You ask about the night before this, the final night before you’d arrived, and he describes the same series of events - he’d asked to go to a more unused set of rooms shortly before midnight so that he wouldn’t ruin his own things. He’d woken at dawn sore, exhausted, frustrated - but safely contained.

You lapse into silence, reading back some of what you’d written down, eyes roving for clues and patterns, a place to start.

“I think I need to see you while the curse is controlling you,” you muse, not necessarily meaning to say it aloud.

“Absolutely not,” Prince Taehyung snaps, sitting upright. The gloom and shame vanish from him like a dropped blanket, replaced by intensity and natural authority. “Under no circumstances are either of you to come anywhere near me during the hours that I’ve lost - that I’m not myself. I forbid it.”

You glance away, catching Namjoon’s stricken gaze, and settle on watching your feet scuff gently at the stone floor. 

“I’m not trying to make a spectacle of you,” you defend yourself. “I’d like to take notes on your appearance and actions when the curse is active. There may be valuable -”

“I don’t think you understand,” the prince says, rising fluidly and narrowing his eyes at you. “It took six Infracti to contain me. Do you have the strength of six Infracti?” He cocks his head at this rhetorical question. “If you are near me between midnight and dawn, you will die. There is no other possible outcome. I forbid it.”

You stare at each other, at an impasse. Finally, you look down at your notepad, mind whirring as you try to think of a way around this rule. Prince Taehyung huffs in frustration and then eyes the exit. 

“I have duties to attend to,” he says flatly. “Please remember that if asked, your reason for being in Infracticus is simply that the King invited you, as academics in the magical field.”

You feel a jolt of queasiness. You hope no one asks - you hope no one speaks to you at all, that no one even notices you there. 

“Understood,” Namjoon says, speaking for you both. 

Prince Taehyung nods, eyeing the door, then speaks without looking at you. “Please determine our next steps regarding the curse and communicate them to your staff. They’ll inform me.” With this, he slips into the corridor, leaving you in silence. 

You turn to Namjoon plaintively. “Was this a mistake?” you ask, open and vulnerable, feeling a little wild with trepidation. “Should we not have come? Can we do this?”

He shakes his head. “A little late for that now.”

You sink back against the couch, closing your eyes, feeling drained despite it still being late morning. You feel like you’ve lived three days in just several hours. 

“I know,” you concede. 

“Let’s just try to do the job as quickly as possible,” he says evenly, lifting his hand like he wants to place it reassuringly on you, then hesitates and returns it to his own lap. “Do you have any thoughts based on this first interview?”

You nod, scanning your notepad again. “It’s interesting,” you murmur, the academic in you coming alive. “It seems to be a curse of lacking, of deprivation. He is not instilled with monstrous behavior - rather, his control and humanity are stripped away or suppressed until only the monster remains.”

“That could be four or five segments of the curse on their own,” Namjoon agrees thoughtfully, his fist pressed against his jaw as he thinks. “To remove one’s sense of self, to remove the Id entirely and leave him only Ego, to remove the facets of control, of mercy, of compassion - each of those exists alone.”

You sigh. “Someone knew what they were doing,” you grumble. “No ordinary person - or Infracti - could just come up with this on the fly.”

“It does seem to solidify their theory that this was an attack,” Namjoon agrees. “Though there are methods out there to simplify the process, if you know what you’re doing. Someone with less skill could complete the curse, if they’d done their research first.”

You look at him, hyper-focused. “Explain,” you say simply.

“We’re looking at each thread of intention that we see here and identifying each one individually,” he says. “And we’re seeing so many specific threads that it seems to us that the caster must have great skill to weave so many and do it correctly.”

“Right…” you say slowly, following so far. 

“Some curses are cast with the use of supplemental magic,” he explains. Of course you knew this, but it’s a different school of thought than your normal work. “The supplemental magic does the weaving for you - if your wide-scale intention is clear, the supplemental magic sort of… collects the threads you need and brings them to you ready to go.”

You feel yourself frowning, thinking hard. “Like elemental magic? That kind of supplemental magic?”

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “But other forces as well - life magic and death magic, for example.”

This hits you heavily, and you let out a puff of breath. “Death magic?” you repeat, since this is the piece that lodged itself in your skull. “What would that even mean for this case?”

Namjoon shrugs. “I’m not sure yet,” he admits. “But I think it’s something we should continue to consider.”

–

Lunch is served to you not much later in that same room, and after eating you and Namjoon begin pouring through the few magical tomes you’d brought from the university, making note of any relevant details you find.

It’s late afternoon when Namjoon finally leans back from the table, slapping one large palm across the papers where he’d been listing possible threads of intention and mapping ways to counter them. 

You’d both been sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the low table, which is now littered with open books and scattered papers.

“I need a break,” he announces, pushing himself up and heading for the couch. He flops down, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I just wrote the same thing three times. My eyes are crossing.”

You set down your pen and stretch. A break sounds nice, actually. You rise and pace the room a bit, just to walk and get blood flowing in your legs again. You pass by the fireplace, feeling the heat lick at the side of your face until you’re past it, then stopping at the wall that serves as a water feature. You watch it peacefully for a second. 

“You know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could go for some tea. You want some?”

Namjoon answers you with a light snore. You stare at him in disbelief for a minute - how do people just fall asleep like that?! You absolutely cannot relate. 

You pace the room twice more, but you’re feeling more antsy and caged in by the minute. After one more lap, you pause by the doors. You’ve been told multiple times today that you can ask for anything you need, but you feel nervous actually doing so. 

Still… might as well try it on a small request first, right? 

Sighing, you tug the door open. Satuel turns fluidly to face you, expectant.

“Could…” you venture. “Could we get some tea, maybe?”

She nods curtly, black hair swishing with the motion. “I’ll send for it right away,” she tells you. “Please wait inside.”

“Oh,” you say, rocking back on your heels. “I was actually… I was wondering if I could go with you to get it? I feel the need to walk a little.”

She exchanges a tight look with Dansoo, a frown forming on each of their faces. 

“We can’t allow that,” he answers for her gruffly. “Our orders are to get you what you need. Your orders are to stay out of sight.”

I don’t live here, you think, scowling. I don’t take orders from the royal family.

But you are here as a hired professional, and they’re your client, in a way. And the ones offering you room and board, food, and protection. 

You sigh. “Okay,” you say. “I understand.”

Back in your rooms, you flop onto the couch that isn’t occupied by Namjoon’s sleeping form. His arm is still over his eyes, and he snores steadily, more loudly now.

Nobody to even talk to, you think crankily. You lean back against the couch, fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of the couch. 

You’re in Infracticus, in the palace, and you’re trapped in your room. It strikes you as deeply unfair, though you understand the logic, the reasons. Still. You’d give anything to explore a little, to find a little nook to hide in and just watch for a while. The anthropologist in you is dying to observe - there’s nothing you want more than to wander the palace and take it all in. It’s like being told there’s really life on Mars, getting transported there, and then being told you don’t get to see any of it because you have to stay in the spaceship.

You’re suddenly so antsy you think you might crawl out of your skin.

You flop your head to the side in irritation, eyeing the guarded doors. Of course they don’t want to let you wander around the palace - it’s too dangerous. You’re too delicate, too human. 

You sit up straight, eyes still on the door.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re thinking too much like a human.

You barely use magic in your everyday life; in the human world, it just isn’t necessary. But you’re able, perfectly capable of borrowing. 

You look over at Namjoon, who simply snorts in his sleep and rolls to face the back of the couch. He certainly won’t be stopping you. 

When the knock comes, you’ve made up your mind. You open the door with a grateful smile, following the member of kitchen staff as he wheels in a little cart carrying a tea tray. As he busies himself moving the tray from the cart to the small table meant for your meals, you begin the process of borrowing.

You breathe deeply, focusing on what your senses tell you about the space around you - the sounds of the crackling fire, the wall of moving water, the clink of china as the staff member moves the teapot; the smell of the tea, the perfume you’d dabbed on after showing, the room’s natural smells - earthy and sharp.

Your fingertips start to tingle just slightly, a pleasant sensation almost like sunlight moving across a table to finally fall across your skin. You breathe deeper, inviting it in, pulling the magic that exists wild in the universe and reining it in for just a moment, taming it for the few minutes that it can be tamed. 

You have two threads of intention for the magic, and you weave them together a bit sloppily. You’re more practiced at pulling threads apart, but you can manage this with some concentration. 

One thread: don’t see me. The second: what’s that, over there? 

When the kitchen staff wheels the tea cart back into the hallway, you follow tight on his heels. The borrowed magic does as you ask and convinces the staff pushing the cart that there is no one behind him. It convinces Dansoo and Satuel that they see nothing unusual near the cart, but that they might see a suspicious shadow down the other side of the hallway. 

As you get farther and farther away, sticking close to the tea cart, you watch as they peer - narrow-eyed and alert - in the opposite direction. 

As soon as you turn a corner, you slow your pace, letting the Infracti pushing the empty tea cart get further and further away. Once he’s out of sight, you exhale, loosening and then releasing the reins on the magic you’d taken. You breathe freely, no longer having to focus on gripping those reins.

You follow the corridor, trying to always stick to the right, so that you can find your way back later. 

You don’t really have a goal, anything specific you want to see. Nor do you really have a plan, besides poke around, quell your curiosity, stretch your legs, and don’t get killed. But the palace is huge and the royal family is small; you figure you can manage to wander undetected as long as you turn back if you see anyone up ahead. 

You’re not sure how long you wander down empty corridors, passing underneath paintings and maps, some of which you stop and examine. After some time, you stop passing closed doors and start passing open rooms, most of which seem outfitted for taking visitors: couches and tables, bookshelves laden with both books and decorative trinkets. 

Something in one room catches your eye and you pause in the doorway, peeking in. A piano sits in the corner, shiny and still. You wonder if anyone who lives here actually uses it, or if musicians are hired when entertainment is needed.

It isn’t much further down the same corridor as the piano room that you come to the top of a wide, stone staircase. You pause, listening. The sound of voices and laughter floats up to you, and you hurry to tuck yourself behind a statue of an amarisca, the magical creature that had pulled your carriage the night before. 

From your spot, pressed tightly against the carved stone, you can just barely see the room below. You can see the hems of skirts and shiny dress shoes passing by - all heading into the palace. They must be important families, invited to take supper with the royal family. Perhaps they are even members of the Ruins themselves - the King and Queen’s siblings, perhaps, or even their cousins. Maybe they’re invited here to shmooze before making decisions regarding business or state. Maybe the royal family simply have friends, people whose company they like to keep. 

You’re mulling this over when a voice startles you so badly that you leap, whirling around, grateful for the heavy statue - without it, you very well may have toppled down the stairs.

“What have we here?” the low voice asks, “A human?”

&lt;- Prev | Next ->

thank you so much for reading!!!! finally - events are happening!!! lol

[golvio]

i dont really know how to word it, but ganondorfs speech after his rehydration about reshaping the world, crushing opposition, as a king does. i just went "oh so like rauru but hes being more honest and less nice about it."

Yeah, like...the story's mostly uncritical nationalism, but there are certain lines that stand out that I interpret as Ganondorf's existence being a natural consequence of Rauru taking power. Not just as plain, mundane secular politics, but as the universe trying to rebalance itself after Rauru's attempt to build a perfect world by suppressing things like monsters and the blood moon that were a natural part of the world but he nevertheless saw as undesirable.

Take Jerrin's line about the Horned Statue, for instance:

"As there is the Goddess of light, then it follows that she would have an opposite—the horned god. Like light and dark, one cannot exist without the other—their power manifests through the other's existence."

The Horned God wasn't originally the opposite of Hylia. That role would be better suited by an entity like Demise. However, there's a certain implication that, in the absence of a competing counterforce, certain entities eventually emerged in response to Hylia's existence or were shaped by the consequences of her actions to occupy that niche. Jerrin's tone makes this process of opposition sound inevitable.

And then there's the Depths being a mirror image of the surface, a little like ALTTP's Dark World or ALBW's Lorule. The terrain of the Depths is an inverted version of the surface's terrain. The Lightroot names are even the names of the Shrines spelled backwards, and are in the exact same locations as their aboveground counterparts. As above, so below. And although the Depths were Ganondorf's prison, they eventually became his home and the metaphorical womb-of-the-earth where he could be nurtured back to health and reborn. As their ruler, he, too, is a mirror image of someone above: first Rauru, and later his descendants, culminating in the current Zelda.

As Rauru was the self-proclaimed King of Light, it would stand to reason that there would eventually be a King of Shadow who took charge over the things the King of Light refused to touch. Both the monsters and the blood moon, which IIRC existed well before Ganondorf took on the crown if Rauru and Mineru built the shrines to suppress them before the events of Zelda's memories, fall under the Demon King's dominion. And then there's that one theory that Ganondorf might be the Sage of Shadow, which made me literally say "oh shit" to myself because that was the one element that was missing from Rauru's stable of pals compared to the seven sages of Ocarina of Time. Of course Mr. Light-Must-Dominate-At-All-Times wouldn't want a Shadow guy around, even if they were an absolutely loyal secret-keeper and professional warcrimes-mess-cleaner-upper like Ocarina of Time's Impa.

But also...Rauru wasn't just "a king." The narrative presented him as the absolute monarch over the nation, literally sent by the gods to rule. He's elevated so far above "the common people" that even the leaders who aren't part of his Important Royal Bloodline are presented as faceless and subservient, always wearing masks in his and Zelda's presence and never giving their own names, as who they are isn't as important as their oath to serve the king. However, there cannot be absolute power without the capacity to abuse said power. No matter how "nice" the guy currently in charge is, systems of absolute divine-right monarchy are problematic by nature and inevitably create conflict. Ganondorf was the other side of the coin of absolute kingship, the uncomfortable truth lurking in the background, never outright said but always felt. It's kind of why a lot of our ancestors got together and agreed the whole "divine-right monarchy" thing wasn't a great idea.

[sstormyskyess]

so glad i came across your blog. wondering if youu could write simon riley x f!reader where she was a former royal marines and he didn't know and found out after she got called back for a mission. maybe she's a captain?

thank you, love

-V

Glory Days

author's note: thank you for my first request!! i’m glad you found my blog and thought me worthy enough to request something for me 💜 i hope you enjoy!

cw: fluff, military reader, fem!reader, simon being anxious

word count: 1900+

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader "Finch"

♡ Being in the Royal Marines wasn’t necessarily something you were embarrassed about. It was more a matter of wanting to get a fresh start at being a regular civilian, far away from the battlefield. That’s why your previous enlistment never came up in conversation when you met Ghost and got to know each other better.

♡ When you and Ghost eventually entered a full relationship, he was surprised by how understanding you were about his occupation and the things that came with it. You were also very curious about his military activities, something that no other civilian in his life ever had been.

♡ It was about a couple years into your relationship when you got a letter from your previous commanding officer, requesting your services again since they thought your skills would be valuable for that specific mission.

♡ You were hesitant to accept, but eventually you did and you found yourself on your way to meet with your commanding officer and talk business. You didn’t know, though, that your very own boyfriend would be serving on the same mission.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Delta 2-1.” Captain Price says with a smile on his face. You smile in return and give him a firm handshake. “Please, call me Finch.” You correct him happily. “The pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard good things about you and your task force, Captain.” You put your arms behind your back with perfect poise, and give a nod toward the main building, walking off with Price in tow.

Simon stares from across the tarmac. His thoughts were racing, confused out of his mind. He almost had to remind himself to breathe, the amount of questions bouncing around in his head taking over all other thoughts, even his base instincts.

That’s why he almost imperceptibly jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder, tapping twice. He glances over to the person connected to said hand: Soap. “She’s one hell of a question mark, eh, L.T.?” He joins Simon in staring at the direction you and Price walked off to, shaking his head. “Heard she’s gonna be serving in place of Price. You know anything else about her?”

Well, he certainly did know about you. A lot of things about you. Why? Because you were his girlfriend, possibly soon to be fiancée. The only thing he didn’t seem to know about you was why exactly you were here, talking to his superior and ready to head out onto the same battlefield he’d been preparing to deploy into.

“No.” He answers simply. There was a reason Soap didn’t recognize her. He did his very best, and would do anything to keep his personal life and professional life separate; that’s why no one on the task force knew that he was romantically involved with anyone, save for Laswell. She knows absolutely everything, as much as it got on his nerves. At least she was good at keeping a secret. But now, here you were, present and apparently active in his work life. He sighs and looks over to Soap. “Tell the old man I’ll be in the weapons’ locker, if he asks.” He walks off and ignores whatever Soap was questioning him about.

♡ Ghost was shocked that he didn’t know about this particular part of your life, and he was even more shocked that you were actually considering going out on the field.

♡ It wasn’t that he doubted your abilities—quite the opposite, actually—but he was worried you’d get hurt. He was a powerful man but even he still managed to get hurt sometimes. So, knowing that you’d be at risk had him shaken up.

Simon lets out a heavy sigh. “Love, I need you to promise me you’ll be safe.” Simon has his hand on your shoulder, looking you up and down in the heavy tac vest you were adorned in. It was something he never imagined he’d see on you; it was pretty attractive, in all honesty, but he isn’t particularly focused on how attractive his lovely partner was.

He’s mostly concerned about the fact that you were about to be heading onto the field, assigned to a different team and dropped off in a location multiple klicks from where he would be. You shake your head and rest your hand on top of Simon’s. “I’ll be alright, Si. I promise.” You give him a comforting smile, taking his hand and holding it in yours. “This is nothing I haven’t done before.”

You look over Simon’s face, meeting his brown-hazel eyes and inspecting them: reading his thoughts. His eyes were so expressive, just as long as you knew what to look for. You could tell he was overly worried. You could also tell that he was fully prepared to blame himself if you got hurt out there. You swing his hand back and forth slightly, your own thoughts coming to the surface.

“You’ll be careful too, right?” You ask, your thumb running along the back of his knuckles. Simon sighs again and squeezes your hand in return. He was a calculated man but he was still susceptible to making decisions that would save his team, even if he would be putting himself in danger. Having you on the field with him was bound to make it worse.

But regardless, the last thing he wants is to distract you. Him getting himself into trouble was bound to draw your attention away from the mission. So, he nods and pulls his hand away, thinking for a moment. He wraps one of his arms around your waist then pulls the bottom of his mask up with the other.

Your eyes widen for a moment, taking a look out of the small alley between the buildings to make sure no one is watching. He takes your chin and rests his forehead on yours, kissing you gently. You lean into it, reaching up to his cheek to caress it. The two of you meet eyes once you pull away and stand there, gazing into each other's eyes for a few moments before Simon finally pulls away. “We’re wheels up soon. Let’s move.”

♡ He wasn’t expecting it, but experiencing the version of you in the heat of battle had him falling in love all over again. That commanding tone of voice and your proficiency with a weapon in hand, even after your years spent in retirement, were absolutely enrapturing to him.

♡ He wouldn’t have thought this of himself, but it seemed like watching you in your element made him realize that maybe he was attracted to that kind of power. You being his superior was only the icing on the cake.

“Delta Team, push up to the RV point!” You bark into the comms, the sound of grass and foliage cluttering your words. “Roger that, Finch. Move, move, move!” Simon honestly didn’t think he could fall in love with you even harder than he already has. Hearing you calling the shots over the comms was almost hypnotizing. He’d never heard your voice like that and it was a beautiful thing. He had to keep focus, though. He had his own team to direct.

Getting to the RV location was quite the hassle. Under a barrage of enemy fire—standard bullets, grenades, RPGs—keeping your team alive was a downright nightmare. But you managed it, the sight of Simon’s signature mask bringing you a slight bit of relief. “Ghost, sitrep, how long ‘til the charges blow?”

He doesn’t get the chance to respond before your eyes widen all of a sudden. “Look out!” You shout, shoving him to the side and toppling yourself down to the ground beside him. He grunts, looking at you confused before a sniper shot ricocheted off the ground right where he was previously standing.

“Snipers to the north, get down!” You call, taking Simon’s fallen rifle, getting into position to return fire, and quickly taking out the initial threat as though it was as easy as walking. If you weren't focused on calculating the best strategy out of this particular setback, you’d be able to see the stars in Simon’s eyes, his mind committing the sight of you expertly counter-sniping and potentially saving his life to memory. He didn't get much time to dwell on it any longer before he got dragged to his feet and rushed toward the nearest treeline.

♡ Once the operation was complete and you both got back to base with nothing but minor injuries, he finally had time to relax with you and reverse the roles, asking you an endless amount of questions about your time in active service, engrossed in the various stories you shared.

♡ Ghost listened carefully as you showed him the scars he had seen many times before and explained the story behind each one. He’d never asked before out of politeness but he got to appreciate them more fully now that he knew the details of each one.

A trail of goosebumps rises in the path of Simon’s fingers running along your spine. “I got that one a couple years into my service.” You recall, thinking about the scar he was tracing gently. His mind wanders as you talk, your voice soothing him through the imagery your story evoked.

“What about this one?” He rubbed his thumb over an old bullet wound on your side. You shift in your place on the tiny military-grade cot and sigh softly. “That was right before I retired. Sniper managed to hit between the plates.” His eyes widened at that, just a bit.

“And you managed to survive?” He chuckles softly when you nod. He leans down and pecks you on the cheek. “That’s my girl.” You blush, burying your face in the pillow beneath your head, making him laugh a bit again. He runs his hand through your hair, his fingers gentle. “So strong.” He squeezes the nape of your neck softly and feels the knots in your muscles, massaging them.

There was a peaceful silence between you two before Simon sighs. “What are you doing after all this?” You pick your head up just a bit, one brow raised. “What do you mean?” He pulls you close when you sit up to face him fully.

“Once this operation is over. Are you going to stay now that you’re back in?” He watches you process the question quietly. It was a good question. You didn’t really know what your plan was at this point. Leaving the service was a good choice on your part. You were happy just being a normal person, not constantly worrying about dying every time you left your bed.

But even so, being out on the field again was exhilarating. You didn’t imagine it would be a feeling you would miss, but now you were having second thoughts. Plus, it was wonderful being able to protect Simon yourself, knowing that as long as you were there, he was going to come back alive. You bite your lip in thought, before looking back up at him.

“I think I may stay. I’m not sure.” You run a hand up his shirt and over his back, your nails gently trailing against the scarred skin. He hums, his fingers starting to drum against your hip. “Don’t worry, Si. It’ll be okay. Promise. Plus, you need someone to make sure you don’t get yourself hurt.” You smile, kissing along his jaw and up his cheek. “I know, love, I know.” He smiles back, burying his face in your shoulder.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[agustdiv1ne]

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°｡2:54 p.m. — kang taehyun

genre: kinda meet cute? idk they're lab partners (as a stem major i am projecting heavily), college au

wc: 998

kang taehyun has terrible luck with lab partners.

he figures it comes with the territory — labs can be stressful, and sometimes the procedures written by the chemistry department are, at best, redundant, and, at worst, practically unintelligible. past partners have royally screwed him over by messing up the experiment halfway through, then banking on him to fix everything with the little time that is remaining. despite his annoyance, taehyun is well aware that he is not perfect; he has messed up experiments before, too, and he can easily admit that. however, unlike some of his peers (see: choi beomgyu, forensic science major), he will always clean up his own mess without anyone else’s help.

after last week’s class that only covered lab safety procedures, the first actual experiment day in his organic chemistry lab brings with it a looming sense of dread. he’s sitting outside the lab and waiting for class to begin, praying that he is not paired up with beomgyu again, not after the fiasco last semester in which he was seconds away from blowing up the science building.

within a few minutes, the lab instructor props open the door, announcing that partner pairings could be found near the fume hoods. once he walks up to the paper, he sighs, crosses his fingers, and searches for his name. directly next to his, he finds a name that he doesn’t recognize. despite this, he mentally fist pumps; anyone is better than beomgyu at this point.

“looks like we’re partners,” he hears from next to him. the finger he was using to search for his name lifts from the paper, and he swivels his head over to find you, donned in similar attire of a white coat and safety goggles, a small smile spread across your lips. you extend your arm, introducing yourself more formally. “i’m looking forward to working with you.”

“same here.” he moves to shake your outstretched hand, though he’s not sure if he means it yet, unsure of how you operate in a lab. really, it all depends on how well you work together.

“what’s your major?” you ask in an attempt to strike up conversation while you grab all of the necessary flasks and beakers and other tools required for this experiment. synthesis of aspirin — should be simple enough.

“biochem, and i’m also pre-med,” he says, before he’s asking for your own. your answer colors him shocked: you’re the same major, and on the same pre-med track? then…

“how come i’ve never seen you before?” he questions as he sets up some of the apparatus. you simply shrug in response while you finish setting up the other half. it’s impressive how quickly, how accurately, you complete it. is his bad luck finally gone? are you the lab partner that he’s been wishing for?

“i tend to keep to myself. ‘m not a fan of most people.” you’re already starting the experiment, scanning over the procedures to ensure that you’re doing everything correctly. “is the steam bath ready? the salicylic acid is all dissolved.”

“yeah, give it here.” you carefully slide it over the benchtop and he places the flask in the bath. as you wait the proper amount of time, he can’t help but ask, “am i most people?”

“i’m not sure yet. we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” and you’re almost smirking, a teasing lilt in your voice. it should be annoying after getting a total of three hours of sleep, and yet it only serves to intrigue him. you say that you don’t like people, and yet you’re basically a master at conversation; you can tease and crack jokes but still keep track of everything that is going on in front of you. it’s impressive. so far, he really likes you — in the most platonic, professional way possible, of course. you just met, and you're only lab partners. nothing more, nothing less.

the two of you work in almost perfect tandem until the experiment is finally complete, all data collected and post-lab questions already answered for the report that’s due next week. relief floods his veins the moment the two of you exit the stuffy, humid lab, stripping yourselves of your coats and groaning at the sensation of the post-experiment grime that clings to the skin of your faces. you haphazardly shove the article of clothing into your backpack, unbothered by potential wrinkles. you give him a playful salute before you’re moving to leave.

“good work, kang,” you comment, grinning tiredly as you walk backwards. you spin to face away from him and call over your shoulder, “see you in lecture!”

“actually,” he starts. you spin on your heel, a curious quirk in your brow as you stare at him. “you wanna grab some food? i’m sure you’re starving, too.”

and you’re smiling wider, and his heart is beating faster and no, he’s absolutely, positively not forming a little crush on you. he just admires your competence, the rational part of his brain supplies. you’re lab partners, completely professional, newly acquainted lab partners that barely even know each other, though he finds himself strongly hoping that you’ll say yes.

your fingers loosely grip the straps of your backpack, eyes lighting up, as you respond. “yeah, i'd like that. wanna get chick-fil-a?”

“it’s like you read my mind,” he quips, celebrating internally. “i’ve been craving that all day.”

as he falls into step next to you — the two of you complaining about the professors that you share and promising to sit next to each other and study together from now on — taehyun begins to think that luck is finally on his side.

“soooo,” he draws out, one eyebrow raised in an inquisitive expression. you glance over at him through the corner of your eye, urging him to continue with an impatient wave of your hand. “am i most people now?”

chuckling, you jostle his arm with your elbow. “nah, i think i might be able to tolerate you.”

masterlist

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[samairuart]

AH I JUST SAW THAT YOU HAVE OCS! Can we see a little more about them???

Since Mermay is around the corner, I could share a bit more about my mermaid OCs!

Juhi - a spare royal who now finds herself the crown princess of the Lotus Kingdom. After the murder of her brother the crown prince, Juhi inherits the responsibility of becoming the next ruler, against the wishes of most in the realm. She also inherits her brother’s personal guard, tho they are not very keen on serving her as they no longer see each other as a team, and are still very hurt by the death of their prince.

Arnav - the leader of the personal guard. He’s definitely on the stoic side, but is highly professional. He, like the rest of the guard, doesn’t particularly care about the princess, but that won’t stop him from fulfilling his sworn duties.

Mehul - second in command, Mehul aspires to be like Arnav, though he can get a little hot-headed and is a big stickler for the rules. Mehul is the oldest of 6 siblings, and is definitely a family oriented fellow. While he may seem put together, he is quite naive.

Sujal - consider him the glue! He’s an energy battery and is always eager to make friends. He’s also a bit of a yapper. Sujal closely resembles the late prince, so he often played the role of a body double. He’s the first to welcome Juhi and try to be on friendly terms with her.

Hiten - the most agile swimmer in the realm. His body uses up so much energy though, that he quickly falls asleep wherever and whenever. One can often find him sleeping in the weirdest spots throughout the palace. While this may be a trait you wouldn’t want in a guardsman, his sharp senses and quick response often can snap him out of his stupor.

Sagar - the only shark of the group, he fought tooth and nail (literally) to gain the position he has today. Often met with discrimination, Sagar faces the world with a sense of stubbornness. He’s also a hot-headed fellow, which doesn’t help with the stereotypes he hears. Like Mehul, he aspires to be like Arnav.

Iravat - the final member of the guard, though he’s been exiled due to his betrayal. He’s the stone that shattered the mirror.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Sponsored by Archewell of Course

Finally we learn the true purpose of this fake royal inGRIFTus visit: MEgain's dream to purcha$e (not earn) a political appointment as an Ambassador for the perks: IPP status, a NYC apartment, luxurious international travel, power, stardom, etc.

In 2021 in the name of vaccine equity (and netflix), The Meghans secured a meeting with several WHO representatives involved w/The Clinton Global Initiative including the UN Under-Secretary General Winnie Byanyima.¹

MEgain replied "It's wonderful to be back..." just to make it clear that THIS trip is all about HER not him.

It seems that identifying as Misan Harriman's Nigerian cousin might be her golden ticket to the UN.

Meghan Markle was the most unaccomplished woman in that room of so-called Nigerian women leaders and certainly the least deserving of any political appointments or elected positions. She's treated women and men like TRASH. Hissing and harassing them to such lengths that they require therapy and seek new employment.

Sparry is absolutely complicit in their drive to give his wife undeserved power and authority over institutions and human beings. He'll assist her with love bombing Ngozi even just save what little hair remains on his head. He's a Eunuch.

From the Nigerian Defense Staff Visitor Book of General Christopher Musa

Sparry: "Thank you for welcoming us to your beautiful country. Together we will heal our troops. -Harry

MEgain: "With gratitude for the support of the Invictus community. And for welcoming me home." -M??

Did these female leaders discuss the women who have been raped and violated in the African Parks Scandal?

What about hundreds of abducted Nigerian children, most recently in broad daylight on March 7, 2024?

Look at this lovely room and compare it to the spaces The Meghans publicized to the mainstream media on their tour. Spot the difference. Who do you think matters most, the wounded or the powerful?

The good news is that The MEghans have a very long history of lying, cheating, mistreating innocent people, and even mocking God.

No matter what doors 43% of bull chite will open, God will not be mocked. Sparry had the temerity to walk into Saint Paul's and read from the holy scriptures as if he's some authority on serving God while he nails his bloodline to the media's cross.

Cry out for mercy, Harry!

God will not be mocked, whatever a man sows that will he also reap.

MEgain thinks she can rebrand her ancestry and whore her way into achieving all her personal & professional goals.

Whatever she has sown, she will reap.

"An afternoon of joy, love and sharing of experiences with leading Nigerian women from across the spectrum- Public Sector, Private Sector, Civil Society, a mixture of young and old. Co hosted by Meghan the Duchess of Sussex and myself, and moderated by @MoAbudu

Talking about what it means to be a woman leader, how difficult it is to get there, and the sisterhood and brotherhood that is needed to help make leadership work. Also had a fantastic panel made up of Dr @OmobolaJohnsonHon Minister @DrDorisAnite @achenyoio@miss_asagba Dr. Mairo Mandara and CNN’s @StephanieBusari who all shared their special experiences.

Sponsored by "Archewell Women in Leadership"

Soho House's Misan Harriman but not Sparry🤔

She never cared about those less fortunate people The #Kigali of Today is the African Parks Rapes

She adored Elizabeth until she refused to place her in the Ambassador position with Emma Watson. When she had the opportunity for REVENGE she took it out on all the women waiting to meet her at the Fiji Market which included the UN Women and the Royal Tour Staff.

The Malta Ancestry Lie: "oh I do sort of blend in, and it's the loveliest feeling." Unfortunately for the Maltese tourist authority, Meghan's published article made NO MENTION MALTA!!!

"Meghan identifies 1st and foremost as the business woman. Money is Meghan's priority." P77

Numerous Bridges Burned. She has markled herself.

WTO | 2021 News items - History is made: Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala chosen as Director-General

She'sa globalist WEFer: "The General Council decision follows months of uncertainty which arose when the United States initially refused to join the consensus around Dr Okonjo-Iweala and threw its support behind Trade Minister Yoo Myung-hee of the Republic of Korea. But following Ms Yoo's decision on 5 February to withdraw her candidacy, the administration of newly elected US President Joseph R. Biden Jr. dropped the US objection and announced instead that Washington extends its “strong support” to the candidacy of Dr Okonjo-Iweala."

History is made: Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala chosen as Director-General

WTO members made history today (15 February) when the General Council agreed by consensus to select Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala of Nigeria as the organization’s seventh Director-General.

When she takes office on 1 March, Dr Okonjo-Iweala will become the first woman and the first African to be chosen as Director-General. Her term, renewable, will expire on 31 August 2025.

“This is a very significant moment for the WTO. On behalf of the General Council, I extend our warmest congratulations to Dr Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala on her appointment as the WTO's next Director-General and formally welcome her to this General Council meeting,” said General Council Chair David Walker of New Zealand who, together with co-facilitators Amb. Dacio Castillo (Honduras) and Amb. Harald Aspelund (Iceland) led the nine-month DG selection process.

“Dr Ngozi, on behalf of all members I wish to sincerely thank you for your graciousness in these exceptional months, and for your patience. We look forward to collaborating closely with you, Dr Ngozi, and I am certain that all members will work with you constructively during your tenure as Director-General to shape the future of this organization,” he added.

Dr Okonjo-Iweala said a key priority for her would be to work with members to quickly address the economic and health consequences brought about by the COVID-19 pandemic.

“I am honoured to have been selected by WTO members as WTO Director-General,” said Dr Okonjo-Iweala. “A strong WTO is vital if we are to recover fully and rapidly from the devastation wrought by the COVID-19 pandemic. I look forward to working with members to shape and implement the policy responses we need to get the global economy going again. Our organization faces a great many challenges but working together we can collectively make the WTO stronger, more agile and better adapted to the realities of today.” Her full statement is available here.

The General Council decision follows months of uncertainty which arose when the United States initially refused to join the consensus around Dr Okonjo-Iweala and threw its support behind Trade Minister Yoo Myung-hee of the Republic of Korea. But following Ms Yoo's decision on 5 February to withdraw her candidacy, the administration of newly elected US President Joseph R. Biden Jr. dropped the US objection and announced instead that Washington extends its “strong support” to the candidacy of Dr Okonjo-Iweala.

Amb. Walker extended his thanks to all eight of the candidates who participated in the selection process and particularly to Ms Yoo “for her ongoing commitment to and support for the multilateral trading system and for the WTO”. His full statement is available here.

The General Council agreed on 31 July that there would be three stages of consultations held over a two-month period commencing 7 September. During these confidential consultations, the field of candidates was narrowed from eight to five and then two. On 28 October, General Council Chair David Walker of New Zealand had informed members that based on consultations with all delegations Dr Okonjo-Iweala was best poised to attain consensus of the 164 WTO members and that she had the deepest and the broadest support among the membership. At that meeting, the United States was the only WTO member which said it could not join the consensus.

The consultation process undertaken by the chair and facilitators was established through guidelines agreed by all WTO members in a 2002 General Council decision. These guidelines spelled out the key criteria in determining the candidate best positioned to gain consensus is the “breadth of support” each candidate receives from the members. During the DG selection processes of 2005 and 2013, breadth of support was defined as “the distribution of preferences across geographic regions and among the categories of members generally recognized in WTO provisions: that is (Least developed countries), developing countries and developed countries”. This same process, agreed by all members in the General Council in 2020, was strictly followed by Chair Walker and his colleagues throughout the 2020-21 DG selection process.

The process for selecting a new Director-General was triggered on 14 May when former Director-General Mr Roberto Azevêdo informed WTO members he would be stepping down from his post one year before the expiry of his mandate. He subsequently left office on 31 August.

¹Winnie Byanyima UN Under-Secretary Gen & ED of UNAIDS since 2019: "Byanyima was appointed as the executive director of UNAIDS in August 2019, by the United Nations Secretary-General, António Guterres, following a comprehensive selection process that involved a search committee constituted by members of the UNAIDS Programme Coordinating Board. In her new position she concurrently serves as a United Nations Under-Secretary-General. In addition to her role at UNAIDS, Byanyima also serves a two-year term as a member of the World Bank Group’s (WBG) Advisory Council on Gender and Development. Since 2022, she has been a member of the Commission for Universal Health convened by Chatham House and co-chaired by Helen Clark and Jakaya Kikwete."

[amarynthian-chronicles]

Fae Prince Sun, Fae Prince Moon, Fae King Eclipse x Witch Reader

(excerpt from upcoming chapter 5 of Extended Contract)

Warnings: suggestive themes and the usual Fae tomfoolery

“We are running out of vases for me to knock over, Sun.“

“Now, now, practice makes perfect.“

“Yes, I am a professional bulldozer now.“

Sun gave you a gentle tap on the tip of your nose.

“Tut-tut, you sassy darling. I meant for the dancing lesson part, not the damage part. Although, that last crash? Exquisite, definitely recommend it as a new ringtone for your mobile device, it would be an improvement.“

“My dear prince, you may be cute, but not cute enough to get a pass on insulting my taste in music.“

“Permit me to make a retort in a similar manner. Your beauty could place all stars to shame, and you don't get a pass out of this formality either. We will have to open the first dance when we arrive in the Grand Hall, my love.“

“Is this really necessary?“

“Royal etiquette and tradition. Courtly gallantry is of crucial importance. Additionally, one must demonstrate refinement and confidence through their movement, the ability to command attention. You never know what diplomatic affairs or arrangements may be struck in these close encounters where you have to whisper sweet nothings to the other party as you sway them in every sense of the term.“

You blinked at him.

“It's my birthday, Sun. If I want to sit in the corner with a glass of brandy without elaborating anything, then everyone else in the Celestial Court will just have to deal with it.“

He chuckled, tapping the tip of your nose once more. You had half a mind to bite his finger off.

“Admirable attitude, lovely. Completely against court politics, but admirable nonetheless.“

You heard Moon grumble as he was taking care of the shards, waving his hand and letting them disintegrate into blue smoke.

“Clean up, clean up. Since we are already on the topic of practice and perfection, I now officially qualify as a maid.“

You couldn't help but smirk at the lunar Fae.

“Serves you right after laughing at my dancing skills, Moon.“

“Such slanderous words, wishing star. I deny these accusations. I wasn't laughing at your dancing skills, I was laughing at the lack thereof.“

You rolled your eyes and shrugged, turning your gaze back to his twin.

“Sun, your gremlin of a brother does have a point.“

The solar Fae tilted his head in confusion, his sun rays slightly lowering and rising as if they were the ears of a confused puppy.

“He does?“

“We have been practicing this move for the past indeterminate amount of ridiculously long hours and the only thing we accomplished thus far is almost giving Moon a concussion when he fell off the chair cackling like an idiot.“

Moon grinned, shadows moving around him playfully, forming grimaces on the walls as if to accentuate the mirth of their master. As much as he despised the necessity of dealing with broken glass and porcelain, he could not deny that the spectacular disaster he was witnessing was a nice compensation.

“Beautiful witch, your presence makes my soul sing, but do pardon me when I say that if we ever find ourselves in need of getting even with a foe, we will simply send you to dance in their house till you raze it to the ground.“

“I shan't pardon a single thing and you just earned yourself a night of sleeping on the floor, Moon.“

A part of you expected him to retaliate with a wicked trick, but he decided to take a more suave approach, knowing that he could get under your skin in other ways. He extended a shadowy tendril in your direction, allowing it to glide over your cheek and along your neck, making you shudder. Prince Moon knew very well what effect he could have on you, how sensitive you were, both to his touch and his sinfully passionate poetry.

“Divine cruelty, blissful and sweet, flames so tender, my heart eagerly awaits the gentle wrath of fallen stars. I offer my life to my fair beloved, their kisses and their blades equally dear to me. Banishment only stirs the dreams and my arms embrace your form even in the loneliest of dungeons.“

His raspy voice was low and sultry, mesmerizing, worthy of a powerful nocturnal Fae that could enthrall the masses if he so pleased. As he spoke, the shadowy tendril kept caressing your neck and around your collarbone. Desire bloomed in your core, but you did your best to suppress it and get your wits together. Moon was aware of your mental turmoil and he winked at you, grinning,  devious scenarios already playing out in his mind. Wicked man, shameless.

You groaned, flustered and defeated. Like a cranky cat, you tried to swat the dark tendril away, only for it to curl around your wrist.

“Moon, you devil.“

“Your devil, at your service. Command and I shall comply.“

[diaryujin]

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 - 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

summary: Sunghoon has never felt any spark in his heart, none of that silly love he’s read about in novels in his free time. No one interested him, and it wasn’t like his father, the king, would let him have friends, male or female, for fear of being betrayed or developing feelings for them. He lived a life of isolation, excited for nothing – neither the idea of being married to a pretty princess or becoming the next ruler of the Park kingdom. He most certainly did not expect you, his new guard, to change all that. He did not expect you to brighten his days and light up his heart.

includes: no warnings in the teaser!!

death, murder, war/battle, attempted murder (kinda), royal au, romanticized medieval setting of sorts, forced marriage/proposal, a lot of time skips so it moves somewhat quickly, more warnings will be added in the final oneshot

pairing: prince! sunghoon x guard! fem! reader

word count: 904

genre: angst

READ THE FULL FIC HERE !

Sunghoon was reading over some papers pertaining to the kingdom’s matters when he heard a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

One of the guards came in, before bowing upon seeing him.

“Sire, his Majesty wishes to see you.”

He nodded and set the papers in a neat stack. He then put them in a drawer and locked it for security. He then stood up and followed the guard, maintaining a neutral expression.

His mind was working much faster than normal though.

His father was very strict, and the slightest mistake meant an extremely harsh lecture. He flicked through his memories, trying to remember what he could have done wrong, and what he should say as his apology. 

He pursed his lips as a thought crossed his mind - was his recent trip to the colder regions made known to his father? He had gone for administrative work, but he couldn’t resist spending some time there ice skating, which the king always considered useless since it benefited only the person skating, not the country. He had done his best to keep it under wraps, but maybe one of the guards reported this to the king. Damn it.

He mentally slapped himself for using such crude language. Those were the words of peasants and did not suit a prince like him. Holy moly…buckling barnacles, great heavens…such lengthy words to express frustration, he thought. ‘Damn it’ was only two syllables.

As he snapped out of his reverie, he entered the Throne Room. His father was seated on the grand throne at the end of the airy space. The seats where the ministers sat were empty. Court was always in the morning, and it was probably lunchtime by now - the prince wasn’t sure. 

He stood a few feet away from his father. The guard bowed and left, and Sunghoon made eye contact with the old man in front of him. He didn’t seem angry, so the younger relaxed a bit, letting out a sigh.

“Why have you called me here, father?”

“I’ve received some proposals from other kings. They’ve sent me paintings of their daughters. A lovely selection of princesses, I must say.”

Sunghoon had to physically hold himself back from rolling his eyes.

“Father, I’ve already told you this. I am not ready for marriage and I am not interested in this topic.”

“Yes, but it’s good to start early. Maybe you’ll change your mind after-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you Father, but why have you actually summoned me?”

The king narrowed his eyes at his son but didn’t say anything more about the topic.

“Well, I’ve decided to get you a personal guard. There have been many threats of attacks on the palace, so it’s better to take this precaution.”

“Interesting. Will he be with me all the time or-”

“She.”

“What?”

“Your guard is a female.”

To say he was shocked was the understatement of the century. His father? Hiring a woman? As his bodyguard? What if he-

“Are you serious?” “Yes. She is very capable and I’m sure she will protect and serve you well. I trust you to keep your relationship with her strictly professional.”

It wasn’t like he knew how to have a non-professional relationship with anyone outside of his family anyway.

“Yes, Father. Will she be with me at all times?”

“Indeed she will, except for when you are sleeping. At that time, she will stand outside your door and guard you.” “What about her food and sleep?”

“That is not your concern.”

“But-”

“Silence!”

He immediately bowed his head slightly as a sign of remorse for stepping out of line. This was going to be interesting, he thought. He had little to no interaction with women outside of his mother and sister, and the small talk he made with princesses and duchesses of other kingdoms was always awkward. Now he was having someone of the opposite gender, a woman, watching over him nearly 24/7.

He slowed down his train of thought. Why was he thinking like a teenage boy ogling over a girl? He was the crown prince, he was better than that. It was going to be a new experience, that was all.

“May I meet her now?”

“Of course. She’s arriving as we speak.”

Just then, the door opened, and you entered, a male soldier on either side. Sunghoon’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, but nothing came out of it. 

He was having a cultural shock of sorts. All the women he had met were all dainty, graceful and poised - the epitome of perfection. You, on the other hand, had an air of authority about you — rough and firm. A few scars were on your face, probably from battle. You bowed the full 90 degrees, and he could only respond with a small nod.

Oh fuck, you were gorgeous.

And he used foul language again. Stupid Sunghoon, he reprimanded himself.

He didn’t take back what he said, however. Your beauty wasn’t the type written in books or sung in ballads, but it had to be known to the world, somehow. He was almost tempted to write one himself. 

Hold on, why was he thinking all this? His father had just told him to not think anything about you that crossed the lines of professional, and thinking about how pretty you were was not within those lines.

“This is your new personal guard, Y/N.”

a/n: it kinda reads like ‘y/N iS nOt LiKe oThEr gIrLs’ in this bit but i swear that was not the intent! hoon (is a loser) has simply never had real interaction with women who aren’t royals, so pls don’t take it in that manner <3 this is probably going to be my longest oneshot yet, my motivation to write is not completely dead we cheered!!

there is a taglist for this oneshot, lmk if you want to be added on it in my asks!

[twstgarden]

✿ ❝ 𝘀𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿 ❞

━ malleus draconia x gn! reader ━ part 1. you always had a crush on malleus for a while now, but as his soldier, you knew you will never have the chance to confess much less for him to feel the same way towards you. find part 2 here.

slight (?) spoilers for chapter 7! f/n stands for first name.

do not steal or translate without my permission.

as one of malleus' guards, it was expected of you to accompany him everywhere and make sure he's safe from harm. hence why, you are now attending night raven college to guard your future king.

you've been working for briar valley's royal family for more than a century, so you have known malleus longer than you knew silver and sebek, having grown together as you were both around the same age.

he had always treated you with kindness and respect, but never crossed the line of being the future king and his guard, so you never get the chance to share your personal secrets or life with him.

once you were enrolled in night raven college, you were sorted to diasomnia - the exact same dorm as your fellow guards and your future king. you were there whenever they'd have their tea sessions over at the lounge but always found yourself being the listener and observer of the group, never sharing anything about yourself as you knew that the bond these four shares is far deeper than you could fathom.

you were just another guard.

you knew that and yet you still could not etch that into your mind, you were stubborn enough to think that maybe, just maybe, your bond with them will surpass the professional barrier and share loving, family-like ties.

or at least, you were stupid enough, delusional even, to think that the feelings you hold for the man you're serving will be reciprocated.

"so, i've heard queen maleficia wishes to help you find your significant other, malleus... what do you think of it?" asked lilia, which broke you out of your trance, suddenly interested in the conversation but remained silent, as usual.

"hmm..."

a hum escaped malleus' lips, setting down his teacup on its saucer as his sharp green eyes stared at his beverage in deep thought. your eyes were glued on his figure, taking in his features as you awaited for him to share his response. he had always looked strikingly beautiful, malleus was one attractive man and you would never deny that.

you loved everything about him - those striking green eyes of his, his beautiful horns, the adorable child-like smile he would display every time he was happy, his commanding presence, his voice, his powerful skills and abilities, and so on.

there was something about this man that you promise to serve with your whole life, so it was not a surprise that you had fallen for him over the course of your time together.

you snapped out of your thoughts as soon as malleus cleared his throat, preparing to share his response with a smile, "that's fine... i already have someone in mind..."

ah...

stupid.

delusional.

you were stupid enough, delusional even, to think that the feelings you hold for the man you're serving will be reciprocated.

what a joke.

despite the smiles on lilia, silver, and sebek's faces, you remained indifferent as you felt your heart slightly crack. you didn't want to ruin the happy atmosphere as much as you wanted to sigh out in despair and run up to your room, you didn't want them to suddenly be concerned if you decided to storm out.

so you sat there silently, tuning out the conversation as you were no longer interested to listen to something that you knew will hurt your feelings even more.

of course, he has his eyes set on someone.

of course, such a wonderful man would have already picked a perfect partner to spend his whole life with.

and that obviously wasn't you.

you will always be just a guard to him, just another soldier swearing on their own life for his safety and protection. as his guard, his happiness is obviously something you would think about as well, and if he had already found a partner, you should be happy for him.

it sounds easy, doesn't it? to be happy for the man you love falling for someone else, wanting to be in their arms instead of yours. of course, it is easier said than done.

several thoughts swirled in your mind as you spaced out, not bothering to listen to sebek's expression of happiness towards malleus' words, or silver's supportive phrases. you had thought, what if you confessed back then? will things be different now? will he choose to marry you?

ah, what-ifs.

what's the point of being the guard of one of the top mages in the entire wonderland if you don't even have the courage to confess to him?

"lieutenant?"

you snapped out of your trance as soon as you heard lilia's voice calling out to you, addressing you in your official title and not your name.

your bond will never go beyond professional.

"yes...?"

you replied softly, finding no energy to speak after feeling so downhearted. you noticed the hint of concern in your comrades' eyes whilst your future king looked over at you with curiosity as lilia spoke, "you haven't said a word ever since we started sitting on the lounge. is there something on your mind? we've been calling out to you for a while now, but you didn't respond."

"oh... um..."

you couldn't think of a proper excuse as silver asked, "are you tired, lieutenant? you can retire for the night..." you hummed in response as you shook your head, "i'm not tired yet. my apologies for being in a trance and spacing out."

"hmm... well, that's fine since you're with us, but you must remain vigilant when on guard duty. it is troubling to think that you might not be paying attention to malleus or your own safety if you're in a daze," reprimanded lilia as he leaned back on the chair. he may have already been retired, but he was still your mentor, he taught you all the sword-fighting skills that you practice today as well as combat tips that are useful in the field.

you meekly nodded as you mumbled, "yes, sir. my deepest apologies."

the conversation then went on as you proceeded to listen and observe, still not saying a word as you had nothing you wanted to share, finding it unprofessional to start sharing things about your personal life or feelings with them.

hours have passed and everyone has retired to their rooms. as soon as you entered your room and closed the door behind you, you sank to the floor and hugged your knees to your chest, sighing heavily as you covered your face.

"why did i ever think i have a chance with him?"

you spoke to no one in particular, covering your face with your hands as you tried to ignore that aching feeling in your chest. you should have gotten used to these little aches by now, but this time was different, that feeling of heartbreak was slowly affecting you physically. your chest felt heavy as tears threatened to spill down your cheeks with your breathing getting heavier by the second.

"i love you for as long as i can remember. i would carve out my own heart if it means i could be with you, but you do not feel the same way as i do. i'll always be just another retainer to you, but you will always be my whole world."

© twstgarden 2023 || please do not steal, translate without my permission, or use this to train a.i.