#i feel like this thought process could also apply to husk

[urproblematicfav-arsonk]

Consider Alastor stripping in front of Vox and when Vox is like "holy shit ur comfortable enough around me to be naked??" and Alastor laughs at him and says "Do you think I get embarrassed when taking my clothes off in front of my couch or dresser? Why would I be embarrassed because I'm naked in front of a TV?"

[amaranthineoceans]

Everything Weird About Deltarune!

Spoiler Warning for Undertale and Both Chapters of Deltarune! Really! I Literally Go Through Everything I Can Remember About Them!

This is a long post so get comfortable. Also note that my brain doesn't process thoughts into words very well so some of these might not be worded in the best way. :)

Deltarune. The first teaser chapter was released on October 31, 2018, and it came out of nowhere. We've all gone through this, but I'll try and go through every single painstaking detail I can remember. Feel free to reblog and add/correct things.

The weirdness begins right off the bat. The title is an anagram of UNDERTALE. We all know Toby likes to use anagrams when he wants to indirectly tell us when things are related, so it's no surprise that when you go to download DELTARUNE, it warns you that the game is designed for people who have played UNDERTALE. You think, "Cool, so it's a sequel? Or maybe a prequel? A different perspective of UNDERTALE perhaps?" You were wrong; so terribly, terribly wrong! I'll elaborate on this later.

Before you download the application, the terms of service that you must agree to beforehand reads simply and plainly, "You accept everything that will happen from now on." This detail was kinda brushed off in the beginning, because, hey, it's Toby Fox. He does weird stuff all the time. But even in the first chapter, it's apparent that the concept of choice, or more accurately, the lack of it, is a very present theme in the game. I would like to remind you that Toby has announced that there will be one ending in the game. One. I'll elaborate on this later.

The program (as in, what the game is called in your files) is named SURVEY PROGRAM. Why not just call it Deltarune like it is when you download chapter two?

The game launches you, without a title screen, without any setting adjustment options, straight into a reference to the theme of the entire franchise: the lack of choice. A strange formless voice guides you through "making a vessel", with what we know now as a fountain in the background. You have the option to make some very disturbing choices in this character creator, such as making its favorite flavor "pain" or expressing your feelings about it with options such as "fear" and "disgust." You name your "creation," tell the formless voice your name (which is different from your vessel's name) and watch as said formless voice muses over your name at an agonizing pace. It thanks you for your time and tells you that your wonderful creation, (cue music cutout and background removal) will now be discarded. "No one can choose who they are in this world." The screen slowly turns white as the voice says, "Your... name... is..."

It gets weirder. The next scene appears from the whiteness and showcases Toriel calling "Kris" out of bed. Kris' area of the room is very bare in contrast to the other side, which we later discover is Asriel's.

It's Toriel. Why is Toriel here?

Kris is kind of an anagram of Frisk (the protagonist of UNDERTALE) but without the F. I highly doubt this is a coincidence.

Speaking with Noelle is the only reason you can proceed (see what i did there?) while finding a partner in the classroom. This means you can't go through the 1st chapter without knowing who she is. Is it because of the Snowgrave route?

Ralsei is just suspicious to me. There's no way he was just waiting in that castle his whole life alone without some mental toil. So either he's insane or he wasn't alone the whole time. What happened? Is it related to how he can close his eyes and see what Susie is going through when she's apart from the party? Was he just watching everything? Is he related to the formless voice?

Susie's icon is the only one without color in the Dark World.

Jevil's fight is more difficult than Sans'.

Your actions have little consequence in the first chapter. If you choose to go genocide, the only difference in the ending is being run out of the kingdom, and this doesn't carry over to the next chapter. Again, lack of choice, people.

If at the end of chapter one, you walk around town, it's mentioned (notably by Noelle) that you're usually not this talkative. If you go to the hospital and speak with the receptionist, they mention that you used to play the piano in the corner. If you decide to attempt to play the said piano, an out-of-key bash can be heard and the receptionist comments on how you used to play beautifully. If you try this in chapter two, the result is the same. All this is confirmation that Kris is acting noticeably weird.

When you leave the Dark World and walk around town, you can find Sans. He "pretends" to recognize you, and if you tell him you recognize him, he tells you it's funny, considering that you two have never met before. He winks. I'm pretty sure he knows that the player is there.

The mention of Papyrus in both games, but the purposeful lack of him. Like he's avoiding you.

If you go upstairs while inside Asgore's flower shop, there are flowers in glass cases resembling his SOUL collection in UNDERTALE. There's a red flower.

You can't enter the church.

The clock in the storage closet shows a different time than all the others in the school.

If you go all the way south in town and into the woods, the music stops and you come across a rusty, double door is in a hill covered in crass. It's locked. If you go this way in chapter two, however, you watch a cutscene where you and susie happen to find Monster Kid from UNDERTALE (or someone resembling them) and an owl kid in front of the door. The owl kid is pressuring Monster Kid to (presumably) break inside, telling them that they don't want to be a wimp like Kris. Does this imply that Kris is connected to this strange door somehow?

The ending. You know what I'm talking about.

Did Kris actually rip out the SOUL (I say "the" because I'm not entirely sure it's Kris') and knife because they wanted to eat the pie? Did they only eat the pie because Toriel caught them?

Why did they look at the player? Are they sick of being controlled? Is that why they freaked out after the Spamton fight? (later)

Anyway, now we're at chapter two.

DELTARUNE Chapter Two was released on September 17th, 2021. 17. Entry Number 17. Sound familiar?

Asriel's part of the room is different from the last chapter. I don't think this means anything sinister, but I think it means Kris notices different things about the room as the story progresses. My theory is that it will become more sinister in each chapter.

Ralsei getting super excited to see Susie and Kris after a day. As in he has separation anxiety and it breaks my heart. not anything suspicious but it makes me sad so it's on the list.

Kris and Susie's rooms. Ralsei REALLY doesn't want them to leave. Seriously get this boy a therapist. Or a stuffed animal. SOMETHING.

Kris having to gather everything from the storage closet so that people appear in the Dark World????? Why??????????????? They had to do the same thing for the computer lab too.

The golden door. I don't trust it.

How/why the heck did Noelle and Berdley go into the Computer Lab Dark World? I don't see either of them just walking into pulsing void doors without Susie.

Apparently the knight has been gone for a bit and can corrupt people's minds? The king in the first chapter doesn't seem like he can be redeemed but Queen just seems,,, not bad, but a little crazy. I wonder what happened.

Then again, name ONE person in this franchise without trauma.

Spamton.

Horror doesn't bother me. Spamton? Spamton bothers me.

SPAMTON. ENOUGH SAID.

A Kromer is a type of hat invented in the '70s. Nobody named Mike is associated with it, that I can find.

SPAMPTON. HOW DO I EVEN DESCRIBE IT.

HIS SONG IS THE ONLY ONE WITH WORDS.

The way he asks Kris is they want to be a heart on a chain their whole life. Like, dude, no wonder they were screaming after the fight.

WHERE DID THE YELLOW HEART COME FROM. YELLOW MEANS JUSTICE. WHY DOES JUSTICE APPLY.

Kris screaming after the fight and the player not being able to hear it. Don't you dare tell me that's just how the game is designed. There are sound effects characters make throughout the game. None that I can think of apply to Kris, apart from when they rip their soul out.

Ralsei brushing off the Spamton fight. Either that's his coping mechanism or he was trying to shut Susie and Kris up to protect them from... something. I'll touch on that in a minute.

According to Queen, DETERMINATION is a key factor in creating a fountain.

Also according to Queen, Kris, Noelle, and Susie all have DETERMINATION SOULS.

Ralsei freaking out about Berdley making a fountain implies that he may also have DETERMINATION. Why I'm bringing all this up will make sense soon.

How was Noelle able to cast Snowgrave... a spell that she, according to her, didn't know?

The Snowgrave route is so twisted.

You manipulate Noelle into killing Berdley and then, when you get back to the computer lab and investigate his corpse, the text box says that he doesn't seem to be awake. As if you're in denial?

Burgerpants recognizes you. Not Kris. As in the player.

The ending. I don't think I need to describe it. Kris is very methodical without the SOUL. (I say "the" because, again, I'm not 100% convinced it's theirs.) I'm saying this about how they left clues that someone broke into the This proves that they are NOT a mindless, vengeful husk.

HOW DID THEY MAKE THE FOUNTAIN WITHOUT THE SOUL INSIDE OF THEM. DID THEY FEED THE SOUL TO IT AFTERWARDS? IS THAT WHAT THAT WAS?

Another point I would like to make is my theory that Ralsei knows much more than he would have us believe. I might put this into a different post because I have yet to gather my points into a coherent bullet point list, so keep an eye out for that.

Anyway apart from Toriel and Susie being VERY heavy sleepers, I think I've gone through everything. I have a few theories.

1. Kris is possessed by the player and figured out that they could make a fountain from Queen and related to Spamton freaking out about freedom. They then decided to make a fountain going by the logic that "this would tick the player off." This is one of my top theories that assumes that the SOUL is theirs.

And 2. Kris is possessed by both the player and the knight. I think the formless voice at the very beginning of the game is the knight, and they somehow needed the player to possess someone with DETERMINATION. If so, then why Kris? We know from Queen that Noelle and Susie, and maybe even Berdley also have DETERMINATION. The most plausible thing I can think of is the fact that human souls are stronger than monster ones.

I do think that the popular theory (about the one that suggests that the Dark Word is nothing but a figment of a child's imagination, and the events that occur in said Dark World are simply children playing with toys) has been thoroughly dashed due to Berdley's murder in the genocide route of the second chapter. Unless he's not dead. Regardless, how the events (or lack thereof) that occur in the second chapter play through the next will be interesting, especially considering Toby's announcement about how there will be one ending to the game. So either Berdley isn't dead, or he will be.

Aaaand I think that's it! Sorry for the long post; let me know your thoughts and if I missed anything!

[mx-metronome]

Sky Theory: The Light and The Darkness

A post about my thoughts on light, darkness, how they react to one another, and (possibly) what it all implies regarding the Eye of Eden. (Spoilers ahead!)

I wrote a post about the civilization we see rise and fall, but today we're going to delve a little deeper into how the story might really be going, from the conflict to the climax to a possible resolution.

To quote the game's story (from the updated Isle of Dawn):

"With the stars united, our light was infinite...and together, we lived in harmony."

It is well established that light is a valuable resource that the spirits relied on, and way back at the beginning, it was also a renewable one: Winged Light fell from the sky continuously, a symbol of innocence and purity as a gift from the Megabird. Because it was infinite, the spirits all flourished, and there was no squabbling over a scarcity.

"As spirits, we soon became many...creating our home here in the clouds."

Here is where the civilization really starts to grow, specifically in the Daylight Prairie stage. The spirits' needs are all met every day of every year. But somewhere down the line, their basic need wasn't enough for them anymore. As they grew in number, so too did they grow in curiosity and want.

"But darkness came and the stars fell...

This sentence here sums up the remainder of our story, although what take place over the course of this sentence is an entire age. Here's how I feel it goes down:

The darkness coming literally refers to darkstone being discovered, and how its potential in advancing the people tempts them away from the comfort of their infinite light. The spirits did not have the light ripped away from them: they chose the darkness over light and turned away willingly, severing themselves from the stars. The Winged Light stop falling and become a precious commodity.

So they toy with this newly discovered darkstone and find that it reacts to light: as light is applied to any kind of darkness, it gives off energy, a rudimentary sort of power generation. There are several pieces of evidence to confirm this:

Darkstone technology only activates when you apply your light to it.

In fact, whenever you activate a darkstone door in the Hidden Forest, you recharge a little bit of cape energy, suggesting excess energy is produced in the reaction.

Darkness plants, when exposed to light, are used up in the process (as they are less dense than darkstone), but they release candle wax in the reaction, a concentrated form of energy.

However, as mentioned above, you need light for the darkness to be of any use to advancements, and now that supply is finite. The spirits must now find alternate sources of light, and the only source available to them at this time is the creatures of light.

The prairie begins transporting butterflies en masse to the forest to be broken down, and their light is channeled through their dark machinations to keep things running. As the butterflies become scarce, they look to mantas instead, and so on.

The civilization continues to grow and with it their demand for light, but the supply continues to dwindle. The scarcity of light is now threatening the people, and an ultimatum must be reached. They need a reliable, renewable source of power, one that can run almost indefinitely, so the King has one built, for the future of his people and their way of life. That's right: the Eye of Eden was never a weapon, but a near-infinite energy source, like a nuclear plant.

The finest engineers gather at the capital city and splice together mass quantities of darkstone into one megalith, only requiring enough light to kickstart a chain reaction. The reaction would cause a feedback loop: the energy emitted by the light-dark reaction would be enough light to perpetuate the reaction for an extended period of time, and any excess energy can be harvested or siphoned off and used to power the grid.

The people have spread far and wide and into different factions, each jealously guarding what little light they have left, knowing the King has intent to seize it. Skirmishes turn into battles turn into a full scale war. The desperation of each front has them all take the glorious darkness and turn it into weapons, and in this production of arms the people are failing to realize the true long-term side effects of utilizing darkness: pollution.

The weapons are produced as close to the front lines as the people could safely manage, hence the heavy pollution in the Golden Wasteland, just outside the capital. The water becomes thick and near impossible to sail through; the light from the light creatures begins to react to the darkness in the air and water, hence the presence of krill and dark crabs twisted by the corrupting dusts. The people try to infiltrate the capital city to seize the light that the King was hoarding. Perhaps some of the elders were even privvied to the King's plan and were working to defend him to save their own factions of people. Perhaps some of the elders even fought each other over differing ideals regarding the new generator.

As a last-ditch effort, the King moves the generator to as close to the sky as he can in a futile attempt to harness the holy light of the stars they had turned away from ages before. He hopes that the reaction will reach high enough to begin drawing in star power, slowly draining the heavens to keep his people alive.

He gathers any light left in the capital city and sends it through the machine, and the reaction kicks off in an instant. The power is greater than the engineers had calculated, and it is too great for them to harness; the wave of energy is massive enough to wipe out most of the denizens in the city within the first few seconds. The displacement of energy creates fierce winds and kicks up poisonous dust clouds, even scooping up entire bricks and boulders and flinging them through the air.

The mighty capital begins to crumble under the weight of this blazing light, and the flinging rocks tear down surrounding cities, picking up more debris as it grinds away at buildings. The dark dusts scatter across the land, settling over what few survivors remain, reacting to their inner Light and encasing them in stone, leaving them with no light left to return to Orbit whence they came.

The people had fallen to the darkness and its powerful properties, using up all their precious light to maintain their mortal existence. Now there is no light left and no way home. All that is left of their existence is husks of darkness, broken bones of old cities, and a radioactive storm with an unholy hybrid of light and darkness at it center that will run its course for thousands of years more.

"...and with their light we faded away."

...But not without one last plea.

"A long time has passed. Now we call to you."

In their last few moments, some groups of people, those who still had faith that they'd rejoin the stars, began to pray. They stated prophecies, chanted incantations into the sky, erected shrines with candles, hoping that their selfless offerings of light would grant them grace. That somehow Megabird would hear their cries and send them a chance at redemption, a chance at attaining Her inner Light once again.

And so the Megabird sent down the Winged Light again, hoping it would be enough to begin healing the land. But She did not quite understand the inner workings of this darkness, for it was beyond Her: this Light was fragile, and couldn't stand up against the darkness that swallowed the sky. She needed a vessel able to carry this Light safely into the heart of darkness where Her people slumbered.

So She learned of the darkness and how it cancelled out Light, and in response, she created the first sky kids.

"Go forth, child. Return our spirits to the stars."

Sky kids are different from spirits in many ways. Firstly, spirits are also creatures of light in that they originate from Orbit. It was their go-to source of energy and sustenance. But that connection between the spirits and all the light they'd ever need was so easily broken by the want that darkness produced, and their sensitivity to this darkness made them fall prey easily when it fell out of control.

By contrast, sky kids were created as instruments of the Megabird, shells carrying Her fragile Light within. They are not beings of pure light, but that's the point: they were designed to withstand darkness, and granting them a corporeal form provides more protection for Her Light from darkness than otherwise.

So the first sky kids go and deliver their inner Light to what fallen spirits they can find. The elders see the coming of the sky kids as Megabird's answer to their pleas, as Her Light is within them, and as the sky kids present their Light to the elders, they are able to reconnect with the stars and send up the spirits freed from darkness. So begins the pilgrimage back to Orbit, spearheaded by an army of children.

The first sky kids free some of the spirits and then head to the capital where light and darkness collide, the point nearest the stars. Megabird's intent was for the collected Winged Light in the hands of the sky kids to be enough pure Light to dispel the storm, but the darkness is too great, and as the Light was torn from them, they had no Light left to keep away the darkness, and they fell at the summit with no way of returning to Her.

So She sent more sky kids, thinking greater numbers would aid Her will. But two things began to happen, things She did not foresee: the sky kids, blank slates with no discernable emotions or features, learned from the spirits they saved: they learned how to wave hello, they learned how to laugh, how to cry, how to cheer, and so on. They even began taking on some of the fashions from the spirits! They presented individuality, suggesting that Megabird's Light was more than just pure Light: it was also a soul in its own right, much like the spirits that came before.

The second thing that happened was at the summit of the Eye of Eden, as it came to be called: when the sky kids realized their Winged Light wouldn't survive the Storm, they passed it on to fallen sky kids instead so that they may ascend back to Orbit and rejoin Megabird, at the cost of their own ascension. This soul of Light each sky kid carried not only established a personality, but also compassion, as Her Light was always meant to do. Sky kids were drawn to one another, and they started to work like teams and help one another out. They gave each other offerings of light as symbols of friendship and acceptance, not unlike the spirits' desperate offerings of light and candles to Megabird.

The Eye of Eden is the purest, most powerful light colliding with the purest, most potent darkness, which makes it an ideal euphemism for death: suffering and then release. It is the door to Orbit, but their possessions - their Winged Light - will be left behind. They only carry their deeds in their darkest time, which they are rewarded for after the fact.

When they came to Orbit at last, Megabird lauded them for their sacrifice and kindness, and invited them to remain with Her. But many of them expressed distress and dismay for all the sky kids still down in the clouds that needed help, and all the friends that they would miss. So She sent them back with two boons: additional Light granted by the spirits they helped ascend, and the knowledge needed to guide other sky kids back to Her.

Even if not everyone would rejoin Her in the Light, it brought Her comfort that Her Light was spread across an aching kingdom, sharing hope and peace to those who couldn't be near to Her.

[eyemarked]

potential ending theory: a world without fear

i have a theory about a possible ending of the magnus archives that i think would be satisfyingly horrific, thematically appropriate, and well-foreshadowed. i’m sure that someone has already thought about this basic concept, but my reasoning is a bit elaborate so i just wanted to lay out some thoughts and document my own theory process. 

i think that everyone in the world is going to become fearless like georgie, killing the entities forever. this will also involve the extinction. reasoning under the cut:

(given how many different connections i’m making here, and how long this post ended up being, i’ve bolded important words/phrases in some sections for accessibility. this whole post is the equivalent of a messy red string board, so i hope it makes more sense this way!)

the setup

georgie barker is established in ep 94 dead woman walking to be fearless, and thus immune to the effects of the entities. this trait of hers is due to an encounter she had with the end, which affected her deeply and changed her on a fundamental level, removing her fear.

there’s a fundamental question here that has not been addressed by canon: how and why would an encounter with the end remove a person’s fear in such a unique way? why would the end benefit from georgie’s state of fearlessness?

jon establishes in ep 164 the sick village that “[the entities] can’t be destroyed while there are still people to fear them.”

oliver banks establishes in ep 168 roots that the end will eventually consume all of humanity, leaving the world a lifeless husk and starving the entities to death in the absence of anyone to fear them.

oliver also speculates that “[as] the other Entities grow in their awareness of their own end, the grotesque ripples of their own impossible panic shall glut and feed my master, gorging it to the point where – perhaps it will even surpass the Watcher in prominence.”

note how the phrasing implies a level of sentience and consciousness! according to oliver, the entities themselves can feel fear - specifically, fear of their own death.

various people in season 5, most notably jon himself, have referred to the apocalypse as “the change”.

the extinction, also known as the terrible change, was speculated by adelard dekker to be an emerging power fueled by the human fear of, quote ep 134 time of revelation: “catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be us, and leave something else in its place ... leave us something alien and cold. We will press a button that in a moment will destroy everything we have ever been.”

in ep 94, georgie explains that her encounter with the end initially took away all her emotions and left her numb.

the very first adelard dekker statement was a manifestation of the end that initially appeared to be the extinction.

in ep 157 rotten core, adelard dekker speculates that the extinction might be “an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore.”

in ep 168, martin, who had spent the entirety of season 4 studying the extinction, mistakenly refers to oliver banks’ end domain as “the rotten core”.

as established in ep 111 family business, the flesh is a relatively new animal fear of slaughterhouses. it manifests as body horror to humans because animal fear “gets weird [when it] gets mixed all up with human neuroses”.

in other words, if a fear originates in one type of mind, its manifestations can get weird and oblique when applied to a different type of mind.

in ep 175 epoch, while they are in a domain of the extinction, jon indirectly references ep 168: “Everything ends, I suppose. Even this place. Can’t last forever. Eventually… it will die as well.” 

notably, this is seemingly the only instance in season 5 of jon independently bringing up the conclusions made in oliver’s report.

the theory

the extinction is not entirely an entity in its own right (or maybe it is; fear soup!). in fact, the extinction is a manifestation or offshoot of the end, filtered through the minds of the entities themselves.

in other words, the extinction is the “entity” of the other entities’ fear of their own death.

the entities can only die if there is no one left to fear them; the extinction is actually the fear of this scenario - i.e. a world where no one fears them.

when filtered through a human mind, this fear becomes the “extinction” manifestations that we’ve seen in the podcast, in the same way that the fear of slaughterhouses becomes the flesh when filtered through a human mind.

georgie’s encounter with the end in university was actually a manifestation of the extinction; in fact, georgie herself is now a manifestation of the extinction.

georgie’s existence as a fearless human being, completely immune to the entities, is a constant memento mori for them - a reminder to the entities that they are capable of death (specifically, death by starvation). the end/extinction uses her to fuel and feed off this fear.

the apocalypse ritual in 160 did, in fact, kick off the full manifestation of the extinction, in that the state of the world has now gone from “the entities might hypothetically be capable of dying” to “the entities will inevitably die and will eventually be fully aware of this fact.” 

the show will end with the fulfillment of the extinction - all of humanity stripped of fear, as georgie was (and perhaps of other basic emotions as well, in the same way that georgie’s encounter initially left her lacking all feelings). this will kill the entities, but also fundamentally change the nature of humanity forever.

to tie this back around to what i’ve been saying: the extinction is described as the fear that humanity will end, or change in some way to become unrecognizable and alien. and a human race completely without fear would definitely be exactly that.

the thematic relevance and narrative closure

the entities as a metaphor for capitalism has always been in the subtext of the show, but as other, better meta has noted, season 5 has seriously ramped it up and made it much more obvious and present. what better way to resolve the podcast and the problem of the entities than by destroying the entire fear system at its foundations?

demonstrating that individual action and even system-wide reform (i.e. jon's plan in ep 194 parting to take over and appoint "good" people to avatarhood) will not ever lead to real long-term change, and that the only way to truly defeat the system is to rip it out at the roots? 

as well as acknowledging that doing so is far from an ideal solution due to the immediate inevitable harm that the upheaval would cause to countless innocent people, but would potentially lead to a better and safer future for humanity in the long run?

oliver banks’ statement from ep 168 has not yet become relevant. given how big of a game-changer it is in terms of the stakes of the decisions the characters are making, i would be baffled if the finale didn’t involve it in some way.

going by the way that tma’s writing and structure has previously set up its big twists, georgie’s fearlessness should factor into a plot point in a major way. this has not yet happened, and so given how close we are to the finale, it’s got to be a part of the finale if it’s a part of anything at all.

obviously, i might be wrong; all of this could be complete nonsense. but given the amount of setup for the concept that the entities will die if no one fears them, and the fact that this scenario hasn’t been brought up in-podcast as a possibility at all yet, it feels pretty probable to me. at the very least, regardless of whether my elaborate redstringing about the extinction is correct or not, i think we’re getting an ending involving a world without fear.

[mtreebeardiles]

Restoration WIP

Some work has been done on Restoration Ch. 12!  I am still very bad at writing action!

Ay!

Blargh, hopefully it’ll be done sometime this week. Also hoping I managed to recapture Shawn’s voice from when he was a lot less sure of himself womp

It was pitch black on the Citadel.

 The arms were closed and the station was indeed moving, so clearly there had to be power somewhere. Shawn just wasn't sure where, or how to access it. The only blessing, really, was the fact that reaper husks? Tended to glow. 

 Less of a blessing was being completely unarmed when the takeover had started. 

 "You should really let me take a look at that."

 The words were pitched low, close to his ear, and Shawn huffed out a sigh of frustration. The would-be Shattered Eezo competitor -- Charley, as she'd introduced herself -- was crammed behind him where they were currently seeking refuge in a storage closet. Lights out, waiting for the group of reapers to make their way past, but she knew he'd been hit on the way here. 

 "It's fine."

 "It isn't."

 "How would you even know?"

 He heard her inhale sharply, cool fingers wrapping loosely around his wrist as she leaned in closer. "Because I'm a fucking nurse, asshole. So let me look at it, and clean it with what I can while we have a moment."

 Shawn grit his teeth. "Fine. Turn on your omni-tool for just a minute, okay? Be quick about it."

 Light was more dangerous for them than sound, seeing as the rest of the Strip was a cacophony of screaming and gunfire. 

 Dim orange light illuminated Charley's face as she called up her 'tool, shadows sharpened around the curve of her frown and furrow of her brow. "Hoodie off."

 Shawn complied, biting back a snarky retort. He winced as the movement jostled his shoulder, where he'd taken a blow from a husk's surprisingly sharp grasp. Blood had seeped through the gray material, his shirt underneath torn to mark the points of entry. 

 "Looks worse than it is," Charley mused after a moment, carefully peeling the material of his shirt out of the way. "It's not much, but I do have some medi-gel and antiseptic…" 

 "How much?"

 "…maybe one or two deployments."

 Shawn sighed. "Use as little as you can -- we don't know when we're gonna need more for a bigger problem."

 He didn't specify if; if was a given at this point. 

 Charley nodded, mouth pursed tight, and carefully applied the cleaning spray and gel. It hardened over the wounds in seconds, more pliable and resistant than anything else they could have used. 

 "…thanks."

 "No problem." 

 She shut down her 'tool, plunging them back into darkness. 

 Or, technically, plunging Charley into darkness, because Shawn actually had little issue navigating. 

 It wasn't so much processing of visual information as it was following heat signatures and collaborating that data with other elements, like sound, where he could. It happened so fast that it barely tripped him up going from meager light back to full dark. 

 Which would have been super useful if he didn't have a civilian who couldn't see in tow. 

 Almost as if she could hear his thoughts, Charley spoke up again. "So what's the game plan, hot shot?"

 "Get you somewhere safe."

 "Me? Not us?" 

 "You," he agreed. "Then I have other shit to do."

 "Like what? Go grocery shopping?" 

 And he started to wonder if her flippancy was maybe a defense mechanism against fear. He wasn't the best at reading other people's tone or emotional state, even with direct visual cues. But he could tell her breathing was fast and shallow, he could feel the tremble in her body pressed against his back, and he imagined keeping the waver out of her voice was the best she could do under the admittedly not-so-great circumstances. 

 But even suspecting this didn't change the other thing Shawn wasn't particularly good at: 

 Comforting. 

 So he opted for the next best thing. 

 "Yeah, heard there was a sale on ice cream. Like actual dairy ice cream, believe it or not. Figured now's the best time, you know, no line or anything, what with the station being invaded."

 Silence for a beat, then another, and his lips tugged into a small, victorious grin at her quiet snort of laughter. 

 "You ready to move?"

 A shaky inhale, but a quiet "yes" and her hand coming to rest on his shoulder told him she was as ready as she could be. 

 ----

 Between the two of them and their combined familiarity with the area, with the added bonus of Shawn's ability to navigate in darkness, the pair had no issue figuring out where they needed to go. 

 The issue was more a matter of how. 

 Glints of eerie blue in the darkness told them where husks were, but those weren't the only reaper forces bearing down on the station. Every so often Shawn would spot something that looked an awful lot like a Turian surrounded by some glowing, undulating energy. And in spots where fires had broken out he'd seen bulbous, four-eyed creatures feasting on the corpses of the dead -- reaper and non-reaper alike. He still wasn't sure what manner of monster made the high-pitched keening noise, but he had a feeling he didn't want to find out. 

 "God," Charley breathed as they ducked inside a nearby restaurant. They were almost to the apartment, and Shawn hoped Shepard had left some weapons and armor behind. "They just…ripped them apart." 

 He glanced over to see the woman staring down at the shredded corpses of humans and Asari. Off to the side was what remained of a Hanar, the bulk of its body eaten away. 

 "Try to stay focused," he said, scanning for other bodies and huffing a sigh of relief when he spotted one with a C-Sec uniform. He moved to it and knelt, freeing the dead man of his sidearm. Not as much ammo as he was hoping for, but it would do. 

 "You're taking that?"

 "He doesn't need it."

 She winced, and Shawn inwardly cursed. Callous, he imagined, or outright disrespectful, but he wasn't sure of a gentler way to explain it. The need was obvious enough, and either she'd come around or she wouldn't. 

 Shawn intended to ensure she could think about it as long as she needed to. 

 Clearly not a nurse in the Alliance, he thought, moving to another promising corpse and grabbing the gun off that one, too. 

 "…should I have a weapon?" she asked after a moment. The fire burning outside cast the shadows on her face in sharp relief, highlighting the pinch of worried brown eyes and her lower lip caught between her teeth. 

 "Do you know how to shoot?"

 "No."

 "Then no."

 Shawn huffed out a sigh, drumming his fingers against his knee as he remained kneeling beside the second C-Sec corpse. 

 "C'mere," he said, getting to his feet. 

 She approached, a touch warily he noted, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it right now. She seemed to trust him in a way that immediately relevant, at least. 

 "Turn on your omni-tool," he instructed, pulling up his own. Once she had he brought his close, transferring a program from his to hers. 

 "What's that?"

 "Omni-blade," he explained. "And…" He glanced down at the body. "I can give you a shield, too, if you like."

 She chewed on her lip, understanding his implication easily enough. Her shoulders sagged, and she nodded mutely. 

 "Hey, uh… I know this isn't like…easy or whatever," he began after a moment as he worked to set up the shield for her use. "And I'm sure it bothers you, us taking stuff like this, but… I don't really think they're gonna mind. Like their spirits or whatever."

 She sniffled, eyes glancing up to meet his. He squirmed, but managed to return her gaze despite how badly he wanted to look elsewhere. It felt important, somehow, that he not shy away, even as he felt the weight of her attention like a microscope honing in on all the ways he came up short. 

 "You believe in spirits?"

 "Like ghosts and shit? I don't know, maybe," he replied with a shrug. "I'm not exactly eager to test the theory out any time soon, though."

 A twitch of her lips, but a smile was a smile no matter how weak. 

 "…you a soldier, then?" she asked as they swept the rest of the area for anything useful. "Alliance?"

 "No."

 "C-Sec?"

 "Also no."

 "You clearly have some sort of training," she pointed out. "And…"

 Shawn tensed as she trailed off. At some point he'd lost his hat, and he'd left his ruined hoodie back in the storage closet. Visuals weren't great with the only source of light the skycar currently burning just outside, but they'd been here long enough for her to get a good look at him. 

 "Are you twins?"

 His shoulders relaxed a touch. 

 Twins. Brothers. Family. A simple enough lie, one Shepard had already set in stone, but it felt different, somehow, coming from Shawn himself. A tie, something capable of transcending the lie, if given enough time. An idea that could be fostered, if he made it through this. 

 If they both made it through this. 

 "Shit!"

 "Evvy, what--"

 Gray eyes a mirror of his own, fear for fear, and his hand was gripping his, a body limned in blue, but it didn't matter, they were falling, and he didn't want this, didn't want him to fall, too, didn't want --

 "Yes," he replied gruffly, shaking the memory away. "We're twins."

 "I had no idea Commander Shepard had a brother."

 "We're…recently reunited."

 She hummed, accepting this as easily as C-Sec had, and his throat felt tight all over again. 

 Hopefully it'll still have the chance to be true once this shit is over. 

 He didn't know where or in what capacity, but he knew Everett was fighting, too. He hoped his friends were with him. He hoped he'd done what he could to prepare. 

 He hoped, with an intensity stronger than anything he'd ever felt in his short life, that he would see him again.

[itsclydebitches]

Until proven otherwise, my headcanon is that both Ironwood and Watts survived and are going to team up again out of necessity lmao.

HI, ANON. So let me tell you about how this simple, silly sentence sent me down a 4k writing rabbit hole. “Lol I’m going to write a little parody about that” I thought to myself and then somehow? It got serious?? I honestly don’t know what this fic is, but I’m chucking it at everyone anyway. 

Also, I changed the whole “Atlas and Mantle are immediately submerged in water” plot point because it’s my coping mechanism and I get to choose the canon we ignore. 

***

Once upon a time there were two villains having a Very Bad Day.

The first, Arthur Watts, had survived an explosion, being buried under rubble, and the threat of a ten-story drop only to find himself suffocating amidst a magically produced fire. A horrible way to go, all things considered. Painful, of course, but more importantly, no self-respecting man should die with soot on his clothes.

Or leave behind a charred corpse. 

In fact, Watts had just begun to acknowledge the full indignity of his death when the momentum he'd felt — just there on the periphery of his awareness — suddenly ceased, Atlas crashing into Mantle and throwing him with a squawk in the process. His head took a nasty hit against one of the desks, the smoky gray of the room growing darker, and by the time Watts had come to, the fire had been replaced by water.

Ice-cold water, lapping up to his knees.

"Well," he said, lifting a sodden boot. "I suppose this is an improvement."

***

Elsewhere, James Ironwood — former General of the now sinking Kingdom of Atlas — was lying facedown on the stone of the outer vault, contemplating his choices. Upon reflection, no, he didn't regret what he'd done, but it would have been nice if things had turned out...any way other than this.

"Fuck," he said to the empty hall, enjoying the reverberation. He deserved that much at least.

In time, Ironwood was able to pick himself up off the floor, supported as much by the fact that he'd been knocked out by his own blast as his shaky, barely-there aura. Up the elevator running on emergency dust reserves, through the corridors that groaned ominously under damaged supports. Ironwood headed towards the military headquarters purely out of habit and as he did the sound of water grew stronger, almost like waves, until there was an inch of it across the floor, more trickling in from the staircase. Ironwood had been watching his boots splash with each step, almost mesmerized, and didn't look up until another pair unexpectedly entered his view.

Watts froze in the act of wringing out his pantleg, eyes wide. His expression, the water, how the hallway tilted downward at a slight angle... it all felt like something out of a dream. Ironwood just watched as Watts watched him, until his eyes traveled to the gun clipped on his belt. Ironwood hadn't even realized he'd picked it up.

"Here to kill me, James?" Watts said.

"No." He knew it was true as soon as he'd said it. The mere thought of starting another fight right now was... exhausting. "Do you intend to kill me?"

"Oh really. Does it look as if I'm in a position to fight you? Do use your head for once. I have no weapon, no aura — damn fire ate it all up — I feel as if I've swallowed a hot coal, I am wet — "

Ironwood turned partway through the ramble, meandering back up the way he'd come. He'd passed through two checkpoints before realizing that Watts was not only still talking, but following him.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to shut the man up than out of real curiosity. If Watts was capable of reading the difference between the two, he didn't show it.

"Cinder."

"Cinder?"

"I don't make a habit of allowing people to try and murder me without consequence, James!"

"She's gone."

"Yes, thank you for that stunning bit of info! There's no possible way I could have realized that for myself. What's gotten into you? They left us, fool. Salem, Cinder, Neo, Emerald, even your so-called allies... they all deserve the worst that we can grant them. Though right now, I'd settle for wringing that idiot Pietro's neck. Ten years I gave to that research and he rendered it obsolete with a single report, all because he wanted to play father to some stupid hunk of metal. I never would have gone to Salem if — " Watts cut off, hands balled into fists.

Ironwood just blinked dazedly, coming to a halt. He searched his uniform, the scroll he'd stashed there miraculously whole. Dimly, he registered that he should be feeling some sort of emotion right now.

"I can do that," he murmured.

"What?"

But Ironwood was already keying in the code, the desire to complete a task, any task, taking hold. Watts looked on, mouth twisted in a deprecating sneer.

"I already took out communications, in case you failed to notice."

"But not the trackers I had installed in my top scientists." Ironwood held up the screen where a small, red dot was blinking. "Pietro's still here. Looks like he's out near the mine with a second aura signature. If you want to...?" He wasn't going to finish that sentence.

"I see," Watts said in a tone that heavily implied he didn't. "And you'd just give me this information out of the evilness of your heart?"

Ironwood considered that. "I killed a man yesterday, tried to kill two others, and was ready to bomb all of Mantle to keep the rest of my Kingdom safe. I don't care what you do with the man who betrayed me."

"...fair enough."

Except after five steps Ironwood realized that Watts wasn't following him. He was looking down at his arms, still as a hunted hare.

"You put trackers in all your scientists?" he asked.

"A requirement I implemented after you went missing."

"Ah! Ingenious. Lead the way then."

***

The way led to the tundra, an environment that neither of them were prepared for. Watts was wet from the waist down and Ironwood had long ago learned that snow and metal didn't mix. Neither had the aura for the kind of storm that was raging either. Luckily, the panic of Salem's invasion had left plenty of vehicles to purloin and soon they were speeding East with the heat on, the faint beeping on Ironwood's scroll growing stronger.

He'd felt the impact of his city crashing down and the two of them had clamored out of Atlas' husk, dropping into rubble and cracking ice. Still, the true destruction wasn't evident until they were moving away from it. Through the rearview mirror, Ironwood could see pillars of smoke from fires that the water hadn't yet smothered, dark shadows that could only be grimm, and Atlas itself, plunged halfway into Mantle. It wasn't noticeable from this distance, but all of it was sinking.

"I was lucky," Ironwood said, his voice hollow. His eyes flicked back to the expanse of snow ahead of them. "If Atlas had tipped the other way, the vault would have flooded. I'd have drowned."

Watts snorted. "I'm lucky. That damned water put out Cinder's fire. I'd have burned."

Neither felt particularly lucky and for fifteen more minutes, neither was keen to discuss it.

***

Once upon a time, two heroes were having a Very Bad Day.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Maria paused in the act of bandaging Pietro's leg, mechanical eyes narrowing at the two figures that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Watts sucked in a breath at the duo. Ironwood gave a small, awkward wave.

Then he nodded his head at the scene: one old, exhausted woman and a paraplegic currently bleeding into his chair. "So... going to kill him?"

Watts ground his teeth. "Well now that just feels like a fool's errand. Look at him. He's pathetic!"

Pietro was slumped at an uncomfortable angle, sporting a gash in his leg and an impressive display of bruises across his face. Maria, in contrast, seemed to have only lost her hair tie.

"Pathetic?" she spat. "Your lackey did this!"

"Who?"

"Angry girl with the creepy arm."

"Ah, it all comes back to Cinder." Watts pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, thank you for recognizing that I was her superior, but no, I didn't send her to kill the likes of you. Must have done it on her own, the little idiot. Don't believe me? I was in jail at the time, if I recall correctly. Isn't that right, James?"

"You were helping me hack Penny."

Maria let out a skin-crawling cackle. "Why do you think the girl was here? She blew a hole in the bottom of Amity! Penny tried to hold us up, but..." she swallowed, still pressing against Pietro's leg, but turned warily towards them. "You hacked her? You did that? What precisely do you think happens when a man who never learned to apply aura as a shield crash-lands in this hunk of junk!"

"I expect most men in that position perish," Watts said smoothly. "The fool is lucky to be alive, but he won't be for much longer if you keep trying to staunch the wound with your soiled gloves. Move aside."

"Get away from me!"

"Oh, put your stick down, you old bat. I'm trying to help."

"Why?" Ironwood hadn't realized he'd spoken until Watts was glaring daggers his way.

"So I can kill him later myself!"

Still surreal. Still dream-like in its absurdity. Ironwood listened to the bickering between Watts and... Mary? Maria? He wasn't even sure. He wandered away, content to gaze out through one of the windows at his Kingdom. Or what was left of it. He idly massaged his left arm, trying to rid himself of a pain that wasn't there, and when the howl of a grimm reached them across the snow, he shivered.

His unlikely companions screamed at each other loud enough to reverberate through the whole building. There were the sounds of two bodies trading blows, but only for a moment. Pietro, voice groggy and high-pitched with terror, demanded to know where his daughter was. 

"She's dead," Ironwood said. He didn't turn to see their expressions, didn't need to. "Winter she... she defeated me as the Winter Maiden. That can only mean one thing."

"One thing to you, perhaps." Ironwood did turn then, watching stoically as Pietro tried to right himself in his chair, Watts cursing as the leg continued to bleed. "Where is she? I want to see my little girl. I can heal her, fix her — " he broke off, doubling over with a cough that splattered more blood into his hands.

"Maybe you could have," Watts said, a cruel satisfaction in his voice. "If her little friends hadn't made her human."

Some of the pieces fell into place then. His Lamp, long missing, had apparently wound up in Neo's hands, then Salem's, before it was finally used by Cinder. Watts described — with immense pleasure — the plan the group had concocted and the wish they'd asked of Ambrosius. He'd been a bit preoccupied with bomb duty to learn the details, but he knew that Cinder lived and Ironwood, it seemed, knew that Penny had perished. What a tragedy. Do you know how to bring back the non-mechanical, Doctor?

Ironwood honestly thought the old woman was about to kill him, murderous intent put on hold only because Pietro collapsed then, curling in on himself as sobs wracked his frame. The only words that escaped the mess of tears were "Penny" and then "Maria," one hand reaching out blindly for comfort. Pietro found it, the two holding onto each other as Watts sat at their feet, grinning up at the display.

Ironwood thought only, So that is her name.

The other, crucial bit of info was that everyone was gone. Dead or evacuated, it didn't matter. As far as any of them knew, they were the last four in Atlas, with Salem on her way to destroy whatever kingdom next took her fancy. It was over. They'd lost. And despite the horror of it, the realization was oddly freeing too.

When Maria asked in a tone edging on hysteria what precisely they were going to do — because it seemed this was a "we" situation now — Ironwood suspected she meant in the short term. What were they going to do about their wounds? The grimm? Finding and reaching the others? But those were foolish concerns, the thinking of someone who'd never had a kingdom's life in their hands. Ironwood knew there was only one answer here, the same one he'd had from the start.

"You can do whatever you like," he said. The metal of Amity sparkled against the rising sun, leaving splotches of color behind his eyes. "I will defend Atlas."

Maria's mouth dropped open and Watts stared. Even Pietro ceased his crying long enough to suck in a breath.

"Defend it from what?" he asked.

Ironwood shrugged. "The grimm. Salem. I don't know. I don't care. To quote a former friend, I have never wavered in defending the Kingdom of Atlas against its enemies and I don't intend to start now. This is my city and I won't leave it."

"It's sinking!" Watts cried, overlapping with Maria's, "We need to help" and though so much softer, quieter, more innocent than the spittle Watts was scattering across the floor... that single word sank its teeth into Ironwood. The woman may as well have stabbed him.

"Help?" he said. "Help? I tried to help! Everything that I have done in the last two days — the last two years — my life! — has been to help not just Atlas, but everyone I feasible could. Don't talk to me about help when you and Ms. Rose did everything you could to stop me. I had planned to help the world and you all lied. You betrayed. You set your weapons against me and kept me from saving what parts of my Kingdom I could. Tell me again: what precisely did you do to help?"

He'd crossed the distance, one hand on his holstered gun and the other leaning against Pietro's chair, using it to leverage himself down into Maria's space. Ironwood didn't need to see her eyes to know the emotion they held.

"I," she spit, "didn't try to bomb a city."

And just like that the fight in him was gone. It had barely existed in the first place. Ironwood straightened, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet. "No. You didn't. So it's as I said, go help if you want. If you can." His gaze slid to Watts. "You were one of her men. That says it all." Pietro. "You helped them reveal Salem to the world. Will she have time to destroy the other kingdoms before the grimm do it first?" Maria. "And I don't know you, but you don't earn a prize like that without seeing combat." Ironwood lifted his metal finger, tapping it against Maria's goggles. She flinched away. "Can you honestly say you haven't made mistakes?"

"You and I are nothing alike!"

"I didn't say we were."

Ironwood turned and walked away, as steady as he could manage as the world grew a little darker, despite the sunrise. Behind him Watts' voice rang out like a shot.

"So that's it then? The captain goes down with his ship? You idiot!"

He paused. "Not quite. It turns out I'm not the only idiot around these parts. Ms. Rose left the vault open." One last turn to savor their shocked expressions. "That's where I'm going. There are still plenty of airships if you'd like to leave, but just remember: they abandoned you too."

Perhaps he should have been surprised that by the time his boots hit the snow, three more footsteps were sounding behind him. Frankly, in fourteen hours time Ironwood would barely remember their conversation, let alone everything that came after it. One of them drove back to the sinking city. Someone tested the ice before they cautiously crossed it. Someone else dispatched the stray grimm foolish enough to get in their way. Ironwood saw and heard none of it. He walked with the determination of a wind-up toy, wobbling now that he'd reached the end of his string. Cool blues, a shining gold, and then beautiful, miraculous grass. Ironwood ignored the murmurs of amazement behind him, dropping directly to his knees.

When his palms hit the ground, only one was capable of feeling how soft it was.

I need to update my arm, he thought, even as he curled into a ball and passed out.

***

When he woke they were already running out of time.

For the first two days Ironwood barely spoke to the others and thus he never quite figured out why they'd stayed. Had it been hopelessness? Spite? The all consuming thought that there was nowhere else to go? That Atlas, for all its rubble and slowly rising water, wasn't any different from what the rest of Remnant would look like soon?

Why not here then?

Especially when the vault, filled with wildflowers and an endless sun, made for such an enticing retreat.

"Soil's farmable," Maria said, running some of it through her fingers. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, and the three of them stubbornly ignored the implications of it.

"There's — " Pietro coughed, self-consciously clearing his throat. "There's plenty to salvage. Machinery to pull water from the humidity in here. First aid supplies. We could section off an area for our wa — "

Watts seethed. "If you finish that thought I will — "

"What?" Maria arched a brow. "Kill him? Like you've been saying for the last day?"

Day? Ironwood blinked. How long had he been out?

"I will!"

"Like you'd be able to. Just try it, beanpole."

They argued, and they threatened, but none raised their hands to one another again, and when they finally dispersed across the kingdom to collect what they could, none of the acknowledged what it was for.

Ironwood waded through the remnants of his home and didn't think about building another. Because the idea alone was absurd.

"Don't let the door slam shut," he'd said when they’d first left, nodding to the stone slab that had appeared after Penny had first arrived. Ironwood watched the three exchange glances, unsure if he was joking.

Fuck if he knew.

***

Those four days — or five, if Ironwood counted the one he'd lost — were conducted in a strange state of frenzy. None of them were in a position to be working on such a project, but when had the world ever cared for their needs? Pietro stayed behind in the vault, cataloguing what they'd found and making lists for what was still needed. His chair, while dynamic, wasn't meant for the sort of terrain Atlas had become and his wound was still healing.

He also seemed to appreciate the privacy, frequently mourning his daughter with an honesty that made them all uncomfortable. 

Maria went off to do the Gods only knew what, disappearing for hours at a time, then coming back wet, cold, and carrying little. Though she always had information. Which parts of the city were too grimm invested to traverse, which were now completely underwater, which were too unstable as Atlas tilted like a ship, disappearing beneath the waves. It gave them all focus and, surprisingly, something like hope. Whatever else she carried was usually small, such as the seeds filched from the bio laboratories.

"Couldn't take them all," she said, critically surveying the land, "what with so many of the labels getting lost in the crash. Don't want to eat something your lot has experimented on."

"You should. If we're lucky you'll mutate into someone bearable." Watts, taking stock of the clothing they'd gathered, didn't seem to realize that Maria was flipping him off.

He went on a deep dives (sometimes literally) for salvageable tech, most of it of a practical nature, but other pieces... not. Nothing had shifted Ironwood's world view quiet like day two, walking in on Watts looming over Pietro, assuming there was another fight brewing... only to overhear them exchanging theories, the conversation filled with as many insults as legitimate claims. Still, the seeds of camaraderie were there, and were perhaps easier to grow than originally thought. After all, Watts had once been one of them and Pietro, for all his heroics, had once entered Ironwood's office with a manic gleam in his eye, rambling about giving an aura to a machine. Defense technology at its finest!

 What was it Glynda had said? Ah yes, agreeing with young Ms. Nikos about how "wrong" it all was. But desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

They'd had that discussion, of course. Soon after Ironwood awoke, talk of Amity began again, this time about whether it was possible to send another message. With enough time and effort, not to mention luck... a short one, perhaps, and only sent to an individual scroll.  But what was the point? Who would they call? When no one could — or would — answer that question, the idea was dropped.

In the days since, Ironwood had fantasized about messaging Glynda. One of the few who'd ever been a true friend, perhaps the only one left alive who might care that he was still among the living... if Ms. Rose's message hadn't killed that too. Not that it mattered. Even if Amity wasn't a hunk of metal gathering ice, Ironwood hadn't a clue what he might say to her.

Dear Glynda,

Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.

Sincerely,

General James Ironwood

P.S. If things had ended differently, I would have asked for a second dance.

How ridiculous.

So he walked the broken streets of Mantle and climbed the streets of Atlas, more and more of it disappearing every day. Their hoard grew though, born of not just military property, but personal belongings as well. It wasn't as if anyone was coming to claim them. Unless more magic was at work, both cities would be miles beneath the ice before anyone crossed the border again. Still, Ironwood would always pause before packing away what he found in the hastily abandoned houses. Bedding. Utensils. The literal shirt off someone's back. He'd changed into jeans and a thick sweater the second day, taken from a collection of civilian clothes he'd placed into a locker years ago and promptly forgot about. The uniform felt... obsolete now, no matter that his goals remained the same.

He'd encountered Maria on one of those trips, admiring a basket of yarn in some nameless Atlesian's living room. Her shoulders had tensed at his approach, but she just snorted at the sight of him.

"You knit?" he asked, unsure of what else to say.

"No."

"Crochet?"

"No."

Ironwood didn't know any other crafts that involved yarn. "Then why are you taking it?"

Maria hummed. "Just a thought. That I might, someday, try to learn." She shook a book she’d pulled from the basket: Knitting For Beginners.

A stray thought indeed. The thing they still didn't talk about. The closest they got was on the fifth night when an explosion sounded outside, massive enough to unsteady them even deep within the vault. By the time all four of them had made it out and onto one of the roofs, the sky had turned a sickly yellow, followed by black tendrils that raced, turning, back and around on each other until everything went dark. The only light came from what little electricity they had running on generators and a red aura, pulsing from the West.

From Vacuo.

Realistically, it might have meant that they'd won. It wasn't as if Ironwood had any idea what the death of an immortal witch looked like. But the night wore on and they had no idea because that unnatural, starless black never receded. In time, Pietro wandered off and returned with two bottles he'd pilfered from somewhere, cracking the tops off on the side of his chair and passing them around.

They still didn't say it aloud, though the sky and the alcohol said enough already. Ironwood kept his eyes on the watch his mother gave him, hours ticking by until sunrise was long overdue. Atlas felt even colder now and that red, seeming to inch closer, sent a different kind of chill down his spine. The grimm that still prowled below had taken off hours ago, summoned by some unheard call.

Ironwood downed the dregs of his bottle and threw it into the city.

"Come on," he said. Ordered maybe, or asked. He wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.

Blankets. Glasses. As many non-perishables as they could find. Generators. Tool kits. The building blocks of renewable energy. Clothing. Decorations. Wood to build small, individual dwellings.

Watts hoarded laptops and a small mountain of batteries, never showing them what he was working on, intensely protective.

Maria grew obsessed with entertainment, snagging every book, game, and video until there was a veritable library piled on the grass. She kept muttering about deserving a real retirement.

Pietro built a shrine to Penny, a simple stone monument to the left of the doorway. He tended to organize their supplies there, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush the code he'd inscribed with a laser. Whatever meaning it held, Ironwood couldn't read it within the ones and zeros.

And he... he found a cat. His last day, picking his way across dwindling islands until his eyes found the small, electrical fire just out of the water's reach. The cat had wedged herself into the rubble above it, trying desperately to keep warm.

She was as black as the sky above them and Ironwood was sure, when he reached out, that she'd run, terrified of his prosthetic hands. They certainly weren't any warmer, but she weakly crawled into them nonetheless. Ironwood held her securely against his left side, where his heart and flesh were, and thought with an absurd, internal laugh that he'd at least saved one.

There was so much left to do still, but their time was gone. That evening, eating what little they had the stomach for, water began to pour from the vault's elevator. First a trickle, then a deluge, until there was a sizable waterfall to admire. Ironwood sat on the steps with his unnamed cat on his shoulder, watching inevitability creep towards him.

He could still lie though.

"There's still time," he said, addressing the three behind him. "If you head up the elevator shaft and down the west hall, you can still break the surface. Find one of the remaining airships. Fly away."

Watts scowled, avoiding his gaze. He remained leaning against the doorway though. 

Maria and Pietro exchanged glances.

"I'd carry you," Ironwood offered to Pietro. They both knew it would be a death sentence with their combined deadweight, but he'd do it anyway.

"No," he said softly. "I did all I could already."

Maria. She was harder to read with those goggles, but it wasn't peace on her face. Guilt, more likely, but that had never stopped any of them before.

"It's damn cold out here," she muttered and marched back to the grass. Pietro followed her, Watts trailing not far behind. He turned back though.

"You coming?"

Ironwood didn't answer and eventually Watts left, heading into the meadow that stretched until you lost sight of where you'd been — and then reappeared there. A tiny pocket dimension, born of a magic now lost to this world. Ironwood figured that a bit of water and ice couldn't break it.

Probably.

He watched the flood cover the floor of the vault, then lap upwards, one stair at a time. There was a part of him, a part unimaginably tired, that thought he might just sit there. Keep rooted until the water was so high it was too late to do anything. That would be easy. Fitting, even. Shouldn't he go with his kingdom?

But then the cat — his cat — dug nails into his shoulder and Watts said something that made Maria screech. Ironwood sighed.

There were still things to protect, simple as that had become.

He turned his back on Remnant, now encased in an eternal night, and walked to the three who remained, cowering in an eternal day.

Ironwood allowed them one last choice and when they all nodded, he kicked the vault door shut.

[ka-za-ri]

Descent Pt. 7

Hi! I spent the last three days writing this chapter by smashing my head against the keyboard! I hope you enjoy! Also, SURPRISE! Lucifer!

Chapter Index and Obey Me! Masterlist: here Ao3 Mirror: Here Part [1] Part [2] Part [3] Part 4: [4] Part [5] Part [6] Part [7] Part [8] Part [9] Part [10] 

Pairing: Simeon x Lucifer x Reader   Genre: Smut   Wordcount: 6,200 ish   Tags: Angst, Self harm/Self Mutilation, threesome F/M/M, Voyeurism, spitroasting Summary: Simeon asks for forgiveness and for a helping hand to finish his book.

Drip

He could ask for your forgiveness all he wanted, but you were under no obligation to give it to him. It was to be expected that you would pull away from him as soon as you awoke. It didn’t surprise him at all when you couldn’t bear to stand his touches. He deserved it for pushing too far.

He could ask for forgiveness, but God had long forsaken him.

Distance made the pain more tolerable. As long as he turned his mind off from everything else, he could imagine that it had all been a terrible dream that fueled his writing. If he focused everything he had to the sound of fingers on the keyboard, he wouldn’t have to think about the way you choked out his pen name, the despair in your eyes or the tears streaming down your face when you begged for mercy. He didn’t want to think about how shameful it was for him to be elated to see those desperate expressions from you.

He didn’t ask if your cuts and wounds were healing well. He knew they would. The inperceivable amount of magic he had used on you while you were passed out in his arms would ensure that. The only thing he wasn’t sure about anymore was his relationship with you and how you felt about him after what he put you through.

You managed to somehow keep things cordial. Despite what happened, you were both professionals in your field. Deadlines didn’t change just because of a botched session. You still had to read through his words and relive everything he did to you. It was mandatory to stay objective and help him create the most immaculate product possible. In the end, it was all about business and you had learned long ago to separate work from your personal life. It was just unfortunate that your personal life had also become your work with your current project.

The distraction of work didn’t stop the pain though. It didn’t stop you from waking up covered in a cold sweat every other night having dreamed of those dangerous dark eyes. You hadn’t gone to see him ever since that day, not like you really could. You weren’t sure if you really wanted to see him again. Work was piling up, the world around you kept spinning even if yours had stopped momentarily. Regardless of what your feelings were, you needed to run to keep up with the world and didn’t have time to think of yourself.

The scars he left behind healed well, they left no marks except for the invisible ones he carved into your heart that day. You could still feel the cold steel of the knife being dragged slowly across your skin, right at your ribs as he spelled his name, made you his and owned you for a brief moment in time. The cuts to the corners of your mouth and tongue healed remarkably quickly without leaving any blemishes. But the ghosting feeling of something cold and sharp never seemed to disappear along with the scabs.

Days melded into one another. You were able to bury yourself into work, wrecking whatever sleep schedule you normally had to distract yourself from reality. Piles upon piles of manuscripts all melted into one another and you slowly lost track of who wrote what along with the remnants of your sanity. The crinkle of paper as you turned pages was the last physical reminder that your reality was intimately tied to Simeon regardless of how much you wanted to get away from him.

Distance made things easier to bear. The need to stay separated was mutual. Simeon had a lot to reflect on and a lot to do. For the most part, his manuscript was done. The only thing he had left was the concluding chapter. He couldn’t bring himself to write it. Every time he put his fingers on the keyboard, he thought of you and everything you had done for him along with everything you did with him. His book had became an oddly intimate look at his desires and the inevitable end that he needed to write.

His eyes ached from staring at the screen for so long. The blinking cursor on the document taunted him. No matter how many times he wrote and rewrote, the ending wouldn’t come out right. He needed you the most, yet he could not rely on you when you were so far away. Toys had gotten him so far, but describing the intimacy of affection between two humans felt like an insurmountable task. There had to be away around it. The heavy burden of sin weighed on his shoulders as he warred with himself. His name, his reputation, all for the fall? It was impossible.

He had to see a way through it.

Until he could figure it out; he deserved every little bit of scorn you threw at him. Every passing day, hour, minute, and second that went without being in contact with you drained him. The color in his world slowly disappeared until there was nothing but the black text on white paper.

It started just at the corner of his vision. In his dark office, it was easy to ignore when his focus was on the words in front of him. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when he went to get a cup of tea. But, the change was definite and true. Soon enough, he wondered just when did he own so many mugs in various shades of gray.

Ah, so this is what it’s come to. I suppose it’s fitting.

He could feel his senses slowly seeping away from him, ashamed of everything he did. He held the facade of an upright and chivalrous angel, but internally he was a husk of himself. Somehow, he had managed to become a demon without falling from grace. He supposed it should have been considered a miracle. It meant that not all hope was lost. If he applied himself, then surely he could claw his way out of the hole he created.

If.

If only he cared enough to do such a thing. Living as a shell seemed to be so much easier than pretending he was immune to human temptation. In pursuit of a perfect craft, he lost himself to all the allure the human realm had to offer. Two steps away from the gates of Hell, there seemed to be no turning back. Sacrifices had to be made in order to obtain perfection. Perhaps selling his soul to the devil was the last option he had to achieve it. It would be a worthy price to pay.

Pain made it easier to bear the weight of sin. It wasn’t a modern method by any means, but it brought him closer to the light once more. He repented with every crack of the whip upon his back, every scar he inflicted on himself. For every drop of blood he shed, he returned to the good he dedicated so much of his life to. The injuries would heal within a day, but the lingering ache would linger across his skin. The pain made him forget you and remember who he was. He was good. He was good.

He was good.

The most poignant thing he learned in the world of humans was the emotion of fear. That deep terror within him stirred as he thought of losing everything he had with change. After centuries of living, Simeon never doubted his powers or his wisdom until he had his finger hovering over your contact number to call and beg you for help. His hand shook while he stared blankly at the screen in front of him. He was so close to the end, yet so far away from the one person who would get him there. He was better than this, but he didn’t want anything greater than what he had created with you.

His simmering desires for you convinced him to call while the last vestiges of his goodness prevented him from making the call. He lost track of just how many hours he berated himself mentally all the while staring at numbers on his phone screen taunting him to take those last few steps to Hell.

And then. A light in his darkness.

[SMS: Do you need help?]

You knew exactly why he had been ignoring all your emails and your attempts at contacting him. You had needed your own time to heal and process everything that happened. Nearly a month had passed without a peep from him and you sincerely started to wonder if Simeon was alright. He canceled an unprecedented number of appearances and interviews. The PR mess that followed from that was enough to make you lose a full week of sleep. You didn’t blame him though, after you left his home that night when the storm finally passed, he seemed so tired.

You didn’t want to push the issue if you could help it. The book was almost complete. You had read it so many times over in your editing you swore you had a majority of it memorized. With only the final chapter missing, you could predict where his story was going, and the man rarely ever strayed from his outlines. An intimate and loving scene with his protagonist and her love interest who saved her from the clutches of evil was in order.

With the nature of the subject and were your relationship had just taken a turn to, you weren’t surprised at all he hadn’t submitted anything to you. Three days before your final deadlines and he still hadn’t contacted you. It was so uncharacteristic of him to turn in his work late; you had to take the initiative to get him to finish on time. So, it was a fair amount of despair that you sent that text, asking him if he needed help. Even if you skin crawled just thinking about being touched by him, you needed to do your job.

You clenched your phone, waiting for the screen to light up, your knuckles turning white from the force of your grip. You didn’t want to do this, but you had to. Someone had to be the adult and take one for the team. With Simeon’s name being so revered, it was clear to you that the minor sacrifice of your comfort for one more session with him would be worth it in the end.

So why couldn’t you stop yourself from crying?

The way he lilted his voice when he chased you still haunted your dreams at night. No matter how many blankets you wrapped around you could save you from the chill of that dreaded cold knife he dragged across your skin. There was no point in distancing yourself from him. Despite what happened, he was good. Having spent years working with him, you were sure you had a firm grasp of who he was as a person.

“Do you trust me?”

“I do...”

[SMS: come see me when you can]

You let out an earth shattering sigh. Whether it was from relief or from fear, you didn’t know. What you did know that it would all be over soon. The stress of the book, the anxiety you felt about Simeon, the pain that spread across your chest every time you thought about him, all of it would be over as soon as you got to see him again and figure it all out in person.

There was a terrible little part of you that was so curious about how he was going to solve the last piece of the puzzle to his book. The only way to find out was to go see him.

~~

“What a surprise. A call from the great Christopher Peugeot himself.”

“Listen.”

“I am. Go on.”

Simeon sighed, already regretting the call he was making. After receiving your text, he wracked his brain for a solution to the ending of his book. He was so close, he could feel it; but the guilt he felt towards you prevented him from taking what he craved. It was after much agonizing and staring blankly at a wall that the idea struck him. He’d have to take matters in his own hands and direct the ending himself.

For that, he needed an extra helping hand.

Which is what landed him in the situation he was in at the current moment. Bargaining with the devil to help him. He didn’t think he’d stoop so low to pull on old connections. Yet, there he was, on the phone with someone he hadn’t spoken to in decades.

“I need your help…” Simeon admitted, still struggling with voicing his needs.

“Well, I assumed as much if you’re making the effort to talk on a personal line. How long has it been since I gave you this number? Twenty? Thirty years, now?”

“Twenty-seven, but that’s besides the point.” Simeon could feel the inkling of frustration creeping into his voice. His old friend always had the ability to pull out the worst in him. Spending over half a century in the human realm, they managed to stay out of each other’s hair for the most part.

His friend chuckled on the other side of the line. “Alright, what can I do for you?”

“Are you free this weekend? I uhm… I need some help with the last scene of my book.”

“Oh? The great Christopher Peugeot himself needs assistance from me? I’m flattered you’d consider me.”

“Just call me Simeon, Lucifer. Stop playing around.”

“I’ll clear up my schedule. I wouldn’t miss the chance to help you.”

Simeon sighed. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or terrified that Lucifer agreed to help him out. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Oh, I know.” Lucifer was practically singing on the other end with smug excitement. “Should I prepare for anything in particular?”

“I… Uhm… I can explain when you get here.”

“Always the mysterious one...” Lucifer chided, chuckling softly. He didn’t push the subject any further and Simeon was glad for it. “From what I’ve seen from the press releases of your upcoming title, I can only assume I’ll need to wear my best underwear.”

“Do whatever you want. I’ll see you this weekend.” Simeon grumbled before ending the call. His face felt like it was on fire. He didn’t think he had hit rock bottom until he made an agreement with the devil.

It was truly unfortunate that the devil was the only person he could trust with this task.

~~

“Oh, welcome! Come on in. We’ve been waiting.” The actual CEO of Akuzon was the last person you expected to see when you arrived at Simeon’s home that weekend. To say you were stunned was an understatement. You were stuck standing at the doorway, mouth agape and eyes wide, looking like a fool. It took a surprising amount of prying to get you to move past the door and into the home.

Simeon was already hard at work in the living room, typing frantically while Lucifer ushered you in. The grin on his face was full of mirth and amusement. It was clear he knew exactly the effect he had on people and he wasn’t pulling any punches when it came to throwing the weight of his power around.

“Simeon and I go way back.” Lucifer explained, taking a seat once he was sure you weren’t going to faint from shock. “When he asked me to help him out, there was no way I could deny him.”

Your words needed to catch up with your brain as the pieces started to clicked together. All you could manage was a lame “Ah.” You nodded slowly, looking back and forth between the two men, waiting for someone to confirm your suspicions.

Simeon finished typing and finally looked up. It seemed like he wanted to approach you, but he stayed put, unable to bring himself to get closer to you without your permission. “I cannot ask for you to trust me again. Not after what I put you through. I… I still need help with the last chapter of this book. So, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but would you be comfortable with putting your trust in him?”

You blinked rapidly digesting what Simeon was proposing. You slowly turned your head to look at Lucifer who was casually lounging in his seat, his head resting on his propped up arm. A knowing smirk on his face while he waited for your answer. He practically exuded endless charisma and carried himself as every bit of the CEO he was. It was hard to deny his charm and you felt yourself nod before you could really process the gravity of your situation.

You hadn’t realized the anxious pressure in your chest relieve itself when your brain finally grasped the fact that you wouldn’t be at risk with seeing that side of Simeon again this time. This was a new partner, a new experience, a new touch, a good touch. You could do this.

There was still the hurdle of getting over being intimate with a man you had only seen in headlines. You expected that to be a rather difficult hindrance to the authenticity of the scene Simeon wanted to write. After all, it was supposed to be a soft and loving scene, nothing like what you had last gone through. Managing that with a stranger seemed to be a rather tall task.

Lucifer didn’t seem bothered by what he needed to do at all. Having been filled in with the gist of the situation, it was easy to slip just a hint of charm magic into his words to coax you out of your shell. He smiled, taking off the casual blazer he had on to reveal a perfectly fitted dress shirt hugged his frame in all the right places. Well, he doesn’t spare any expenses when it comes to looking good, no matter what the circumstances. Duly noted…

“Come here.” He beckoned, tilting his head and calling you over with just that motion.

Your body moved on its own, drawn to his aura, entranced by his name and his looks as well as his natural allure. When you locked eyes with him, it was as if Simeon wasn’t even in the room with you two anymore. The world faded away and you felt a warmth spread across your chest where the anxiety once was. He effortlessly made you feel safe somehow and you found yourself sitting in his lap without being asked to. He placed his arms loosely around you and the air between the two of you was absolutely electric.

You only noticed Simeon again when he walked over and adjusted his friend’s arms. He mumbled to himself as if possessed. He was present in the moment, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, writing his book while he posed the two of you in the ideal scenario. You could hear him come up with dialog on the fly, guiding Lucifer’s hands to your lower back to cradle you gently in his lap. With a little more direction Simeon had Lucifer rest his head at the crook of your neck. “I need you two to pretend to like each other… Please...”

You could feel Lucifer smirk against your skin, his lips just brushing against your pulse point when he spoke. “Oh, I won’t need to pretend to like her.”

You suppressed a shiver. Lucifer’s breath was so warm and his cologne was so cloying it made you feel rather lightheaded. There was an element of unspoken shame between the three of you. Allowing a stranger into what you had already established with Simeon felt so wrong. To do this with an old friend of his no less, there was distinct sense of sin about it the scene that felt rather right given the circumstances that lead up to it.

It was a blessing that Lucifer was so naturally handsome and mesmerizing. You were sure if it had been anyone else, it wouldn’t have been so easy to feel at home in his lap. His long fingers playing at the hem of your blouse while he pressed soft kisses at your neck. If you remembered the sequence of events of the book correctly, the main character had just been saved by her ‘husband’ who happened to be an assassin given the same target at she had been. You needed to put yourself in the protagonist’s mind, pretend that the man in front of you was as precious as a spouse and as marvelous as a savior.

Lucifer fell into his role seamlessly, kissing your skin as if he had almost lost his most treasured possession. His embrace tightened just enough to draw you closer to him. It was easy to tilt your head to give him more access to your neck. The way his lips played across your skin was so tender and soft, you sighed in satisfaction just from his kisses. Instinctively, your hands went to his shoulders, pulling him towards you, encouraging him to keep going further.

You could hear Simeon typing on the other side of the room; the usually distracting sound of the keyboard was negligible compared to the sound of Lucifer’s breathing so close to you. His teeth nipped the shell of your ear and you shied away out of habit. He chuckled softly, licking your skin and humming in approval at your reactions.

You weren’t sure how someone so suave was allowed to exist. He was barely doing anything and you were absolute putty in his hands within an hour of meeting him. He had been completely correct, there was no need to pretend you liked one another. The innate attraction was there, all you needed to do was react to his lead. “Lucifer...” you breathed, testing how it felt to have his name fall from your lips.

The verdict? It felt right.

Lucifer glanced over to where Simeon sat, catching the heated glare that was fixed on him. He couldn’t help but beam in self-satisfaction, knowing that the angel very much wished to be the one in the scene and not him. He turned his attention back to you, eliciting more breathy moans out of you. He said he was going to help with the scene; he never said anything about being mindful of relationship between you and Simeon.

“I like those noises you make. Make some more.” He demanded, slipping his hand under your blouse to finally get a handful of your skin. His touch left a trail of fire across your nerves. It felt like it had been years since you were last this close to anyone; it only made you more receptive of anything he did to you.

Lucifer was meticulous in his ministrations. He made sure to take his time exploring you with his hands and lips before moving onto the next step. It was almost torture how slow he was taking it. By the time he worked the first button off of your blouse, you were ready to rip his shirt off him.

“Kiss...” Simeon said from his seat. His voice curt and short as if he was directing a scene from a movie. “Kiss her before you do anything else.”

Lucifer was quick to comply. He had been hesitant in claiming your lips with his own, but with the approval of Simeon, he lost no time in taking your breath away. With one hand at the back of your head to keep you steady, his lips brushed against your own, seeking tentative permission before he went further. The warmth of his body enveloping you so gently made you melt and accept his kisses eagerly. His tongue traced your lips before delving into your mouth, tasting you for the time.

You moaned, breathing deeply through your nose as he overwhelmed all your senses with just his lips and tongue. While one hand held your head firmly in place for him, his free hand caressed your cheeks, your neck and your collarbone. While he swallowed all the pretty little noises that came from the back of your throat, he continued to work off the buttons of your blouse. Your clutched onto his shirt, unable to break the kiss even if you felt your head spin from lack of oxygen.

By the time all the buttons of your blouse had come undone, you were a breathless, whimpering wreck for him. He pulled away and admired just how swollen your lips had become from all the kisses. “Beautiful.” he praised, making your whole body heat up from the simple compliment. “Think you can help me out of these clothes? It’s gotten pretty warm in here.”

He didn’t have to ask you twice to help him. As much as you wanted to savor the moment and really draw out the intimacy between the two of you; you were also desperate to see what he looked like under that dress shirt. You licked your lips at every inch of skin you exposed, your eyes glittered with glee as you uncovered his chest and abs.

As soon as his shirt was completely open, he went back to exploring your body with his lips. His kisses trailed down your neck, to your chest and right to the outline of your bra. “Ah, silly undergarments… They always get in the way of fun.” In one swift motion, he slid his hands under your bra, freeing your breasts and also divesting you of your top along with it as it went over your head and arms. For a second, you felt distinctly vulnerable under his gaze and moved to cover yourself, but his hands kept your arms at your side.

You squirmed under his touch, your brain completely blank as he lavished you with attention. Lucifer noticed the freshly healed cuts on your skin and made sure to give them extra affection. He did it partially to stay in character, but mostly to spite Simeon who was definitely fixated on the scene he orchestrated. He was getting too much enjoyment out of pulling the most lewd sounds from you all the while the angel watched, unable to participate. The control he had over the both of you was absolutely exhilarating and turned him on more than the kisses and fondling.

Lucifer pushed you to lay on the couch, settling himself between your legs and hovering over you. The opened ends of his shirt tickling your sides briefly before he leaned in and took your nipple into his mouth. His tongue laved at the sensitive skin, coaxing it into a perky little bud before moving onto your other breast and doing the same. By the time he was done with that task, you were sure that the knee he had pressed up against your crotch could feel just how wet you had gotten.

Looking down between the two of you, you were grateful to see he wasn’t completely immune to the scenario. The impressive bulge in his pants at least proved to you he was enjoying this as much as you were. Pulling him into another searing hot kiss, you tugged at his hair, rolling your hips against him. You didn’t care that Simeon was watching, with Lucifer, you could get what he would never give you. “Fuck me.” you whispered, barely believing you were making such a demand.

“With pleasure.”

The rest of your clothes came off in record time. The need for a release was almost unbearable. Just seeing Lucifer’s cock spring out of his boxers made your mouth water. You were more than happy to spread your legs for him, giving him all the access in the world to seat himself in you.

But, it seemed he had a different idea for you. Turning you to face Simeon on the other side of the room, he pulled you up to your knees and slid into you from behind, groaning as your cunt greedily accepted every inch of him with no resistance. “Let’s give him something to write about.” he suggested right before making you see stars with his cock.

Being filled with an actual dick and not a toy was an experience you had missed so much. There was nothing better than the warmth and the feel of a real cock sliding in and out of you. Toys could only simulate so much, nothing could compare to what Lucifer was giving you. “Oh… fuck.” You gasped, leaning against his chest for support.

His hand grabbed your hair, pulling you flush against him as he rammed his whole length into you over and over again. His breathing hitching every time you squeezed around his cock. “Oh yeah, that’s a good girl.” he praised. “Look at how hot and bothered he is.” Lucifer brought your attention to the author across the room. His fingers frozen across the screen as his eyes were glued to the scene you were creating with his friend.

You didn’t want to look, but everything Lucifer said was a command you could not disobey. Glancing over, you were blessed with the image of Simeon, blankly staring at what you were doing. His expression completely unreadable, but his eyes were dark from just how blown out his irises were. His hands that were supposed to be on the keyboard stroked his clothed cock in time with every one of Lucifer’s strokes.

The feeling of shame washed over you as you saw just how pitiful Simeon seemed so distant from the two of you. His heated gaze was fixated on the spot where Lucifer and you were so intimately joined. Lucifer continued on railing into you, his hand wrapped around your waist and teased your clit, drawing you closer and closer to your climax. You couldn’t even think about the guilt you felt in your gut as Simeon was forced to observe you. All you could focus on was just how good Lucifer was with his cock and how close you were to coming undone.

“Think we should let him join us?” Lucifer’s voice was like the devil on your shoulder, voicing all the things you couldn’t say out of embarrassment. “He’s always been bad at saying what he wants.”

You didn’t have time to respond as all the pleasure came to a screeching halt. Just as you felt like you were going to cum, Lucifer pulled out of you, making you whine and whimper in need. “I… what… I...”

The smile he gave you was soft, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. There was a devious glint in them while he waited for you to compose yourself.

“What? Why did you stop? What happened?” Simeon busied himself with sitting up straight again, hunching over his computer as if he hadn’t just been stroking himself to what was in front of him.

“I got bored.” Lucifer stated plainly, getting up and leading you over to the author who was furiously typing away, trying to the capture the scene he just witnessed. “I thought you might like to join in the fun...”

“That… that wasn’t the agreement.”

“I’m bending the rules a little.” Lucifer shrugged and gently pushed you down on your knees in front of Simeon. You crawled under the folding table he set up as a makeshift desk. It was a snug fit, but not entirely too uncomfortable. “I’m sure we can all benefit from a little more fun, right?” He laced his hand into your hair and gently, but firmly pushed you towards Simeon’s bulge.

You didn’t even need any encouragement to start working on freeing Simeon’s cock from the confines of his pants. The man above you couldn’t protest, the need to feel you and the need for release overriding his scruples he had worked so hard to maintain. “I… You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” You said firmly, licking your lips when you got your hands around his length and pulled it out, giving it an experimental pump. With just that simple touch, Simeon hissed and rolled his hips up to meet your hand. “And it looks like you want to, as well.”

“Let’s see what that pretty mouth of yours can do.” Lucifer encouraged from behind you. “If you do a good job, I’ll make sure to finish what I started.”

You were more than eager to wrap your lips around the tip of Simeon’s cock, licking and swirling your tongue around the tip. Your hand pumping the length of his cock you couldn’t fit in your mouth just yet. Simeon’s moan encouraged you to keep going, taking more of him into you until he hit the back of your throat. Lucifer’s hand in your hair was soon replaced with Simeon’s as he held onto you, setting the pace as your head bobbed up and down his cock.

You moaned into his dick, sending vibrations down his length and making him shiver. His grip in your hair tightened and he pushed your head further down his cock, wanting you to take all of him. With a bit of an initial struggle to suppress your gag reflex, you relaxed enough to take every inch of him with just a little coaxing. Soon enough, your nose brushed against his coarse pubic hairs every time he made a full pass down your throat.

“Amazing...” Lucifer breathed, lining himself behind you to enter you again. Just watching Simeon fuck your mouth had heightened the sexual tension in the room into something palpable. He timed himself to enter you at the same time Simeon was at his deepest down your throat. “Time for your reward.”

Your screams of pleasure were muffled by Simeon’s cock being stuffed into your mouth. Lucifer taking your cunt again made you nearly lose consciousness for a second. Simeon’s grip in your hair became almost painful as the two of them worked in tandem to fuck you senseless.

It felt like there was an unsaid agreement the moment the two of them started to move. As soon as Lucifer pulled out of you until just the tip of his cock remained in your pussy, Simeon would be fully seated down your throat. The moment Simeon’s dick slid out of your mouth just enough to give you a chance to breathe, Lucifer would ram his whole length back into you, making you forget to take a full breath before the cycle continued once again.

It was a dizzying experience and the orgasm that had been abated for the time being built itself back up to be something explosive. The two of them played your body like a toy meant for their pleasure. All your holes were meant to please them; and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Lucifer’s fingers once again found your clit, bringing you right up to the edge within a few passes of his digits across the sensitive nub.

“Cum for me, beautiful...”

His voice was magical, pushing you right across the threshold into your climax. You moaned into Simeon’s cock, causing him to also unload his cum down your throat. Even if it was hard to breathe, the lack of oxygen only seemed to enhance the high you had been brought to. Lucifer only needed to thrust into you a few more times before his own pace stuttered and he came, releasing his hot seed into you and completing the euphoric feeling of climaxing.

Simeon was the first to regain his senses, carefully pulling out his spent cock from your mouth. Even if you did your best to swallow all of him, some of his cum mixed with your saliva and dribbled down the corner of your mouth to your chin. He carefully wiped away what he could with his thumb before pulling you in for a kiss.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry… Please forgive me…” He begged in between kisses. He could taste himself on your lips, something he didn’t expect to enjoy as much as he did. With every kiss, the color returned to his world, the grays that permeated his every existence faded the more time he spent with you. Without you, he wasn’t himself anymore; that much he learned.

Ah. So this is what forgiveness feels like...

Lucifer pulled out of you once he softened enough to do so. He was about to say something rather snide, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment of reconciliation between the two of you. So, he decided to save it for later. He waited patiently for you to reassure him everything was going to be all right before speaking up.

“So, you think you got the scene?”

“Yeah… I think we got it. Do you think we can make the deadline?”

You looked up at him, feeling satisfied and elated in a way you hadn’t felt in so long. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

[laceymorganwrites]

The Story of the sad chapter 15

Word Count: 2,367

Pairing: Ban x reader

Warnings: cursing

Summary: The Rescue Mission continues

Taglist; @lysawayne​

“Okay, lovely reunions aside, we gotta go save the princess now” you hated to be the one who destroyed this precious moment, but someone had to do it.

It wouldn´t be good if you stayed here any longer than you needed to.

“You should´ve said that at the beginning, dear” Merlin smirked and forced Elizabeth´s location out of Vivian.

As soon as she uttered the words, Merlin teleported you in front of the king´s room, something was holding her back though, it was the perfect cube, a demonic barrier.

Not that that was a problem for Merlin, who immediately canceled the magic, making you able to enter the room.

Elizabeth headed straight for Meliodas to hug him, it was bittersweet. She didn´t remember him yet and still her feelings were prevalent.

You wondered if you would ever be able to harbor such a strong love for another person and if they would for you.

Before you could sink into your thoughts any more, Dreyfus entered the room and had all of you on guard.

However instead of fighting you, he broke down on the floor in shame, admitting to the crime of killing his own brother, the very reason you had to flee in the first place. Before you wasn´t a holy knight, he was merely a broken man eaten alive by his guilt now.

He also informed you that Hendrickson´s plan was to bring forth another holy war.

After hearing that his son was alive, he obliged and obediently walked himself into the dungeon to await his trial.

Merlin took a look at the king´s health and stated that he needed to be treated immediately, however this would only be possible in Camelot where she had all of her supplies.

“I´m coming with you!” you said.

Merlin only raised an eyebrow but then chuckled.

“I suppose you would, after all it´s where your weapon lies… however it got there, I cannot remember” she smirked.

She teleported you, Arthur and the king to Camelot´s castle where she treated him.

“Arthur, show (Y/N) where her sword is” she smiled mischievously.

“You mean the one you told me to guard?” he asked and you cocked an eyebrow, why would he have to guard your sword? It´s not like it would wither and nobody was able to steal it.

He showed you around the castle and then stepped through a secret hallway leading into a big room plastered with all kinds of weapons and armor of the goddess clan.

It felt like a twisted version of home.

“What the hell...where did she get all of this? Well, I suppose if anyone would be able to, it´d be Merlin. But still...” you looked around the room in wonder, subconsciously remembering your old days as a soldier, as the head of the holy army.

It was sick but it filled you with pride, you were good at it, very much so and even better at strategy.

But still, there had to be a reason why you remembered so much of your past recently.

“Merlin said you could take anything you want, she also told me to tell you to view this room as your personal closet” he awkwardly smiled at you.

You had to chuckle, that was so typical of her.

“Well, thanks a bunch for all of this, but I have to go back now” you said as you went back to say goodbye to Merlin, sword in hand.

“If you ever need anything else, just give me a call” Merlin smiled at you before she teleported you back to the capital.

You landed right amidst the action, it seemed.

“Holy shit, what the fuck is going on?” you asked, looking around you saw only ruins of the castle, two holy knights wincing in pain and your friends, boyfriend and another holy knight.

“Hell if I know, whatever it is we have to make it stop” Diane said.

“Babe!” Ban came up to you and hugged you tight, kissing your cheek.

“I missed you...” he nuzzled your neck.

Warmth spread through your body as you let yourself fall into his touch for an instance, this, whatever this was, whether it was true or not, it felt right.

Yes, Gowther did spread some doubt in your mind about the reason you got into this relationship, but you wouldn´t let that hinder you.

You were always better at fighting when you had something to protect, even if that something was immortal and handsome.

“(Y/N)! You got your sword back!” Elaine exclaimed, clapping her hands and cheering for you.

“Finally joined the party, eh?” Meliodas joined you, teasing you.

But before any more casual conversation could be held, Jericho transformed into the same monster that Meliodas, Ban and King fought a while ago.

Apparently it was a malfunction on holy knights who have been given demon blood.

The thought that Hendrickson did that still made you sick to your stomach.

He suddenly appeared in front of you, clad in a demonic aura as the new generation of holy knights all transformed into beasts.

“Okay so, how the fuck do we go about this? Mel, you told me that those beasts could only be defeated once you killed the person inside, right? There has to be another way!” you called out to him.

There was too much chaos to get a clear head or overview, everything happened too quickly.

Meliodas and Gilthunder tried to take on Hendrickson, however he ordered Vivian to take Margaret and Elizabeth as hostages, making the men startle for a second.

A second he used to slice them down.

Elizabeth did something very brave and stupid at that moment, she offered to go with Hendrickson in return for Meliodas´ and Gilthunder´s life.

She always thought about others before herself, which made her so strong.

“Mel, I know what you´re thinking, but we need to think this through. We need a rescue Elizabeth team and one that deals with those fuckers” you pointed at the beasts that were once holy knights.

All he gave you was a pained expression.

“I´ll heal your wounds, give me a sec” you knelt down at his side and applied your magic.

“Okay, we need to contain those monsters before we know what to do with them that doesn´t kill the person inside. I can´t afford them to wreak any more havoc. Somebody needs to get the citizens into a safe space. So that´ll be two teams. And then the last one is the rescue team. King, Diane, Gil and Howzer, you go defeat the beasts. Gowther, Hawk and Elaine, get the people to safety. Ban, Mel and I will rescue the princess.” you knew it wasn´t your place but someone had to put order and clear instructions into the heads of the scared, otherwise nothing could be done.

Nothing could be achieved by being frozen in fear.

Meliodas nodded, getting back up on his feet.

You ran into the direction where Hendrickson´s magic was coming from, apparently Dreyfus fought him as of right now.

Dreyfus was on your side, but even if you arrived in time to save the princess you doubted that the four of you could take Hendrickson on.

You might have been able to if you had had the opportunity to train with your sword longer, it should come to you easily, but maybe ten years was just too long. Not to mention Meliodas was exhausted, even though you healed his wounds.

And while Ban couldn´t take any longterm damage from Hendrickson, you doubted he could deliver any to him.

It was hopeless. And yet you couldn´t just stand around and continued moving forward.

When you arrived you saw only the remains of Dreyfus´ armor and a bleeding Elizabeth.

You hoped Ban and Meliodas would be able to distract Hendrickson long enough for you to heal her and get her to safety.

Without thinking you flew past him, grabbed Elizabeth and healed her in the process of leaving her in the care of Elaine and Hawk who alongside Diane and the others came into your direction to help.

You told Elaine and Hawk to get to safety before you joined the fight again.

“Mel, if we´re lucky he won´t be able to take the demonic magic any longer, so let´s hit him with everything we got. Make it count” you husked, a determined look in your eyes as you swung your sword as the first attack against Hendrickson.

Ban watched in awe as your blade stroke his skin, making him wince in pain. It´s been while since he´s seen you go all out on someone and damn were you a sight to behold.

So graceful, so elegant, so utterly beautiful. He had to watch out not to get distracted too much by you.

“Yes babe! Get him!” he cheered for you and the others followed your example, fiercefully attacking Hendrickson.

As the battle commenced it was revealed that Hendrickson hid a red demon corpse in a hidden cave which he claimed to be the source of it all.

It enraged you beyond belief, how he said that without any remorse, without any tone change in his voice, he even sounded proud of it, of himself.

“You disgust me...” you balled your fists, shaking as tears streamed down your face.

“How the fuck could you make them drink that?! Aren´t you ashamed of yourself, you piece of shit? I´m gonna fucking obliterate you and you bet your ass I´m gonna make it hurt” you lashed out at him, your wings subconsciously raised you higher as you started an attack from above, slashing at his shoulder with all force.

“Ashamed? Why should I? Just look at all the success I´ve had with this… I´m invincible” he sardonically smirked.

“If only Mael didn´t steal my place as one of the four archangels and I had his sword, I would´ve killed you back when we first found out about you, but now this´ll have to do!” you kicked him in the guts and held him down, about to give him the final stab when he grabbed onto your wings and broke them.

You saw red as the pain emitted into your body like hot lava, almost making it burst. Your wings hung loosely down your back and you couldn´t move them, they were now a mere burden to you.

“You fucking bastard!” Ban rushed to your side and got you out of harm´s way, only refusing to hit Hendrickson when Meliodas actively held him back.

“Ban.” Elaine stated coldly, there was so much anger inside of her small body she couldn´t contain it, she would have her revenge.

“Let´s end this. Once and for all, we did it once, we can do it again. It´s time for vengeance, for the forest, for (Y/N), for all the misery this thing caused” she grit her teeth, collecting all of her magic in the palm of her hands and pointing it at Hendrickson, making him fall down the hole that was created when the demon was revealed.

“Fucking hell, this hurts like a bitch...” you twisted your arms behind your back to reach your wings to heal them, but it seemed like you had exhausted your healing magic for the day.

“Don´t force yourself, (Y/N). We´re gonna take him down, no matter what” Meliodas told you, carrying you to the side of the battlefield with a dark look in his eyes.

“Diane, you stay back with (Y/N). Watch that nothing happens” Meliodas ordered as the rest went down the hole into the cave.

“We´ll be right back, darling...” Ban held your face in his hands, caressing your cheek.  “Just stay put, okay? Diane, make sure she´s not into too much pain. Please watch out for her for me” he pleaded with a worried look on his face before he kissed your forehead one last time and joined the others.

“You can count on me!” Diane nodded determined and sat down beside you.

“Poor (Y/N)...is there anything I can do to help?” she hated being tall, especially in moments like this she felt useless. A dear friend was hurting and she couldn´t do anything but sit by and watch.

“No...I´ll have to wait until my magic is restored, I think with enough stretching I can heal myself. But it hurts like a bitch...” you forced a smile.

“Maybe we can talk to distract you from the pain? Hey, let´s talk about Ban! That´s sure to brighten up your mood” she smiled at you.

“Yeah, it sure is...” you returned the smile.

“I don´t know what I did to deserve him, but I feel like if I question it too much all the happiness will just go away and I don´t want that. But if I don´t question it then I´ll never be sure...” you rested your chin on your legs.

“Sure of what?” Diane tilted her head.

“Whether I truly love him...whether I´d be able to recognize the feeling even if it hit me in the face or if I´m even capable of such a wonderful thing...” you shared your thoughts with her, watching her frown.

“Well, with your past it´s only natural that you´d feel this way. I can´t tell you how to feel but I can tell you the things I noticed that changed about you when you and Ban got together. You´re happier, it shows, you´re so free and light all the time, it´s contagious, it´s like your smile and happiness washes over to the rest of us. And you´re much more relaxed too, it´s like a burden has been lifted off you. I like seeing you happy like this, I never liked it when you were so depressed over things long past and unchangeable… and (Y/N)? I can see the same changes in him too. He´s so soft and gentle around you, I´m envious of what you have, it´s just so beautiful” she played with her fingers.

“You think so? I didn´t notice any of that...” you felt silly, how could you not even recognize your own happiness let alone the one of others anymore? It was pathetic.

“It´s because you´re always in your head” Diane giggled.

[howdoyousleep3]

☀🌴🕶

Got a good one for you. This one goes out to @sunflowersstan for gifting me with the request for Spring Break Baby Bucky: “I’m in grad school and I’m dreaming of spring break rn, so I can’t help but think about Daddy!Steve taking his sweet Bucky to a nice destination for his spring break (like The Hamptons or Cabo bc I’m assuming your Daddy!Steve is loaded lmao) and him spoiling bucky with lots of good food, good times, and good sex ☺️☺️☺️ “

I had sooooooo much fun with this and wanted to take it in like seventeen separate directions ugh. Also, I listened to “Candy” by Doja Cat as I wrote so hit that shit up for extra feels. 😎 This is the longest response I think I’ve ever written up. Enjoy!

If Steve thought it was hard to keep his eyes off of Bucky in their every-day life he had no idea how he was going to survive spending another 6 days looking at this Bucky. This Bucky was more carefree than Steve had ever seen him. This Bucky already had a dusting of freckles appearing on his shoulders and across the bridge of his nose just after two days that made Steve’s chest ache. This Bucky didn’t seem to have a care in the world and is giggling into his second fruity drink and has the smallest pair of pale-yellow trunks on that it makes Steve want to growl like an animal.

This Bucky leaves Steve breathless. This Bucky is looking up at Steve like he’s the one that put the very sun that’s pinking his skin up in the sky. This Bucky has the same crinkles around his eyes, same flirty half-lidded gaze, and when he stretches out underneath their private cabana Steve wants to eat him alive.

“You’re gettin’ a little pink there, sugar,” Steve husks out from his spot in his chair, placing the book he wasn’t paying a lick of attention to on the table to his right. Bucky’s lips pull up at a corner mischievously, knows that he isn’t pink at all, that he applied sunscreen about 45 minutes ago, that Daddy just wants to rub his big hands all over his lithe little body. He peers over his shoulder at the older man, batting his eyelashes in the exact way he knows punches Steve right in the dick, makes him swallow thickly.

“Daddy, you wanna get the places that I can’t reach?” Bucky asks sweetly and goddamn he would gift Bucky with Spring Break trips halfway across the world and an abundance of free fruity drinks all the time if it meant he could get the younger man to be this brazen all the time. The bottle of suntan lotion is in Steve’s hand before he can even process that he’s moving, crawling down to the large pillowed sunken room Bucky is sprawled out within, squeezing at his sensitive ankle, smacking him on the ass playfully. Bucky bites his lip as he giggles and Steve feels like he’s walked through the gates of heaven.

Bucky’s neck is one of the most sensitive parts of his body, Steve able to nip at the nape or breathe sweet words in the side of it and the brunette is putty in his hands. Naturally, that is the first place he reaches for after squirting some lotion into one hand, Bucky sitting up to sit back between Steve’s thighs, settling against the small wall behind him. As soon as Steve is rubbing and digging his palms into the younger’s neck and shoulders, he knows he’ll be fucking Bucky out here in their little cabana in front of whoever wanted to watch. His big hands smooth and lather Bucky’s skin in protective lotion, massaging and groping and touching more than necessary, but Steve can’t help it, doesn’t want to stop now that he’s started.

Steve’s breaking point are the little breathless noises Bucky is letting out, knowing they are half for show and half because he genuinely gets all whiny and helpless when Daddy rubs him down. Either way, Steve makes sure that sunscreen is rubbed into Bucky’s skin efficiently, takes him maybe 90 seconds, and then the older man is reaching around to press hot soft kisses underneath Bucky’s ear, hands squeezing at his shoulders. Bucky giggles a little breathlessly, tilts his neck back like an easy slut, leans back a little bit into Steve.

“Daddy…” Bucky moans prettily into another giggle and shit Steve can’t help but wind his arms around Bucky’s waist, pull him back fully into his lap, press more open-mouthed kisses down his neck. “You still wearin’ that little plug, honey?” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s ear and the younger man’s cheeks glow red, letting out a loud little whine, curls his fingers around one of Steve’s thick arms. He nods his head, gives Steve a simple, “Uh-huh,” that makes Steve go hot all over. At the mention of the plug Bucky subconsciously rolls his hips a little, grinds down into the pillow they’re sitting on, pushes back into Steve’s crotch.

“No wonder you’re bein’ such a slut today—you got your little hole stuffed and you’re wearin’ these tiny trunks? Got everyone lookin’ at you, don’t you, baby?” Steve feels Bucky’s neck go a little lax, watches as it falls back on Steve’s shoulder a bit. He doesn’t even need to be looking at the younger man to know that his eyes are a little glazed-over, unfocused, all Steve hearing is a whimper of a noise in response. He squeezes Bucky tight, presses a kiss to his temple, whispers, “But you like that don’t you, Buck? Like people lookin’ at you? Like people thinkin’ your pretty?”

“Steve, no I—”

“Ohh, sugar hush now,” Steve purrs, runs a hand down to squeeze and palm at Bucky’s obvious erection, smirking when he gasps out a shout of a noise. “I know you’re a little slut, my little slut, I know you like it. Don’t bother lyin’ to Daddy,” and oh the noise the younger man lets out is delicious, makes Steve groan and chuckle softly.

“Say it, Buck—tell me you’re my little slut.” Steve’s hand moves to curl around the front of Bucky’s throat, tightens his grip a tad, can’t help it when his own words hit him just as hard as they hit Bucky. He whines, high and feminine, and Steve just knows he wants these fingers in his mouth, knows his little tanned and tipsy angel would love to suck on something right about now. Steve thought Bucky would put up more of a fight, usually humiliated at Steve’s words, but when he moans out a gentle but strained, “M’Daddy’s little slut,” no stuttering or anything, Steve’s vision goes hazy for a few seconds.

The kisses he presses to Bucky’s cheek are sloppy, grip on his cock, grip on his throat, and he whispers the very thought that pops into his brain— “Gonna fuck you out here, sugar.” Bucky moans, loud and happy, whispers, “Daddy! No, we can’t, it’s—” but Steve rumbles, nips at his earlobe, rumbles, “Can do whatever I want to you out here, baby,” and all Bucky does is giggle, his mortified façade quickly dissipating. Steve can’t take it anymore, needs to feel those sweet as sin lips against is own, wants to taste the lingering sweetness of all those drinks on Bucky’s lips.

A purr of a noise pushes up and out of Steve’s throat when he uses the hand around Bucky’s throat to tilt his chin up and back, the younger man more than ready for Daddy’s kisses. There’s nothing sweet about them, far too much build-up and tension between the two of them, more tongue than anything, but goddamnit everything about it is perfect. The perfection is leveled up a notch when Bucky begins whimpering and turning in Steve’s arms, unabashed and beautiful and he reaches forward to suck on Daddy’s bottom lip. Steve doesn’t want to wait, can barely fucking stand it anymore, slips both of his hands down the back of Bucky’s ridiculously small shorts, grabs at his plush ass, squeezes.

“Ngh, Daddy!” Bucky squeals right into Steve’s mouth and it makes him growl, makes him knead at Bucky’s ass more, press against the base of the plug harshly, watches as those stormy eyes widen and roll a little bit. Steve knows his little sweet sun-kissed baby is carefree and basking in the spoilage of the trip, but the sheer confidence is not something he has grown used to, groans heartily and squeezes Bucky all over when he tells Steve, “Wanna suck on Daddy’s cock.”

He says it like a little whore, silky and sweet on Steve’s lips, and within two seconds the older man is pushing Bucky back a little roughly into the floor pillows, pulling his angry erection out of his own trunks, fisting it, and mumbling, “M’spoilin’ you, boy.” Bucky moans heartily in response, is the sweetest fucking thing in the world when he bites his lip as he crawls towards Steve, murmuring, “Thank you, Daddy…”

Steve is the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.

Bucky has the sweetest, yet filthiest mouth there ever was and ever will be. He’s got the pinkest poutiest lips that curl up at the corners mischievously and a shockingly long tongue that he knows how to use. At this point in their relationship he knows exactly how to work Steve over, knows the he loves when Bucky slurps and runs his tongue and lips over the head sloppily, know he loves to see Bucky kissing softly up the shaft as he holds his length close to his face. Bucky knows that Steve loves to have his balls slurped and lapped at, cock fisted at the same time, makes his toes curl.

“Goddamn, look at you livin’ your best life out here, baby. Suckin’ Daddy’s cock on the beach out here in the sun and sand, sippin’ on your fruity drinks, playin’ in the water. You havin’ a good time? You feelin’ good, sugar?”

Bucky has Steve’s entire cock in his mouth, deep in his throat, and he pulls off with one slow suck to mumble, “Havin’ the best time, Daddy,” right on the tip of his dick and Steve’s gut twists. He feels a little flustered, can’t decide what he wants, could never dream of telling Bucky to stop sucking him off, but he wants in that tight ass, wants to hear Bucky let out strangled noises of pleasure loud enough for others to hear.

He lets Bucky lay between his spread thighs a little longer, lets him moan and smirk and giggle around Daddy’s cock for a few more minutes, until Steve feel like he’s about to damn near burst, and runs a hand through unkempt wavy hair. He strokes at Bucky’s skull as he takes him deep, gags a little bit, bright eyes tearing up at him, and Steve groans, doesn’t even bother to keep quiet with his praise.

“Love this fuckin’ mouth, Buck, so good for Daddy, baby,” he coos before pushing at Bucky’s shoulders, pressing him backwards and off Steve’s cock. Steve has to grip the base of himself tight when Bucky actually makes a pained noise, pouts, over not being able to have any more of Daddy’s cock in his mouth. “M’still spoilin’ you, Buck, spoilin’ you all goddamn week. How do you want Daddy? Huh? Show me.” Bucky doesn’t even sit back to think or wait more than three seconds before he’s leaning back into a stack of wide pillows and pulling his shorts down and off his lithe thighs.

Steve’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Bucky has no idea that Steve spoiling Bucky spoils the older man in return. It’s a win-win situation.

Even though Bucky is brimming with flirtatious and confident behavior he is still that shy little thing and always will be, wanting so badly to spread his legs, but glances back at the open and fluttering curtains of their small cabana. Steve smirks, stands up deadass naked to the world and walks over the pull them closed. They’re sheer and will do very little to conceal them but that’s beside the point; whatever makes Bucky feel more comfortable.

When Steve turns his attention back around to Bucky, he can’t help but chuckle gluttonously at the sight of him spread out like a little sugar baby with his ass in the air, his face in the pillows, stretched out like a cat in the sun. “Ohh, sugar look at that. You feelin’ some type’a way? Wantin’ Daddy to fuck you on all fours?” Bucky turns his head to the side, arms under his chest, fingers close enough to his mouth to suck one between his lips as he nods his head slow like syrup. The plug between the younger man’s ass cheeks shines bright, a small blue jewel at the base gleaming in the sunlight, Bucky’s cock and balls, hard and pulled tight, dangling beautifully between his legs.

Steve goes to the floor, kneels behind the younger man, runs his big hands up the back of Bucky’s thighs, reaches for the plug. He likes to watch plugs leave Bucky’s body slowly, loves to watch them tug at his rim, stretch him at the widest point, loves the little sighs Bucky lets out at the feeing. When Steve pulls it free from his cunt he lets out a sigh of a groan, tosses it to the side, too preoccupied with the sight of Bucky’s little hole winking at him, silently begging to be filled, to be fucked.

Seeing it makes Steve hot all over, makes him bring a hand up to crack against his ass cheek, brings three fingers down brutally directly over his cunt, Bucky choking on a shriek of a noise before Steve is dripping spit down onto his hole from above. Bucky’s shocked noise morphs into a low moan at the feel of Steve’s saliva dripping down into his ass, his entire form wiggling softly as Daddy rubs at his cunt some, smearing his saliva. Having fucked this very morning, Bucky was still a little loose, a little wet, a little full.

“Gonna fuck you with just Daddy’s spit, baby. Think this little cunt can take it?” It’s both false and rhetorical; there is more than just Steve’s spit and he knows that no other cunt in the world can take Steve the way Bucky does. The younger man moans some more, Steve able to see how his eyes are already half-lidded and glazed over, which tends to happen when Bucky is fucked in this position. Steve doesn’t fight for a verbal response, spits into his hand a few times, rubs the liquid around the head and lines himself up.

Fucking Bucky always feels like coming home. It’s more than a feeling in his dick—it’s a feeling in his soul. Bucky grunts when Steve works his way in slowly passed the tip, spreading Bucky’s cheeks wide as he does so, coos and makes soft noises as he continues to power through. There isn’t a sweeter sight than watching himself fuck into Bucky. Steve hears a sob of, “Daddy, ohh,” and he has taken it like a champ in one go, Steve grinding his hips into the cushion of Bucky’s ass a few times before leaning down to press soothing kisses into his shoulder, up his neck.

“Babyyy, gotta fuck you, gotta fuck this tight little cunt hard, yeah?” Steve feels Bucky’s walls clench around him, a physical answer before a verbal one. “Please, Daddy yeah, come on,” is all Bucky gasps out and Steve is pulling out, a shallow movement, pushing in, acclimating them both to the feel. Bucky is so tight, especially given the position, and Steve soothingly runs a hand up and down the younger’s side, hip to shoulder, a few times.

“Jesus fuck, Bucky y’feel so fuckin’ good, ohh.” The grip Steve goes to give the back of Bucky’s neck feels natural, makes Bucky moan a little high and tight in the back of his throat. Acclimation time is over, Steve can’t stand it, pulls back all the way to give a more pointed and full thrust, demanding and gutting. “Yes, Daddy yes, oh fuck me, fuck me,” Bucky moans, body bouncing and voice pitching with each brutal thrust. The arch in Bucky’s back is beautiful and in turn makes Steve’s thrusts deep, allows Daddy to see himself fuck in and out of Bucky’s cunt perfectly. 

Steve can hear the waves of the ocean, can hear the distant sounds of people enjoying their beach day, is sure a few people can hear Bucky’s little grunts and mewls, and Steve knows damn well that it turns him on immensely when it probably shouldn’t. His thrusts are pointed and harsh, slaps of skin resounding even when there are no true walls to their space, and Steve feels a little feral. He loves it. 

On his next thrust he curls his body over Bucky’s, keeps up his devastating pace, which makes him sob in response, choke on his little noises. “Daddy, ohh god feels so good, fuck me so good,” Bucky cries and Steve knows that tone of voice, that breathless frantic pitch-- Bucky is going to come. “Oh, honey you’ve been on edge for so long haven’t you, sugar? You already feel like comin’? So easy...” 

Bucky shouts, whines some, tries to shake his head but it’s hard when Daddy’s fucking him so hard, moving his smaller body up the pillow with each thrust, whining, “Noo, no no, I’m not, not yet, Daddy!” Steve smirks, presses a kiss into the skin beneath his ear, moans deeply so Bucky can know that Daddy is close to, that he’s making him feel so good as well. 

“Honey, it’s okay you can’t help yourself. Been wearin’ that plug all day, oh shit, been floucnin’ around this beach, feelin’ yourself. You come now and I’ll make you come again whenever you want it, baby I swear. Whatever you want.” 

Bucky is a whimpering mess, is throughout the entire time Steve whispers directly into his hear, his thrusts turning erratic. He kisses at the hinge of Bucky’s jaw, nibbles on it, tastes the underlying layer of salt, fucks into him with all that he has. One pointed thrust has Bucky squealing, has him bucking back in Steve, has Steve rumbling in return, gripping the younger down by the hip.

Daddy has very little warning, only getting a nearly hysterical moan of, “Fuck, I’m--Steve!” and Bucky is absolutely falling apart underneath the older man. There is nothing more beautiful than Bucky Barnes coming undone underneath Steve Rogers and there isn’t a damn thing that can change Steve’s mind. He gets to see Bucky’s eyes roll back, gets to feel his little hole milk and pulse around his aching cock, gets to hear those little breathless desperate noises that Bucky lets out just for him. 

“That’s a good boy, baby, god look at that,” is all Steve can bite out before it becomes too much for him, before his teeth dig into the nape of Bucky’s neck, before he feels himself start to shoot off into the younger man, Bucky moaning out a weak, “Ohh, Daddy fill this cunt up, come on,” pressing his ass back hard even as his own orgasm is still tearing through his body, Steve joining him in his pleasure.

It’s a quick fuck, a little dirty, a little public, but Steve’s orgasm is one of the best he has had in a while. Maybe it is seeing Bucky so ethereal and care-free. Maybe it was getting to spoil Bucky rotten, watching him soak up the attention. Maybe it was those little trunks and rubbing lotion all over his sweet body or maybe it’s a combination of everything. Regardless, when Steve slips that plug back into Bucky’s sensitive body, pats on it and pulls his trunks up, he’s ready and looking forward to the next round.

Holy shit so many words so late at night ILY.

[racefortheironthrone]

Thoughts on House of X #5

Time for the issue where HoX/PoX horniness kicked off!

Society Comma We Live in One:

Time to talk about an issue that definitely merited the coverted red issue status. The issue starts with Magneto and Polaris having a dialogue on society that comes off as a bit writerly, more about Hickman creating an opportunity for him to talk about his ideas about society than what Magneto and Polaris would actually be saying to one another (unless Polaris just arrived on Krakoa and is being given the tour, but that doesn’t quit fit her dialogue).

To start with, Magneto is making an argument that “the one good thing humanity taught us was society,” but attaches this to the concept of human beings shifting from settler-gatherer to agrarian cultures. Notably, in Magneto’s version, this shift also has implications for national identity, what with the whole “this is a good place - it is...ours, and from this land we will not be moved.” 

At the same time, it would be highly inaccurate to suggest that hunter-gatherer cultures don’t have societies or engage in (what Magneto is really getting at here) cooperation. The main difference between hunter-gatherer and agrarian modes of cooperation is that, by creating substantial surpluses that allow more people to not engage in food production, the agrarian mode enables a new form of cooperation based on specialization.

All of this applies pretty directly to Krakoa and the resurrection ceremony that Magneto and Polaris are witnessing: as long as mutantdom was constantly fighting for survival (the time when “the greatest necessary traits in mutantdom” would be “strength and aggressiveness”), it was essentially stuck in a hunter-gatherer paradigm. But once mutantdom established themselves on Krakoa, “intelligence, ingenuity, and creativity” started to come to the fore: the Krakoan flowers and medications, Doug’s interface and the resulting Krakoan systems, KASA, Cerebro, and now a new one. Contrary to certain implications from the Librarian in Powers of X #6, rather than simply relying on their “natural” mutant powers, Krakoan society is technologizing them. 

The “Five” are a great example of this process at work. I’ll get more in detail on how this particular Krakoan biomachinery works when we get to the infographic (which brings together all of the information into one place), but there’s some more subtle details at work here:

I love how the (Fab) Five’s social/cultural status is prefigured by their on-page introduction, which looks like nothing so much as the slow-motion group shot from Resevoir Dogs combined with a supergroup pose complete with spotlights.

As many people have pointed out, Hickman’s reinterpretation of Goldballs’ “seemingly benign and pointless power” shows how a different social and technological context completely changes the way we think about the value of different x-genes. 

As someone who’s spent their fair share of time studying the history of science, I do like how much the Five’s introduction re-emphasizes themes of cooperation and specialization rather than the Lone Genius myth: even with Goldballs’ limitless “eggs,” he still needs Proteus to make the eggs viable, and so on and so forth. As Magneto puts it, ““separate...they are great mutants, but only significant, not transcendant. Together..."

An interesting commonality in Krakoan biotechnology is the use of psychics and other mutants - in this case, Hope plays a similar role to the Cuckoos in KASA - to allow the group to work in unison without the need for the literal hiveminds of the machine consciousness. Something to keep one’s eye on.  

At the same time, the Five’s biomachine relies on two other forms of technology of varying levels of technology. As the red diamond on the syringe confirms, Mister Sinister provides the DNA to grow the husks and (and this is one of the Big Reveals of the issue) Cerebro downloads the mind into the body. 

Playing her role in the Socratic dialogue admirably, Lorna raises the vital question of whether these clones are “just their bodies...not them.” What’s really interesting about Magneto’s response is that he’s not just talking about downloading the mind of the mutant, but also “the essence..the anima...[the] soul” of the mutant, which implies a pretty strongly spiritual conception of Cerebro’s primary purpose. (It’s an interestingly monist approach to the question of the soul as a form of data that can be copied, uploaded, downloaded, etc. I wonder what Nightcrawler thinks of this?)

Xavier’s statement that “even knowing I could bring you back...a part of me dies when any of you do” really backs up what I was talking about re: Xavier’s motivation for changing his worldview. Resurrection doesn’t change the emotional impact of death, especially since the system requires Xavier to be psychically linked to the X-Men he’s sending into harm’s way, so that he’s experiencing all their pain and suffering. This also reads quite differently in the wake of Powers of X #6, because it suggests that (quite aside from his broader plans for Krakoa), Xavier’s shift to being even more of a pragmatist has a lot to do with years of compounding trauma.

BTW, a clear sign that there is a high degree of continuity of consciousness going on is that Scott’s first thought after being resurrected is “did it work?” For all intents and purpsoes, this is the Scott Summers who died on Sol’s Forge.

We See Them, Do We Know Them?

I’m going to take this opportuntity to get on my high horse for a second and take parts of the X-fandom to task. While I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse anyone of arguing in bad faith, I do think there has been a tendency to not grapple with the text in an honest way when it comes to certain characters or themes, with the Resurrection Ceremony as Exhibit A in this tendency.

Rather than being about cults or nakedness (more on both of those soon), what this scene is actually about is the coming together of the foundational aspects of Krakoan society/culture, and how two groups of heroes - the five and the strike team - will be treated in this new world. 

As we might expect, there are both parallels and differences in how the Krakoan masses treat and are expected to treat these groups: as we’ll learn later from the Resurrection Infographic, the Five are “universally revered...as cultural paragons [something sacred to be treasured].” 

Storm’s exhortation provides the text that is supposed to shape and give purpose to this popular attitude, that the Krakoan masses should “love them...for they have righted the wrongs of men and defeated our great enemy death.” As with many RL human cultures, historic grievances are used to define in-group and out-group, but at the same time, the Five’s “miracle” is defined as a victory over “our great enemy death,” (which neatly ties together anti-mutant violence, mutant-specific epidemic diseases, all the forces of the “on the brink of extinction” stories we’ve seen for almost twenty years). 

Given that the Five are responsible for A. reversing mutant genocides which have directly and indirectly affected all mutants in profoundly traumatic ways B. making mutants functionally immortal, it would be utterly unprecedented if a cultural and social change of this magnitude did not have some element of spiritual or religious feeling behind it. World religions have been founded on far less than this.

By contrast, the Strike Team are described in more secular terms. For removing the existential threat of Mother Mold (let alone Nimrod) which had loomed over mutant society, Storm describes them as “heroes of Krakoa,” but not so much cultural heroes as secular military heroes who have made the ultimate sacrifice for their nation: “through their deaths...a great victory was won for our people.” 

Another sign of difference is that the Strike Team’s public reception is conditional, requiring a further ceremony where the community asks “we see them, but do we know them?” I love the way that Hickman turns the meta-question of whether these resurrected mutants are the real thing or “just clones” into a cultural question. 

Thus, he has Storm act as the Master of Ceremonies for a ritual that’s all about recognition and confirmation of individual and social identity, and uses X-comics continuity nods that readers will recognize in the same way that Storm does as the clues:

Cyclops remembers losing the leadership to Storm in UX #139, and I like this particular deep cut because it’s a great contrast to their present-day respect and affected, and because Scott’s inability to commit to his marriage to Madelyn Pryor will help kick off Inferno.

Similarly, Jean recalling line-for-line what she said to Storm in UX #242 works especially well because it’s a line about asserting your identity in the wake of death, resurrection, and the existential questions of cloning, and because once again it recalls Inferno. I’m not sure whether it’s a good sign or a bad sign that Hickman gets Jean’s voice better here when he’s quoting earlier authors rather than writing original dialogue.

And finally, in a great Rule of Three joke format, Monet breaks the pattern by going for a character beat - Monet has strong personal space boundaries - rather than a deep continuity callback.  

Having done my close-reading due diligence, let me get to the point: this is not a cult, and you don’t need to take much in the way of Anthropology coursework to see that. Call-and-response between an officiant and the congregation are incredibly common across many religions, as are ceremonies in which the individual’s membership in the group is confirmed, and so on and so forth. If you want to describe this as a cult, or cult-like, you need to point to qualities that are specific to cults as opposed to other forms of religious activity.

Similarly, I find it quite strange to describe Storm as acting out-of-character in this sequence. Storm, who’s all about giving speeches at the top of her lungs, who’s been worshipped as a goddess in multiple countries, would have a problem with giving a sermon and carrying out a basic ritual? This is the sort of thing that makes me think that a lot of these comments are just people trying to disguise personal preference as story critique.

The scene ends with pulling back to see Xavier and Magneto reacting to all of this, and their feeling of tempered joy is a pretty good synecdoche for how things stand at the end of HoX/Pox: while the “good work” is clearly a cause for joy, it’s clearly at a very early and vulnerable stage, and there’s a feeling of determination that it has to continue “until it is done.” Interestingly, both Charles and Erik view this aspect of Krakoa as more “foundational” than any other element, and I wonder whether this could be part of why they don’t quite see eye-to-eye with Moira any more.

Another sign that things are not as secure as they’d like is that Krakoa still hasn’t gotten over the hurdle of UN recognition, which requires getting around a veto from a permanent member of the Security Council.

Resurrection Infographic:

So let’s talk about the Resurrection process, now that we have all of the information in front of us.

The Infographic really confirms that Mister Sinister is absolutely crucial to the Genetic Base working - “without this, we have nothing.” But given that we learn in Powers of X #6 that this was very much in opposition to Moira’s wishes, I wonder how the original plan envisioned this working. I wonder whether Magneto’s statement to Emma Frost in Powers of X #5 that “we are not ahead of ourselves...we are woefully behind” suggests a motive. Mister Sinister already had a comprehensive DNA database on the go, they might have gone to him because they wanted to accelerate the time table for reversing the Genoshan genocide.

At the same time, you can already see how Sinister has become the snake in the garden. At the moment, Xavier and Magneto have “limited...current mutant modifications...to “optimal aging,” but we can already see Sinister’s influence in the line “it is believed that in the future, designer modifications will be possible.” Unless they are very, very careful, this is how the chimera singularity could topple all of this into the abyss of the singularity.

The Five:

As I discussed above, each of the Five are a crucial element of the overall process.

Fabio Medina (Goldballs): produces limitless eggs for limitless husks. Without Goldballs, the resurrection process would be extremely limited in how many people could be brought back at any time by all kinds of resource constraints; with him, the process can be turned into one of mass-production.

Kevin MacTaggart (Proteus): turns unviable eggs into viable eggs; without Proteus, Goldballs’ innovation would be effectively stillborn. Kevin’s presence here is also a strong indicator that this was part of Moira’s plan, so as with so much in HoX/PoX what we’re talking about is a question of means vs. ends. 

Joshua Foley (Elixir): “kick-start[s] the process of life, initializing cell replication and husk growth.” Without Elixir, the DNA might sit dormant within the egg; with Elixir, you have a bridge between the raw building blocks of life and the end product of a viable husk. 

Eva Bell (Tempus): “temporally mature[s] a husk to a desired age.” This is potentially an under-appreciated aspect of the whole process: without Tempus, you’d still have to wait decades for resurrected mutants to come to maturity and all throughout that time, the process would be incredibly vulnerable; with Tempus, mutants are brought back to life as fully-grown adults capable of doing their part for Krakoan society. 

Hope Summers (Hope): has the more nebulous task of “enhancing and synergizing...to ensure the success of each resurrection.” As Magneto explains, resurrection is “delicate, almost impossible work.” Hope’s unique power set allows her not only to boost the powers of the rest of the five, but also to improve coordination and thus quality control, so that the overall process has a success rate of 100%.  

As we can see already, this is a system with a lot of irreplacable parts, which means a bunch of potential points of failure. No wonder, then, that Krakoan minds are at work trying to overcome these problems. We already see that “Synch or Mimic” have been floated as “upgrades/extensions/stand-ins” for the Five, which suggests that they’re already thinking about ways to improve functionality by adding to the “circuit” or about ways to maintain service if one of the Five needs to be replaced. 

Similarly, I love how the “Proteus problem” shows how Resurrection is changing our perceptions of so many things in Krakoan society. From his introduction, Proteus has been shown as inherently dangerous because of the way that his powers damage his body - but with the Resurrection system, Proteus is just a mutant who happens to have a chronic illness that can be treated. One interesting question...why is Proteus’ “backup mutant husk” based on Charles Xavier? Charles isn’t his father, so it’s not a question of genetic compatibility. 

The Mind:

Here’s where we really get into the philosophy of identity. Hickman gets really emphatic here that these are not “just clones,” because the backups include “the essence of each mutant, how they think, how they feel, their memories, their very being.” 

I’m personally inclined to agree with Hickman. Even without transference of consciousness as a real thing, I don’t think a strict view of continuity of consciousness can really hold, given the fact there are plenty of breaks in said continuity - we don’t consider people who get knocked out or blackout drunk or just have a nap to no longer be the same person, so what’s the rationale for saying that any of the Strike Team aren’t the same people who they were before?

I also love how the Cerebro part of the system adds all kinds of new problems: there’s the technical complexity of scanning every mutant mind on the planet and then storing and copying that datat to “multiple redundant “cradles,” as well as new philosophical and ethical issues about what happens when you put someone’s mind in someone else’s body, etc. More on this in a bit. 

Scale:

So at least at the time that this document was written, it looks like the mutant population is back to 100,000 (although how much was the Five isn’t clear), but that there are 1 million de-powered mutants (many of whom might want to use the system to regain their powers), and 16 million mutants who were murdered and whose resurrection is a key ideological drive for Krakoa.

As Hickman points out, this brings up issues of productivity and efficiency that we’re used to seeing in industrial and technological processes. The Five’s initial rate of 200 a day would take 300 years to accomplish the goal of reversing Krakoan genocide, which is way too long a timeline.

However, it turns out that there’s a mutant version of Moore’s law: the more the Five do this, the better they get at it (with a nice nod to Wolverine, so “its estimated that capabilities could possibly reach around 30,000 a week” (or 6,000 a day), bringing the timeline down to a far more manageable decade. 

A final bottleneck: Charles Xavier “is not capable of” 6,000 daily downloads, and we already seen Krakoan minds thinking about “a workaraound or a team of telepaths” to supplement someone who’s also busy attending U.N meetings, Quiet Council sessions, plotting world domination, etc.

On a policy wonk side note, I was trying to figure out how Hickman worked out these numbers, and I realized that his math assumes that Krakoa has a five day work-week. As we’ll see in House of X #6, there are major open questions about what kind of economic policy (and thus, what kind of society) this new nation-state will have. Good to see that Actual 19th Century Robber Baron Sebastian Shaw isn’t getting his own way.

One particularly odd thing about Krakoan biomachinery, according to “extensive testing,” the Five don’t actually experience “exertion,” but rather a “blissful experience” of self-actualization. This suggests the psychological equivalent of a perpetual motion machine - rather than requiring more and more labor, the damn thing requires less and less and produces “total fulfillment” as a byproduct. Weird.

Another interesting side effect is that the Five have become “an inseparable family unit” who are undergoing a process of symbiosis - given all the discussion of mechanical hiveminds, it’s worth wondering whether we’re seeing a biological one forming and to what extend is individuality being maintained.

A final, slightly odd note: this Infographic describes the Five’s socio-cultural status as that of “cultural paragons” rather than “something achievable through works,” even though the Five are explicitly described as having carried out “good works.” So what gives?

Resurrection Protocol:

One last bottleneck: the whole process seems to take at least 42 and as much as 52 hours to complete. Although they can clearly work on multiple eggs in one batch, getting that figure down would no doubt be useful in further increasing productivity.

An interesting sign of the cultural/philosophical impacts of the system: Krakoan society now has “fears regarding duplication” of an explicit moral character, and thus requires an elaborate system of confirmation to bring someone back from the dead. Thus, we start to see the formation of mutant law-enforcement entities to deal with “mutant missing persons and suspected deaths and murders,” which is presumably going to be X-Factor rather than X-Force as initially believed (since X-Force turns out to be the intelligence service instead).

A Grateful Nation:

Speaking of the burdens of statecraft, the scene shifts to the aftermath of the U.N recognition vote, where it emerges that Emma Frost used her telepathy to push the Russian ambassador to abstain rather than veto, which Xavier is ok with. Krakoa is now an internationally-recognized nation-state in good standing, something that previous mutant nations never quite managed. 

This gave some parts of the fandom a good deal of trouble, but let me say as someone who’s taken a couple courses in diplomatic history, this is really quite mild stuff compared to the usual run of vote selling, wiretapping, blackmail, threats of economic or military retaliation, and other kinds of skullduggery and corruption. The world of nation-states is not one of moral purity.

Also, if we’re talking about characters being in and out of character, as much as Charles Xavier has been described as an idealist when it comes to his ultimate ends, he’s always been a pragmatist when it comes to his means when it comes to psychic powers. Mental compulsion, altering or erasing memories, mind-wiping people into mental vegetables - as long as it’s for the greater good. 

I’m curious what Emma Frost’s reward will be. This scene explicitly comes after she made her bargain with Xavier and Magneto for a fifty-year monopoly for the Hellfire Trading Company and three seats on the Quiet Council, so I wonder what this bonus will be.

Mutant Diplomacy Infographic:

Speaking of the moral ambiguity of international relations, we learn from this infographic that “all current mutant diplomacy...is dependent on relationships with human nations centering on their need for mutant pharmaceuticals.” On the one hand, it’s better than basing your diplomacy on military aid. On the other hand, it’s notable that Krakoa isn’t building its diplomacy on the basis of human rights or cultural exchange or other elements of “soft power,” it’s all very transactional. (It’s also not a good sign that “nations that have rejected a trade treaty with Krakoa are considered to be naturally adversarial.)

We then get a list of non-treaty nations. Some of these inclusions make sense, others are a bit puzzling, and I have some questions about why certain nations didn’t make the list.

Asia:

Why just Iran in the Middle East? OPEC should be losing their minds about the potential for Krakoan portals to undermine the value of oil. Likewise, plenty of Middle Eastern regimes might be worried about other ethnic minorities using the Krakoan precedent to redouble their own pushes for national independence. And if it’s religious ideology, why is it only a Shia issue and not a Sunni issue?

Madripoor: given where Krakoa is located, this is probably an issue of being afraid of a new power in their sphere of influence. Also, Madripoor has tended to get up to a lot of mutant-related crimes, so they’d probably be worried about this.

North Korea: this being listed as an ideological issue is a bit strange. The official state ideology of North Korea is really peculiar, even among putatively Communist regimes, so it’s hard to tell 

Europe:

I imagine the E.U’s role in negotiating trade deals probably is responsible for the relative lack of European nations on the list, but I’m surprised that none of the right-wing populist governments that have sprung up in central/eastern Europe in recent years who aren’t particularly friendly to real world minorities wouldn’t have an issue with a powerful nation of mutants.

Latveria: probably because Doom is a paranoid, egomaniacal autocrat who pursues economic autarky generally. I am curious, however, about other Marvel-specific nation states - we know that Namor isn’t going to go to Krakoa, but what is Atlantis’ foreign policy on this issue? What do the Inhumans think? Etc.

Russi: as we’ve seen from House of X #1, Russia fears a new global superpower. What’s interesting is we don’t see them exerting any successful influence on Central Asian or Baltic or ex-Soviet eastern European nations. 

South America:

Brazil: is this Bolsanaro's cultural conservatism at work or something else? Because...

Venezuela: is kind of on the opposite end of the spectrum from Brazil’s current government, so it would be odd to see them on the same side of this issue. The only thing I can think of is that this might be due to Chavezista anti-imperialism. Because...

Santo Marco: contrary to what Magneto said in House of X #1, mutants have not been entirely free of the sins of conquest and imperialism, and in one of his first appearances, Magneto conquered the Republic of Santo Marco and ruled it in an extremely brutal fashion. That’s the kind of thing people remember for a long time, so I’m not surprised that you see some South American countries taking a negative view of Krakoa as a result.

Terra Verde: Similarly, Terra Verde’s government was briefly overthrown by the supervillain Diablo, and although mutants were not involved, they may be generally wary of superpower-led nation states. 

Central America:

Honduras: it’s not that I think it’s implausible, but what makes Honduras different from other Central American countries on this issue?

Africa:

This is where we get a potentially really juicy plot hook. As late as X-Men Red, Wakanda has been generally positive towards mutants, especially since not only does T’challa have a personal relationship with Storm, but in the current run of Black Panther, Storm has been popularly worshipped as Hadari Yao, the Walker of Clouds. 

Given that Wakanda is seen as a threat because “they do not need mutant drugs,” this may be a case of Krakoan/Moira’s paranoia that Wakanda’s advanced technology and self-sufficiency might mean that the post-human revolution might start there. 

At the same time, the fact that the rest of the “Wakandan economic protectorate” also reject a trade treaty might suggest that we’re just seeing a simple story of nation-state competition for spheres of influence.

Krakoa Is For All Mutants:

In a very straight-forward example of X-Men dissenting from Xavier’s plan, we see Wolverine - who’s about to take up a significant post in Krakoa’s national security infrastructure - has a big enough problem with the amnesty program that he mentions wanting to beat “Chuck” to death for general smugness and condescension. 

A whole bunch of supervillains cross-over, but while some of them will become significant as members of the Quiet Council or Captains, Apocalypse is framed as the most significant one, because he’s the only one with a pre-existing connection to Krakoa

Indeed, he goes full Disney Princess on page 27 because Krakoa “knows me, and I Krakoa,” which might be a big problem later on if Krakoan’s earlier and deeper connections to Apocalypse come into conflict with its more recent alliances with Cypher and Xavier.

At the same time, at least for the moment Apocalypse is the most ideologically on board with Xavier’s broader project, seeing it as the culmination of his life’s work. 

Thus, he’s happy to say the words: “we submit to the laws of this land, be what they may, and acknowledge from this day forward, we all serve a higher purpose than want or need. One people from this day forward.” It’s an oath of citizenship, but it also speaks to the conditionality of the amnesty. And there are penalties for breaking it. 

[thebeautyofdisorder]

Did You Miss Me? Adlock One-Shot, Rated M

Just in case the whole ‘links in posts make your shit invisible’ issue is still present, I’ll post directly to tumblr as well. Because why not? Here there be s-mut-tastic Adlock. Written over four years ago, and post Series 3 but Pre-Abominable Bride.

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairing: Adlock (Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler)

Rating: At least Mature, probably Explicit

Summary: Shameless and mostly plot-less smut. One-Shot. After the events of His Last Vow, Irene is already waiting for Sherlock at 221B. This was written before The Abominable Bride was released so it's only canon compliant so far as the end of series 3. Any other details, minimal as they are, were based purely on speculation at the time. 

Read below or if you’d prefer an AO3 link, I’ve posted it in a previous post on my blog. Also have ff.net if you’re feeling nostalgic. Ask and ye shall receive. The tags on AO3 do warn of obvious sexual content and minor but present knife play.

 Irene Adler was perched on his chair, hair loose, down, and slightly curled, his red dressing gown wrapped around her figure this time, the threat of whether or not she was naked underneath it unable to be ascertained from the naked eye at the position she was currently in. She tapped her uncharacteristically plain nails on the arm of the chair, lost in thought, only to be rescued from it by the turn of the key in the door and the stepping in of 'The Man.'

 She licked her blood-red lips (the one indulgence she had been unable to forsake and thus, permitted herself, from her 'old life') before a small smirk tugged at her lips as his eyes fell      into     hers, and she murmured coyly, "Thought I'd save you the phone call, dear. I do feel for your 'phone anxiety.'" She teased him lightly, coming to a stand finally and taking a step or two towards him.

 Sherlock drank her in with a combination of more or less equal parts delight and dread, neither of which showed through fully on his face. Mostly what came through, perhaps to his chagrin, was just a bounty of relief.

 "No complications in arriving, I hope?" He murmured with a quirk of his brow, slowly gliding towards her as well, by instinct more than thought. He didn't ask how she knew to come - not relevant nor surprising. "Weren't followed or harassed, or even vehemently stared at?" His lips barely twitched.

 She bit her bottom lip coquettishly, staring at him up through her thick, made-up eyelashes as she took another step towards him and glided a hand up his chest, carefully avoiding the area of his bullet wound before coming up to drag it along his left cheekbone.

 "Not until now...." She husked gently. "I'm very good at staying incognito when I need to be... Especially if it means getting to my      lover     faster..." She winked, knowing his distaste for the term, though lovers in the Elizabethan sense, they most certainly were, if not more.

 He pulled a face and made a bit of a rumble of discontent from his throat, over-dramatising his distaste accordingly.

 "Don't make me more ill, I just spent all afternoon with my brother," he teased, though his hand was almost absentmindedly playing over the curve of her hip in his dressing gown, stroking the edges of his fingernails over the lightly striped fabric, but only just. "Granted it was coming to agreement on how I      don't     have to go get myself killed in Eastern Europe, so I suppose it was productive..."

 She nodded slowly, leaning up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck as she pressed her lips to his 'chastely'-      titillatingly     before pulling back quickly to take a step back and slap him hard across his cheek.

 "Don't you      ever    allow yourself to get shot and almost die on me, ever again, do you hear me, Sherlock Holmes? If a woman ever does hold a pistol to you again, it will be      me    --though the context may be      questionable    ...." She softened on the last word, the same hand that gave the blow now coming up to soothe the sting.

 "Sorry, darling... Delayed reaction from my little hospital visit…”

 His eyes were sharp as he stared down at her, but not in a particularly vicious way, his jaw tensing in a brief tick of annoyance. He didn't protest. Instead, his arm shot out and ensnared her waist, yanking her body against his and nearly off of her bare feet, in retort for her assault.

 "Fair enough, Miss Adler, I'll vye for immortality if you'll join me," he challenged dryly, angling his head down at her.

 She cracked a smile, a dark but gentle chuckle following after it as she weaved her arms around his neck and knocked per pelvis against his.

 "Mmm, gladly, Mr Holmes. Think of all the      'dinners'    we could have....." She purred, her fingers tangling in his hair slowly, nails scraping along his scalp.

 He barely managed to bite back a groan. Damn woman knew his weaknesses. Luckily, it was mutual. He stroked a hand up and across her torso, across her chest leisurely, and up lightly to her throat. He spun on his heel and walked her backward, til her back pressed against the wall.

 "I believe infinity might actually bore us," he observed darkly, his other hand stroking down her hip, bunching the fabric of his dressing gown in his hand as he went.

 She gasped in appreciation as he pressed her against the wall slowly, her eyes darkening and her grip on his locks tightening as he sparked her arousal further.

 "Mm, perhaps... Though I don't think I could ever tire of...      you    ." She flirted sentimentally, though one hand had come down to grip his loins over his trousers as she uttered the last word, making it clear the ‘true’ direction of the compliment.

 A sharp intake of breath notwithstanding, his eyes merely narrowed at her as he pulled the dressing gown to the side, his hand gripping the bare flesh of her thigh with a sort of carnal relief. His hand stroked the creamy expanse of skin for a moment before hiking it up to his hip, fitting himself against her far more snugly in the process.

 "You are probably the only human being I could fathom not boring me after a century...you'd be too in danger of boring yourself," he murmured, now a breath away from her lips.

 She arched her neck back softly, a small moan escaping her throat as he 'manhandled' her and his own arousal met hers, though sadly obstructed by his clothing.

 "Mm, likewise, I'm sure." She replied tartly, tugging the dressing gown all the way down and off her torso to expose her breasts to him finally, waiting a moment to drink in his reaction.

 "Tell me, Sherlock dear, how long has been since we last      'ate?'    " She asked him in instigation.

 His eyes zeroed in on her chest, dark and searing, and his free hand came up to stroke over the curve of her left breast, indulgently. He narrowed his eyes in playful consideration before glancing back up.

 "One year, five months, two weeks, and three days," he rumbled as he ducked his head to take the bud of her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over it as he applied suction.

 "Mmmahh!" Irene gave him a breathy moan, an echo of his text alert from days past, as his mouth accosts her breast, much to her appreciation and delight. "Mm, I do adore your addiction to precision and retaining facts...." She husked, as her hands, both now, tangled in his hair further, allowing them both to enjoy his actions for a few moments before she pulled his head back roughly, eyeing him darkly as she placed her foot against his hip suddenly and kicked him back.

"However, I also adore your 'selective patience,' emphasis on 'selective.'" She chided him, untying the dressing gown and letting it pool completely at her feet before she turned on her heel and padded her way to the kitchen. She ran a finger along the middle table, only pausing as her eyes spotted his microscope and smiled to herself before glancing back at him, coy and conspiring. She then turned back and leaned down to gaze into it, her bent over, bare arse, purposefully holding a place of prominence in his eyesight.

 He rolled his eyes and quietly  groaned to himself at her playing the coquette. Again. He was well acquainted with her tendency to play with her meals, so to speak, and he would've been more shocked had she been impatient enough to make this simple.      Wrong woman    , he mused in resignation as he followed her fleeing steps towards the kitchen, only to halt, at her stance.

 "See anything that interests you?" He rasped wryly once he'd recovered from his mouth going dry, walking up behind her cautiously. There wasn't much of technical intrigue in there, only some samples from his last case, but she was looking quite...      Intently    .

 Irene grinned like the Cheshire Cat as she felt his figure come up behind her, though, apparently, refusing to make any direct contact      yet    . She adjusted the focus of the microscope shifting her weight from her right hip to her left as she leaned back slightly, arse pressing against his arousal which left them in a      very    suggestive position as she feigned to act like she needed the leverage to 'see' the slide more properly.

 "AB+.... One of the rarest blood types there is... Hmm, was this the victim's or the perpetrator's, Mr Holmes?" She asked, 'matter-of-factly' as she continued to examine the blood slide, her buttocks flanking his erection and starting to grind on him ever so faintly.

 His jaw slacked as the sensation of her friction against his groin joined the highly intriguing fact she was identifying blood types in his microscope coincided into one large wave of arousal that sent a shudder down his spine. His hands made contact with her hips, fingers flexing with her subtle movement.

 "The uh...victim's," he rumbled distractedly, his right hand moving to trace up the curve of her spine. "The distinction of the blood was what made the perpetrator obvious...small traces under the fingernails..." He continued, pressing himself forward as he bent to brush his lips up the trek which his hand just made.

 Her bare flesh got goose pimples at his touch and then even more so at as she felt his lips echoing his touch along her spine.She took a moment to close her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly as she willed the wetness that was eagerly gathering between her thighs, shifting her weight back to her right foot in a subtly effort to provide some sort of 'scratch' to her growing 'itch.'

 "T-That makes sense...." She stammered slightly, the only other physical indication that she was utterly and totally affected by him, right now. She righted herself, coming to her full height, as petite as that was, to lean her back against his chest momentarily before she bucked her arse backwards to force him back so that she could cross around the table to pluck a banana from a bundle he had apparently bought out of some impulse or need for potassium for some 'experiment.' She leaned against the counter, crossing her ankles as she eyed him lustfully, peeling the banana slowly, deftly, suggestively before finally asking--now under full 'control' once more.

 "So....      Sherlock    , 'impress a girl....' How long did it take you to figure out that last case, hmm?" She 'challenged' lightly, knowing the man got hard and off on nothing more than his own--or her own--intellect mixed with sexual content.

 His eyes narrowed, dark and growing more desperate by the moment, especially once he'd seen her obvious distraction. She was losing focus, in there somewhere.

 "About as quickly as I could gather all the components," he murmured, taking a couple steps towards her. "After I'd seen the blood type, I knew it was a possible red flag, so in theory it was rather immediate. Once the suspects were narrowed down, it became a process of elimination. All I needed was the opportunity to examine them," he explained in a low rhythmic tone, in tune with his steps as he crossed the room.  "In short, the case was closed, more or less, in three days."

 She watched him carefully, tossing the peel aside and before she brought the head of the fruit to her mouth, tongue darting out to circle the tip of it before she bobbed her head down and around the fruit before she bit the head off and started to chew it as she gazed at him darkly.

"Mmm, now that's my kind of man..." She purred playfully, echoing lost words before swallowing finally.

 He watched her little 'show' with wide exasperated eyes, his chest rising and falling in time with his faintly labored breathing. His steps continued towards her, forcing himself to keep a steady pace and not rush up to her. Unnecessary and a clear sign of desperation. When he came toe to toe with her he didn't stop, pressing forward with an arm on either side of her form, essentially trapping her between his chest and the counter.

 He didn't speak, merely angled his head and forcefully captured her lips with his, knowing she'd have a smart retort for anything he'd have to say. He didn't give her the chance.

 She responded by returning the pressure of his lips with her own and tossing the banana aside as her hands came up his chest to cup his face tightly,  thrusting her tongue into his mouth forcefully. He may have the dominant position physically, but she wasn't about to let him have it orally, as well. She growled as her teeth clashed with his, her actions becoming more primitive with each passing second.

 His hands rushed from the counter to her hips, needing some purchase on her anatomy as she had so clearly taken her own. It gave him the ability to press her back into the counter, taking his height to his advantage to try to regain some control. He straightened his back and angled his head down, attempting to match her force at the least, as he now could press down and into her mouth with his tongue. Once he felt he'd thoroughly attempted to make his point, his grip on her hips tightened as he lifted her weight onto the counter, concurrently pulling back only far enough to breathe.

 "Been awhile, Miss Adler?" He rumbled in a breathless taunt, unable to resist drawing attention to her rather telling aggression despite the hypocrisy, as he pressed himself between her dangling legs.

 She allowed him to lift her and assert his 'leadership' in their little foreplay scene,  cracking a sly smile at his remark and it's sanctimoniousness, the distinguishable 'tenting' of his trousers condemning him outright.

 "Apparently so, Mr Holmes. At least '      someone'    in this room isn't ashamed to say he missed me..." She teased him darkly, as she removed her right hand from his cheek to reach behind her subtly to a kitchen knife left out on the counter slowly, gripping it's handle carefully as she held his gaze with a steady, coy one of her own.

 His eyes widened only briefly on instinct, before they narrowed purposefully, eyebrow lifting faintly. He had little to no worry for his life in her presence, truly. His extremities were only a minimal percentage higher.

 "I missed you," he confirmed only a tad wryly, hoping the uncharacteristic, however true, response might just throw her off her game a tad. Which game she was playing, though, remained to be seen.

 She cocked her head slowly, his frank and strangely honest response so easily given automatically making her a bit suspicious, though the sincerity of his look softened her gaze and she 'rewarded' him with small smile before whispering,      "And I missed you, too."  

 She then dragged her index finger down his cheek and lips and down his neck before gripping his shirt tightly and tugging it towards her, thus pulling it away from his body, before she brought the knife from behind her back and quickly, and deftly cut each button from it's thread to reveal his bare chest behind the fabric.

 "You're even more charming       out    of your clothes, dear, care to say that last sentence again...?" She bit her bottom lip and grinned wickedly as she drew the tip of the knife down the centre of his chest, pausing where his trousers began and the beginnings of the auburn hairs of his 'happy trail' began.

 He scowled at her for a moment before his face contorted into a different sort of expression all together, feeling the beginnings of adrenaline threatening his bloodstream as she drug the blade southward. She did have a penchant for knowing his      intrigues    . Though instead of snatching the knife from her, as was his first instinct, or even listening to her request, he just glanced down with purposeful annoyance at his ruined shirt and sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth thoughtfully.

 "I suppose I deserve that from Paris," he snarked lowly, recalling an incident with him rather deliberately ripping what was      apparently     a rather expensive dress.

 She chuckled once before narrowing her eyes at his as she applied a dash of pressure with the knife as she retorted in mock annoyance, "      Quite    . That dress was a bloody McQueen..." She reminded him before bringing the knife down to the bulge in his trousers, dragging the tip along his obvious length titillatingly as she licked her lips.

 "Mmm.... To think, there was once a time when I'd rather have castrated you completely than merely arouse you with my own 'sword....'" She winked in self-amusement before continuing, "Thankfully, however, that attitude towards you really only lasted that      one     night..." She murmured, referencing the night he threw her to the dogs, in the shape of his elder brother, a bit of 'ammunition' she like to employ every once in a while, if only just to then prove his more than evident feelings towards her by always then following it up with the reminder of how he very quickly remedied that little blunder.

 He swallowed, he hoped subtly, and attempted to even his breathing, meeting her eyes in challenge. Oh, he knew exactly what she was insinuating, she did like to rub that in. But he chose the more blunt road for a response.

 "I think we're      both     rather thankful for that, this instant," he drawled, still feeling the tip of a knife exactly where a man      least     wants to feel one. Assuming, of course, he was decidedly 'normal' and wasn't just a tad amused at the obviously empty threat.

 She smirked and glanced down at the knife, circling the outline of his member's head lightly before removing it from the area completely, murmuring a hit of agreement as she did so. She brought it up and wielded it in front of him as she momentarily debated how to proceed with it, if at all before a slightly twisted but, nevertheless,      arousing    idea sparked in her mind.

 Without any explanation or warning, she grabbed his right hand from her hip and held it open before pricking the tip of his pointer finger until a small thread of blood began to ooze out. She then did the same to her right index finger, glancing at him briefly before setting the knife down to bring the accosted hand with her other up to her mouth. She locked eyes with him heavily as she ran her tongue up his digit, lapping up his most human, and 'sacred' bodily fluid into her mouth to 'digest' and mix with her own before sucking on it rather suggestively, her tongue circling the cut before applying pressure to clot the flow of the blood.

 As she did this she brought her own lightly bleeding digit up to his mouth, waiting for him to accept and perform, this 'self-ordained lover's ritual,' from his own free will, raising a single brow as her only attempt to 'challenge' him into it.

 He watched her with a strange sort of nearly-perplexed fascination, before his eyes lulled, turning heavy-lidded with arousal as her tongue stroked over the length of his finger, insinuation more than obvious. Then without rhyme or reason, the unspoken and fairly unspecified significance was returned as he dipped his mouth over her seeping digit. His tongue swirled over the wound itself with deliberate dexterity to counter her own, relishing the coppery taste no matter the oddness of the circumstance. It was an unbridled extension of      her     which made it no more off limits to him than any of her other bodily fluids.

 He sucked the tip of her finger into his mouth fully, before biting down lightly just below where she'd split the skin, as he pulled it from his mouth.

 She let out a moan of utter eroticism as he bit down and sucked the blood from her finger before abandoning it. Her eyes, too, were heavy and full with lust and desire at their little exchange and she stared into his eyes as she echoed his action, dislodging his finger from her mouth, only to glance down at the bit of blood still on it before painting her lips with it and rubbing them together as one would with lipstick.

 "I think I      much     prefer this shade to the one in my purse... Might have to take a bottle back with me...." She husked lowly, swallowing the contents of his digit finally as she continued to gaze at him daringly, her implication both clear and slightly ambiguous.

 His eyes locked to her mouth, lips twitching at her action and the implication that came with it. He drew his finger back from her grasp, the dull sting nearly impossible to distinguish through the rest of the blood gushing through his veins. He perhaps waited a few seconds before his hand gripped the back of her neck harshly and pulled her forward, sucking the taste of his own lifeblood from her lips with a hunger that he wouldn't have fathomed rational. His other hand had shifted itself from her hip to gripping her inner thigh, pressing it further away from its companion so he could press as flush against her as the counter would allow.

 Her hands flew to his chest, running her nails up his bare skin before exploring his pectoral muscles and nipples as she hungrily returned his kiss with just as much force and expression. She moaned into his mouth,- a moan of sheer want and need for      him,     and      only him,     to fill her up once more; to satisfy her once more; to 'make love'--as      sentimental     a phrase it was--once more, before she wrapped her legs around his waist to hug his groin against hers, needing some sort of friction against her throbbing nub, lest she go mad from desire.

 He groaned at the contact, low and rumbling in the back of his throat, bucking his hips against her centre thoughtlessly, at both their detriment. He recovered quickly, letting go of her entirely to pull the tattered remains of his shirt off of his arms, yanking it from his trousers and letting it fall to the floor, all without hardly breaking from her mouth. He ripped open his belt in a frenzy, and unzipped his trousers for the sake of relief from how tight they'd become, but otherwise left them in place, instead turning his attention back to her.

 His left hand wrapped around her waist, urging her to the very edge of the counter while his right was urging up her inner thigh. He didn't waste much of his or her time, immediately pressing a thumb to her clit just to hear her sharp intake of breath at the sudden contact after leaving it wanting.

 "Ahhhhh..." She exhaled upon inhaling pointedly, nipping his bottom lip in automatic response to his assault. She pulled back and stared up at him, her right hand ghost in down his chest before gripping his length over his pants and squeezing faintly, as she purred, "You know, Sherlock, we've never 'christened' your flat... Let alone your      bed...    Well,      I    have...but your cock is      much     preferable to my hand...." She winked at her 'confession,' before biting her bottom lip seductively.

 The moment her statement clicked was most assuredly visible on his face, much less the faint growl that she could probably feel reverberating through his chest. He tilted his hips into her grip, even as his two fingers began to tease her rather soaked entrance, pressing on either side but not moving towards it.

 "You're a very bad woman," he remarked      almost     casually, as though it were a fact he were recalling as opposed to a direct accusation. His thumb began to shift back and forth. "But you are quite correct..."

 She gyrated her hips in a desperate attempt to manipulate his touch. She whimpered softly, an action she was slowly, and secretly, growing more accustomed to enjoying as her hand around him tugged his cock in silent retribution.

 "And      you    are a very bad man." She hissed. "Besides, dear, we      both     know that image, and fact, is making you even harder as we speak... Why else do you think I insisted on showering before we 'chatted' about the mobile...?" She pressed.

 He didn't give her the satisfaction of a direct response, confirming the obvious, though the pained desire was probably clear on his face. Instead he merely plunged both of his teasing fingers inside of her suddenly, successfully dropping the focus from his arousal and nailing it clearly on her own. He crooked them knowingly, raising his brows.

 "An excuse to steal my clothing?" He teased in a strained murmur, his other hand making its way north, brushing over her breast and across her collarbone to grip the side of her neck.

 She groaned in appreciation her kegel muscles flexing around his fingers as added testimony to her 'thanks.'

 "That, too." She rebutted finally, her hand dipping under the waistband of his pants to grip his cock directly, thumb padding over his tip before she reached further south and massaged his testicals, something she had discovered to be      very    effective with him. Apparently, his hair follicles weren't the only unusually, overly-sensitive nerves in his body, even as far as the male reproductive system went.

 "If I wanted fingers, Mr Holmes, I'd just do it myself,      again    ." She half-teased/half-jested clippedly.

 His lips parted in a low moan at her new focus, arching up on his toes almost without thought to encourage her actions. He refocused on her quickly though, despite his laboured breathing, bringing his fingers out before delving them back in deeper than he knew she was capable of, just for spite, satisfying his own selfish wants more than anything. Slowly pulling them out in earnest, his thumb nail grazing her clit in parting.

 He brought those fingers to his lips, sucking her flavour from them, his eyes locking on hers in preemptive warning. Savoring her response for only a moment, as he let the digits slide from his mouth, his hand quickly latched onto the slender wrist that was still on the inside of his pants, yanking it free to give him the freedom to crouch in front of her, hands moving to stroke up her thighs.

 A shudder swept down the back of her spine as she watched him taste her juices, pupils dilating even further at the arousing, not to mention       flattering    , sight.

 Her breath caught in her throat, however, as she watched him kneel in front of her, her mind suddenly realising what it was exactly he was planning on doing. He hadn't done that since the time before last--Paris being far more frenzied and rushed.

 "Eating      out    , then are we?" She couldn't help but joke, though her voice was shaky and more than a little unsteady, as she brought her hands to curl in his locks lightly.

 His lips were brushing her inner thigh tauntingly as he murmured in response, "You are in my kitchen," biting into the flesh briefly before his arm curled around her hip, angling her pelvis towards the edge of the counter so it was as exposed as could be without her falling, giving her one long swipe of his tongue from her entrance up to her nub. He repeated the action, darting inside of her briefly along the way.

 "It would be wrong not to partake," he rumbled against her before his lips latched onto her clit, sucking it into his mouth as his tongue dashed against it.

 She let out a series of successive moans and gasps, her back arching as she jutted her hips forward at each lap and suckle of his tongue and mouth. Her fingers tightened in his hair and she exhaled slowly, trying to gather herself before responding jaggedly, "Well, who am I to argue with      that     logic...." She gasped again and let out a soft whimper.

 "Fuck, you are skilled at that....      Almost    as good as I am...." She couldn't help but compliment him, despite knowing how even more it would inflate his bloody ego, the successive years of holding his 'V-Card' only making his sudden      gift    for the act all the more impressive      and     annoying.

 Hearing her make those bloody infuriatingly      distracting     noises was doing nothing for his ability to ignore his own arousal, and his hands tightened on her thighs in response. He growled as he fucked her with his tongue rather greedily, his amusement that she was actually going out of her way to      praise     his ability almost drowned in his focus.      Almost.  

 "I'd      love     to know how you'd be able to compare," he pulled back enough to quirk a brow tauntingly at her lack of logic, his lips twitching up into a brief smirk as he nipped at her once more before he stood to his feet between her legs, eyes just smug enough to be noticeable, which was less than his norm at times, already tugging his trousers from his hips.

 She quirked a pointed brow at him as her eyes narrowed, a single hand reaching up to grab his chin violently as she replied with mild acidity, "Don't even      think    about suggesting having a threesome, Sherlock. I      don't     share well.... Besides, I'd hate to show you up..." She winked teasingly before pushing his chin back to help him get his damned trousers off.

 "Now for fuck's sake,      dear    , will you      PLEASE    fuck me?" She half hissed/half begged.

 "Would scarce know with who," he drawled rather tellingly, he realized a bit too late, as he stepped out of the pants and trousers now pooled at his feet. He had yet to find another woman who could inspire in him what she could. If it was worth anything, his little faux-relationship with Janine just exemplified      that     in his mind. He couldn't even fathom taking anyone else but her into his bed, just as before her he couldn't fathom hardly anyone at all. But he dismissed that rather      sentimental     thought process as soon as his bare flesh met hers. He let out a brief groan as his cock pressed between her legs, no longer impeded by his clothing.

 "Though it occurs to me you may just be begging," he roughly mused, despite the fact his left hand had grasped her hip hard enough to bruise, and his right was already grasping his cock in hand, quite ready to do her bidding.

 She grunted at his first statement, as she wrapped her hands around his neck in preparation to mount him, nails digging into it's nape in silent response.

 She raised her eyes at his latter comment, however, before narrowing them significantly as she dug her heels into the top of his arse to jut him forward, thus successfully forcing their loins to 'greet' each other 'palm to palm.'

 "I could argue the same case about your physicality, Mr Holmes. Would you like me to? Or would you rather we concede and admit we      both    are begging for it and get closer to the part where I      sheath    that      throbbing     cock of yours..." She quirked a brow, and making sure the stress the two, more, graphic words to 'influence' his answer.

 "Touché," he rumbled unevenly, jaw flexing at the intimate contact. He managed to fight her legs' grasp long enough to pull back and grip his cock once again, his hand on her hip shifting back and under her arse for angle and leverage as his tip finally pressed to her entrance.

 "Though you've got to admire the irony," he quipped, intent on getting the last word, just as his hips bucked forward and he began to quickly press into the familiar heat of her, exhaling in a hiss at his perhaps faulty decision to nearly ‘sheath’ himself in one go. Patience was never his virtue.

 She was about to roll her eyes and let out a reluctant chuckle when his sudden, and      full    , thrust into her caught her slightly off guard, causing her eyes to widen and a sharp gasp to issue from the back of her throat.

 She winced as he filled her, his girth always a tad painful on the first few thrusts. She grunted and and pulled back to glance down at him in mock disapproval before murmuring, "....Perhaps the only--      ow    --good thing about our yearly rendezvous is that--      ahh    --every time manages to feel like the... first....." She muttered as she wrapped her legs around his waist and regripped before hoisting her chest up and against his, putting all her weight on his form now.

 Sherlock had nearly put himself into shock--nearly--but was regaining the ability to function as quickly as he was able. He took a shuddering breath, getting re-accustomed to the tight heat encompassing him, as she was apt to point out, he nearly always had to do. Pro or con to their unique status, he was never sure.

 "Apologies," he murmured as his head ducked and rested into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin before he began kissing and nipping at the skin by way of distracting her from the apparent discomfort.

 She arched her neck to allow him greater access, hands pushing down on his shoulders to hoist herself up a bit so that she could slam down again, knowing that once she was fully slicked up and the ball was rolling, so to say, the slight discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure.

 She moaned at his kisses and even found herself smiling privately at his 'apology,' an abundance of subconscious sentiment clearly at the root of it. She lifted his head up to look him in the eye as she replied with amused seriousness, "No need to do so, dear. Your ability to be,      irritatingly    , above average in all the necessary areas of life is just one of the many reasons why I      hate    you." She reminded him between heavy breaths.

 '      Hate    ,' of course, standing in for the word she really meant. The word that she knew he knew she meant. They had come to confess their feelings in this twistedly ironic way a few meetings back, as they were parting ways. Each adopting that preferred word to it's sister that the rest of the mundane world seemed so obsessed with employing. Besides, this way, they each, technically, had an out. Could always deny--'on paper,' at least. The look in her eye, however, and the sincerity of her voice, would damn her for all eternity, however.

 Funny thing was, though, when it came to '      The     Man,' she didn't actually give a damn about that old pride.

 He caught onto her obvious intent as quickly as he caught her weight, her quick will to begin in combination to her clear sentiment almost catching him off guard. But as opposed to playing the deer in the headlights, his lips twitched into a dazed if present smirk and he pressed her weight against the counter again for leverage as he urged her up and the thrust back upward to meet her as she dropped.

 "And I very much..." He thrust upward once again, quirking a brow. "...      Despise     you," he replied darkly, keeping a lightness to the statement as best he could manage, lest the sentimentality they were so seeking to avoid, decide to kick in.

 Her lips merely twitched at his reply before his thrust overcame her and she let out a rather vocal cry of a moan, her fingernails scraping up his back as she rode a rather sudden wave of mounting pleasure and warmth that was making its way from her core to her outer extremities.

 She glared down at him in utter infatuation and (self-) annoyance before barking out a shaky, "B-bedroom. Now. N-need.       More    ..."

 He didn't need any further encouragement, lifting her up with his arms under her arse and angling his weight, he stalked the short distance to the hall and kicked open his door with no hesitation, even at the worrisome creak. He'd fix it      later    .

 He hiked a knee onto the bed before dropping her weight onto it, barely retracting from her before he was on her again, arms on the mattress on either side of her head plunging back into her with an appreciative curse. The angle was much more satisfactory.

 Irene spread her legs as widely as she could as soon as her back hit the bed, greeting his first thrusts in this new position and place with as much reception as she could give him. Her hands flew out and tangled in the duvet cover, knuckles whitening as she let out a series of whines and 'oh’s’ without immediate presence of thought.

 "How...thin...are...the...walls?" She gasped in ecstasy, as she brought her right leg up to hook around his neck to provide him with even more room for depth, and also silently informing him of her compliance to don the 'submissive' role--      for now    .

 "Thick," he rumbled breathlessly, using her acquiescence to his advantage as he plunged further with an appreciative groan, ducking his head as he rocked forward, banging the headboard against the wall.

 "But...perhaps not thick enough," he husked with a certain amount of amusement in his eyes, arching onto his knees to thrust forward with a curve of his hips, deliberately trying to wring another moan from her for emphasis.

 She could tell what he wanted and was trying to get out of her, to which she more than happily gave him, and then some, crying out in an almost uncharacteristically 'sex kitten' fashion, "      Ohh, Mr Holmes....!"    followed by a few grunts and panting breaths as she wriggled beneath him. Her other leg coming up to throw over his shoulder as her head turned frantically to the side to bit into the pillow, a desperate attempt on her part to stifle her cries and whimpers of pleasures lest he be      too    pleased with himself.

 For, to be sure, despite the rather, 'porn-star-esque' response she was currently giving him--and one she hadn't much used with him, if ever, before--Irene Adler was      no    faker, at least, when it came to her personal, love life. Her response was utterly--even if embarrassingly so to her--organic. She only hoped the base, male, primitive mindset that he clearly had a little bit of would respond to these novel and 'conventional' reactions--if only      because     they were novel      for her    .

 She also was bound and determined to seek revenge in a few moments. No man would make her whimper like that and finish on top. Not even      Sherlock Holmes    , she mused decidedly.

 Her response merely spurred him on, for even under duress he could at the least read her for genuineness and she was fighting it now with a will, feeling another shock of pleasure strike him as he watched her reckless abandon. His focus staggered briefly, but he growled his way through a moan and thrust forward more quickly, feeling himself seek out those sounds now that she'd granted them. He leaned more upright, gripping her leg where it draped over his shoulder and nipping and licking up the expanse of it he could reach.

 "      Mmm... Sherlock....!"    She whined at his nips, the toes of her accosted leg curling in his hair as she arched her back up, to meet his thrusts.

 She allowed him a few more self-gratifying thrusts to which she returned with girlish moans and whimpers before, suddenly, bringing her right foot from his shoulder and halting his movement by planting her foot squarely in the centre of his chest. She sat up, placing her weight on her elbows as she glared at him evenly before pushing him back with a grunt and and moving to her knees to face him dead on.

 A hint of a smiled played on her lips as she raised her right brow slowly, running a hand up his chest before tangling it in his curls to yank his head backwards and up violently. She pressed her form against his and leaned up to hiss into his ear, "My turn, darling..." only to hook her leg around his as she twisted and pushed his figure back and down onto the bed, crawling on top of him to pin him against the bed in an act of dominance and possession.

 "Can't let you 'boys' have all the fun," she purred into his ear before sitting back slightly to run her slit along his length and tease his pulsating tip with her inviting warmth wickedly.

 He growled out a groan of surprise and aroused fury, even though he      knew     she was likely to play her card eventually. She had an annoying habit of lulling him into false security before striking. Infuriating woman. But she did stay true to her point and skillset he couldn't help but notice. She knew exactly what he 'liked' -- a challenge.

  She was sending sparks through his nervous system with his teasing, causing his hips to buck and his leg muscles to twitch. His hands flew to her hips, digging in hard in an attempt to end her torment, but all he succeeded in was increasing her friction, and he scowled helplessly. He could overpower her, but the fight was seldom worth it, or so he assured himself.

 Irene chuckled darkly, leering down at him lasciviously as she shifted her weight to her knees to lift her pelvis up and off of him completely, proving that      no contact    was even worse than then the ghostings of it.

 She then ran her hands up her thighs and hips, ripping his own off to grope herself, alone and unaided, toying with his clearly, 'regular,' male porn preference, as she employed the 'usual actions'--hands gliding up her waist to circle the sides of her breasts and swirl around her taut nipples, teasing herself and him by avoiding them for a bit.

 She pouted down at him, biting her bottom lip sensual before husking softly, "Oh,      Mr Holmes    , did you really think I was going to indulge your base, male fantasy for the      entire    time?" She circled her areolas before pinching and twisting her nipples suddenly letting out a whiney moan as she looked down at him in erotic amusement.

 "Don't get me wrong,      Sherlock    , I'll be your little slut, porn-star girl any day of the week...any way you want me...any fantasy you wish to play out...I'll even be your slave, if you fancy...      But,     just keep in mind, dear...." She began to warn gently, leaning down over him slowly as she slipped a hand between them to grip his length tightly, before continuing, "...Every time you make me      whimper     and      moan     and      whine     and      beg     like a little girl who      needs     more--which you do      quite     well, much to my chagrin, grant you--" She grumbled lightly, licking her lips as she winked, before finishing with, "...I'll make you do the same--      twice over    ." She hissed against his lobe, slamming herself down and around him as deeply as the angle would allow on her last words.

 He threw his head back with something not dissimilar from a roar, his hands clawing at her waist and his teeth clenching as he fought the throbbing ache shooting down his spine at the sudden move. Fighting to catch his breath, he finally gripped her hips again tightly and bucked up, in an attempt to counter her, but it hardly stood up to the challenge.

 "Lucky for me...have no need of slavery," he managed in a ragged, breathless rumble, having nothing to fear of that retribution at least. Who would ever want to tame this glorious, albeit      evil,     creature he couldn't say, but it would strain credulity to attempt.

 She grunted in approval of his statement as she leaned down to capture his lips with her own, nipping and biting them with a ferocity of a lioness in heat as she lifted and slammed her pelvic floor down against his, grinding it in place as she squeezed her walls around him with each go before abandoning his mouth to lean her weight back onto her centre--fully upright as he was sheathed at a full, and deep, ninety degree angle.

 She let out a subtle moan as she gyrated her hips in a circular motion, hitting each cardinal direction of her walls as she dragged her nails down his chest.

 "Mmm.... You remind me of my first horse, Mr Holmes. I was quite the equestrian. Dear me did he have a foul temper and was about as haughty as spoiled prince. But he was magnificent and quite the beast. 16.1 hands...about as tall as you.... However....I think I much prefer this mount..." She teased in self-amusement, as she began bob up and down on him in this new position.

 He found his body was following her lead of its own accord, bracing into her movements with a counter-rhythm no matter his inner rebellion.  He was fighting to keep his focus as she see seemed more than determined to rip it from him, and his eyes narrowed at her in challenge.

 "I suppose that's...a compliment," he ground out with obvious force, his hands starting to roam upward for distraction -- both hers and his own -- and cupped her breasts roughly, squeezing and trapping the bud of her nipples between his fingers.

 She exhaled a soft hissing sound as he groped her breasts, leaning into his pinches as she steadied her weight forward again, her hands splayed on his pectoral muscles as she began lifted and dropped herself around him faster and harder, beginning to feel herself lose control as the wave of climax climbed higher and higher, threatening to crash her on his shores any second.

 "      Fuck    ...I'm so close....Come with me, Sherlock..." She whimpered softly, her dominatrix persona forgotten in this sudden, heightened state of ecstasy with him.

 He growled in wordless agreement, unsure his tongue was even capable of forming them at the moment. She had a unique talent for driving him speechless that no one else had managed to possess, no more exemplified than at this very moment. He bridged his hips into her last few thrusts for the sake of it, giving her more stimulation for entirely selfish reasons, he was afraid. It drove him to bursting just as he felt her tightening around him.

 His groan was guttural and throat ripping and his lower abdomen clenched nearly to the point of pain as he finally let the wire snap, hands flying back to her hips, digging in and holding her tightly in earnest. He found himself leaning upward beneath her, as though the force of it pulled him from the pillows.

 Irene let out a guttural cry of sheer euphoria bliss as she felt him buck and come within her, her walls clenching around violently and successively, as if squeezing every last drop of      him     from his load was some unconscious goal of her womb.

 She threw her head back as another wave suddenly arrested her once more, a sharp whimper of appreciation escaping her throat before it was replaced by her weighty pants. She fell forward against him as she fought to catch her laboured breaths slowly.

 She wrapped her arms around his neck, barely able to feel her hands so overcome with pins and needles were they, before resting her forehead against his finally.

 She listened to their heaving inhales and exhales, their breathing power somehow syncing along with the beating of their hearts. She was tempted to roll her eyes and make some ‘disgusted comment,’ but decided to endorse the moment, for who knew when they’d be so joined again. With Jim back, the danger was ineffable once more.  

 His body slowly relaxed, and his eyes fluttered closed, feeling heavy and numb as he sank into the pillows once more, but her weight against him still felt heated and tingling. He found himself running his hands up the curves of her back subconsciously as their panting breaths mingled, her warmth bringing the feeling back into him. There were very few times Sherlock was ever relaxed, outside of the force of severe exhaustion, but she always managed it, even if briefly.

 "Do we always follow near-death experiences with nearly killing each other," he managed to quietly joke in a deep, if strained murmur, lips twitching faintly.

 She let out a half laugh, pulling back gently to ask out of want of clarification, “Firstly, I’d hardly call sex ‘killing each other,’ dear, quite the opposite, if I do say so myself. However, I will grant you that our means to the end differ significantly from the average pedestrian. But, we are not ‘the commonwealth,’ are we?” She winked before leaning down to nibble his lip playfully.

 “But I will grant you, the near-death thing seems to be, an annoying and unfortunate, set-up….” She sighed almost wearily, a soft sadness ending her tone before she added gingerly, “Perhaps, one day, it won’t be the necessary ‘aphrodisiac….’” She murmured wistfully, her index finger circling an obtuse pattern on his chest, not wanting him to remove himself from her just yet.

 He hummed slightly in appreciation at her touch, as well as in thought, his hand still tracing up her spine, in odd swirls and angles.

 "Seems 'motivation' is more appropriate. We hardly need aphrodisiacs..." He murmured in correction, with a faint hint of a smirk, though it was also a tad melancholy. "It typically takes one of us nearly being shot or decapitated to drive us across whichever continent divides us," he added in consideration. "And there is that pesky 'death' status we keep falling into."

 She leaned forward resting her elbows on his chest as she gently, and slowly allowed him to slip out of her before settling back down above his nether regions, resting her chin on his sternum as she replied drolly, “I meant it as metaphor, you cad….Believe you me, I’m      more than    aware at our ability to make any and every word, look, situation, and context highly…..      adult    .”

 She leaned pressed a kiss to his skin before glancing up at him once more to add, “...Mmm, I suppose      one    of us being alive on paper again might actually make things easier in the future… The double ghost was getting a bit absurd… Let’s not recall the horrendous blonde, bob cut wig I had to don just to get into the bloody Ritz in Paris…” She shuddered in hyperbolised repugnance.  

 "Not the most flattering," he winced playfully, making a rumble of disapproval in his throat. "Though that idiotic suit wasn't my finest hour," he added honestly and for fairness, rolling his eyes faintly. His hand settled on the small of her back, in a nearly casual manner.

 "Though, yes. At least one of us being legally present is quite helpful..." He stated in agreement, lips turning up at the thought. "At least we're not both scattering about the map."

 She laughed softly, “Yes, double breasted suits should be left in the 80s never to be seen or heard from again. And do try to stay alive, this time round, all right? For my       ‘appetite's’     sake, if nothing more.” She grinned, leaning up nip his nose playfully before rolling over on her back and stretching as she yawned faintly.

 “Mmm, I did miss your bed… Besides the one in my flat in Belgravia, I think yours is the most comfortable and      arousing     bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in, shame you don’t indulge in the act.” She couldn’t help but jibe him coyly, nipping his shoulder just for the sheer thrill of it. She was feeling very frisky and, well, Christ,      happy    .

 He quirked a brow, but didn't question her excitement, quite frankly feeling a similarity. He gave her a teasing bit of a shrug, turning over on his side to loom over her slightly in an oddly quick motion in terms of his relaxed state.

 "Clearly you've remedied      that,    on a few different levels," he husked near her ear rather obtusely.

 Irene shivered softly as his breath hit her ear, sending goose pimples down her back. She leaned into him, frontside pressing against his as she toyed with his light chest hairs before murmuring in feigned innocence, "Oh please, I only drugged you the      one    time, and I'm sure you needed the rest... And it's not my fault the only time you are able to sleep on your own natural, biological accord is upon having mind-blowing orgasms at 'my hand...'" She winked as she glanced up at him quickly, hoping to see some amusement cross his face. She did love being one of the      few     people that could make him laugh and indulge his, albeit narrow, sense of humour--that wasn't vile or at anyone else's expense--except, perhaps, his own. Which, in itself, was a feet of Everest proportions with      his    egotistical personality.

 He chuckled briefly at her rather true-ish statement, rolling his eyes fondly. "Sleep is an elusive bitch at times, yes. Outside of drugs and injury, I typically need something to tire my mind and that's a rare accomplishment...relaxing it's even rarer." It was meant, however oddly, as a compliment, his fingers tapping out a rather subconsciously complex pattern on the skin of her side.

 She chuckled softly, burrowing her face into his chest as she took a deep inhale, indulging in the natural scent of him and those divine pheromones that he gave off.

 “Mmm, thank you, dear, I’m flattered, once again..” She murmured into his chest softly.  

 "Don't be," he murmured in a playful mockery of irritation, half-arsed at that, harkening back to his first response to his so-called flattery. It always sounded like foolish denial, and he played on it now, even as he let out a quiet rumble of appreciation at her moving closer, throwing his arm around her thoughtlessly. He indulged the sensation for a moment before shifting back a tad.

 "I'll be right back," he said simply into her ear, brushing his lips against it faintly, figuring his destination would be rather obvious as he reluctantly pulled himself from the sheets to stand to his feet, and pad towards the door.

 She hummed in appreciation at his sentimental ‘loo-parting,’ at one point utterly unfeasible that he would ever adopt such ‘sweetheart’ acts of behaviour with her. Like with most other things, however, he always managed to surprise her with his uncanny ability to evolve, even if it was to his minor ‘self-stated’ chagrin.

 She rolled over on her stomach as he left, tilting her head to the left to appreciate the view his exit so gratuitously gave her.  

 Once he was gone, however, she let out a melancholy sigh, glancing at the digital clock which glared at her the early morning time disdainfully. It was odd, the way she suddenly felt unwanted, or that she was out of place, at his, now that their coupling had finished. Although, to be fair, they never had only ‘dined’ one time--it usually at least hit the four or five mark, if not higher. Yet, out of some deep-rooted fear or anxiety she had the distinct feeling that to spend the night with him      here    , in 221b Baker Street, was somehow indicative of some ‘serious step’ in their ‘relationship’--whatever terms, labels, titles, and regulations that that term held with regards to them. Spending the night in all of their previous rendezvous was more than assumed, as they had always spent the night in some hotel or secretive meeting place. But now that they were back on English soil, and especially, his, personal soil she was not about to risk heartache at assuming, and assuming wrong, tonight.

 That being the case she, reluctantly, sat up, stretched and made her way down the hallway to the bag she had left on the couch, grabbing a pair of black jeans, leather ankle boots, and a black cashmere V-neck top, along with her lace undergarments, before padding back to his room to begin to change and figure out her next ‘moves.’

 He made his way back to the room fairly quickly, out of instinctive anxiety, and it seemed once again he wasn't wrong. He would've liked to have been, for once. He stood silently for a moment, watching her back as she moved to fasten her bra, and only then did he quietly stalk up behind her. His hand over taking hers and unclasping it beneath her fingers once again, he pressed her shoulder to turn her around to face him, urging her to let him remove the lace from her arms.

 "Get back into my bed," he said simply as a vaguely sardonic command, his very typical 'Sherlock Holmes' attitude returning, if briefly, with a challenging tilt of his head. "If for no other purpose, I have every intention of picking your brain in the morning."

 She locked eyes with him, a silent exchange flashing between then before a small, relieved smile tugged at her lips and she glanced down, blushing ever so lightly at her silly ‘female’ train of thought. He was a far better man than that, and they had come too far together now to still be      playing the game    , at least, the high-stakes emotional one--that was all settled now, more or less, apparently. The sexual, mental one--well, that was      always     in play, to be sure.

 “Clever boy. You passed ‘The Test…’” She teased him lightly, more teasing      herself    , however, in vocally acknowledging her corrected, unnecessary actions.

 Once her bra was off and safely on the floor, where it belonged, she wrapped her arms around his neck, a sultry haze beginning to cloud over her eyes, before grinding her pelvis against his as she challenged darkly, “Now then, Mr Holmes, how about breaking our previous record…?”  

 His lips turned up into a wicked, knowing sort of smile. She was of course calling her own bluff, and he was more than happy to let her, one of his hands easily bracing the back of her skull as he practically lifted her off of her feet into a seething kiss, partially even out of gratitude for her continued presence. One wouldn't think they'd been perfectly satisfied not too many minutes before, but that was, he supposed the nature of suppressing oneself to an annual coupling...or, a few.  Especially with them, it seemed.

 He had to wonder when exactly they'd managed to be considered oddly      monogamous,    at least on her end. It had never been an issue in his mind, but when she began bluntly insinuating she'd been bottling for his sake, he had always wondered. He'd never had the nerve to ask, or perhaps he just would rather not have known. But he was obscurely thankful for it regardless. He didn't have to look too far past her unbridled appetite to see the proof, or they'd never have managed to christen the rest of his flat, and manage to sleep in between, over the next 14 hours.

[mademoiselleseraph]

12th Perigee's Eve with Some Minor Celebrities

A very belated secret santa gift for the @hiveswapsecretsanta2018 and @the-bisexual-dumpster about Charun, Chixie, and Cirava spending the holiday together and being best buds

~~~

Charun was running late, but when weren’t they running late? They supposed it was a small price to pay for looking nice.  They knew looking nice for them meant looking like a disaster to others but it was typical for -- what did people call them? -- oh yeah, avant garde types.  They were so avant garde. The avant-est of garde. Yeah.

They had already combed their hair (just to muss it up just right), brushed their teeth (doing what they could to dull their fangs), and washed their face (and applied some blood based paint to the sides of their mouth and one of their temples).  Next step was to say goodbye. They patted the shell of their lion-faced snail lusus, Speedy, promising to be safe. Then they went to the ventriloquist dummy they found one day and had a strange attachment to though they could not, for the life of them, remember where it came from or when they first saw it, let alone what species it was supposed to portray.  Some kind of demon thing? Maybe. They gave it a strong hug and gently placed it back down on the floor. Finally, they went to the wall.

The dummy always gave Charun what a friend of theirs would describe as “weird fucking vibes, man lmao.”  Looking at its glassy eyes and painted smile unsettled them. It gave them a jittery giddiness for pain and destruction that itched and disoriented.  There was a wall in the cave that had the opposite effect. The words scrawled all about in various shades of blood had a somber, melancholy look, but filled them with hope.  They ran a finger under the words where they seemed to start.

“Let it be known before all else,” it read, “that there is no sin in wanting to live.  Second, that to help instead of harm one’s fellow troll is nobler by far. Third, that worth and character cannot be determined by blood.”

And it went on.  Their favorite part of it was the tale of Twelfth Perigee’s eve.  This figure and his group traveled by day as often as they could, shielding themselves from the harsh sun with parasols, cloaks, and scarves.  But the Twelfth Perigee was the darkest of all perigees, and one could could walk freely without fear of burning on that one day. They celebrated the ease of their burden, baking sweet cakes for the orphans and sharing cordial among the adults.

And then they remembered the sweet cakes.  They had baked them in a fit of inspiration from the ancient scribblings to take to their friends for their Twelfth Perigee’s Eve get-together.  Oh right, they were really quite late now. They put the still warm cakes into an insulated bag, and then into another insulated bag to be sure they were kept warm, and then in a basket for that rustic charm.  They slipped on a coat, shaped to look like it had odd growths under the material and decorated with scrap metal, and headed out.

Meanwhile, Chixie was worried.  She was often worried due to various factors, mostly having to do with cameras and what they would capture and what others would do with it.  But it wasn’t entirely about that this time.

Her worrying was a major reason her friends agreed to meet at her place for Perigee’s Eve.  That way no one would catch her walking to anyone’s hive and start rumors that would convince her more powerful and more obsessive fans to take out the competition in gruesome ways.  Would that happen? No way to say for sure, but she’d rather stay on the safe side.

It must have been around the fifth time she looked out the window in the span of twenty minutes when Cirava called to her from the couch.

“Chix, I’m gonna need you to calm down,” they said.  “This isn’t the first time they’ve run late and it won’t be the last.”

“I know,” she replied in as un-snippity a manner as she could.  “but it’s been a while since you got here and you never know what kind of creeps are out there or what they’re seeing or what they’re saying.”

“Are people really watching your hive to see who comes and goes?”

“It’s not like I’m that hard to track down and it’s not exactly difficult to get into the bronze side of town.”  Her breathing quickened and her face contorted in panic as she continued: “And you know whatever they write about me, he’s gonna see it, and --”

“Chixie!”  They clamped a hand on her shoulder, trying to snap her out of it.  “This is ultimately your place so you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.  But when you get worked up like this, you get agitated, then bitter, then hopeless, and that’s about when you tend to hit the bottle.”

Her shoulders drooped and she sank into the couch under their arm and squeezed the hand still holding her shoulder.  They were a wispy thing and by all logic their bony limbs should have hurt to be held in, but nothing could make anyone feel safer.

“I don’t mean to cross any bounds by sounding all conciliatory and shit,” they continued, “but you said you were tryna cut back, so I figured we should at least wait til Charun gets here.”

“You’re not crossing anything,” she insisted, hugging them back.  “I know you’re not meaning it like that, and I appreciate you trying to help.”

“While we’re at it maybe we could not talk about him today?  Whenever he gets brought up, you seem to feel worse, and I know I don’t have any fond memories of the guy.”

“Yeah.  I could use a break from even thinking about him.  When do you think Charun will get here?”

And just then there was a knock at the door.  Speak of the devil.

Chixie opened the door and drew Charun into a warm hug.

“I know I’m late...” they mumbled.  An unfinished thought, but soon to come again.

“Oh, we’re just happy your safe!” Chixie chirped.

“You had her worried sick, dumbass,” Cirava joked.

“...but I brought food,” they concluded, holding up the basket.  “Cakes for everyone.”

Cirava took the basket to the table and opened the insulated bags.

The lovely smell hit Chixie’s nose instantly.  “Chocolate?”

“And raspberry!” Cirava murmured, mouth already full of a bite.

“Glad you like ‘em...” Charun droned on.  “Made plenty…. Have ‘smany as you’d like….”

They tactfully did not mention the lack of cordial in respect for Chixie’s little problem, or the fact the inspiration came from a wall someone had written on in blood.

They talked fans, making sure to exclude him as promised, and the pressure of fame, and lusii of course.  They were still young after all. Eventually they stumbled on the subject of Chixie’s lovely home and decorating.

“Yeah, I normally don’t get too festive,” she admitted, “but I wanted to go all out for you two.”

“It’s….” Charun mumbled.

“Bitchin’,” Cirava stated.

“....Pretty,” Charun concluded.

She swelled with pride, took a deep breath, and let herself process that pride.  “Yeah, it’s not too shabby,” she said. “Actually, I think I did a great job!” It felt good.  It felt true.  None of that coy oh, you bullshit or false modesty.  She didn’t have to pretend around them because they knew it too.

Her hive really was decked to the nines.  Tinsel garlands, evergreen wreaths, the bones on the mantle, a roaring fire, candles, and of course the behemoth leaving with its own decorations.

“Why is that even a thing?” Cirava asked, gesturing to it.  “Like how did that start? It’s not entirely sanitary.”

“Oh, I know this one!” Chixie said.  “It’s excellent fertilizer. It used to be that you’d keep it in the hive so no one could steal it, and you’d put it on your crops through the planting season and they’d grow like crazy.  The decorations started with cloves and evergreen twigs to make it smell better.”

“And the bones…” added Charun, “...were good for crops too…. But also… after you suck the marrow out… you can string ‘em up like windchimes….  Scares off some aggressive species... if you live out in the middle of nowhere….”

“Speaking of aggressive species,” Cirava noted, setting up their husktop, “you guys wanna shout out to my fans with me?”

The others agreed and sat on either side of them as they got the microphone ready, put on their camera face, and hit record.

“Hey all you funky little weirdos.  I’m taking a break from streaming to spend the holiday with some dear friends, but I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.  Thank you so much for all the love and support, and I’ll be sure to link in the description where you can listen to some of my fresh beats til I get back.  But hey, from me and mine to you and yours--”

And then they all said, more or less in unison, “Happy Eve!” and waved at the camera. Cirava shut it off and posted the video to their chittr and other social media accounts, then put the husktop away.

And with that out of the way, and some touches of worry as to what her fans would make of it, Chixie decided it was best to break out the punch.  She made it in advance and left it to chill and had completely forgotten it. That must have been Cirava’s doing, she realized, keeping her mind on other things and away from the drink.  Though she restrained herself and made it significantly less boozy than she usually did, and apologized if that made it taste funny.

“Actually,” said Charun, “I think it’s… better.”

And she flashed a quick but genuine thank-you smile.  She never really drank it for the taste before.

And they went on like that.  Cirava and Charun passed a pipe between them, offering to Chixie.  She only took one hit, not wanting to dry out her throat. Cirava, on the other hand, blew all manner smoke rings and swished their hand in the smoke to make blurry semblances of shapes.  Charun tried to trace abstract outlines of them with their own finger. Something about it gave Chixie a cheery sense of ease that was quite rare to her. She asked Cirava if the case for their husktop was soundproof, which they confirmed, and she suggested they all put their palm husks in with it.

“So….  What was that about?” asked Charun.Chixie had the beginnings of a mischievous little smirk at the corners of her mouth and replied, “How about singing some carols?”

“Um, are you out of your gourd?” Cirava shot back.

“I already plugged the TV and anything else that might be bugged.  And besides, what’s Twelfth Perigee’s Eve without a little illegal activity?”

“We should steal…” Charun trailed off, “from highbloods!  And leave shit… on their lawnrings.”

And after some scared looks from their companions, they took it back.

“Nah…. You’re right… that’s a death sentence…. Let’s just sing some songs.”

Chixie started with the old familiar melody:

“Oh, merry moon

Lend me your tune

For on my pipes to play”

And then Charun in a surprisingly graceful baritone voice:

“And may the lonesome

Find a home

On this most holy darkest day”

And they both looked to Cirava waiting for them to join.  Eventually they caved.

“They killed him

And they cursed him

But it’s said he’ll come again”

And all of them in unison:

“So merry moon

Lend me your tune

To welcome an old friend”

And they sang songs about respite and recovery and joy to be found among friends and a fruitful new sweep with burdens lifted.  Songs that were outlawed and had to be sung in complete secrecy for fear that they could start a riot. Songs that made one feel like an honest rebel just for singing.  Man, Twelfth Perigee’s Eve carols are hardcore! Well, maybe not outside of that context.

And hours stretched on and on and the three friends drew closer until crammed together on a single couch cushion.  The smiles were genuine and the hands gestured naturally as they spoke about what happened sweeps ago and what might in the sweeps from then.

The softest, weakest bits of sunlight slipped in through the shades as dawn broke, getting a gasp out of Chixie.

“I didn’t mean to keep you out so late!” she apologized.  The light was dim enough to walk in but highblood customs involved drugs and destructive raiding well into the morning.  As one could imagine, it wasn’t safe.

“You’re fine,” Cirava said.  “Cool if we crash here?”

“Sure!” she replied.  “I just have the one ‘cuperacoon though.”

“Cirava can take… the couch,” said Charun.  “I just need… some pillows….”

“Well, actually, if you two don’t mind, maybe we can share it?”

“You sure…?  That wasn’t...virgin punch… it was still spiked….”

“Yeah, Chix, you really okay with this?  We can sleep out here.”

“I’m sure!  If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, but it’ll probably be much more comfortable.”  There was a slight pause as she gathered up the courage to say, “I trust you guys.”

That came as a pleasant surprise to both of them.

“Alright,” Cirava said, followed by Charun some time after.

They barricaded the doors, not that it would really stop anyone, but it did make them feel a little better, and Chixie led the way to her respite block

There they took their waking clothes off and realized just how wonderfully not-awkward it all was.  At no point did they feel like they should be ashamed or that they shouldn’t do it. Though it did get them all cracking up about a conversation they had earlier that sweep, about how if they couldn’t fill their quadrants in adulthood, they’d somehow find each other and pail.

“I really hope that’s not the case,” Cirava said after a good chuckle, “for your sakes.  I wouldn’t want either of you having to fill a bucket with my ugly mug.”

“That’s what…” Charun replied, “...paper bags are for…!”

And there was another round of hearty laughter as they all squeezed in together.  Admittedly, it was a tight fit, but not uncomfortable. Three kids in one recuperacoon.  That would have been some kind of safety code violation if there existed safety codes to violate on Alternia.  Besides the basic “do not fuck with the drones” but that was more common sense.

They realized just before drifting off that they were all holding hands.  And that morning with its cloudy skies and lazy sunshine was the most restful sleep any of them ever had.

[apocalypticvalraven]

"cooking food is the only thing that separates humans from (other animals)"

So, I saw this line in a fun post. And I thought about reblogging it for what I'm going to say here, but... It's not actually relevant to that post, and I'm not gonna hijack it to be pedantic, even if I could do so "in character."

Cooking is...

I think it's kinda like language.

We used to say language was a specific phenomenon, and only humans did it, and that was the dividing line between us and animals. Then we found animals who communicated in a way that fit that phenomenon. And that was uncomfortable for some people, so of course the definition had to change. And as soon as it's definitively proven some non-human animal fits the new definition, it'll change again.

Cooking used to, so far as I'm aware, be defined as manipulating the structure of food, particularly coagulating the proteins within it.

And the thing is... Animals do that. It's not very common, but there are animals who manipulate their food in this way. Bees are a good example- they use enzymes and proteins produced in their bodies to convert nectar into honey, and part of that process involves breaking down starches and proteins. Honey is then stored as a long term food source for the hive.

So, if cooking is defined as manipulating the structure of food, then animals, such as bees, do that. If it's specifically about manipulating proteins, bees still do that.

So it seems that, at some point, the definition was changed to "the act of applying heat to food to prepare it for consumption," seemingly to move the goalposts and keep a delineation between Humans and Other Animals.

But... There are still animals that do that.

It's reasonably well known that non-human primates will consume fermented fruit, and fermentation involves heat. It's also been found that some such fruits either have tough husks that are difficult to remove, but once fermented become much easier to remove, and some contain harmful or inconvenient chemicals which are destroyed by fermentation. The question of whether these primates intentionally ferment the fruit, only eat it if they find it fermented naturally, or difficult look for these fruits in the process of natural fermentation feels... Like a search for a different which is ultimately trivial. I feel like the difference between gathering a food item and then letting it ferment, and only consuming it when you've found it naturally fermented, is a distinction without a meaningful difference.

It's also worth noting that, while the enzymes bees use to make honey can do so on their own, heat, so far as I'm aware, speeds up the chemical reaction. Heat such as that produced within a bee's body. So I think it's fair to say that bees also apply heat to prepare food.

Googling "animals which prepare food" shows a bunch of pages which hold up this "only humans cook" idea, followed by something like "but here are animals which prepare food." As if that's a meaningful difference, as if insects applying enzymes in their own bodies, which produce heat, to convert food, or primates only eating certain fruits if they've fermented.

The history of the sapient human is the history of figuring out how and why we're different from other animals, and, for some people, trying to maintain that line in the sand even as the tide rolls in. While you can create hyper specific definitions for things which allow you to draw that line, I honestly believe that whatever line you draw, there is some animal which displays behavior which at least makes that line fuzzy. It's reasonably clear that there is a difference between Humans and Other Animals, but while the existence is clear, I don't think the difference itself is, and any empirical difference that exists is one of degree rather than kind.

[betweensceneswriter]

Jimjeran- Chapter 6:  Night Noises

The nights on Arno are really quiet. Until they aren’t.

Audio Book Version of Chapter 6

Click Here to Hop to the Table of Contents

At night in Boston, the sounds we would hear were city sounds: cars and buses, sirens, machinery, and music.  And when he was asleep, but I wasn’t, I would hear Frank’s gentle snore.

     Frank and I still lived in the townhouse we had been able to afford on his teaching salary.  Though we now made more as nurse practitioner and professor than nurse and adjunct, we had worked to pay off school loans, assuming when we married, we’d permanently commit to a home as well as each other.

    It wasn’t an expensive townhouse, and yet it effectively muffled those city sounds with double-paned vinyl windows, venetian blinds and drapes, carpeting to curb echoes, and always a fan or white noise machine to cover up the sound remnants that made it through.

    There was no such barrier on Arno. For one thing, the only source of cooling was the breeze off the iar, so the louvered windows were opened, especially at night, to let the air in. Even when closed, louvers did little to block sound.  

    The first night as I lay in bed, I was struck by the eerie lack of the sounds of civilization.  No cars or public transportation, no music, save for the random child carrying a guitar down the road, nothing in the house powered by electricity—no refrigerator humming, no fan, no pumps or toilets running.  In the silence I started to hear other, softer sounds: the lap of small waves on the lagoon shore, palm and pandanus branches rustled by the wind, the low murmur of my nearest neighbors talking.

    My brain worked to catalogue unfamiliar sounds: the high-pitched whine of a mosquito buzzing around my ears, the random crack and creak of my unfamiliar apartment.

    One strange sound I could not place, though.  It sounded the the chirp of a small bird, and it was coming from the rafters above my bed.  From a similar location, I heard a strange slapping.   It seemed to follow a pattern: Chirp, chirp, cheep, cheep, slap-slap-slap-slap-slap.  

    Finally, my curiosity piqued, I went and turned on the light. It didn’t illuminate the rafters entirely, so I added the beam of my flashlight. When I found the source of the noise, I laughed.  Two huge amber-colored lizards were mating on my rafter.  They would chirp and cheep, sweet talking each other, and then the slapping was caused by their tails beating against the metal roof as they lost themselves in the throes of gecko passion.  

    I turned off the lights, reassuring myself that while they might drop little offerings of poop down (so that’s what I’d found on the table at supper time!) at least they’d be up there catching mosquitoes.

    It had gotten easier to fall asleep in the past week.  The sounds were becoming familiar, and the lapping ocean waves were the best white noise machine I’d ever had.

    I was currently lying in bed trying to think through the events of the past six days. I had flown out with Laura on Sunday, moving my stuff into the apartment and clinic, watching Laura leave, and then cleaning and unpacking.  

    On Monday, I had met Sharbella and done well-child checkups in the morning. In the afternoon I’d had my first emergency case when Jamie had arrived with his corrugated tin boat wound.

    The following night, Tuesday, I had taken food to the Peace Corps boys at the Ine school.  Jamie had walked me home, and I’d made my first friend out here.

    On Wednesday, I had focused on re-organizing and familiarizing myself with everything in the clinic. I spent some time sanitizing the surfaces, and then read up on tropical climate skin ailments and treatments.  That was most of what I saw: people dealing with rashes, boils, burns, cuts and scrapes; and I also noticed that some wounds developed keloid scars, particularly on patients with darker skin.  What I discovered from my research was that while keeping wounds moist in other climates can aid in healing, the level of humidity and the varieties of bacteria in the tropics can actually impede healing.  The general consensus was that you should use an antiseptic, and then something to block bacteria from entering the wound.

    I had stitched up the hand of one man who cut himself with his machete attempting to split coconuts. Sharbella had explained that the one cash crop in Arno was copra—the smoked meat of coconuts, which was processed and made into coconut oil for suntan lotion shampoo, and other toiletries. The men would pick the coconuts, strip off the husks, split the shells by holding them in one hand and giving them a sharp blow with the blade of their machetes, and then stacking them on the smoking trays.  This man had gotten distracted, the blade had slipped, and he had a deep cut in the pad of his thumb.

    On Thursday Plu Rose had brought Sinana back because the boil had come to a head from the daily salt compresses. I lanced the boil as close to her hairline as possible, drained it, and then applied a sterile dressing with a warning not get it dirty or wet.

    Jamie had also stopped in on Thursday for a new bandage. He had worried that the wound was seeping clear fluid and wanted to make sure it wasn’t infected.  The wound seemed to be progressing nicely, but Jamie was a little bummed to be banned from swimming for another three days.

    But now it was finally Friday night, and after an exhausting week, I was looking forward to not having clinic hours on Saturday—of being able to sleep in, explore the island, brainstorm some better meals, and possibly do my laundry. I was feeling a little anxious about that process, having never done laundry completely by hand before.  I had the big round red tub, the washboard, and the scrub brush, plus a laundry line and clothes pins for drying everything.  I would need to draw water from the well, and then it would just be an investment of time.

    I had fallen into bed mentally and physically exhausted, with the sweet sense of anticipation knowing I would get rest and relaxation the next day.  I was almost asleep when I heard a new sound, one that instantly made my heart rate increase and my muscles tense. Outside the window right next to my bed I heard quiet footfalls and a rustling sound.

    And then I heard singing.  Sort of.  It was a tune so distinct, I could plunk it out on a piano if I needed to.  It was in a sweet voice, singing a sweet tune, but it made me feel more like I was hearing the haunting little kid voice singing a nursery rhyme in a horror movie trailer.

    “Miss Peachay, I want to talk to you,” sang a heavily accented male voice.  “Miss Peachay, I want to talk to you…”   I froze in my bed, the throb of panic in my chest, breathing shallowly.

    A voice came closer, nearly in my ear, just speaking this time, softly, enticingly.  “Miss Peachay, do you want to go to shungle with me?”

    Go?  To the jungle?  I lay in my bed, petrified.  

    “Miss Peachay! Que lukuun likatu!”

    “Miss Peachay! Que konaan bwebwenato?”

    My troubadour began serenading me again.  “Miss Peachay, I want to talk to you…Miss Peachay, I want to talk to you.”

     I didn’t want to say anything.  What could I say?  Go away?  I don’t want to go to the jungle with you?

    I was about to announce that I had no intention of talking to them or going to the ‘shungle’ with them when I heard another voice.  A deep, resonant Scottish brogue, hearty, confident, and calm, speaking fluent Marshallese.

     “Enana kaiṇṇe, Abner.  Miss Peachay ejab kōṇaan etal ippām.  Ta ṇe kwōj jerbale, Samson?  Quejjooko ñe ej kadek.”

    The other men answered, talking back and forth.  I heard all of the voices retreating, traveling farther and farther down the road toward the Peace Corps school, and then it was silent.  I listened to see if Jamie was coming back, but I heard nothing.  I couldn’t understand why I was disappointed.  I had already gone to bed.  I hadn’t wanted the company of the men outside my window.  Why would I want Jamie?

    I was just relaxing, on the edge of slumber, when I heard a different noise.  The crunch of gravel, then rubber slapping on wood, paired with a creaking sound.  Flip-flops?  On my steps?  A long moment of silence, then a creak and a rattling sound.  Someone was on my doorstep, and he was trying to turn my doorknob.  I was almost certain the door was locked.  I knew I’d locked it when I came in from going to the bathroom before bed.  Hadn’t I?  Frantically, I thought over everything I owned.  Did I have anything in here that would be a good weapon?  Sundresses, shoes, a towel?  A book.  A frying pan!

    I sat up in bed, ready to run if I needed to.  Where would I go?  Could I run a mile to the Peace Corp school?  I threw my feet over the side of the bed and crept across the floor, scrabbling for my zories at the door.  I was panting, nearly hyperventilating.  “I can’t run in flip-flops!”  I whimpered to myself, not realizing I’d actually spoken out loud.

     “Ripālle?”  The deep voice came through the door.  “Claire, is that you?”

     “Jamie?!!  Dammit, Jamie!”  I exclaimed, opening the door.  “You gave me a freakin’ heart attack!”

     “Sorry, lass,” he chuckled, stepping away from the door.  “I escorted yer drunk friends away, but thought I should check your door to make sure it was locked in case any of them tried to bother ye again tonight.  I thought ye were asleep, and I didna want to bother you.”

     “I’m quite awake,” I said, looking around.  “Do you want to come in?”

     “Sorry, Ripālle,” he said. “I think ye should close the door.”

     I moved to come outside, and he shook his head.  “No, Claire.  Wi’ you on the inside, and me on the outside.”

     “What?”  I asked.

     “I dinna want the island men to get the idea that if they just stick around longer that they’ll get invited in.”  He reached for the door knob and started to pull the door closed.

     “But Jamie, my heart is still pounding.  I’m not going to be able to go to sleep.”

     “Ye dinna need to be afraid.  I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he said reassuringly, as he inched the door the rest of the way closed.  “I’mna going home yet. I will sit on yer doorstep awhile ‘til I’m sure they won’t come back. ”

    I stood inside my apartment with the door closed in front of me for a frustrated second, and then I turned around, leaned against the door and slid down until I was sitting with my back against it.

     “Why were they here?  What did they want?” I asked.  For a moment I wondered whether he’d be able to hear me, but quickly realized the door was hollow faux wood, with a gap at the bottom—and the two louvered windows to either side were completely open to the night air.

     “What did they say?” Jamie asked.  The door moved slightly against my back as he sat down on the other side.    

     “They said they wanted to talk to me or go to the jungle with me,” I said.  “They asked nice, but it freaked me out.”

     “Both mean about the same thing…” Jamie said. “And I’m sure you can guess what that is.”  I could guess, and I could also feel the door vibrate from his husky voice.

     “What did you say to them?” I asked.

     “Dinna remember, really.  That what they were doing wasn’t good.  That you didn’t want to go with them.  And I told them they make poor choices when they’re drunk.”

     “They were drunk?” I asked.

     “Most definitely,” said Jamie.  “They wouldna be bothering ye if they were sober.  Abner and Samson are decent enough men.  They came stumbling by our house and told Rupert they were going to visit ye.  I didna want to confront them if they decided better, so I walked along the beach, matched their pace, and came out here when it was obvious they werena leaving ye alone.

     “Thank you,” I said. “That was weird.  I hope that doesn’t happen again.”

     “Well,” said Jamie, slowly.  “I canna promise that.  I’m surprised Laura didna mention the nighttime visitors.”

     “That happens a lot?” I asked, stunned.  “What do I do next time, when you aren’t here to send them away?”

     “Do ye want to learn some Majol?” Jamie asked.

     “Okay,” I responded agreeably.

     “What do ye ken already?”

     “I know ‘eh jab ma lay lay,’” I said.

     “Okay.  ‘I don’t understand.’ That’s helpful, but not here.  What else?”

     “Um.  Kway shu tal non yah!”

     “Hmmm.  Excellent, if you want to ask them where they’re going, though they already announced they would like to go to the jungle,” he laughed.

     “Okay, then what should I say?” I asked.

     “Ejab kōṇaan is pretty easy,” Jamie said.  “That means ‘I don’t want.”

     “Eh jab coe non,” I repeated.

     “Kwō etal wōt means ‘you should go away.’”

     “Quo eh tal watt.”

     “Good,” Jamie said.  “But you should say something, even if you say it in English.  They’re kind of persistent.”

     “So, let me get this straight.  I can’t walk alone at night, though now I’m pretty sure I don’t want to, but guys can just come to my house and try to seduce me through the window?

     “Or door,” said Jamie.  The door shook; I could feel him laugh.  “I’m just joking, Ripālle,” he murmured.

     “You called me that again,” I said.  “Isn’t that the word that means selfish white person?”

     “Aye, Ripālle.”

     “Rrrri pol´-lay?” I repeated.  “You’re really going to call me selfish white person?”

     “I dinna mean it that way,” he said.  “And are ye saying ye arna one?”

     I scoffed.  “Well, maybe I am, but why call me that?”

     “It’s a pretty word. I get to roll an ‘r’ at the beginning.”

     I laughed from a sudden realization.  “That’s why you Scots feel so at home in the Marshall Islands,” I said.  “You’re the only two cultures I know that roll their ‘r’s’ so often!”

     I heard a huge yawn from outside.  “Well, Ripālle,” he said.  “I’m tired.  What are ye doing tomorrow?”

    “Laundry, I think,” I said, his yawn contagiously spreading to me.  “And you?”

     “Can I come visit ye in the light?” he asked.

     “That’d be nice,” I said.  “Goodnight, Jamie.”

     “Goodnight, Claire.”  I got up from the floor, and listened to the sound of Jamie’s flip-flops crunching in the gravel, my young protector heading home.

Young Geckos in Love

On to Chapter 7 : Dirty Laundry

Jamie and Claire get better acquainted

[imjadebeom]

A Love to Kill Pt. 1/?

Title: A Love to Kill (courtesy of @jj-nyoung) Author: Me, imjadebeom Pairing: Jaebum x Reader Genre: Horror (Vampire AU) Word Count: About 1.6k words Warning: Some blood and stuff??? Not sure if it will ever get sexually explicit but I will keep you posted with a warning for each chapter. Summary: You have been severely injured and rescued by a beautiful man. You cannot remember anything prior to the accident. Will you be able to remember your past before it’s too late? Part: (1), 2, 3, 4, 5

Moodboard is mine and you can find that here (it was also this inspo for this story)

You wake up in a pitch black room. It smells musty, your head is pounding. “Where am I…,”  you thought. Your brain starts searching for anything that could shed some light as to how you got here. It almost feels as if someone dropped a pile of papers inside your mind. Just tiny bits of memory that your mind is struggling to piece together. You touch your head to feel a bandage and a sharp pain. How did this happen?

You’re quickly snapped out of your internalized distress when you hear the click of a lock and light shines brightly into the room. Your retinas burn as the scorching bright light pierces the darkness of the room you’re sitting in. Eyes adjusting slowly, he appears in front of you. He was quite literally the physical definition of “tall, dark and handsome”. His cologne hits you and he smells so sweet. It’s almost enough to lure you in until your brain starts sending out signals of distress. Heart racing, beads of sweat forming, goosebumps raised on your arm, adrenaline rushing. Who is this man?

His voice breaks the deafening silence. “How are you feeling?” His voice was smooth like honey, there were no breaks. He was confident and intimidating. His eyes had this piercing look that could intimidate the most terrifying of beasts. You tried to ask him where you were but all that came out were these tiny squeaks. There was a lump in your throat and no matter how hard you tried, it kept your voice trapped inside you with no way of escape.

“Are you going to answer me or are you going to continue to sit on the floor, squeaking at me?” His eyes got darker and his voice got louder. His tone was raucous and you flinched as he spat his words at you in distaste. Every syllable felt like a swift jab to your gut.

“Who are you?” Your voice was small and you did not dare to make direct eye contact. You felt as small as you sounded and wished more than anything in the world that he would avert his glare somewhere else.

“My name is Im Jaebum. You were hiking out in the woods and you slipped. You hit your head on a rock pretty hard. My house was nearby so I brought you here” His words rang in your ears. Hiking? Slipped? Even though you couldn’t recall a single memory, not even your own name, this didn’t sound right. However, with your memory gone, who were you to tell him he was wrong? “Come with me, we need to find you somewhere warm to stay.” Was this wishful thinking or did his tone feel warm and his eyes inviting? You would take anything over the angered response you received a moment ago. You follow him out of the room into a brightly lit hallway. The adrenaline was the only thing carrying you forward.

This house was really top of the line. Everything inside looked like it cost a fortune. He turns around to see your baffled expression and he lets out a small laugh. “Are you always this dumbfounded or is this your first time seeing a house?” You could tell he was joking but he had a rude sense of sarcasm that seemed to rub you the wrong way.

“I’m just wondering how someone your age was able to afford such an expensive interior design,” you said with a bit of poison in your tone. He hardly flinched at your retort and turned around to continue walking. What were you thinking? You can’t just speak to a stranger in that tone. Especially when they are the person who saved you from dying in the woods.

You stop at a long spiral staircase. “Your room will be upstairs. Do you think you can climb up?” You looked up hesitantly at the staircase, which, appeared endless as your head was already starting to swim. Now that you’ve gotten a grip on yourself, the adrenaline was starting to leave your system and your body was aching terribly. You felt an intense throbbing pain in your temples and ankle. The exhaustion instantly took over. As you came down from the adrenaline high, your vision starts to fade. You see the mildly horrified expression on his face as you collapsed onto the floor. You felt the intense pain and cried out. Your vision cuts in and out as Jaebum quickly comes to your side, his voice echoing loudly in your ears. The last thing you see is a small puddle of your blood on the floor before it all fades to black.

You jolted forward out of your bed as you felt a horrible searing pain in your head. You had a dream that gave you this feeling that you were trying so hard to remember something. It all ended so quickly that you can’t remember the dream or what you wanted so badly to remember.  You look over to you right as you hear trickling water. All you see is Jaebum sitting there with a bowl of water, a washcloth, some bandages, and antiseptics. “Good morning,” he says a little too monotonously. “We have to clean you up a bit” He moves towards you so that he can remove the soiled bandage from your head and he is struck with a very serious expression that sends prickles down your back. Creepy. However, as soon as his expression arrived, it was gone and he reaches to your head will the cool washcloth. He starts to treat your injury carefully, eyeing you through the entire process.

You were closer to him than you had ever been and your heart was racing. This time, it wasn’t fear. He was kind of cute. Well, cute didn’t even begin to describe Jaebum. In the light, he was beautiful. Not a flaw on his face as if he had been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. You look into his eyes which were soft, warm and inviting. He had two tiny freckles on his left eyelid. The only mark on an otherwise perfect canvas. His hair was inky black, parted to the side with just a tiny bit of wave to indicate a natural (yet polished) bed head. He smelled amazing. His scent was sweet and was unlike anything you’d ever smelled before. Almost like it was a cologne made just for him (although, with as much money as he appeared to have, you never know). His smile was beautiful with soft, delicate lips framing it. You couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Hello? Anyone there?” You break your stare and realize he’s speaking to you. “Sorry to disturb your daydream but are you okay in there? Do you need some painkillers?” He looked genuinely worried. This side of Jaebum was extremely different from your first impression of him.

“Yes, the pain is a bit much.” You mumbled, averting your eyes.

“Stay right here and I’ll be back. Hold this cloth to your head but don’t apply too much pressure” Your hands touch as he puts the cold cloth in your hand but you flinch from the site of the blood on the washcloth and from the chill of his hands. You shut your eyes and put the cloth to your head as he exits the room.

A few minutes pass and Jaebum still wasn’t back. After waiting around a bit longer, the cloth became blood soaked. In a panic, you get up to go find him but collapse on the floor. You let out a shriek as your ankle shot pain up and into your leg. Jaebum rushes back into the room to find you on the floor. “I told you not to move, didn’t I? How hard is it to just listen to simple instruction?” This was the man you were first acquainted with. Gruff, rude and condescending. You notice some blood on his cheek and reach for his face. He slaps your hand away quickly and your hand stings from the slap. “What are you doing? Don’t touch me” His words like a dagger.

“You just had some blood on your face…” You felt queasy looking at it but, you couldn’t help but stare. Was that your blood? When did it get on his cheek? How did it get on his cheek? You swear it wasn’t there when he left the room earlier.

He picks you up roughly and put you back into bed, wrapping and bandaging your head up without uttering a single word. The warm Jaebum was gone and in his place was a very rude, cold husk. As he was finishing up, your head starts to feel like it’s splitting. You start to remember. Before it ends, all you see is someone bashing you over the head. You quickly flinch away from Jaebum with a horrified look on your face.

“What do you remember?” His expression goes back to threatening and your adrenaline rushes again. You try to get away from him but he’s too quick. He has your arms and he’s on top of you, pinning you down. You can’t move a muscle. He’s unbelievably strong. “It’s not what you think. Your memories aren’t what you think. This isn’t how it seems”. He looks feral. His neatly parted bangs are now shadowing his eyes which are glaring at you. You’re more terrified than ever. You feel panicked as you realize this is it. You’ve been kidnapped and this is how you die. You close your eyes and wait for the end.

[pinelife3]

Whatever happened to Lainey Gossip?

Lainey Gossip was the smartest celebrity gossip site on the internet. I was an avid reader for most of my adult life. You may recall my April 2016 blog post about gossip and, in particular, blind items. Well, it’s been nearly a year since Lainey posted a blind item. In the site’s heyday (pre-2017), she posted a blind roughly once a month.

Beyond the drop-off in blind items, the site has decayed in a number of ways. It’s become smug and self-aggrandising. They rolled lifestyle content onto the main blog feed, so now I have to scroll past posts about, I kid you not, baby names. (Caring about baby names is so inherently stupid to me, I feel genuinely irritated just being exposed to that content. Just name your kid something out of the primary religious text for your culture/region/family. Adam can never go out of style.)

The main thing which has turned me off Lainey Gossip is the writers’ misapprehension that the site is some kind of arbiter on social justice issues. Every other day there is a post with some insufferable moralising about feminism, equality, systemic racism, Rowling’s transphobia etc. It’s not that these are bad takes - I actually agree with what they’re saying. But I don’t want to hear it on this site. I don’t refer to gossip writers for guidance on this. Lainey is not a political activist. The writers on the site are just regurgitating ideas and lessons they’ve learnt elsewhere. This post from June was the final straw for me. The relevant part of the post is Alia Shawkat’s apology for saying the n-word during an interview in 2016. The clip of her actually saying the n-word seems to have disappeared from the internet, but basically she was describing a time when she and some of her friends arrived in a very nice hotel and how she thought of the lyric: “Nigga, we made it" from the Drake song “We Made It”. 

Here’s Lainey’s analysis:

As people have pointed out on Twitter, 2016 isn’t that long ago. And Alia was in her 20s. Whether or not you decide to cancel her, as many are doing, is up to you. 

I can’t fully account for it, but the phrase ‘Whether or not you decide to cancel her is up to you’ rubbed me the wrong way. Whether you decide to cast her into the fire for not correctly censoring herself when quoting a Drake song. Whether she is destroyed as a person forever. A worthless husk. Irredeemable. Whether her soul should be torn out and her body fed to crows. That’s up to you. The new god? It’s you, the reader of this gossip blog!

This was during the peak of the Black Lives Matter protests and discussion this year. So, in the second half of the article Lainey gets high on her own farts, like so:

While I have never used the n-word casually, and many of you may say the same, we do all engage with Black art, we do all borrow from it, consciously or unconsciously, in the ways we express ourselves, in the way I have expressed myself here, from fashion to language to GIFs. Think of how much cultural colloquial vocabulary comes from the Black community – recent examples include “lit”, “snatched”, “shady”, “flex”, “tea”, and phrasing that’s become commonplace and permanent in our language like “chill”, “dope”, “extra” – all of this comes from the creativity of Black minds. And they’re almost never credited for it.

So yes, of course, call out people like Alia for their irresponsible use of the most egregious words, but at the same time, let’s all consider how much we owe to the Black community for what they’ve given to us and for little we’ve given back in respect, appreciation, and credit. Because while the immediate urgency of Black Lives Matter is to prevent more senseless killings of Black people, the broader focus of BLM is Black dignity in all forms, and all of this is related. We can’t say that we honour Black humanity if we are erasing their contributions in all aspects of our lives.

Thanks Lainey. To be clear, I wouldn’t mind if this was the only time she’d shared an opinion like this - but this type of argument is repeated ad nauseaum across the site. She’s a therapist. She’s a civil rights activist. She knows what’s good for you. She speaks with great authority on how to solve racism. 

Fast forward a couple of weeks and Lainey is apologising for the hideous shit she used to write on her blog in the early 2000s where her takes were often racist, homophobic, and/or misogynistic. In her apology post, she wrote:

Many people object to cancel culture. My personal opinion on it is that while cancel culture is not always judiciously applied, it does have value. Sometimes people should be cancelled. And if you visit this website often, you might be thinking about whether or not to cancel me. That’s fair.

...I have been conditioned in white supremacy, and I have enabled white privilege, even as a person of colour myself, because we too, given that white supremacy is so dominant, can have bias... When I started this site back in 2003/2004, I wrote misogynist things and slut shaming things, and racist things. And as the site grew in popularity, it served as confirmation bias, that there was an appetite out there for this kind of content, and I wanted to keep delivering it. Over time, I learned and grew, along with many of you who have learned and grown. And through it all, I have talked about my progress, calling out my past mistakes and leaving much of that content on the site instead of deleting it. There are some things, though, that have been deleted because I was embarrassed and I didn’t want to be part of it and obviously didn’t want to perpetuate those thoughts. But in the process of doing that, I realised that that would be erasing history – and for marginalised people, their pain and trauma is constantly being erased and invalidated. My leaving it there to be eventually called out is nothing compared to their experience.

Many gossip blogs were like this in the nascent stage of online journalism. They called it snark - and it was very popular. I think in some ways this was to differentiate blogs from the content and coverage in traditional gossip mags. Most gossip magazines are toothless - because they want celebrity interviews and exclusives. But, in 2006, a website was never going to get an interview with anyone worth interviewing so why bother to be nice - especially because being cynical and mean was more entertaining for the average reader. A lot of the gossip coverage that occurred back then would never fly now: ridiculing Britney for shaving her head, fat shaming, cruel coverage of celebrity eating disorders, slut shaming. The edgelord humour of the early blogs was crushed beneath the wheels of progress.

I don’t care about what Lainey wrote in 2006 - I don’t think it’s nice, I don’t think it’s interesting or funny, I wouldn’t have chosen to read it. But it doesn’t change my view of the site as a whole. What it does do though, is highlight how hollow all the talk of respecting women, honouring Black culture, working to be better, being good allies, etc. is on this site. Because it’s not really about doing that shit - it’s about telling other people off for not doing it. Lainey has weaponised wokeness as her new snark. 

After the fall out around Lainey’s embarrassing old articles, a banner was added to all of the articles on the site which were published before 2013: 

She’s effectively disavowed half of the blog’s history. Lainey Gossip launched in 2004. Is it really fair to say that articles published in 2012 were posted during an early period of the site?

What is Lainey doing when she toys with Alia Shawkat’s fate like Anton Chigurh tossing a coin? She knows in her heart of hearts that she has also said things she regrets, also said unsavory things in public that she didn’t really mean. It’s so weird: can’t you see the parallels between yourself and her? Lainey is pretty clear in her apology that she’s acknowledging the problematic history of the blog because people were exposing her on social media. Were it not for this, she likely would have continued writing about problematic shit other people did 10 years ago without acknowledging that she is no better. 

Again, I want to be really clear: my issue isn’t with the articles she wrote in the early days of the site. It’s the weirdness around publicly criticising people when your own behaviour is comparably bad. What could you gain from doing that beyond reveling in the snark? Destroying someone else before the mob you helped create comes for you?

Let me remind you: THIS USED TO BE A GOSSIP BLOG with analysis of celebrity culture, movie deals, blind items, industry insider stories. Now it’s just been sucked into the culture war vortex. Ruined by the discourse. 

Gossip used to be talking about other people’s business: Speculating about which Victoria’s Secret model DiCaprio would pick up next. Investigating rumours that Jennifer Lawrence faked her tumble on the stairs at the Oscars. Analysing why a celebrity filed their divorce papers in California rather than Texas. Waiting to see which celebrity would be the first to wear Marchesa on a red carpet after the fall of Weinstein.

Gossip is a way of learning what is acceptable in society, a way of observing how others perceive and react to the decisions people make - and how behaviour which violates societal norms attracts backlash. It’s even more interesting when the subject of that gossip is rich and famous. Lainey Gossip is no longer turning out this kind of content - so where can we go for these insights?

The best barometer for conservative public opinion on celebrity movements and the related enforcement of societal norms is the The Daily Mail comments section. The Daily Mail itself seems like something of a journalistic agent of chaos: I would have assumed that they swung right, but they post pro-Trump articles and anti-Trump articles. They do not seem to have a dog in the fight: the world turns, empires rise and fall and The Daily Mail persists. 

In the ‘entertainment news’ articles on the site, no impassioned arguments are made, no particular analysis is shared: the journalists position themselves as impartial observers just reporting the facts. Occasionally a piece is clearly designed to bait the readers - for example, any time they mention the price of someone’s home in the headline... “Celebrity in $13 million mansion reminds fans to appreciate the small things” or that kind of crap. But the article itself is just a list of facts. No analysis, no reflection - just positioning. 

Also interesting to observe is that The Daily Mail comments section is typically quite harmonious. Readers generally have similar take-aways from articles and it’s very rare to see an argument break out in the comments section. It’s as if Daily Mail readers think with one mind:

Stay with wife many years? Very good. Society like this. Daily Mail readers approve.

Stay with wife many years and maybe wife is slightly overweight? Oh yes - this guy is the best. International hero. Daily Mail readers all agree: we love.

Stay with wife many years and then divorce her? Hmm let’s see how this situation develops before we judge...

Stay with wife many years and then divorce her to be with younger woman? You die now.

The Daily Mail comments section is a glance into the void. A pit of human misery where people say exactly what they think. No subtext. No analysis required. 

They like Pierce Brosnan because he is a straight-forward nice male celebrity and he has been with his wife for a long time - his wife is a little overweight so it makes readers feel good to imagine that he might not be repulsed by the average woman.

They do not like Emma Roberts because in 2013 she was arrested for beating her boyfriend in a hotel room. This was a long time ago and not many people think about it now. She has a successful career and is well liked on social media. But that’s because those youngsters forget. 

The Daily Mail comments section does not forget. Their memory is long and their pity is scarce. They are society’s hive mind. The majority. A snapshot of what 95% of the planet’s population would think on any given subject - which actually makes for very interesting reading.

Forget about Lainey Gossip, trawl The Daily Mail comments section with me.