#its this the moment that Robert notice the green eyes?

[h7jfangirl]

Oh boy

DID THEY JUST HAVE SEX!?

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 3

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |-| Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

AO3

Summary: In the wake of a terrible loss, the arrival of a new airman at Thorpe Abbotts promises to change the trajectory of Frankie's life forever

Warnings: Death, grief

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles

A/N: HE'S HEREEEE 🗣🗣🗣

It was dark in the mechanics' hut, the lights kept off during the day to preserve power, but the overcast nature of the afternoon did nothing to light the space from the outside. Hours had passed since the pilots had left, and although Frankie was never made privy to the specifics of their missions, she could tell by the amount of fuel that had been requested that they were going far, much further than they ever had before. There was not a man among them who hadn't seemed to have a dark cloud over his head as they had prepared to depart that morning.

She and Lemmons sat on the floor together, backs propped up against the wall, both too troubled by worry to work. Frankie had an old fashion magazine in her lap, and they passed the time by flicking through each section and poking fun at a myriad of ugly sweaters and ridiculous hats.

"Those are nice," Ken stated, pointing at a pair of green brogued shoes.

"Seriously? I think they're garish."

He shrugged. "My Fonda has some like it. They look nice on her."

She let out a low whistle, teasingly nudging his side as his face turned bright red, a satisfied smile curling his lips. For a boy as young as he was, he sure loved Fonda. Frankie had noticed the heart-shaped locket that hung from his neck the very first day they'd worked together, but it had taken weeks for him to let her have a look inside. It must have been nice to be loved the way she was.

The magazine was losing its charm. It had been over an hour, and they were running out of pages. With a huff, she tossed it across the room, landing in a heap of crumpled pages underneath the table. Ken looked over at her, raising a brow.

She shrugged. "Bored. Want a cigarette?"

Without waiting for an answer, Frankie dug around in her pocket and produced two loose, slightly bent cigarettes, passing one to Lemmons. She lit hers swiftly, taking in an inhale of smoke. He rolled his between his fingers, never bothering to light it. Sometimes she forgot he didn't smoke.

"I'm gonna take you for a drink tonight. We deserve it."

"I'm nineteen."

Frankie stared at him for a long moment. "...So?"

"So, I can't drink."

"Jesus Christ. Welcome to England mate, you might be the only nineteen-year-old currently in the country who doesn't already have a drinking problem."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could emerge they were interrupted by a rapid knocking at the door. Far from the usual pounding thuds the men usually used, this knock was delicate, polite, but its urgency set Frankie's heart to beating twice as fast.

Scrambling to her feet, she rushed for the door, tossing her cigarette into the ashtray on the table as she passed. Hauling it open, a wave of nausea coursed through her as she saw George standing outside, hair damp from the drizzle, tie pulled loose away from her neck, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

"Wh-" Frankie trailed off as she slammed into her, gripping her in the tightest hug she'd ever felt. As she wrapped her arms around George's back, she could feel her shaking beneath her palms.

George let out one sob after another, face buried in Frankie's shoulder as her tears soaked the fabric of her coveralls. Looking back over at Lemmons, their gazes met in wide-eyed expressions of anxiety, and if George hadn't been crying so loudly Frankie was sure the thumping of her heart would've been audible.

"George- George," She spoke firmly, hands pressed to George's cheeks as she forced her to meet her eye. To be so harsh to a woman who needed nothing but softness ripped a hole through her, the guilt churning her stomach, but she needed to know. "Tell me what happened."

She nodded hurriedly, wiping her tears away with the backs of her hands. "They made it to Africa - we started getting messages through about an hour ago, but, uh..." George's lip trembled, and she sucked in a long, haggard breath. "Curt's dead, Frankie."

Lemmons let out some sort of strangled gasp as Frankie felt all of the blood drain from her face. For a moment she didn't know how to process the words, she just knew she needed to hold George - to hold her tight, tighter than anyone ever had. There was not an inch between them as she stroked a gentle hand through her golden hair, trying with all her might to keep breathing as she felt a warm tear roll down her cheek.

Over George's shoulder, she spied Ken making for the door, a frown casting a shadow over his boyish face. He met her eyes, and she offered him a nod, freeing him from the scene so he could inevitably tell the others.

The two women held each other for a long moment, Frankie's chin burrowed against George's collar. When she finally spoke, it was little more than a hoarse whisper, her throat suddenly dry as a bone.

"...And Bucky?"

Sniffing loudly, George pulled back, shaking her head. "No, no, he's okay. He made it to Algeria." Frankie hadn't released she was holding her breath until she let it escape her, raising a hand to cover her mouth as she nodded.

"Yeah? Yeah. Alright," She could worry about the others later - for now, knowing Egan was alive was enough to settle her drumming heart. "You need to go home, ok? You need to rest."

"My shift's not over, I still have to-"

"I am gonna walk up there myself and tell them you're not coming back today. Not tomorrow, neither. And if they've got a problem with that they can take it up with me - believe me, I don't give a shit if I take an insubordination charge over this."

A tearful smile broke out across George's face, holding onto Frankie's hand as it cupped her cheek. "Tangling with you? I don't fancy their chances."

Frankie chuckled, pulling her into one last hug and pressing her lips firmly to her temple. "Go, go. I'll see you soon, ok?"

"Yeah," She whispered against her neck, reaching out to squeeze her hand as she broke the hug, stepping backwards towards the door and disappearing.

As soon as she was alone, Frankie sucked in a long, laboured breath, collapsing into one of the rickety chairs that surrounded the table in the middle of the room. Doubling forward, she lay her head in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as she focused on taking one breath after the next.

Since the war had begun, she had been cycling through phases of fear and calm, letting herself slip into the all too comfortable belief that it couldn't touch her here - couldn't take from her as long as she was home, as long as she was safe.

But God, how the world kept proving her wrong.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Almost a month had passed. Every mission took a toll, but the trip that had killed Curtis Biddick seemed to hang heavier than any other ever had.

Or perhaps it just seemed that way because of George.

Some nights Frankie would stay up late, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes as she fought to stay awake long enough to finish a chapter of her book, lit by the dim bulb of her bedside lamp. And then in the darkness she would hear a rustling, a casting aside of the course, army-issue bedsheets, and feel a weight press into the mattress beside her as George slipped under the covers, silently resting her head against Frankie's shoulder. She liked to listen to her heartbeat on the nights she felt most alone - when she felt the farthest from home, the most separated from the boy she almost loved - it brought her comfort to listen to that telltale sign of life radiating from the person closest to her. She had someone, and that was enough to live with.

Frankie had liked Curt, but she hadn't known him well. Sometimes she wished she had, if only so that she wouldn't feel so guilty, comforting her best friend over a loss she no longer felt so keenly. Instead, all she could do was softly whisper the words she was reading to her, and let her mere presence be the comfort as they both drifted off to sleep.

It had grown warm overnight, and the humidity combined with the heat of George's body burrowed close next to hers left Frankie slick with sweat by the time she woke up, her hair sticking to her neck in damp strands. Peeling the covers away as she clambered out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping friend, she made a beeline for the showers, hoping to wash away the unpleasant, sticky sensation that coated her skin. She was used to evening showers after a long day's work, and it felt strange to stare down at the hot water rolling off of her body and see it come away clear, clean, not streaked with the dirt and oil she was often coated with by the time she made it home each night.

Wringing her hair out with a towel as she made her way out of the bathroom, Frankie dodged the other women emerging from their beds as she reached her own area, her coveralls and workboots waiting for her on a nearby chair. George had moved back to her own bed, carefully removing each of the curlers she meticulously applied every night, just like all of the other servicewomen who were afforded the luxury of working indoors, a far cry from Frankie's reality. It wasn't that Frankie didn't like to dress up - she loved the chance to do her hair and makeup, to dress up and feel pretty for once - it just wasn't a practicality her profession afforded. Her hair needed to be out of the way, and it made no sense to waste money on makeup that would be ruined by sweat and grime within the hour.

"If Dye makes it back, there'll be a party tonight," George stated, watching her reflection as she looped her tie into a knot. "You gonna go?"

"Uh," Frankie considered this for a moment, sniffing her coveralls from the previous day and grimacing at the smell, switching them out for a clean pair. "Nah, not tonight, I don't think. I've already got some outstanding stuff from the last few days that needs sorting, it's gonna be a busy one."

"Alright, I'll see if Sandra and Helen are going."

"I'm glad you're going," Frankie smiled.

George's gaze turned to her, and she considered this for a moment before shrugging. "Can't sit here forever."

It was a fact that didn't need dwelling on, and Frankie wouldn't patronise her with praise. This was just the way their lives worked now. One by one, the women in their hut finished getting ready and left for their various jobs until Frankie was the only one left, locking up the front door as she exited. The burn that had scorched her palm had long since healed, leaving a mottled pink scar across her hand, but she could clutch the handlebars of her bike without pain now, so she had returned to her morning ritual of cycling as fast as she physically could to the airstrip, revelling in the feeling of the warm morning air blowing through her hair.

Dye's plane was swooping in as she arrived, and Frankie couldn't help but smile at the chorus of whoops and cheers that pierced the air, flight and ground crews alike lining the runway to await his valiant return. Twenty-five missions. She could barely fathom it. For as long as she could remember, planes like this had been her life, but she'd never flown in one - Dye had done it twenty-five times. The number boggled her, a reality so close to and yet so distinctly separate from her own.

"Frankie!" Lemmons called over from where he was sitting with a few of the local boys. The village kids had taken a shine to the young mechanic, and she found she rather enjoyed their presence, childish wit relieving the strain of their long working hours. She crossed the grass towards them as he spoke up again. "Gonna replace the panelling on the bombers from last week, you in?"

She shook her head, batting a hand dismissively. "Nah, you go enjoy the celebrations with the others, I'll handle it."

He frowned, a crease appearing between his brows. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, I hardly even know Dye, I'm not missing out. Take the night off, you deserve it."

A smile began to spread across his expression. "Well thanks, Frankie."

"No worries. Hey - did we get that delivery of rivets that was meant to come in?" Lemmons shook his head, and she shrugged. "Don't worry about it, I'll take a list to the boss of everything we need."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was growing dark, a work light on the tarmac illuminating one of the B-17 engines as she worked away at it, a pile of scattered tools littering the ground from where she had tried and failed to toss them back into her toolbox without paying proper attention. She could hear the muffled music far off in the distance, the lights from the party casting a golden reflection against the clouds like a beacon in the night. Tightening one of the bolts, Frankie prayed to herself that George was having fun.

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind alerted her to sudden company, but she was too engrossed in her work to turn. Besides, she could already guess who it was.

"Heya, Frankie," Bucky's voice came, and she suppressed a smirk at the accuracy of her prediction.

"Evenin'."

"We missed you at the party," He stated.

"Busy," She replied, letting out a grunt as she pinched the skin of her thumb with her wrench, flapping her hand for a moment to relieve the pain.

"Just came to see ya 'cause I don't think you've met Rosie yet."

Frankie let out a sigh, sliding her wrench into her pocket, speaking as she began to turn. "Bucky, if you boys have got yourselves another fucking dog, I swear-"

There was another man there, standing next to Egan, blue eyes watching her as she stumbled over her words, trailing to an awkward stop. She had a smear of oil across her forehead from where she had absent-mindedly wiped the sweat from her brow with a filthy hand, and Bucky pursed his lips tightly as he tried not to laugh.

"Not a dog," Rosie stated, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile.

"No," She breathed, snapping herself out of her awkwardness. "No, uh, sorry - Frankie, I'm Frankie," Holding out her hand to shake, she noticed its filthiness and grimaced, swiftly retracting it.

"Frankie's one of our mechanics," Egan explained. "She'd be happiest if we fired the rest of the ground crew and let her do the whole thing herself."

"But then who'd clean the dog shit and vomit out for me, eh?" Frankie shrugged, a pink spatter colouring her cheeks. Bucky almost frowned, taken aback by her uncharacteristically awkward demeanour.

"Look, I promised Buck I'd only be gone five minutes, so," He looked down at his watch, shrugging.

"No, no, that's fine, you have a good night," Frankie smiled, wiping her dirty palms on the sides of her trousers.

Bucky turned to leave, pausing for a moment. "Rosenthal?"

"Oh, no, I was gonna head off anyway, thanks Major," Rosie nodded, and they lingered in silence for a moment after Egan left, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness down the runway.

"Sorry I thought you were a dog," She chuckled slightly, breaking the quiet as she rubbed her thumb where she'd pinched the skin, a red mark forming.

"Well," Rosie shrugged, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Been called worse."

Frankie smiled, a flash of teeth in her grin as she glanced back at the engine for a moment, the great thing looming over her in its frame. "And... sorry Bucky dragged you all the way out here, I'm sure the party is much more interesting, and-"

"Hey, you don't have to apologise," He shook his head. With the work light shining on them, it seemed to cast a halo around her head, brown hair running golden along its edges. Even covered in filth, she must've been one of the prettiest girls he'd seen in... well, he couldn't quite recall. "How long have you been out here?"

"Uh, what time is it - eight?"

Rosie let out a laugh. "Gone midnight."

"Jesus Christ," She flashed him a tired grin. "Shit, I missed dinner."

"Well," He shrugged. "I am a Captain. Sure we can find something."

"You're on," Frankie agreed, the empty feeling in her stomach suddenly amplified once she realised how long it had been since she'd eaten. "Although, I'd better clean up first," She noted, wiping her hands on one of the engine rags.

"By the way, you've got a little-" Rosie gestured to his own forehead.

"Oh, shit," Frankie muttered, reaching up with the rag and just managing to miss the oil stain. He let out a chuckle, stepping forward.

"Here, lemme just-" She offered up the rag, and he dabbed at the stain, which less went away than it did smudge even more. He furrowed his brow as he tried to get rid of it, and she couldn't help but let out a laugh at the sheer concentration in his expression, their faces far closer than she would ever usually allow with a man she'd only just met. But there was something endearing in him, something safe. "I think... I think I got it."

"Thanks," Frankie chuckled, taking back the rag and stepping back towards the Nissen hut. "I'm just gonna wheel this engine inside and wash the crap off my hands, then we can go."

"I await your return, milady," Rosie nodded, smile turning to a cringe as she turned away from him. What was that? Don't say that!

She smiled to herself as she entered the hut, her pleased expression turning to a grimace as she got a waft of herself, the twelve-hour shift out in the sun making itself known. Oh shit.

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The mess hall was completely deserted, the only light coming from the kitchens as Frankie waited patiently for Rosie to return. He had volunteered to go and scrounge for food, confident that his rank would protect them if they were discovered, and she grinned as he returned, proudly carrying a large tin of peaches and a couple of bars of ration chocolate.

"Oh, perfect. Midnight feast," She beamed, taking a seat on one of the long benches that lined the tables as he sat down opposite, producing a tin opener from his pocket.

"Food fit for kings, I'd say," Rosie agreed, wrestling with the peaches for a moment until he was able to break the lid. Producing two forks, Frankie held one out to him, using her own to skewer a slice of the orange fruit.

"I'd just like to preface this by saying that I don't usually smell like this... actually, I do," She admitted, picking at some dirt stuck beneath her nail.

"Hey, I'm not judging - you wouldn't either once you'd smelled the inside of our flight suits," He shrugged, and she let out a huff of laughter, chewing on her peach slices, a droplet of sweet juice running down her lip. "So... how long've you been a mechanic?"

"Dad's been running an auto repair shop at home since before I was born, I grew up on it," Frankie explained, skewering another slice with one hand as she unwrapped her chocolate bar with the other. "He wanted to go over to France, help fix army jeeps, but he lost his foot in the Great War so they won't take him - I was born when he was away, see, he'd been over there for six months or so when a shell went off and he lost it. So the cars were all we had. I switched to planes when I was about fifteen - bit of an impractical hobby, but I've read every single book on it they had in Stratford library," She chuckled.

"Stratford... Shakespeare, right?"

Her brow raised. "Yeah. Right. Y'know I think the only good thing about this war is that the tourist buses have stopped coming around," She joked, and Rosie laughed, nodding along as he ate. Why was she telling him all this? In the last hour, he'd found out more about her than Bucky or Lemmons had in months. But she found she didn't feel embarrassed telling him any of it, the words just flowed naturally.

They sat there in the dim mess hall eating peaches until they started to feel sick, the hands of Rosie's watch ticking steadily past 1am by the time they left, making sure to hide all evidence of their midnight raid. It had begun to rain by the time they stepped out into the night air, and before Frankie could utter a single word of complaint he had shrugged off his uniform jacket and given it to her to hold over her head, her own makeshift shelter whilst his own curls fell flat, the water leaving dark streaks down his shirt.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked for what must have been the third time as they reached the end of her row of Nissen huts, Rosie's hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, his skin almost visible through the drenched state of his clothes.

"I said stop asking," He assured her, nodding confidently despite the visible trembling in his shoulders.

"I'm just worried I'm gonna ruin your jacket."

"Well, it'd die for a worthy cause."

Frankie grinned, slowing to a stop as she reached the front door of her hut. The lights were all off inside, not a single sign of life as her bunkmates enjoyed their well-earned sleep. When she spoke again, it was in whispers, careful not to wake them even despite the hammering of rain against the metal roof.

"Thank you for dinner, it was... unexpected."

"Very," Rosie nodded in agreement, mirroring her smile. She handed over his jacket, and he folded it, tucking it beneath his arm, already well past its usefulness.

"Tomorrow's gonna be a rough morning."

"Take the day off, have a lie-in, you deserve it."

She raised a brow, and he laughed. "You know I won't."

"I suspected as much," He agreed, nodding firmly. "G'night, Frankie."

"Goodnight."

Frankie slipped carefully inside, cautious not to make a sound as she crept over to her bed, stripping off her wet coveralls as she reached quickly for her nice, warm pyjamas.

When George's whispered voice broke the silence, she swore she almost had a heart attack. "You've been... working?"

"Something like that," Frankie shrugged, taking the fact she was awake as a sign of consent to turn her lamp on, giving her the light she needed to untie her boots. "Have you met the new Captain?"

"Who, Rosenthal? No. Why?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, buttoning up her pyjama shirt before flicking off the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness as she climbed beneath the blankets, letting out a satisfied sigh at the warmth.

"He's nice."

George let the silence simmer for a moment, her tone laced with suspicion. "... Right."

[lokisprettygirl]

can you write a one shot about clumsy reader× Loki where the reader is clumsy and falls even if she is sitting or bumping into things and people or burning herself i want to see how loki will be protective torwod her (if you don't feel inspired to write this it's okay love your writing by the way ♥️)

Hii sorry it took me so long to write, I'm a clumsy person and currently own several cuts and bruises from several different things. However it can get so embarrassing at times. I hope you'll like this if you're still here, thank you I'm glad you enjoy my writing 🥰

Falling for you (Loki x Female Reader) (Fluffy fluff)

The first moment Loki laid his eyes upon you, he found you on the floor, on your knees, collecting a bunch of tangerines that you have dropped, one of them rolled so close to his feet so you crawled towards him and he was going to make a dirty remark like he usually did in a woman's presence but then you looked up and those soft eyes melted him. Just a fleeting moment, so unimportant, he didn't even have time to grasp it carefully before the moment passed but deep down in his rigid icy heart he felt a little something. Later on he had an epiphany that he had fallen for you while you fell in front of him.

"Hiii ..sorry..I slipped..they mopped the floor I guess ..you know they should put those cone sign thingy that says wet floor..the one you know with the umm..the cone –" you followed his gaze and looked where he was looking, there it was, the slab that said "wet floor" in huge clear words "Alright I guess I'm blind then" you muttered under your breath as you felt mortified, you have heard of the tall brooding Asgardian that has joined the Avengers recently and you didn't think this is how your first meeting would go.

"Are you hurt darling?" His voice was so sultry and smooth, it immediately warranted you to look up at him again, he kept his eyes on yours as he lowered himself down slowly in a squatting position before he put one of the knees down on the floor, so graceful like a wild feline. Thankfully he didn't smell like one, he smelled like lillies.  You sat down on the floor as you felt a pain in your ankle, you were busy picking up those tangerines that the pain took its sweet time to register.

"Just my ankle..it's fine ..I'm getting late for work" he didn't listen to you, you weren't fine he could tell, he looked at you before he slipped the shoes off your right ankle and you squealed internally, thanking the lords for the self pedicure you have given yourself just two days ago. He took the sock off and grabbed your ankle to assess the injury. You had luck playing for you today.

"See how awful it looks?" Grimacing look appeared on your face as you looked at the swelling that was only getting worse.

But then you noticed the green shimmer washing over the injury and all of a sudden it was gone, the pain, the swelling, all of it was gone, it vanished, like magic. 

"Oh my god ..holy shit god..thank youuu so muchhh ..you have no idea how much I appreciate this..I cannot afford a leave right now..Robert would have killed Mee" 

He raised his brow as you blabbed mindlessly. Who was this Robert and why did he want to hurt this sweet little thing he wondered?

"Who is this Robert fellow that you speak of?" 

"My boss at the Cupid Cafe? It's on this floor only, I got the job last week.. honestly speaking..nepotism was involved because my mom and Robert went to school together..you see? My friends are so envious of me right now..man you won't believe, they ask me everyday if I saw an Avenger and to be fair I thought I'd faint when I saw Iron man last week..he's shorter in real life though..he looks so tall in pictures and my friend Sheila? She is such a big fan of yours.. would you like to sign something for her?" You finally stopped speaking and he smiled, showing off those pearly perfect teeth, so perfect that you could feel your surroundings lightening up in his presence. God of thunder who?

You wished you had not blabbed though, being clumsy wasn't the only flaw you had, you also had the nervous Verbal diarrhea..

He stood up and put his hand out for you like a gentleman so you grabbed it and he helped you stand up, he didn't let go of your hand though, the butterflies were raging inside you, he was so tall and handsome, you had to look up to even match his eye line.

"Ummm thank you mister Loki..I need to get back to work" you bent down to pick up the basket of tangerines, then you tried to get out of there as quickly as you could without embarassing yourself further, bad move, because you slipped again. Caution : Wet floor and wet panties.

 He shook his head in disbelief then he made it his mission to drop you to the Cafe safely before you'd trip again. No tangerines were harmed in the process.

Loki has never been the one to make friends or acquaintances for that matter but your uncoordinated personality and running mouth won him over, he visited the cafe frequently after that and he'd often watch you trip, drop things, fall down, burn your fingers off hot things, on number of occasions he witnessed you goofing up and the more he witnessed the innate talent you had to get yourself hurt the more protective he became of you.

He made sure no wet floors would ever be on your way ever again, if you were carrying heavy stuff he'd take it away from you right away. He'd heal every cuts, burn marks and bruises you carried on daily basis.

"How many folks you bumped into today my darling?" your cheeks flushed as he questioned you, it's been months since you have been working here and your friendship with him had grown steadily, you never wanted to get your hopes up or that it could ever be more, especially seeing the kind of women he hung around with.

"Just one.. and it wasn't my fault she was looking at her phone"

"Just one huh?" He smirked and you huffed before you rolled your eyes. His eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

"Okay fine two" those brows didn't tame so you stopped lying to him. "Five.. happy?" He giggled as you said that, in the last few months especially in moments like these he wanted to grab you and kiss you, then he never wanted to let you go, what place could have been more safer for you then his own arms? But he didn't think you felt anything for him, sure he felt the care and concern you showered on him, but he didn't want to get his hopes up or have his heart broken or worse lose this precious friendship he had managed to not fuck up somehow.

"I'll fetch you tomorrow, yeah?" He asked you and you nodded.

He wanted to invite you to Thor's birthday party and as excited as you were you couldn't help but feel scared, a big lavish party like that would require you to look a certain way and you knew you'll have to confront your worst nightmare. The stilettos. You had never been able to walk comfortably in heels and you had tripped a countless times before so you decided to give up on them entirely but you couldn't go to an Avenger's party wearing flats or shoes right?

At the party Loki was around you all the time as if he was scared that you'll embarrass him, that's what you thought, you totally missed that he didn't care about it, he just wanted to keep you safe, he asked you to not put on something you felt uncomfortable in but you insisted.

"I have to attend this quick interviewing session, just enjoy the party and I will be back soon alright?" He told you so you nodded, you got a comfortable spot next to the bar as you sipped on your drink, your eyes fell upon Loki in the other corner of the room, the black suit he had on devastated you completely, so many sexy women were at this party and they all had their eyes on him, you felt saddened as you thought about one of them getting lucky tonight. 

"Ohhh look.. ain't that the girl that keeps messing up our drinks?" Sam commented, making Bucky and Natasha laugh. 

"Samuel, I'd suggest giving up on any games if you want to sleep tonight in your bed instead of the medical wing, my brother is extremely fond of lady y/n" Thor said to Sam, he knew of his brother's feelings regarding you and he didn't want any trouble.

"I'm not even going to do anything..she'll manage it herself.. watch..hey y/n? Hey?" Thor facepalmed as Sam called out for you, you smiled as you heard your name, someone wanted to talk to you? An Avenger wanted to talk to you?

"Come join us?" Natasha yelled and it made you even happier, they were on the other side of the lounge so you grabbed your drink and walked towards them, big mistake because your the stilletos made your ankle twist and you fell down horribly, the sound of the glass breaking brought all the attention towards you, your eyes teared up as you looked around, sounds of laughter erupted in the room. Your whole body felt still, your ears felt hot as the embarrassment drowned you, it was prom night all over again.

Loki stormed towards you quickly and he made you stand up, his eyes circled around the room and everyone got quiet all of a sudden, his searing gaze was enough to intimidate them. A few shards of broken glass had pierced your skin and it broke his heart, he felt even worse when he looked at you and your eyes were filled with tears 

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry loki..I ..I'll just go" his eyes teared up as you mumbled an apology to him. You tried to walk past him but he held your hand.

"Come with me please..please?" His voice was so soft and gentle, you knew that he'd never make fun of you when you felt this way, you nodded and he walked you out of the tower then he made you sit in the backseat of his car as he sat next to you. He used his charm to remove the shards and heal the cuts, you kept sobbing and he didn't know how to comfort you so he cupped your cheeks and leaned into you to kiss you, just a soft gentle peck but it stopped the crying. You looked at him shocked at the gesture, 

"Why did you do that?" You asked him confused, that's when you noticed that his eyes were teary too and that was the moment that gave you the courage to do what you did next.

"I'm sorry if you didn't want me to..I should have asked darling but I just–" before he could finish his words you kissed him this time. He pulled you on top of his lap as you kissed him deeply, your lips moved in the perfect rhythm and your heart soared more and more the longer you felt his lips on yours. It was perfect, it was better than any fantasy or dreams you have had of him in the past few days.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you" 

"You could never embarrass me darling, I just abhor how it makes you feel" you looked down as he said that. You abhorred it too.

"I have always been..a little off balanced" you smiled to hide the pain and the embarrassment. You didn't do it on purpose, it wasn't a cute quirky girl trait as movies and books had made everyone believe, it was embarrassing to not have control on your body sometimes. 

"And that is absolutely alright..I find it quite endearing. I just don't want you to be hurt my sweet little thing" 

Or Maybe it was a cute quirky girl trait if God of Mischief found it endearing.

As embarrassing as the fall was, it brought you closer to him, after planning an actual date for tomorrow he conjured a pair of shoes for you and made you discard those abominating heels. He took you back to the party, hand in hand, he announced at the same party that you belonged to him now and if he would witness anyone making fun of his sweet little thing he'd rip their head off their neck then he'd carve out their eyes with his dagger to play chess with them. His words, not yours.

Drunken Thor revealed the conversation that had occurred among them before you tripped. 

Oh and Sam definitely didn't sleep in his bed that night.

[wherewhereare]

Just in case it wants you sign in.

Blake Shelton plays Hershey: Throwbacks, new experiences, ‘beyond country’ behavior Updated: Feb. 23, 2024, 8:32 a.m.|Published: Feb. 23, 2024, 5:55 a.m.

By Kaylyn Greene | kgreene@pennlive.com Country singer and former “The Voice” coach Blake Shelton kicked off the 2024 leg of his “Back To Honky Tonk Tour” in Hershey last night and completely blew the roof off the Giant Center.

Shelton is taking on this tour with the help of country artist Dustin Lynch and former “The Voice” contestant Emily Ann Roberts. As someone who is very unfamiliar with country music, I was impressed by Shelton’s performance.

If I enjoyed Beyonce’s recent country releases, then I felt like I could feel similarly about some of Shelton’s discography. The country singer has a few hits I was familiar with such as “Austin” and " The More I Drink,” but by and large, country music is not my forte.

Here are 5 things that I found interesting and enjoyed as someone attending their first country music concert.

The demand and the enthusiasm for Shelton and country music. As I found my seat, I realized country music isn’t just popular in the south. The Giant Center was packed from the floor to the very top sections. Shelton’s fans of the singer were shouting, screaming and having the time of their lives. About 20 minutes into Shelton’s set, he stopped for a second to encourage the crowd to have even more fun.

“I feel like some people here are a little bit reluctant to really just turn loose, We need to all get involved here, this our night! We need to do some sing along (expletive)or something,” Shelton said. Then he got the crowd rowdy and ready by singing “Gonna” with a corn husk microphone.

The crowd was very mixed as there were couples, young and adult, women out with friends and family, there was room for everybody. Although the crowd remained seated for most of the concert, the energy was palpable. Fans were clapping, cheering and singing their hearts out to all of Shelton’s songs. The woman seated next to me had to be one of Shelton’s biggest fans, as she sang nonstop the entirety of his set and knew all of his older songs as well. Pennsylvanians proved they do love country music.

Shelton’s phenomenal crowd interactions

As an avid concert goer myself, I know a lot of bigger stars won’t stop to read fans’ signs or autograph memorabilia. Many fans will only get that chance if they buy meet and greet tickets or manage to catch their favorite stars outside a tour bus, but Shelton made time for his fans. He signed a fan’s hat, a poster board and even stopped to take a photo with a fan while continuing to sing.

He was very interactive with his audience and I liked the more hands-on approach to performing. While looking over the crowd, he noticed a lot of fans with a drinks in hand. “It’s a Thursday night in Hershey PA,” he said,, “and it is beyond country to be drinking and singing country music tonight.” Then he moved right into a fan favorite, “Hillbilly Bone”.

Shelton’s vocal ability

Prior to tonight, I associated country music with a slight twang in someone’s voice more than singing ability, but the Oklahoma singer has a very natural talent. This man performed for about one hour and 45 minutes with no backtrack behind him. There was not one moment where he relied on the backtrack to do the singing for him. He has a great voice and is a strong performer.

Halfway through his set, Shelton decided to take a few minutes to highlight some of his older music and one song in particular seemed to be quite a fan favorite despite its sad message. “The Baby,” a song based on the life of country singer Michael White, is a touching song that highlights the importance of family and not taking them for granted. The song brought tears to the eyes of a lot of fans, and I felt a little choked up listening to it. It was a beautiful tribute and I can appreciate the sentimental value of such a powerful song.

The fashion, or lack thereof

Shelton performed his entire concert with no wardrobe changes and no flashy outfits. I was fully prepared for a cool-looking cowboy hat, studded jeans and colorful attire, but instead found a button-up black shirt, blue jeans and brown cowboy boots. Fashion tends to play a large role for a lot of singers and it adds to the concert experience. Beyonce changed her wardrobe numerous times when I saw her in Philadelphia last year, but Shelton dressed in everyday attire. His female background singer was wearing exactly what I expected to see, a bedazzled top and cute bottoms along with some shiny cowgirl boots, but the main act was very casual.

Audience members, however, did not disappoint. I spotted one fan with an American flag cowboy hat, others in leather jackets and cowboy boots. The appreciation for all things country.

Watching Shelton sing along with his wife

While Gwen Stefani, popstar and Shelton’s wife, was not there in person, he was able to sing “Nobody But You” with her as she was projected in a video on the screen behind the band. I thought this was quite an interesting way to “sing along” with your wife. While it was a little comical to watch him sing to a screen, the two sang beautifully together and the song itself was very endearing.

I was not expecting to enjoy this concert as much as I did, but as time went on I noticed myself singing along to songs I never realized I knew. Shelton put on a wonderful performance, and is was a great start to his 2024 tour. With a powerful performance and a solid setlist, Shelton’s tour is one country fans are not going to want to miss.

Setlist:

“Come Back as a Country Boy” “A Guy With A Girl” “Everytime I Hear That Song” “Doing What She Likes” “Neon Light” “Sangria” “Gonna” “I’ll Name The Dogs” “Mine Would Be You” “Nobody But You” “Happy Anywhere” “Who Are You When I’m Not Looking” “Nobody But Me” “Home” “The More I Drink” “The Baby” “Ol Red” “Austin” “Sure Be Cool If You Did” “Honey Bee” “Hillbilly Bone” “Boys Round Here” “God’s Country” “God Gave Me You”

[the-broken-pen]

Map of Fae Pt. 2

A piece of gravel had sliced its way into her heel, and with every step, it embedded itself a little further.

If she cared to look, she might have been able to make out the edges of her bloodied footprint before the rain washed it away.

She didn’t look.

Building lights came into view, soft and warm, in a dull kind of way

Not soft in the haze of sunshine, not warm in the scent of butterscotch.

Just yellow, in the way of humanity.

And somehow, that hurt.

She left blood on the glass pane as she pulled the door open—when had her hand started bleeding?

Her feet squelched slightly on the floor, and she looked down, staring dumbly at the floor. Her footprints were red. She was leaving puddles of water behind her.

It was raining. Had it always been raining?

Her hair stuck uncomfortably to her neck, and her dress was sticking too, and it was such a bright green and she hated it and it took her a moment to remember why and it hurt and she was scared and she was molasses and sugar sweet slow—

Thunder cracked, and the person at the front desk looked up.

One blink, two, and then—

“Miss, are you alright?”

She blinked rainwater and maybe blood and maybe tears out of her eyes.

The person rounded the desk—she looked nice, but not ethereal nice, just Girl Scout cookie and preservative nice, and her soul eased a bit—and she stopped a foot away from her and her bloody footprints.

The person—she was a cop? She was a cop, this was a police station, in the drum of heartbeats and guns.

The cop’s tone gentled.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Was hurt even enough to encompass it? Was the robbery of choice existence breath love freedom air life taste memory thought considered hurting?

She settled on “yes.”

The cop’s face softened further and she began to hate soft things.

“Hey, Roberts, grab Smith and tell him to radio an ambulance.”

There was a shuffling, and a man popped out.

He stopped when he noticed her.

“Is she—“

“I don’t know.” The female cop turned to her. “What’s your name?”

Her tongue turned to lead in her mouth and she purged herself of every syllable.

She wasn’t stupid enough to give that freely. Not after—no.

The cop simply nodded, as if she had expected this.

“How old are you?”

When she finally spoke, it sounded like it hurt, and it did. “What’s the date?”

The cop blinked.

“February 19th.”

When she didn’t answer, the cop added, “2023”.

Seven days. It had felt like forever and it had been a week? So much suffering, so much kaleidoscopic bending and it was a week?

Time, it seemed, was obsolete in the fae realm.

“17.”

Roberts disappeared, a radio crackled through the wall, and he returned with someone.

Maybe Smith. He looked like a Smith.

The cop took a step forward, and she took one back, and her heel bled more and the gravel sunk further and—

“Is there someone we can call?”

She couldn’t remember.

She felt like maybe she had once been the kind of someone who had someone else to call, who had someone’s at home who ran dishwashers and wrote to do lists. The cops looked like they had someone’s.

Was she still a someone who had someone’s or had they stolen that from her too?

“I can’t remember,” she murmured, and the female cop—her name was Ryan, or at least her last name was, her name tag said so—shifted closer.

“Have you been in an accident?”

“I think it was planned very carefully,” she answered absently, and Ryan shot a look towards Roberts and Smith.

“What was?”

“All of it.”

She was cold. She had forgotten what cold felt like. She liked it. Her fingers shook.

She tugged on the ends of them, but they didn’t stop.

Ryan shifted.

“Is there anything you can tell us?”

The clock ticked and the lights flickered and her spine tingled and she was pretty sure they were all related.

Had things ever not been?

“I don’t want to go back,” she breathed, and it was a promise and a secret and an oath.

The cops didn’t know what to do with those, so they blew away like dandelion seeds.

It was nice being around people who didn’t understand true currency.

“Did someone take you?”

“Yes.”

Ryan reached a hand out. “Let’s get you some dry clothes, and check on those cuts of yours, yeah?”

She didn’t move. Her hair dripped onto the floor.

Ryan wavered slightly.

The clock stopped. Her spin cramped. The lights flickered.

Connections. So many connections.

She wanted their help but nothing came without a cost—what would bandages be worth? What would a blanket be?

The lights shut off, and she knew it didn’t matter anymore.

When they turned on again, the fae was there. Her teeth hurt with the sugar sweetness of it.

The air smelled like jasmine.

“Hello, officers,” the fae smiled. They wrapped an arm around her, so gentle. They had never bruised or bloodied her, though.

Just broken her. So broken. Like a doll.

Ryan startled.

“Sir—“

“I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you. Our car broke down just up the road, and she got in a bad accident when she was young. I thought she was fine, but the next moment—“ they waved their hand, as if encompassing the whole of her shaking wet body and bleeding skin.

Ryan relaxed slightly.

“We have an ambulance on the way, we can get you some blankets while you wait—“

“That won’t be necessary,” the fae said, and she could hear the sharks teeth and bite. “It was just a flat. All fixed now. I can take care of her myself.”

Something flickered in Ryan’s eyes, something flickered in all three cops eyes.

The fae guided her towards the door, bearing most of her weight as she stumbled, and Ryan grabbed her other arm.

“Sir, I really don’t think you should leave,” Ryan began.

Her eyes said please and her mouth said wait.

She felt the exact moment when the fae decided to kill them.

One moment, nothing, the stagnant kind of nothing in which nothing of importance is happening.

The next, the bloody kind of nothing.

Robert and Smith’s bodies hit the ground with a wet sort of thud.

When Ryan fell, she slid down the side of her body. She stared at her absently.

There was more blood on her dress now.

She couldn’t remember if the fae would be pleased by this.

The fae moved to the computer, a single touch causing it to fritz. They turned to her with a smile.

“Now, love, that wasn’t very nice of you.”

She didn’t know if they were referring to her running away or her seeking help or her stabbing them.

She laughed, and her throat burned.

“Which part.”

The fae’s eyes flickered, but they didn’t move closer.

The world fritzed like the computer for a moment. Her lungs hurt. Her hand clenched on plastic and regret.

“You belong to me,” they reminded her.

She jerked her head, just once.

“No.”

The fae stepped forward.

“I have your name—“

“Don‘t.”

The fae stopped, then, and appraised her.

The smiled returned, and it was a ravenous thing.

“Oh, love, I should have known.”

She took a step back.

“Known what?”

Her hands were slippery.

The fae tipped their head.

“That much compulsion, so fast, for that long?” They paused, amused. “It changes you. Tell me, can you even remember why your hair is wet?”

She looked down, surprised. When had she gotten wet?

The fae laughed, just too far on this side of delighted.

“It’s raining,” the fae supplied. When they took a step forward, she didn’t move. “Your mind is like a shattered mirror. You’re halfway between realms. Not quite a thing of humans, not quite a thing of fae. Don’t worry, I can fix it.”

“I don’t want you to.”

The fae paused.

“I don’t want to go back.”

They tutted. “I’ll admit, I never meant for it to get this bad, but I can make it stop hurting,” they soothed. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I’m fine—“

“You’re slipping. You have to be able to see that. Let me fix it. That smart mouth, that wicked mind of yours is breaking.”

“Then I’ll keep breaking until there’s nothing left,” she spat, and for a moment, she remembered.

Cartology. She really hated it.

Fucking Janice.

The fae took a step closer.

“You took me.”

The fae simply nodded. “How could I not.”

“You had to know I would never stay.”

The fae turned grim.

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

She laughed.

“I got away, didn’t I?”

“An oversight.”

“You just killed three people.”

“They would have kept you.”

“You would keep me, too,” she said over the drip of her blood onto the floor.

The fae shifted on the balls of their feet.

The sound of an ambulance drew closer.

“Humans, they don’t deserve something like you. You aren’t like them. You’re halfway between the realms, can’t you see? I didn’t mean to break you, but you came out so much stronger, can’t you see? Not quite human but not quite fae,” they looked at her with reverence. “You’re exquisite.”

“I am neither human nor fae. But I am still not yours.”

The fae twitched like they wanted to erase her words from memory.

“They cannot love you like I can.”

She laughed again, and it was sharp. It felt like her. This newer, shiny edged metal of her. It felt like the thrill of perfection and the adrenaline of free fall. Like power and love and mortality and the immortal in one. The clock began to tick. The lights steadied.

Neither human or fae, but both.

“No,” she ceded. “They can love me better.”

And then she raised Ryan’s gun, slippery with water and blood, and fired a single shot.

I don’t know how I feel about this but I refuse to proof read. Maybe I will at two am. Spontaneity, am I right?

A thank you to @hojo76 for saying he had no idea how I should continue this, which was super helpful considering I gave him two options and he chose neither, which was NOT an option. Don’t worry, you guys got the good option, it just had to stew for a couple weeks.

And because you asked to be tagged, my lovely reader, @d-cs

[finishinglinepress]

FLP CHAPBOOK OF THE DAY: eyes that look with sun but see with moon by Jack Greene

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/eyes-that-look-by-jack-greene/

eyes that look with sun but see with moon moves the reader through rooms of Vermeer to atomic fall out shelters to dioramas of taxidermied deer, finally arriving where it started: in light. The experience of the #poems is an intimate, internal gallery, one that merges words and images and light into a new gravitational pull, each in and of its own frame, and all a part of this #life, this planet.

Jack Greene is a poet and photographer. His poetry has been published in the Liliput Review, not enough night, Bombay Gin, Mungo vs. Ranger, Rattapallax, and the Sextant Review. He holds a MFA in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University, as well as BA in English Literature from the University of California, Los Angeles. He is a past recipient of a Colorado Council on the Arts Poetry Fellowship and served as a poet-in-residence for the Colorado Council on the Arts. He has taught poetry and creative writing workshops and courses in the Front Range. His photography has been exhibited at Naropa University, the Boulder Jewish Community Center, and the University of Colorado, Boulder, and can be viewed at jackgreenephotography.picfair.com. He lives in Longmont, Colorado with the writer and performer Lisa Trank.

PRAISE FOR eyes that look with sun but see with moon by Jack Greene

Jack Greene brings the master photographer’s eye for the instant to language. Allen Ginsberg’s first teaching to me was “it’s easier than you think: look out your eye like looking through a window.” Easier said than done. It takes time to master the moment. You love the poets you love to think with. That’s the extent of it. All the rest is valentines. I’ll be reading Jack for a long time.

–Steven Taylor

Jack Greene is a poet of condensed lyric irony, light (sun and moon) and tender memory. The child’s fear of “trees sprouting out of rocks” leaps out, as does the “simulacrum” deer behind museum glass, suddenly alive, nose moist from “a drop of shellac.” Animation reminiscent of Williams Carlos Williams’s glittering green glass shard in the dirt behind the hospital, animated by light and by noticing what’s tangible is always celebratory.“Vermeer’s Aquarium” is a gem, as well, where we sit “like pilgrims at a shrine” and witness depictions of art-mind, as with Proust and Joseph Cornell who continue in their hermetic practice as wars come and go. There are quiet poems honoring family, a hypnagogic cinematic image of a mother’s wedding veil unraveling in a light beam and the “father’s foot/a constant/song” which is the rhythm and a glow that remains with you in the reading of these singular poems. Kudos for this poet’s truth.

–Anne Waldman

In eyes that look with sun but see with moon, Jack Greene’s words come like meteors into the darkness. Behold our humanity, illuminated and elevated by these bright poem-lights streaking across the pages of this collection, precise in their economy of diction and style, but profound in their resonant permanence within the reader. While wholly new and of this time, Greene’s words arrive to further a tradition populated by the ancient Asian masters, Lorine Niedecker, Robert Creeley, Anselm Hollo, and many other greats. The poetry world has been improved by this gift.

–Matt Hohner

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems

[n-coma]

Naruto Fan Cast: Part One

I fear the day when Netflix will attempt to create anything Naruto-related. Still, I am curious about what it would look like. So, before Hollywood lays its hands on our beloved fandom, allow me to introduce you to my personal fan cast.

Before we begin, let's agree on two points: 1. These are just subjective ideas that you might disagree with! So feel free to respond with your own suggestions; 2. In my fanon, the Naruto universe includes different races and nationalities. For example, Uchihas, Hyugas, Naras, and Sai are completely Japanese in my head. Meanwhile, characters like Tenten, Guy, Lee, and Rock Lee are Chinese. And the list goes on. In this post, I will only cover European/American actors cast for non POC characters. The POC fan cast will be posted later; it requires a bit more time and attention.

Here we go.

Naruto — Rudy Pankow

Look, he is a perfect Naruto for several reasons. He isn't overly 'Chad' nor too feminine. He has messy blond hair and exudes a chaotic energy (it radiates from him even in pictures). If you're still not entirely convinced, watch this YouTube video featuring him and his funniest moments. Those dimples! Blue eyes? I mean, hello?

Sasuke will be covered in the post with all the Asian characters.

Sakura — Piper America

Big forehead? Check. Pink hair? Yep. She has that unpredictable look in her eyes where you don't know what to expect from her.

Ino — Hunter Schafer

You might recognize her from Euphoria. She possesses this tall beauty combined with a flower-girl energy. Her red carpet look perfectly aligns with Ino's jutsu. The hair pieces are a perfect match, and have you noticed her nose? Ahhh!

Kiba — Dylan Obrien

This was the easiest fan cast ever! Just look at him! He embodies that dog energy in the best possible sense. Also, we'd hire Tyler Hoechlin for motion capture as Akamaru *winks*.

Temari — Florence Pugh

What I appreciate about Temari is her strong backbone and unapologetic character. Florence Pugh not only possesses those qualities, but she also has a broader facial structure that resembles Temari's. With her green eyes, dirty blond hair, and similar demeanor, what more could we ask for?

Gaara — Bill Skarsgård

Hear me out! We can always color his hair and do some black eyeliner as well as red tattoo, but when it comes to capturing Gaara's haunting eyes, who could do it better than Bill Skarsgård himself?Who will have such a slim, prince-like bone structure? Your honor, I rest my case.

Kakashi — Robert Pattison

We needed an actor with eyes that express this nostalgic, covered-in-ashes pain, hand in hand with melancholy and a 'not giving a fuck' vibe. Robert Pattinson or Robert Pattinson? After playing Batman, he has already learned how to portray a traumatized, tired orphan. What more do we need? I did not find his pictures with grey-colored hair, so let me include this black-and-white photoshoot.

Asuma — Hugh Jackman

Charisma, beard, and a bit of spice. Kushina — Abigail Cowen

Hollywood boasts around ten ginger actresses, and they all seem to cycle through fandoms like hand-me-down clothes. However, from among those ten, we had to choose the one who possesses a strong personality and a look that could intimidate. So, we're going with Abigail Cowen. She's already played a role with power struggles before, making her a good fit for depicting Kushina's struggle with Kurama.

Minato — Danny Griffin

Golden Retriever energy! What more can I say? He is the real-life boyfriend of Abigail Cowen (Kushina) and my personal choice for the position of the 4th Hokage.

Tsunade — Elizabeth Olsen

It was a hard choice between her, Scarlett Johansson, and Lady Gaga. But let's be fair — she has the mommy energy, she has a princes-like energy, and looks very much alike the character.

Jiraya — Anson Mount

Daddy.

Okay, I guess this is it for now.

Get ready for my next post on the Akatsuki casting, and make sure to stick around for the upcoming Asian and African fan casts! 🌟

[jghouse-asia-pacific]

New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2022/11/08/american-woman-tervuren/

American Woman in Tervuren

Edwina, the young woman from Alpharetta, Georgia, opened the door of Room 311 from the inside and, standing in the doorway facing Sylvere, peered into the hallway for a moment before flashing a smile. With one hand, she grasped the handle on the door. In her other hand, she held a tall, green bottle of water.

Sylvere, looking directly into the face of the young woman, an assistant to Bénédicte, the executive director of a Paris-based humanitarian aid agency, showed no surprise. As he stood in the hallway on the 3rd floor of the hotel, he realized he was not surprised by anything.

To Sylvere’s side in the hallway, Robert bowed and, almost imperceptibly, like a ghost, drifted away. Suddenly, the tall man was gone, as if he had magical powers.

Edwina, still smiling at Sylvere, held the door as far back as it would go and stood to one side, now revealing a large but modestly appointed room with a set of windows providing a view of Tervuren to the north. She looked different, Sylvere thought, scanning the young woman’s face and recalling his image of her from two days previously in Paris. But he couldn’t say how she had changed.

“We’re using this room as our base for the week-end,” Edwina said. She paused, looking to one side and appearing to make eye contact with someone. “We’re at a critical juncture,” she added. She shook her head as if troubled by the idea.

Sylvere studied Edwina’s face for a moment before passing through the open doorway into the room. As he entered the space, feeling a current of cool air enveloping him, he realized his original impressions of Edwina from their meeting in the French capital might not have been accurate. Probably, he thought, she never had been the wide-eyed and enthusiastic but very young woman he assumed. She seemed more serious, somehow more determined.

Colorful Young Woman

Raising himself from a chair behind a desk against one wall of the room, the American journalist, Leon Johns, approached. He used a cane, and it appeared he barely could stand upright. He looked tired, almost sickly as he grasped the cane with one hand and, in his other hand, held a tall glass.

Looking at the American, Sylvere realized he felt disappointment.

“Leon likes to walk,” Edwina said, closing the door behind Sylvere. “He walked over here from Vossem, about two miles, I mean three kilometers, east of here.”

Leon stopped in front of Sylvere, placing the weight of his body on his healthy leg and arranging his crippled leg to one side. He extended the glass in his hand toward Edwina. The face of the American journalist was, Sylvere noticed, open. It also was, Sylvere thought, earnest. At that moment, Sylvere recalled making the same observation in the park that morning, when the journalist introduced himself to Sylvere for the first time.

Edwina, breaking the seal on the bottle in her hand and removing its cap, proceeded to fill the glass in Leon’s hand with water from her bottle. She took the glass out of Leon’s hand and gave it to Sylvere, who raised it to his lips.

“I think I pushed myself too hard this morning,” Leon stated. “I swam almost fifty laps in the pool of one of my neighbors,” he continued, speaking matter-of-factly. “He lets me use it whenever I want,” he added, peering into Sylvere’s face now. “It’s regulation size.”

Sylvere, processing the new information which, after a brief reflection, seemed astonishing, stared at Leon, who was dressed impeccably, just as he was dressed at the park during the morning. However, now the journalist wore a light-gray seersucker jacket with light-gray trousers in place of a light-blue, cashmere cardigan sweater paired with navy-blue slacks.

“I’m going to have to take a nap in a few minutes,” Leon stated, again speaking matter-of-factly while turning and starting to shuffle back toward the desk.

Finishing the rest of the water in the glass and giving it back to Edwina, Sylvere thought he had never met anyone like the American journalist, both disabled and energeticSylvere walked to the window and, looking through the thick, clear glass pane, peered down into the grove of chestnut trees behind the hotel. The German and African, Anna’s men, were milling about the stone bench in the small clearing. The African appeared to be inspecting the stone pathway which Sylvere and the bartender had followed back to the hotel minutes before. Sylvere assumed that the two men also would follow the pathway back to the hotel. Would they also make their way up to the 3rd floor and, then, Room 311?

Old Woman with Grand Daughter

“Tshisekedi, as you know, has consolidated power in Congo,” Leon began once again as he reached the desk and lowered himself onto a chair behind it. “After purging all of those loyal to Kabila, he is forming new alliances both at home and abroad.” The American journalist paused. He surveyed the papers on the glass desk top. “He is drawing closer to one country in particular,” he added.

Leon Johns referred to a series of moves by Felix Tshisekedi, the recently elected president of Democratic Republic of Congo, to remove from positions of power any official loyal to Joseph Kabila, the previous ruler of the country. Leon also referred to a pivot by Tshisekedi away from traditional patrons in Europe and toward a more expedient one in Beijing.

The German and African bodyguards, Sylvere noticed, still peering down into the small park behind the hotel, had started walking along the stone pathway in the direction of the hotel.

“It’s true the old regime, under Kabila, had been receiving, for some time, support in various forms both financial and humanitarian from the Chinese government,” Leon resumed, “but the new regime, led by Tshisekedi, appears to be drawing even closer to the Chinese Communist Party.” He paused, gathering together the papers on the desktop and inserting them into a folder. “Many people believe,” he continued, “Tshisekedi will cede control of his country’s vast mineral wealth, perhaps the richest deposits anywhere on earth, to the Chinese.”

Sylvere, still standing in front of the window with his back to the room, watched as the German and African bodyguards reached the narrow, windowless door at the base of the hotel. They opened the door, passed through the opening, and disappeared into the building.

“The new power dynamics are affecting daily life across the country,” Leon continued, “not only shaking up politics in the capital, Kinshasa, but also altering the status quo in those areas of the country, particularly the East, with the largest deposits of precious minerals and metals.” He paused. “The net effect,” Leon Johns added, “is clear.” He paused again, looking over Sylvere’s shoulder into the dark blue sky above Tervuren. “The new power dynamics are causing an escalation in violence,” he said. “This much is very clear even if many other issues are not.”

Young Woman with Drink

Sylvere turned around, looking from Edwina to Leon. Leon, meeting Sylvere’s gaze, stood up from the desk, inserting one hand into his jacket and removing an envelope. The envelope, Sylvere noticed, looked like the one he himself had received from Carolina in Leuven. The journalist would be at the party at the palace.

“Not surprisingly,” Leon said, taking another breath, “Anna and her organization are positioning themselves as valuable, maybe even equal, partners with the new regime.” Leon paused, proceeding to shuffle back toward the center of the hotel room while looking down at the thickly carpeted floor. “What is interesting, though,” he added, “is that, during our efforts to monitor and, then, when we have noticed suspicious activity, we found large financial transactions among the current and hopeful players in the new regime. We not only discovered large cash flows from Anna’s organization to shell companies affiliated with Tshisekedi but, at the same time, state companies affiliated with the Chinese government.”

Leon reached the center of the room, stopped, and turned toward Sylvere. “We also have discovered,” Leon said, now raising his hands with the palms outward, “sizable sums paid out through other accounts in Anna’s organization to shell companies linked to a handful of Congolese businessmen, including Anthony Lukambo, as well as Rwandan and Ugandan families with interests in mining in eastern Congo.”

Peering into Sylvere’s face, Leon said, “Sylvere, we believe that your friend, Ronald, was killed because, in his attempts to secure alternate sources for the medical supplies he needed for his clinic, he stumbled upon a group acting as a front for a Chinese state company and, piecing together the group’s true purpose in eastern Congo and realizing the potentially explosive nature of this information, Ronald threatened to expose the group, possibly to his contacts in Europe, probably to people like Edwina and me.”

Sylvere, looking back at Leon, remained silent, but he believed he knew what the other man would say next.

“Our fear is that Ronald’s daughter, Claudette,” Leon resumed, “will be killed because she knows what her father discovered and can identify her father’s murderers.” He looked away, re-setting his good leg on the thickly carpeted floor while dragging his crippled leg slightly backward across the floor. “We have to find her fast,” he added.

Young Woman with Boyfriend

A ringing pierced the air. Edwina removed a mobile phone from the back pocket of the beige cotton trousers she wore and looked at the screen. A text message, evidently, had arrived. Edwina read it, frowning.

“We’re running out of time,” the young woman said, looking up and making eye contact with Leon. It was a common refrain, Sylvere knew, recalling he had heard it an hour before from Chérubin. “We’re dealing with ruthless people,” she added, switching her gaze to Sylvere’s face. “They will shoot you without hesitation.”

Edwina replaced the small phone in her back pocket, walked over to a closed door leading to a bathroom, and opened the door.

“The people responsible for the bloodbath act with impunity,” Edwina resumed, raising her voice slightly while inspecting the bathroom with her back to Sylvere and Leon. “They use power to seize more power. They kill anyone who gets in their way, enemies or innocent bystanders,” she continued, turning so that she faced the room again. Her eyes were closed. “Defenseless children and mothers,” she added, opening her eyes. “We hope to break the cycle of death and destruction,” Edwina whispered. She paused, staring down at the thickly carpeted floor. “Maybe we succeed,” she added. “Maybe we don’t. We try.”

Abruptly, the young woman walked to the closed door of the closet next to the front door.

“It’s almost 5:45,” Edwina remarked, looking at her watch and then at Sylvere. “You need to get ready for the party at the palace.” She opened the door of the closet. “Here,” she continued, reaching up and removing three clothes hangers, one with a dark-green shirt, another with a dark-grey suit jacket, a third with pair of matching trousers.

Edwina approached Sylvere. “Chérubin had a new outfit made for you,” she added, extending the hangers, “to wear to Anna’s party this evening.” Grasping the hangers, Sylvere looked at the clothes and then at Edwina’s face. He still didn’t speak. “You can change in the bathroom,” she concluded, glancing over Sylvere’s shoulder.

“How did he know my size?” Sylvere asked finally. “For my shirt? Pants? Jacket?”

“He took your measurements,” Edwina answered.

“What?” Sylvere said. “When?”

Edwina stared at Sylvere as if she didn’t understand what, or why, he wanted to know.

“You ask too many questions,” the young woman said finally.

***

#AfricanStories, #Europe, #LifeCulture #Africa, #Art, #Beauty, #Culture, #Europe

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, infidelity, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, this part is full of angst and built up tension,

part: 3/6

(other parts)   (masterlist)

Being Sebastian Stan is not a simple thing. Some days it makes him feel like he is only a porcelain face on screen. Nothing more than photographs and rumors. He had once told an interviewer he was scared people would never know the real Sebastian. What he meant was that he was worried he’d wake up one day and the real him would be vanished.

The world would have eaten him alive.

Walking you home, in empty streets in a small country makes it all easier. His mind is clear of dazzling thoughts and his heart is not racing up. He can smile and no one will be there to take a picture of him.

Somehow that makes him smile more.

And when he does, it feels like Christmas. And you are certain there will come a day where you’ll be so close to oblivion and unable to remember what mint tastes like or what your favorite color is, but you’ll still have the turned up corners of his mouth painted in your head.

He stops walking. You look at him confused. He’s fidgeting with his fingers.

“Back at the party,” he takes a long breath as if trying to slow down his heartbeat, “You were talking with that tall guy.”

He sounds terrified. You don’t understand why. He thinks it’s better that way.

“Yeah I was.” There’s a flicker of surprise in your voice.

“Do you know him well?” You realize you have stopped in front of a pharmacy, the halogen light above you, turning your skin a sick green color.

“I know he’s an actor.” You take a step, finding the courage to walk away from him. “He’s kinda famous here.”

You can hear him move close behind you.

“Do you want me to ask Argyris if he’s single?”

There’s mockery in his voice. It makes you feel intoxicated. It’s your turn to stop walking. Your gaze falls on his face and Sebastian can feel his eyes sting but he keeps them open; wide and pale blue.

Almost green, under this light.

“No.”

“Oh don’t be sh-“

“No, I mean it. I would never date a famous guy.”

“Why?” A hasted breath escapes his trembling lips. And for a moment you think of kissing him right there; in the middle of the street, but you never do.

His world moves too fast for people like us.

That’s what you want to yell back at him, but then you remember;

The evening Sebastian fell asleep in your couch, he was more than a famous guy. He was clutching on your pillow like a kid and he was humming to himself like your father used to.

And he smiled as he fell asleep.

There is no argument left in you. He’s just a boy.

“I’m scared.” Your words slowly suffocate him. He feels the weight of your heart pulling him down.

He nods.

/

The next two days pass in a blur. You can hear him laugh with people as they walk up the stairs to Argyris’ flat. You’re not used to him not stopping at your door. It makes your cheeks red and your eyes filled with salty tears.

You haven’t realized until now, but you’ve become dependent on his presence.

So when you open your eyes at 4am with your phone buzzing with an Instagram message, you bite your cheeks.

Are you awake?

You stare at the screen to make sure you read it all correct, until it turns black and then lights up once again.

Why are you scared?

You don’t have to be scared with me.

I’m trying. You want to answer. Help me. You want to answer. Please.

You put your phone away until the words turn blurry.

/

He’s back at your door the following night. He’s wearing a white tank top and his rings. He must have just finished shooting.

You keep staring at each other, both tongue-tied with the words you’ll never say. He looks worried and desperate. You look tired and desperate. Taylor Swift is playing in the background.

“No more AC/DC?” He laughs and your eyes smile.

“Do you want to talk?” He asks.

You shake your head like you’re at war with yourself.

“Do you want to just stay here?” Your voice is too silent but it’s almost deafening him.

Sebastian thinks that he wants tons of things. He wants to hold you. And he wants to touch you. Everywhere. And he wants to know why there’s sorrow surrounding you. And he wants to take it all away.

And he wants you.

But he knows that he can’t tell you that. These words are too heavy for you to carry on your shoulders. At least for now.

“I’ll stay.” He says with a breath.

You give him an almost smile and all you can feel is gratitude.

/

You lay in your bed together. You’ve slept with other guys in that bed before. And it’s been nude and sloppy and brutal. But this is different. This is intimacy in its purest form. You’re both fully clothed but you both feel naked. And so close. So close.

All Sebastian can hear is the sound of your breathing and every bone inside him is breaking. He is afraid he’s turning paralyzed.

And then you move your body and bring your forehead next to his. Sebastian inhales deeply. You smell of faded vanilla body cream.

You look at him and you know then you can get used to that. You bury your fingers in the hem of his shirt. You want him to come closer. He knows.

“I’ll stay love,” his voice is steady and sincere “Anytime.”

He calls you love because there’s nothing else to call you. He calls you love because you both need him too.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Sebastian thinks you’re always too sensible. It’s something you keep between the hollows of your body. “But it’s okay.”

His hand is in your hair. It soothes you.

“What happened? What broke you?” he whispers.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how everything started. It's hard to remember but there is one image in the back of your eyes that crawls through your skin and makes you shiver. You try to ignore it.

“I don’t know.” He turns his gaze at you but you look at the cold ceiling. It’s so much easier this way.

He doesn’t answer. He just draws circles in the back of your palm and places his lips against the scalp of your head. And while you’ve never been much of a science person, you’re certain this is how a nuclear attack emerges.

/

When the sun rises and you wake up, he’s not there. Earth moves slowly as the cold sheets press against your skin.

It’s early, there is a soft breeze coming in from your open window. A man is bickering with this wife across the street.

You can hear her call him a liar.

I’ll stay love.

You can hear him yell his apologies.

Anytime.

Why do people lie? Why do we lie?

You don’t try to search for him. You take a shower and drink some chocolate milk. You pay attention to the silence in the room. You almost forget your heart is still beating.

/

You bump into Argyris’ girlfriend while taking out the garbage. You like her a lot. She’s strong and pretty and smart. You wonder sometimes, how exactly that feels.

You pray she doesn’t mention him. It doesn’t work.

“He must be flying right now.” Suddenly you feel as if there is something rotten inside your chest. It makes you want to graze your skin and throw away everything that's inside.

You look at her slightly confused.

“He’s flying to Toronto; he has to attend a festival there.” She smiles. You’ve noticed she always smiles.

You just nod and step out of the building. Her voice stops you.

“He’s coming back in some days.”

“I don’t care.” Now she laughs.

“There’s no need to lie.” You take a sharp breath. “He cares too.”

You want to believe her words but they seem like choke chains.

You throw your garbage away.

You keep your rotten chest.

/

Sebastian sits back at his seat and orders a hundred and one drinks. The airplane is chasing the sun. He’s chasing his thoughts. Neither will ever catch up.

He used to like travelling. Airports, suitcases and foreign hotel rooms made him feel free. Now they make him feel the opposite.

The material on his seat is rugged. He wants to go back to your soft sheets. He can’t.

And then he imagines a place and a time where he could just kiss you without any possible consequences. He imagines a place where you could rest your bodies together for a long time without worries weighing you down. He imagines a place where he gets what he wants. A place where that thing between you two is more than enough.

The sun blinds him. He closes the small window and then his eyes.

Being Sebastian Stan is not a simple thing.

Some days he can’t take it.

/

You’re sitting on the floor and it’s almost 9 in the morning. You’ve calculated the time difference and it’s 2 in the morning where he is. That sounds wrong. Almost scary.

He left three days ago but he’s everywhere. There are photos of him wearing stupid floral shirts and posing in a sophisticated way. And there’s Nicole Kidman next to him.

God. I’ve become infatuated with a man who plays in movies with Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr.

That’s what you think and you know you’re doomed.

You expect him to send you a message or a picture at first, but he doesn’t. You wonder if your time together was only a blurry puzzle of disconnected memories that somehow fits in his past.

He’ll simply forget all of it.

You try not to think about him but then you meet Argyris in the lobby and you have to bite the inside of your mouth so his name doesn’t jump out from your lips.

You go to bed early that day. You hold onto your pillow and you count the hours that separate you.

(13 hours with a plane)

(25 days with a boat)

You count and you fall asleep.

And you fall in love.

/

It’s not uncommon to rain in Toronto. But today rain feels heavier on Sebastian’s skin. He remembers the day he met you; it was hot and the sun made the window glass look like it was about to melt. That memory is the cause of his shivering.

Once upon a time he was in love. He was in love with a girl who had ethereal written all over her body. He was in love with a girl who was destined for divinity.

But those were the old days; they are dead and gone now. Your skin glistening under the Athenian sun changed it all.

It’s not easy to feel this way. The sky understands so it opens up and pours down on his dark hair. He presses his eyes closed with his fingers. And he tries to imagine a version of himself that doesn’t think about you that often.

He can’t.

Not even when he has a deity as his girlfriend.

/

The next time you see him, his hair is a little longer and much messier than you remember. And you have to devour all the sense that’s left inside you as not to touch it with your bare hand.

He has a cigarette in his fingers and a dark jacket thrown around his shoulders and everyone’s asking him about the festival. You just sit on the corner of your neighbor’s flat and listen to laughter and glasses clicking against each other. And you smile.

Smile; because he’s here.

And then he notices you and you’re pretty sure his eyes linger on your face a little longer than it's normal for humans. And his gaze is so brilliantly blank and loony that you don’t know how to respond. And then he starts to cough. And he never looks at you for the rest of the night.

You want to believe it’s better this way.

But it makes you so angry; you want to clench your teeth hard.

/

It goes like this; you don’t exchange any words for the next two days and it feels like your lips will start to bleed.

And you don’t know but his head feels like battlefield.

“When do you know you can’t stop it?” He asks Argyris. He feels ashamed.

“When you don’t want to stop it.”

He grabs the beer can and drinks his confusion away. He hopes alcohol will send his thoughts to sleep but instead it sends him to your door.

He rests his head against the wooden material. He can hear water running down and he can hear you humming a song.

And the foreign words make no sense to him but somehow they sound like lyrical poetry.

He waits for the water to stop and then he knocks.

/

Your hair is wet and sticks to your blue shirt. Your eyes grow wide when you see him standing there.

“I thought you’d never come at my door again.”

He looks at the floor.

“I shouldn’t.”

He sounds defeated; defeated by his own self. And you can smell the flammable liquid on his breath. And you can see that he has his nails pressed against his palm. You take his hand in yours and he closes his eyes. You caress the little cuts with your fingers. There are no scars but the skin is still red and painted with fear. You understand and it makes you feel dirty and obscene.

You look thoughtful for a moment and then you decide you can’t go on like this. It will split your souls.

“How’s Canada?” His eyes fill with surprise and he laughs. It gives you pride.

“Never been?”

He takes a step inside your place and his eyes fall on the empty bottle of pills at the kitchen table.

He doesn’t say a word about it.

You love him for that.

“I’ve never been anywhere.” Your cheeks are flushed with a soft raspberry color.

Sebastian realizes then that he wants to show you the entire world. Every corner of it. He wants to hold your hand as you walk beneath the Corsican stars. And he wants to memorize the Northern lights with you by his side. And he wants to see you laugh as he falls off his surf board in New Zealand. And he wants every cliché thing there is to do.

His heart stretches at the thought of it.

“Canada is beautiful in its own way.” He looks out of your window.

You wonder if he’s trying to find some more constellations in the sky, but then he turns around and walks towards you.

“I’ve been there a lot of times.”

Of course you have, you think.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ears. It’s still damp and cold.

“Have you been to a lot of places?” He smiles and nods.

And then you can sense it; the sharp feeling of heartbreak crawling under your skin. You try to ignore it.

“I used to be grateful I travel all the time.”

You place your hand on his chest. The beating makes you calm.

“You’re not grateful anymore?”

He rubs his palm over his face.

“I am,” he inhales “But sometimes I just want to stay where I am.”

Yeah, I know.

He leaves an hour later, still drunk.

Still in love.

/

On Sunday, he takes you out for dinner. You tell him you don’t like dates. He promises it’s not a date.

You know you’re both lying.

He orders some red wine and he drinks as he watches you eat. It all feels natural to him. Somewhere at the back of his head though, there’s still some rationality left, that makes him think, this can’t be wrong, when it feels so natural.

He doesn’t drink any more.

/

You’re playing with the maraschino cherry on your dessert when his phone rings and your world comes crashing down.

You don’t intend to but you see the caller ID.

Love.

He had called you love one night.

He feels too guilty to look at you so he grabs the device and gets out of the place.

You want to throw the ice cream on the floor.

And then you want to hit the wall; with your head. But you can’t. So you just bite down at the cherry and wait for him to come back.

And when he does, things are different.

He doesn’t to try to make jokes and you don’t laugh. His eyes are everywhere but on you and your hand stays away from his.

You tell him you’re done with dessert so you can leave.

He has never felt more relieved.

/

Your pace is fast, but he catches up. You can’t outrun him.

His breath quickens as he comes closer. It’s almost innocent and childlike, the look he gives you.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers and it makes you laugh. You laugh and you shake your head and it’s not enough.

“Why?” He can taste the bitterness all over you. “This wasn’t date. So why are you sorry?”

You keep walking and his breath keeps echoing in your ears. You find the entrance of your building.

You’ve seen the place a hundred times but only now you notice how old it looks. It makes you disgusted. It makes you want to vomit.

It starts with him saying he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

And then you rest your body at the soiled wall, trying to remind yourself you’ve had your heart broken before. And your eyes are not dry anymore. And you can taste salt in your lips. And he comes closer and he holds you.

You swear you see tears in his cheeks too, but he’s too fast to wipe them away.

“Have you ever done anything only to regret it a second later?”

You’re not certain which one of you asks but you can hear your bones breaking as you throw your head around and he arches his back.

His hands touch the dried tears on your face and it stings like sewing needles. And his lips touch yours. And for a brief moment you feel like you’re stealing from life.

And he can taste all of you; raw.

And it feels like fists that punch him.

And when you pull away you both have already regretted everything.

“Now you have something to be sorry for.”

You wonder if perhaps a broken dignity is better than a broken heart.

/

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :)

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[sassycassie-s-writing]

Want You Back

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC/BatFam - Jason Todd/Red Hood

Rating: PG-11/T- (little violence, little blood)

Original Idea: Exes-to-Lovers is kinda an underrated trope, when it’s done right.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) This one is... 2,833 words. I wish I could say I’m sorry for it being long but I’m not. Have fun! @welovegroot @jason-redhood @jason-todd-squad

^^^^^

“Oh shoot—hide me!” I hissed, ducking behind Daisy. She looked at me in confusion before glancing around the party.

She rolled her eyes. “Girl, you haven’t dated Jason in like a year. Can’t you at least try to be civil?”

“Oh trust me, I’d love nothing more than to be civil. Honestly, I’d love nothing more than to get back together with him. I thought we made each other happy. But he kept so many secrets and I can’t be in a relationship with someone who can’t be honest with me. We broke up so… explosively that I’m not sure we can speak nicely to each other,” I replied. “Just… block his view of me while I sneak into Jessie’s room, okay?”

Daisy heaved a heavy sigh. “Fine. But hiding from him won’t do you any good.”

“It’ll do us both a world of good if it means I don’t have to talk to him.”

Daisy did as I asked and blocked Jason’s view of me until we got to the stairs. I bolted up them two at a time and ducked into Jessie’s room. The door had been closed but unlocked. Once I shut myself inside, I leaned against it and sighed.

The bookcase in Jessie’s room was more meant for displaying knick-knacks than holding books, so a quick glance at her collection revealed nothing worth reading. I sat on the floor next to her bed, on her fuzzy pink rug, and stared at the screensaver on her computer monitor—a bunch of bubbles floating around and bumping into each other, changing colors.

Why was Jason here? Jessie knew he and I fell out over a year ago. Did she invite him? Did her brother? That seemed more likely. Jessie probably didn’t even realize he was here.

No need to get angry at her.

I pulled out my phone. I had a few books on it. Kept them just for this reason. Hide from a party and make people think I was just on my phone. I didn’t trust reading fanfiction in public, so I only kept traditionally-published work in my phone’s files.

I’m not sure how long I read. A half-hour, probably.

I was startled by the door opening and closing. “Whew. Dodged a bullet there,” a familiar voice said with a sigh of relief.

I looked up in alarm.

Jason was leaning against the door, eyes closed, breathing hard.

I held still. Maybe if he didn’t hear me, he’d slip back out to the party after a moment and leave me alone—and we wouldn’t have to exchange words. I watched my phone screen dim, then shut off completely, while Jason just stood there.

He opened his eyes. His gaze landed on me. “O—oh,” he said. “I… I didn’t know you were in here.”

I nodded, slowly and once. “I figured,” I said flatly. Awkward. “Did… Jessie’s brother invite you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But… one of his ex-girlfriends from high school wouldn’t stop flirting with me. So I pretty much ran away. I thought this was a bathroom.” He gestured to the room around us. “Clearly, I was wrong.” He glanced at the door over his shoulder. “I would leave, but I don’t want that girl to come after me again. Think we can get along long enough to share?”

I pushed myself to my feet, tucking my phone in my pocket. “No need. Since I came in here to avoid you, I’ll just go back to the party—and you can stay here for the rest of the night, for all I care. I will say, though, the bathroom is the next door down.”

I moved to brush him out of the way to leave Jessie’s room, but he caught my wrist. “Babydoll, wait,” he said, voice soft.

I pulled out of his grip. “Don’t call me that. I’m not yours anymore.”

“I miss you.” His big blue eyes were giving me puppy eyes.

“I miss you too. But you know perfectly well why I broke things off. I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth about why he disappears all the time—and clearly can’t keep his story straight. I thought we were happy together, Jason. But when you vanish for hours at a time with no word and come back with lame excuses, how was I supposed to trust you? I doubt you were cheating on me but how would I know? And what else was I supposed to think?” I knew I wasn’t strong enough to push him away from the door—the man was 6’ and 225 pounds of muscle—but when I shoved he gave way.

I yanked open the door and shut it hard behind me. I stomped downstairs and back to the party.

“You see Jason?” Daisy asked. “He went upstairs a couple minutes ago.”

“We spoke,” I said shortly.

Daisy cringed. “Went that well, huh?”

“Part of me still loves him, but I’m definitely still ticked at him.”

She made a face. “Sorry,” she offered.

“It’s fine.” I shrugged. “Anyway. Have you even seen Jessie or her brother?”

Daisy looked around. “I said hi to her when we first got here… but no, I haven’t seen her since,” she said. I followed her gaze. A sea of people in a small suburban house outside Gotham was pretty crowded for a party, and it was hard to see if Jessie and her brother Robert were even here anymore.

“Me neither,” I muttered.

“Wonder where they went,” Daisy mused.

“I mean, with the amount of people here, I’m not surprised I can’t see them.”

“Yeah…”

Somewhere nearby, I heard glass shattering. “Uh-oh. That can’t be good,” Daisy remarked. “If Jessie’s parents find out someone broke something—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence as a window crashed in right next to us. I shrieked and grabbed Daisy, dragging her away from the flying shards. Several of them splattered over my jacket and cascaded to the floor, but I was lucky not to get impaled by any of them. A dark figure in body armor landed on the carpet, holding a large assault rifle.

I put Daisy behind me and backed up a few steps as the music stopped. She was taller than me, but hunched over she could almost disappear behind me. At least, whoever the intruder was wouldn’t have a clear shot at her past me.

“I’m looking for Jessica and Robert Williams,” the intruder said, levelling his gun at the crowd. Someone screamed from near the stairs.

While the intruder’s attention was elsewhere, I snuck my phone out of my pocket and found Jason’s number. I sent a text as fast as I could. Get out of here. Shooter just broke in.

That was all I had the time for before slipping my phone back into my pocket like I never had it out. The intruder prowled around the crowd. “Jessica… Robert…” he singsonged. I held Daisy’s wrist behind me. “If you two don’t show yourselves in the next sixty seconds, I’m tearing up your friends.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the text on my watch. Jason Todd: I’m not leaving you.

I slid my phone out. You have to. At least call the cops.

The window on the other side of the living room shattered inward. Another dark figure swooped through and landed on the floor. My first thought was Batman—but as the figure straightened from his landing, I saw a red helmet glinting off the disco lights.

“Red Hood,” I breathed, in awe. I’d seen him a couple times. Imposing, tall, muscular. I’d only ever seen him from a distance. Seeing him up close was almost more terrifying.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you,” Red Hood said to the intruder, voice being run through some sort of ring modulator to disguise it, “that it’s rude to gate crash a party?”

The intruder growled, “Red Hood,” like an animal. My blood ran a little colder.

Red Hood stepped forward, completely unfazed. “Get out now, and this doesn’t have to get any uglier than it already is.”

“What do you care, crime boss, that I get up to a little trouble?”

“I care because everyone knows my rules. No innocents get harmed. Look around you. This place is full of innocent people.” Red Hood gestured to the party crowd. For a moment I could have sworn the eyes of his helmet lingered on me. But he was probably looking at the window. “Get out before I haul you out in a body bag.” He whipped one of his massive handguns into his hand, cocking it with the other in one practiced, fluid motion.

The intruder levelled the assault rifle at Red Hood’s chest. “Make me,” he spat.

Red Hood shrugged. “Okay.”

Bang! His handgun went off. I jumped. The intruder dropped to the floor, his rifle spraying bullets briefly toward the ceiling before stopping when he hit the carpet in a splatter of blood.

Red Hood looked around. “Everyone okay?”

A few scattered nods.

“Good. Get out on the front lawn. Wait for the cops to show up. They should be here any second,” he ordered.

The crowd rushed out the front door, bottlenecking and slowing down. Daisy included. I stayed where I was, staring at Red Hood. He noticed me not moving and came over.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

I looked down, peeling my hand away from my right side to reveal the blood soaking my shirt. “His spray. It got me,” I said, voice hoarse. My head was light and fuzzy. Not from blood loss—not yet. More likely from the shock of getting hit.

His helmet tilted down and he looked at the wound. The ring modulator distorted his whispered swearing but I still figured out what he said. “We need to get you to the hospital. Like, ASAP. And I can’t take you on my bike. Did you drive here?”

I nodded. “My car—it’s the dark green Explorer half-a-block that way.” I pointed down the street to the left with my non-bloodstained hand.

Red Hood nodded. “Keys?”

I pulled them from my other pocket and passed them over.

He swung me up into his arms and left. The crowd had cleared the front door in the time it took us to talk, so he marched across the front lawn and headed for my car. I heard Daisy call my name, but didn’t have the mental strength to call back.

As he walked down the block, each step jolting my wound, he said, “Batman, I’ve got a GSW. Taking her to the hospital. There was a hostile at a party in the suburbs. I took him down and the GCPD is on its way, but I’m moving the wounded girl.” He paused for a moment, but I couldn’t hear anything. “Yes, it’s a girl. She’s got her car here. I’m taking her in that.” Another pause. “Copy that. I’ll check in later.”

Red Hood set me gently in the passenger seat and laid it as flat as it could go. “Just hold on, babydoll. Hold on,” he said softly.

I scrunched my eyebrows as he shut the door and circled the hood to get in the driver’s seat. Once he gunned the engine, I put my clean hand on the arm of his brown leather jacket. “Why’d you call me… babydoll?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know your name, miss, and I thought it’d be more comforting.” The car pulled away from the curb.

“You just heard my friend shout my name.”

He swore again and sighed. “Fine. Just don’t freak out. You’ll lose more blood.” He pulled his helmet off with one hand. “Couldn’t see as well to drive with that thing on anyway.”

Jason’s tousled black hair, white streak at the front, puffed up a bit as the helmet freed itself from his head. I tried to sit up, but fire burned in my side and I flopped back down before I’d even moved an inch. “What?” I squeaked. “Jay?”

His eyes flicked to me briefly. Deep blue and… there was something melancholy in them. “Yeah, babydoll,” he said. “It’s me.” There was his sad smile. One I’d seen many times. “You haven’t called me Jay since…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but I remembered when I’d stopped calling him Jay and “my Jay baby.” It was about a month before I finally had enough of his excuses and lies and broke up with him.

“Is this… is this why you always disappeared for hours and came back with excuses?”

“And could never seem to keep my story straight? Yeah. I wanted…” He sighed. “I wanted to tell you so many times but Batman said it would only be safe for me to tell you if we ever got married. And even then you’d still be in danger. You made me so happy and it killed me to lie to you. Killed me even more to lose you. When you broke things off… I am not proud to admit that every criminal I fought on patrol that night went to the hospital with more broken bones than I usually leave. I love you. Still. So much so that this past year has been… empty. Without you.”

I cleared my throat of the tears clogging it. “I said to Daisy earlier tonight, when I first saw you at the party, that I’d love nothing more than to get back together with you. But I couldn’t if you were going to keep things from me again.”

“Don’t get my hopes up like that while you’re in shock, please babydoll. Because I don’t know if you mean it or if you’re babbling from the shock and have no idea what you’re saying.”

“I told you I miss you,” I pointed out.

“That doesn’t have to mean you still love me or want me back.”

“But I do. To both. Love you and want you back. You can be honest with me now. But, we can talk about it when I don’t feel like passing out from pain.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Don’t you dare pass out on me. If you do, you might not wake up again. Stay awake, babydoll. Stay awake. Please.” His grip tightened on my fingers. I tried to nod, but I wasn’t feeling well. My vision was a little blurry and I was tired.

“I’ll try,” I said.

We kept driving. Jason had fallen into pensive silence.

“Alright. We’re here,” he said. He parked my car and put his helmet back on. Then he ducked out, circled the hood, and picked me up to carry me into the ER, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Just stay awake. I’ll come visit—as me—later, okay?”

I nodded. “I’d like that,” I said.

Automatic glass doors slid open. Someone yelped. “GSW,” Jason said, voice modulated again. “Right side. No exit wound.”

“Get her on a gurney!” a nurse called over his shoulder.

I hugged Jason tighter. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded. “Of course, babydoll.” His voice was soft. Comforting.

He set me on a gurney, and I watched him stride out of the hospital as they rolled me away.

—

When I woke up after surgery, Jason was there. Alone. Blue jeans, red T-shirt, hair a mess, and dozing in the armchair. “You look like crap,” I croaked.

He jolted and sat up. “Speak for yourself, babydoll,” he retorted. But he spoke gently. “Your family’s down in the cafeteria, getting some breakfast. I told them I’d keep you company. Your mom looked like she might murder me just for suggesting it, but I told her we made up enough to be friends at the party. So she—begrudgingly, mind you—allowed me to stay.”

“Just friends?” I asked.

He smiled and sat forward to run the backs of his fingers down my cheek. “For now. You said we’d talk about it more when you were feeling better.” He leaned back in the armchair. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Still not great, but the shock has worn off, at least.”

“That’s good.”

“I meant it, by the way,” I said. “That you can be honest with me now, so if you’re willing, we can try again.”

Jason met my eyes. There was hope in his expression. “Are you sure?” he asked.

I smiled. “Absolutely. I told you before: I miss you.”

He leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to my lips. The EKG monitor beeped a little faster as my heartrate spiked. I grabbed his shoulders as he moved away, and pulled him back to me. He smiled into my lips as I kissed him again.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He tilted his head for a better angle, and I pushed one of my hands into his hair.

The door to the hospital room opened. “What’s going on in here?” Mom demanded.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

the part of a swan

for @cshistfic​ (an extension of one of my august prompts)

--

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

But Killian Jones is not concerned with who she was--he's interested in who she is. And he might be the only one smart enough to uncover the truth.

AO3 part 1/? ~2.6k

--

Emma was twenty-eight years old when she stepped into a ballroom for the first time since she was ruined.  The first time she was present for the judging stares, the awkward silences.  For the public shaming and the elaborate ritual that surrounded it.

It should be clear that Emma did not, by any means, regret her ruination.  She did not miss the person she had been before that night; the eager, naive girl, brought up always to behave a certain way, to speak softly, to do as she was bidden, to be what she was told.

Emma no longer believed in allowing people to tell her who she could be.

Lady Emma Nolan—for that was who she was, though she barely deserved the descriptor and never claimed the surname—delighted in her ruination, and had done for years.  It had given her freedom.

It had given her Henry.

Emma had faded into the background as she was expected to after her fall, after her scandal—watched the man she thought she loved continue to live his life as the toast of the ton, the darling of his father, the scion of a powerful family—and swore to herself it was the last time she would do what society expected her to do.

Until tonight.

Emma stood before the crowd, acutely aware of all of the eyes upon her, assessing her, from the style of her coiffure—a ridiculous confection of curls and white feathers—to the tips of her shoes.  Surely, they were saying to themselves, surely it is her brother’s money that supports her.

Emma could read them as easily as if they were speaking.

But they were wrong, and that was her secret.

Still, they whispered to each other, muttered remarks hidden discreetly behind fans and glasses of Champagne, and their eyes followed her.  Judged her for her past.

And for her presence.

They knew why she was here, and they hated it.

(So did she.)

“Lady Emma.”

The voice was lush and warm with roughness at its edges.  Dry—acerbic—the syllables drawn out.  He seemed to appear out of nowhere and Emma could do nothing but hold his stare, watching him as he watched her.  Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones unfashionably marred by unshaven shadows.

It suited him.

“Sir,” she said.  “We have not been introduced.”  It was both a rebuke and a lie, for she knew who he was.  Killian Jones, the son of no one of name, who had made his career in the navy, nearly cashiered out of the service but not before making his fortune in captured prizes; now the writer of several prominent newspapers.

More importantly, a broker in the most potent currency of all—information.

“And you are lurking in the dark.”

“Then do allow me to rectify that on both counts,” he said, stepped forward and bending low over her hand.  His breath tickled her skin even through the elbow-length gloves as he looked up at her through his eyelashes.

She pulled away.  “What need has Killian Jones for an introduction?”

His eyes glittered.  Blue, like the place on the horizon where the sky met the sea, made brilliant by sunlight; Emma held her breath and prayed he would not notice her slip.

Lady Emma Nolan was not the kind of woman who should know—or recognize—Killian Jones.

Finally, he said, “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Emma exhaled.  “Why should mine be the only one?”

He laughed, a short bark that seemed to escape him unwillingly, and Emma smiled.  It was a small, tight smile.  She gestured at the ballroom and said, “I should return to my sister-in-law.”  “How is the Duchess?”  His tone was conversational, his eyebrow raised.  “Not dancing, I hope?  In her condition?”

Emma’s smile tightened.  She shifted, uncomfortable in the ill-fitting corset her sister-in-law had pressed upon her, and started to walk away.

He followed her movement, his gaze traveling from her neck to her navel, and Emma blushed.

“Let’s not play games, Lady Emma,” he said.  “You’re here for a husband.  You’re here for your son.”

He leaned in, coming closer, and Emma held her breath.  Anywhere but here—now—she might have welcomed this battle, this back-and-forth—welcomed him, for he was devastatingly handsome—

But she had felt that way before, and fallen for it; left broken, and alone, though it had not been Neal who had destroyed her.  She had never said his name aloud since the day he’d left, never told anyone the identity of the man who had, however unwittingly, given her freedom.

Fathers’ sins, after all, never stuck.

It had been them—the gaggle, the gossips, the matrons.  The glittering ballrooms of the beau monde.  She had chosen not to play by their rules, and paid the price for it.  Emma’s scandal became both entertainment and a cautionary tale.  She’d been exiled by all save her brother and sister-in-law, the duke and duchess married in a scandal of their own, the stars of a different tale.

Love.

But even that had come at a cost:  The respect of their late father, and of the ton.

And now, ten years later, here she stood.  “Do not,” Emma said, stepping forward and nearly baring her teeth at him, “mention my son.”

He stepped back, slowly.  His eyes did not move, and neither did hers.  His tone did not change when he said, “Lady Emma, I understand your urgency.  With the duchess increasing—”

Emma did not answer, but she made no move to leave this time.

Because he was right, the perceptive bastard.

All of the joy she felt for her brother and sister-in-law did not assuage her suddenly urgent need to see that Henry was properly taken care of—by a father.  Someone with a title—someone who needed an heir, now that her brother no longer did.

“There are other dowries, Lady Emma,” he said.  “Why yours?”

Emma’s eyes widened.  Perceptive, and too clever by half.  Maybe that was she answered him honestly.  “There are none so large as mine.  And none that come with as much freedom.”

“Freedom?”  For an instant only he looked confused.  Then he spoke, softly.  “Ah.  You have no expectations.  No dreams of a convenient husband turning into a love match.  You’re awfully young to be so cynical.”  He chuckled, a sound utterly devoid of humor; his eyes once more took her measure.  “But then again, wounds made when you’re young do tend to linger.”

He, too, spoke honestly, as if he knew.  As if he, too, had wounds.  He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her again—and if he touched her, she was going to like it.

“No one has ever done what you’re about to do,” he said, his hand falling.  “And I wish for you to succeed.  In fact, I want to help you.”

Their eyes locked.

“You do?” Emma challenged him.  “Why?”

Some of the scandal sheets that had delighted in her fall had, after all, been his.

“My reasons are my own,” he said.  “There is little love between me and Society.”

She should end this conversation, Emma knew.  She’d been away from the crowd, and from Mary Margaret, her sister-in-law, long enough to be noticed.  Another black mark for the record-keepers.

But Emma stayed.  Said, “You keep them entertained.”

He smirked.  “And you, Lady Emma, are the entertainment in question.”

—

Killian Jones stood on the edge of the ballroom and watched them.  Watched her.

Emma Nolan was every inch an aristocrat, born and bred into this world; a true diamond of the first water.  Everyone in this room should be on their knees at her feet and instead they whispered, waiting to pounce—waiting to destroy her all over again.

He shouldn’t care.  He should stay focused.  

“You should not have flirted with the girl.”

Killian did not turn.  “What do you want with her?”

The answering chuckle was dry and unpleasant. “Let’s just say I’m keeping my eye on young Miss Nolan.”

“Lady Emma,” Killian corrected, only to be granted with another chuckle that had him biting back a curse.

“Of course.”  Robert Gold’s words were soft, delicate—silk wrapped around a knife.  

“What do you want with her?” Killian asked again.

Gold tutted.  “So cold a greeting from my oldest friend.”

Killian had known Gold—now Lord Boyle, Baron Ross, Earl of Glasgow—for almost fifteen years, and hated him for every moment of it; one of the King’s most trusted advisors, with tens of thousands of acres that earned him close to thirty thousand pounds per annum.

The man was as rich as a fictional king, but that was never enough for him.

No amount of power was enough for him.

“I could kill you right here,” Killian said.

“You could,” Gold agreed.  “And you would hang for it.”

“At least it would be for a crime I actually committed.”

“Big words, Captain.  You and I both know that you are not in any position to move against me.”

Killian finally turned to face him, ignoring the shiver of fear that went through him as he did so; hating it.  “I won’t ask again.”

“And I won’t answer.  Your only concern is that she interests me.  It is so tiresome, having to threaten you.  You would do better to just accept our arrangement.  I command, you act.”

As though Killian could ever forget.

But Killian was not the only one with secrets—Gold had them, and deeper and darker than any one man should.  Secrets that would see Gold, not Killian, at the end of a rope.

If only Killian had proof.

Snarling, Killian backed away from the earl and made his way through the ballroom for the exit.

And found—

“We meet again, Mr. Jones,” said Lady Emma Nolan.  Her bright green eyes sparkled and her voice—somehow it brought light with it.  Killian was helpless to do naught but smile back as he inclined his head in greeting.

“My lady,” he said, and enjoyed the surprise in her eyes at the honorific.

The night was still young and they were the only two preparing to leave.  Emma’s maid stood discreetly behind and the duchess, her chaperone, was nowhere to be seen.  “Are you for home already?”

Her nod made the feathers in her coiffure tremble.  “Believe it or not, Mr. Jones, I am unaccustomed to this sort of evening.  I find myself quite exhausted.”

“I noticed you found the energy to dance,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.

She had stood up for every dance, had played her part brilliantly; Killian had noticed several of her brother’s titled friends called in to do a set with her in the hopes that all of their combined wealth and power might blind Society to the lady’s sins.

She was all anyone talked about, but it was neither her brother’s chosen champions nor her beauty that fueled the whispers in the ballroom.

If Gold wanted her—

“Did you?” She adjusted her wrap around her shoulders but could not hide her smile.  “And yet you never thought to ask me?”

“Lady Emma,” he said, affecting shock, “when we have not even been introduced?”

Her laugh seemed to reverberate; as if the street lamps themselves would dance to her tune, and for a long moment there was silence between them, neither of them moving to break the moment.  The sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels emerging from the neighboring mews was both an irritation and a welcome distraction as she made to leave him.

“The duchess does not accompany you?”

The feathers trembled again as she shook her head, still smiling.  “I’m for home, Mr. Jones.  I wonder, what shall you write about this evening for your Scandal Sheet?”

She meant the words to amuse, he was sure—a perfect combination of wit and boredom—but underneath it all, Killian heard something else.  Something, he thought, no one was meant to hear:  Sadness.  Loss.  Frustration.

“You don’t want it, do you?”

She watched him, weighing, calculating, as the carriage waited before them to take her away from this place and this life, if only for an evening.  If she was surprised by how easily he read her, she gave no sign of it.  “This is my bed, Mr. Jones.  I must lie in it.  And to do that—it seems I need you.”

The words landed, harder than she ever could have intended, his silly promise of social redemption echoing hollow.  It was cold comfort to know that the earl was already married and could have no designs on Emma’s dowry.

The man had a terrible track record when it came to his wives.

Killian thought that it must be her family—her brother—that interested him.  The young, golden-haired duke had clawed his way back from his sister’s scandal and his own marriage based, as best Killian could ascertain, solely on his charm.

“Lady Emma—” he began, but he did not know what else to say.

“Good night, Mr. Jones.”  She was already moving, down the steps to the waiting carriage.  

He watched her, the way she moved, fascinated by the way the pale fabric of her skirts seemed to swirl in the night air, the way her arm balanced as she smiled at the footman handing her in, a glimpse of ankle in a silver slipper before the door slammed shut and her outrider climbed onto his perch.

He imagined what he might write about her as his curricle pulled up to the mounting block and he took the reins, so lost in his thoughts of her that he did not realize he still followed the lady’s coach until they were well past the turn out of Mayfair and toward her brother’s town house.

He followed her down Bond Street toward Piccadilly and then St. James before he allowed his curricle to fall back, watching the lanterns on the carriage as they navigated the back alleyways behind Duke Street toward the men’s clubs of London.

Lady Emma Nolan, sister of a duke, with a dowry big enough to buy a palace, desperate for a restored reputation and a father for her son—that he had determined to secure for her—was in a parked curricle behind the most exclusive men’s club in Britain.  More than a club—the most expensive, high-class gaming hell in London.

Lady Emma Nolan, behind Killian’s own destination, behind his club, The Swan.  A club run by some of London’s darkest men on behalf of the club’s owner, who went only by the name Swan.  Killian had never seen nor spoken to Swan in spite of their years-long profitable relationship in the trade of information.

Of secrets.

Just the person, Killian had decided, to turn to in order to free himself from Gold’s yoke once and for all.  If anyone could access Gold’s secrets, it would be Swan, and Killian was willing to pay any price for what he desired.

Emma’s outrider—a giant of a man, Killian suddenly realized—was stood in front of the heavy steel door that marked The Swan’s back entrance, banging in a specific pattern to gain entry.

He should stop her.  He moved to, just as the carriage door opened and Killian strained for a glimpse of her pale slipper, her white skirts.

But that was not what he saw.

The slipper was high-heeled and dark—the skirts a silk the color of the purest red rose—a corseted bodice that put on display a décolletage of perfect proportions.  Painted lips, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a dark wig that hid every golden hair.

Killian Jones watched her disappear into the club’s back entrance and he smiled.

Here was a story.

And—just maybe—an answer to all of his problems.

--

@katie-dub @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @pirateherokillian @stahlop @onceratheart18 @kmomof4 @mariakov81 

[veryveryverytemporarily]

Started writing this AU where Aaron moves into a flatshare. I’m not going to post on Ao3 until complete but let me know if you like the idea of it

Come sail your ships around me

Colin - it says in handwriting on the envelope.

Aaron picks it up and looks inside, thumbs the crisp fiver, a couple of ones, and a shiny fifty penny piece.

Beside it there’s a note and a discarded pen. Strange to think of him writing it - this person that he’s never met.

All the other details about the house are typed and left in a folder with plastic sleeves, like a holiday let. Only this isn’t - It’s home, for now at least.

Leave this out for the milkman, he comes around six. I get a pint of organic every day. If you want to order something for yourself, you’d better let him know.

Aaron raises his brows. Every day? What’s he doing; bathing in it?

He puts the note down again on the kitchen counter, sees his work boots have left a trail of mud and bends to take them off, unthreading the laces from the metal eyes. In his socks, he pads over to the sink and opens the cupboard, peering underneath for a cloth. The place is spanking clean.

He finds some anti-bacterial spray. He’d better show willing.

 ‘Explain it to me again, you’re sharing with this bloke -,’ his Mum is giving him the third degree, ‘who you know nothing about, and haven’t met, and sleeping in the same flaming bed? That can’t be right!’

Aaron holds his fork an inch from his lips, suspending the simple pleasure of a full English. This is why he needs to leave, this and all the other stuff going on in his head; he needs the space. They can’t keep treating him like a kid, like a victim.

‘I’ve already told you; he works nights, I work days. It’s a one-bedroom gaff but we’re not there at the same time.’

‘Like a timeshare, then,’ Paddy offers.

‘Take your own sheets at least.’

He drops his cutlery with a clatter and stands. It’s enough now, but his Mum can’t help herself.

‘Just, why would he do that, rent the place out when he’s not there?’ She spreads her hands as she speaks, throwing the question out to the universe. A question he can’t answer, because what does it matter?

He picks up his car keys.

‘We’ll see you next weekend, though?’ she calls after him. ‘We worry about you, love!’

  There are herbs on the kitchen windowsill. The evening sun slants in, illuminating the paper-thin leaves.

It’s a second-floor apartment with its own entrance from the street. At the back there are metal stairs from the kitchen leading out to a narrow garden secluded by a high fence, topped by trees.

The garden is as pristine as indoors, laid with shingle, with a bistro table and chairs, and exotic looking plants, and one of those outdoor lantern candles.

Aaron sits and drinks a beer, scrolling his phone in the peace and quiet.

Every now and then he looks up, still feeling slightly uneasy like he’s trespassing.

This must be where his housemate took his Instagram profile pic, it occurs to him. On a whim he decides to check.

He’s right; there’s the blue corner of the bistro chair, and the leaves of one of the plants. His eyes are drawn back to his housemate's face.

It’s a terrible photo; the sun’s behind him and you can barely make his features out; and, as if that’s not enough, he’s wearing dark reflective glasses. All Aaron can say for sure is that he has a goatee beard and his hair’s scraped back and tied in a man bun. You can see the collar of a utility jacket, a shiny button on the breast pocket. 

It’s hard to be sure, but he looks serious.

He thinks back to when they spoke on the phone, when he first answered the ad in the paper; he was quite breezy and business-like, but there was something about the timbre of his voice - something quiet. Like he’d survived something; just like he has. It was one of the reasons he decided to take the place.

But maybe he’s projecting.

It was something his therapist brought up when they touched on his issues of trust.

A blackbird on the fence is giving it full throttle as the sun starts its descent.

He frowns one last time at the photo - Either he’s ridiculously bad at taking selfies. Or he’s hiding. The account is only a few months old and the rest is just boring seascapes and pictures of food. Saddo! Or maybe his Mum’s right - weirdo?

No point in dwelling on it now anyway. He’s signed a contract and here he is.

He goes back indoors, unpacks his games console and plugs it in. He could get used to this; he thinks as he starts playing.

Another hour and he’s yawning. He checks his messages and procrastinates, hovering at the bedroom door. It feels like he’s snooping when he finally makes it into the room. There’s a large double bed with dark shiny sheets. They look clean enough. He has his own in a suitcase. But can he really be fussed? 

He strips off, leaving his clothes where they fall on the carpet. Raises an arm in the air and takes a whiff.

A minute later he's in the shower, admiring the marble and taking the lid off some fancy shower gel – phwoar-what? -  he tosses his head back at the heady scent. He growls For Fucks Sake! when he drops the bottle and sees the splash of dark blue against the white porcelain shower tray. He tops the bottle up with his own Right Guard Zingy Mint, then replaces the lid and inspects the bottle for drips. They smell almost the same, he reasons; his housemate will never notice.

He pads back to the bedroom leaving a trail of wet footprints and towels himself dry, looking around once again. One of the night stands has a reading lamp, and glasses, a couple of books, the other is empty. Presumably his ‘side’ then.

He swallows, slips naked between the sheets and lies there blinking. 

His Mum’s right. For someone with trust issues he’s taken a humongous risk.

He wonders if he should put on some boxers at least, feels his eyes closing. He twitches his nose as a faint masculine scent from the sheets loosens the tightness in his shoulders, and next thing, without even realizing, he’s out for the count.

 A noise downstairs outside the front door wakes him. Is it him, maybe, already back from work? Did he sleep too late the very first morning? But it doesn’t feel late. Quite the opposite.

He grabs a robe that isn’t his own from the back of the bedroom door and flies down the stairs, pulling the sides together which flap open again as he opens the mortice lock and turns the door handle.

He opens the door just enough to peer round. The light has an unfamiliar misty morning quality about it and there’s dew on the flowers by the path. 

Someone’s legs are disappearing through the gate, there’s a rattle of bottles in a crate. Glancing down he sees a shiny bottle of green-top on the doorstep. Colin!

‘Hold on, mate!’ he calls. A round face appears above the hedge. ‘Could you add another bottle a day to the delivery? I’m Aaron and,’ he manages a fleeting smile,’...I’ve just moved in with Robert.’

He sees Colin glance up to the windows of the flat and back at him from over the hedge. He clutches the sides of the gown closer at the waist, suddenly conscious of a light breeze around the nether regions.

Colin says, ‘Nice one!’ and then he’s gone before Aaron has time to add any clarification.

Aaron turns to the house and looks up. Has he made a good decision? Maybe it’s something pretty normal to move out from your parents; but for him, after the court case, this is his first stab at changing something up.

His heart lifts for a moment as he picks up the milk bottle and then glides swiftly up the steps, gown open.

Perhaps Colin’s right – Nice one!

[edupunkn00b]

When The Bad Guys Win, Ch. 2: Little Brother

When The Bad Guys Win - Big Brother - Little Brother - [ AO3 ]

Part of the History | Matchr Universe

Rated T: WC: 4588

CW: referenced past assault, referenced past assault on child, hospitals, references capital punishment, assault, swearing, minor character death, blue+orange make grey

Logan Sanders knows what to do when the bad guys win.

---

Logan removed his faux eyeglasses as soon as he was out of Patton's sight.

Once downstairs, he slipped through the back entrance of their lobby, holding down the handle as he slowly let the door close, releasing the latch only once the door was fully in place. The muffled click was barely audible to his own ears and would have been imperceptible to anyone else in the building.

If anyone had happened to be awake and wandering the lobby at two o'clock in the morning, that is.

Logan scooped up a few pebbles from the greenscape just outside the exit, depositing them in his pocket for later. He jogged the four block distance to the D train and bought a Metrocard from the bodega with a C- health department rating closest to the station. He paid with cash.

Before climbing the steps up to the station, Logan stopped as though to tie his laces, slipping half the pebbles into his right shoe. The tiny stones rolled around inside as he walked, rubbing against his toes, his heel, the ball of his foot… not sufficiently painful to prevent him from running, but uncomfortable enough to give him a noticeable limp, changing his natural gait. He sprinted up the steps, swiped his card at the turnstile, and waited for the train. There was one other person already sitting on a bench, slouched back, muttering under their breath. Logan turned his head toward them but flicked his eyes up, checking the lights on the cameras trained on the platform. One was out, but the other two appeared to be functional.

Logan tugged at the red cap on his head and paced the length of the platform, hands in his pockets, whistling loudly. He'd made two laps up and down the platform, catching the eye of the other waiting rider, smiling and giving them a quick wave. He leaned over the platform, looking down the tracks in the wrong direction, checking his watch.

"The train comes from the other direction, dude," the other rider finally said. Logan turned with a bright smile, tilting his head and waving his hands vaguely toward his mouth. They stared at him for a moment before they shook their head and pointed the other way down the track. Sucking their teeth, they said, "That way, man. That way." They muttered under their breath, "Fucking tourists."

Looking in the other direction, Logan broadened his smile, giving them a thumbs up. He paced the platform again, only getting halfway back to where the other rider waited before the train finally arrived. He entered the mostly empty train car, the only other passenger a homeless woman sitting in the corner. She eyed him as he entered, relaxing somewhat when he kept his distance. Logan sat, counting the stops until 50th Street.

He quickly pulled out his drugstore Tracphone and booted up his TwoFace VPN™. One the icon turned green, he opened an incognito window on his TOR browser and logged onto Facebook with his Dr. Francis Stine account. He scrolled through until he found the heart surgeon who hadn't even blinked at his user name, instead quickly accepting his friend request over a year ago, shortly after he'd viewed Logan's, rather, Dr. Stine's impressive LinkedIn profile.

Scrolling through Dr. Roberts' wall, he found a selfie the doctor had taken with Al Pacino the time he'd come in for surgery. Logan shook his head with a smile. He always did like it when a fan's love overcame their logical thinking. HIPAA privacy rules aren't just there for the color-coded trash cans, Doctor...

He tapped on the picture, waiting impatiently for the large file to download over the pokey 3G connection, its speed made even more sluggish by his VPN's admittedly vital IP hopping. He looked up as the train approached a station. Three more stops. I still have time. The phone buzzed happily when it finished downloading the image and he quickly tapped it, checking the properties and pulling up the GPS coordinates embedded within.

Dumping the full coordinates into a Heroku app he maintained under its generic auto-generated name, he was able to narrow down the relative elevation—approximately 115 feet—where Dr. Roberts had taken the picture. Calculating quickly, assuming a standard 14-foot height for each floor, including, of course, crawlspaces and conduits for HVAC, communications and security equipment, as well as the fire suppression systems... that would put Mr. Pacino's fancy post-surgical suite somewhere on the eighth floor. Logan closed his browser, automatically removing his internet history from the device.

He stood as the train entered the 50th Street station, quickly putting away his phone and swapping it for two twenties. He walked toward the door closest to the homeless woman and her mouth tightened as she watched him. Just as he limped off the train, he folded the money to hide the denomination and pressed the bills into her hand. He bowed his head slightly, murmuring, "Goodnight, Ma'am."

Whistling again, Logan walked toward the exit, staying a few yards behind a man in plain slacks and a button down shirt who must have been in a different car on the same train. A Maimonides hospital badge dangled off his belt and his black Dansko nursing shoes were polished but well-worn. Logan grinned to himself, Going my way?

He kept a steady pace as he followed the man, being careful not to overtake him, still whistling loudly. After looking over his shoulder twice, with Logan grinning dumbly and waving the second time, the man appeared to relax. Muggers don't whistle when they follow you and killers don't draw attention to themselves.

Logan followed him all the way to the staff entrance of the main hospital building, still lagging a few yards behind. He didn't break his stride when the man stopped and tapped his ID against the reader affixed to the wall. Logan passed the man just as he'd opened the door.

That's when Logan tripped, falling on his hands and knees, his right thumb catching the edge of the door and keeping it open.

"Oh, shit, you all right?" the man bent down, offering Logan his hand to help him up. Logan bit his lip hard as he could, triggering involuntary tears at the sudden pain. His voice cracked when he answered.

"Um, yeah, I think...."

The man leaned closer and Logan reached for his offered hand, squeezing tightly and groaning as he leaned heavily into his grip as he pulled himself up. Logan's other hand brushed against the man's belt, disconnecting and palming his ID.

As he stood, Logan winced, still holding tightly to the man's hand. He shifted his foot so it was now keeping the door open behind the man. "Yeah, I'm fine. That was... that was embarrassing." He brought the hand with the ID to rub at his back, slipping the badge into his back pocket. He let go of the man's hand, bending down to brush the dirt away from his knees. "Yeah, I just gotta walk it off."

"Hey, if you're gonna get hurt, outside a hospital's the right place to do it, huh?" The man eyed him carefully, looking into his eyes and watching their movement. Logan hid a smile. Very nice. Get a good look at my brown contacts as you check my pupil reaction. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks, I appreciate it. Hey, who says there are no more Good Samaritans?"

The man chuckled, then walked through the door and Logan moved his foot, allowing the door to close behind him with a loud clunk.

Logan counted to one hundred, then used the man's badge to unlock the door again. It opened onto the middle landing in a small, windowless stairwell. Keeping his head in a neutral position, he flicked his eyes around the space, locating the cameras. He found what was likely to be a dead spot between them and wiped the badge clean on his t-shirt before dropping it and kicking it down the stairs as he went up.

He climbed the stairs until he smelled the lingering odor of cigarette smoke and smiled. There is always one. He followed the smell and on the next landing, in the corner behind a heating pipe, spotted a small soda can with cigarette ashes around the open mouth. Logan tugged at the door, covering his hand with the hem of his t-shirt and it popped open, the latch kept down by several layers of masking tape. Bingo.

Modern hospitals were getting serious about security, and that included not just the physical security of their buildings, using things like timed locks, cameras, and RFID identification badges that could be activated or deactivated remotely. You never have to change the keys or codes when someone quits because everyone's access is personalized.

They also used technology in their attempts to ensure the security and safety of their people, leveraging those same RFID badges to track the comings and goings of their staff. Such systems have a happy side effect—from HR's perspective, at least—in that most systems will also trigger warnings that some staff are leaving the ward floor too many times throughout the day, taking too many breaks, badging in and out at the exits at unauthorized times.

So, what can staffers looking for a quick hit of nicotine do? Tape up the door on the stairwell so it won't lock. Then they can take their smoke breaks out in the stairwell and the supervisors won't ever know just how many times they've stepped away. Besides, who could possibly get in all the way up here? The entire building is secured. Someone would have to already own a badge just to get into the building. Then they'd have to be pretty fucking motivated to climb up twenty flights of stairs to get in. It's fine.

Logan chuckled. Yes. Yes, it is just fine.

He walked purposefully through the open door. He was at the far end of a ward. No-one was in sight. The halls were quiet and the nurse's station dark at this pre-dawn hour. Logan mused that this was likely just the secondary station. It appeared to be a standard post-surgical floor, without critical patients who might require more constant vigilance. Besides, the networked monitors in every room would allow a single nurse to watch over a large number of patients at one time. Modern hospital work policies simply didn't require as many staff minding the halls as they used to.

Taking a moment to look around, Logan spotted a door marked 'Staff'. He bumped against the door with his shoulder as he walked past and it opened freely. He glanced at the door frame and saw it was similarly taped over with masking tape. Pivoting, he darted inside, sending a silent thank you to the nicotine addict on the floor with a lazy disposition.

The lights had been out and they automatically clicked on with his movement. The walls were lined with lockers, and there were a couple of vending machines in the back and a small, crooked table surrounded by five chairs tightly packed around it. In one corner near the door was a small sink, the kind typical for hospital rooms, with a foot-powered faucet and a small rack of PPE mounted next to it. He grinned when he saw the box containing clear, anti-allergen gloves. Logan took a pair, quickly gloving up and pocketing another few sets. He walked down the first line of lockers, pulling up on each until he'd found one that was unlocked. Inside was a dusty thermal lunch bag and malodorous Nikes. Shaking his head slightly, Logan continued his search.

He was able to open three more lockers on that side, mostly finding only useless detritus left behind by someone who didn't care enough about the contents to even bother locking it up. The third locker did have a metal clipboard and he snatched that up before beginning his search of the lockers on the other side.

Half-way down the line, he hit the metaphorical jackpot.

Hanging inside the second locker he'd tried on that side was a long, white lab coat, along with a stethoscope. Logan stripped off his red shirt and cap, then wet them both under the sink before shoving them into the covered medical waste trashcan in the corner. Removing his shoe, he tapped out the pebbles into the regular trash can next to it and laced them back up. Next, he donned the lab coat, buttoning it up all the way to obscure as much as possible of the plain grey sleep shirt he'd been wearing under the red tee. He draped the stethoscope around his neck and picked up the clipboard. Thinking for a moment, he went to the back of the break room and found a large mug. Dropping in a tea bag from the box on the counter, he filled the mug to the brim.

Tucking the clipboard under his arm, he balanced the mug in his non-dominant hand, the heavy cup tipping precipitously. He pulled open the door and made his way down the hall and toward the elevators. As he passed another empty nurses' station, he snagged a couple of pens and a small stack of formal-looking papers from the counter, securing them in the clipboard.

Standing in front of the elevators, he flipped through the papers, humming. He'd tucked one pen behind his ear, another shoved in his pocket, open, with the nub facing down and rapidly leaking dark black ink in the pocket. The third was gripped tightly in his hand and he made notations in the margins on the second page in his clipboard. He only had to wait about ten minutes before someone came along, nodding at him and murmuring, "Doctor."

"Hm? What was that?" he asked, looking up with his very best impression of a distracted deer in headlights.

The nurse laughed, "I was saying hello, Doctor."

Logan blinked a few times before smiling, forcing himself to recall that time Patton had caught him and his boyfriend making out in his bedroom, triggering an instinctive flush on his cheeks. "Oh, um, hello, sorry, I am little preoccupied today." He let his eyes linger on hers for a moment, bouncing down quickly to her lips and her breasts, then returned his attention to the clipboard he held close to his chest.

"Um, Doctor, are you taking the elevator?" she asked, stepping closer, an amused grin forcing its way across her face even as she pressed her lips tightly together.

"Mm-hm, it's slow today." He didn't look up but heard her small laugh.

"Let's try pressing the button, then."

He looked up at her words, eyebrows closely knit together as he watched her approach the elevator call buttons. She smiled at him, a barely suppressed laugh adding a lilt to her voice. "Going down?"

"Oh... I suppose I am a little too distracted, then." Logan smiled at her again, taking a sip of his 'tea' and letting some dribble on his lab coat. He scoffed, "I could probably use some sleep. I guess I'm pretty lucky you came along, huh?"

She giggled and turned toward the elevator when it dinged, the doors whispering open. He followed, dropping his pen on the way, then his clipboard. She shook her head, holding the elevator door open for him. "Thank you, um, thank you," he mumbled, hiding his face behind the clipboard as though embarrassed. He spilled a bit more tea on the floor as he moved to the back of the elevator, attempting to get re-situated, holding onto one pen in his teeth, juggling the pages threatening to slip through the loosened crimp of the top of the clipboard.

"Can I press a floor for you?" She asked, watching him struggle.

"Oh…" he pulled out the pen, tucking the now saliva—and DNA—imprinted pen in his pants pocket while he surreptitiously wiped his still-gloved hands on the side of his jeans. "Eight, please… thank you!"

"It's my pleasure, Doctor. It looks like you can use all the help you could get tonight." She smiled, scanning her badge on the RFID reader embedded in the panel. She waited for it to turn green, then pressed 17. She repeated the process for 8.

Logan huffed out a small laugh, face still buried in the clipboard. "Yes. But I've found that 'the Lord will provide.'"

---

When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, Logan poked his head out, looking from side to side, noting the softer lighting, thick carpet and dark wood paneling along the bump rails in the halls before stepping off the elevator completely. The rooms on this floor were spaced further apart, with only two on either side of the hallway closest to him. He strode quickly down the hall, turning right, intending to explore the floor with a series of right-hand turns until he found the room he was searching for.

Logan felt a happy jolt in his stomach when he saw the two police officers standing on either side of one of the doors at the end of the second hall. He continued his steady pace, glancing down at his clipboard before looking up at the room number, as though confirming he was in the right place. "Evening, Officers," he murmured, reaching for the door.

"Wait, Doctor, stop…" the officer on his right called out as he opened the door.

Swallowing quickly, he partially suppressed an annoyed-sounding sigh, "Yes, Officer, what is it? I know why this patient is here but he still deserves to be treated."

"Well, no, it—" the officer pointed at Logan's lab coat. "Your pen is leaking."

"Oh!" Logan moved his clipboard to the same hand as his tea, freeing his right hand. He looked down and tugged at the lab coat and sucked his teeth. He brushed at the stain while letting his left hand tip, spilling the contents of his cup down the chest and pants of the officer to his left.

"What the fu—" the officer leapt back, and Logan's eyes narrowed as he watching the man's hand jerk up to his gun, flicking the strap open before catching himself and blowing out a sharp breath. "Watch it, doc."

Logan's eyes flew open, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I've just been so clumsy today. Here, let me..." Logan approached the officer, brushing at his clothes, feeling the Kevlar armor under his shirt. The officer quickly stepped back again.

"It's fine Doctor, it's fine. I"ll go find a hand dryer or something."

"Oh, Nurse Kaye down on three always keeps a hair dryer for her patients under the nurses' station. You know, the one down by the good coffee machine." Logan smiled brightly at him, but the officer's attention was still captured by the large, cold wet spot covering the front of his trousers. Logan heard the officer next to him clear his throat.

"Yeah, Jake, you should probably go get that taken care of. It's three in the morning. This perp's not going anywhere."

Logan muttered as he shuffled his mug and clipboard between his arms, "Sorry, again. Excuse me." He opened the door all the way and slipped inside. The heavy door completely muffled the officers' voices on the other side and a hushed silence filled his ears, broken only by a quiet, periodic beep from the pulse-ox monitor next to the bed.

The slimeball was asleep, one wrist handcuffed to the bed rail.

A slow smile spread across Logan's face as he removed his lab coat, leaving it and his now-empty mug on a chair near the door. He approached the man lying in the bed, glancing down at the chart by his feet. "Mr. Utuado?" Logan, said, tapped sharply on his bandaged leg. The man's eyes shot open. "It's time to wake up, Mr. Utuado."

He stared at Logan with unfocused, blood shot eyes. He had bruises around both eye sockets and a split lip. Logan checked his IV bags. He nodded as he took in the automatic dosage machine, supplemental saline, and the tiny empty package of stool softener left behind in the trash can. "Is the morphine helping with the pain, Mr. Utuado?"

"How the fuck did you know they gave me morphine?" he spat. "And who the fuck are you? Are you supposed to be my lawyer or something?" Utuado eyed Logan's nondescript grey shirt and jeans with stuffed pockets. "You're dressed like a slob."

"Your doctors told me about your medications. Forgive me, I should've introduced myself. You requested a lawyer at the police station while they were—" Logan winced as he examined Utuado's injuries. He frowned and shook his head. "Well, I'm not surprised you're having some memory troubles. Those cops really worked you over, didn't they?" He patted Utuado's injured leg again, smiling sympathetically. "Don't you worry, though, we're gonna sue their asses for every cent they have."

Utuado's eyes widened and he licked his damaged lips. "Really? You think I could get money out of this?"

"Oh, definitely! Given the extent of your injuries... it doesn't matter what that brat has to say now... I won't let them get away with this without paying for it."

Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "What do you mean what 'that brat has to say now?' What'd she say?"

"Well, the kid says the webcam was on, but—" Logan scoffed, looking down at his clipboard and sitting on the edge of his bed, bumping the man's leg. He flinched but didn't say anything. "I don't buy it."

"The computer was off when I was in there, anyway..." Utuado muttered, looking away, reaching toward his leg.

A small smile tugged at Logan's lips. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, and it was dark in the room when—" Utuado blinked, eyes wide as he looked up at Logan. His mouth fell open slightly.

Logan prompted him, "It was dark in the room when you..." At his silence, Logan pursed his lips, putting down his clipboard. "Remember, Mr. Utuado, attorney-client privilege rules apply anytime you talk to your lawyer." He smiled sympathetically again, gazing at his battered face and mangled leg. "You've been through enough. Tell me what happened."

And he did. Utuado's eyes tightened as he described the beating at the police station. "All I did was tell that officer she was pretty. And this is what she does to me? Bitch."

"Mm-hm..." Logan's voice was strained, his expression hardening, but Utuado didn't seem to have noticed. Logan saw the light on the dosage machine flash briefly. He prodded the man, racing against the temporary stupor he knew would soon follow the dose. "And what happened before the officer caught you."

"Well, you know, I'd just finished and—" Logan stood, taking out the small velvet bag he'd brought from his dresser at home. "Hey, you aren't recording this or anything, right?" Utuado's voice held a twinge of panic.

"No, of course not. That would be entrapment and any decent attorney would have that recording dismissed from evidence before the ink was dry on your hospital release papers." Logan smiled, eyes steely. "No, no, no, no. That's not what I have here."

Logan extracted a small hypodermic from the bag, and quickly pushed it into Utuado's IV line, bypassing the saline drip. "This is Pancuronium bromide." Logan smiled as the man's arm twitched. "Are you familiar with it?"

Utuado's eyes widened as the muscles in his arm contracted unevenly but before he could call out, his entire body convulsed, then went still. "It's a paralytic." Logan smiled and he gripped the blanket covering Utuado's injured leg, clawing at the contusion. "But it won't interfere with pain sensation." He stared into Utuado's eyes, watching the way his pupils contracted and expanded. "I know you felt that. Don't worry, though, the end will come soon enough."

Still smiling, Logan continued. "Given this dosage, after a few hours, your smooth muscles will finally stop functioning. I could leave you like this as you slowly suffocated. Conscious. Alive and aware of every sensation, unable to beg for mercy, right up until the very end."

Logan's smile disappeared. "Did she beg for you to stop hurting her? The little girl?"

Squeezing his leg again, digging his fingers into the wound, Logan watched Utuado's eyes. "I bet she did. I did. We always do.

"And I'm going to give you the same mercy you gave her."

Giving his leg one final twist, Logan wiped the blood from his gloved hand on the blanket where it had started to pour through the dressing. Tugging another clean glove over the first, he removed the other hypodermic from his bag. "I don't know how much time we have left otherwise, believe me, Mr. Utuado, I'd make this last longer."

Holding up the hypodermic, Logan smiled again. "This is potassium chloride." He shrugged. "It's in Gatorade. It's a simple compound, but our physiology is so fragile. A tiny imbalance in electrolytes can be... fatal."

He tapped at the fluid. "Even three or four cc's at this concentration directly administered via IV could trigger cardiac arrest. More than that and your smooth muscles will seize, causing horrific pain in your lungs, intestines, esophagus, urethrae... It's used in lethal injections, but even capital punishment laws require that it must be administered in conjunction with a painkiller." Logan's grin grew as he held his little bag upside down, shaking it to show it was now empty. "Alas, I'm all out."

Logan pressed the entire contents of the 100cc needle into the IV as he leaned close to the man's ear.

"You've hurt a child for the last time, Mr Utuado. I'll see you in hell."

---

Logan peeled off his gloves and shoved the soiled ones into the pocket of his jeans as he watched the light die in Utuado's eyes. He put on one last clean pair and then his lab coat. He picked up the clipboard and his mug, breathing in and out rapidly, bringing himself close to the point of hyperventilation. He threw the mug on the floor next to the bed, then rushed to the door, ripping it open, pleased to see that the officer he'd sent on a wild goose chase for a fictional nurse and her hairdryer was still gone.

"Officer! Officer!" he cried out breathlessly. "The call button's broken in here! I'll get a crash cart! Go, go, go, go! Get a nurse, he stopped breathing!"

The officer's eyes flew open and he rushed off in the direction Logan had pointed, the opposite direction of the nurse's station he'd passed on his way. Glancing one last time at the room, Logan felt his pockets for the velvet bag, emptied hypodermic needles, and used gloves. He walked through the door and toward the closest stairwell.

Logan walked all the way down to the sub-basement, following the growing smell of bleach and the faint tinge of burnt linen. After a few minutes, he found the laundry room. He stripped off the lab coat and checked the collar for stray hairs before stuffing it in a pile of laundry in a canvas cart. Still gripping the clipboard and stethoscope, he popped on his eyeglasses, pulling his hair forward in its usual style. He spotted a red stripe along the wall and followed it upstairs to an emergency exit, the key to disable the alarm taped to the side of the door. Smiling one more time at this evening's luck, he inserted the key and turned it before pressing gingerly on the push bar. Not a peep.

He walked through the door, keeping his back to the single camera aimed near the exit and headed to the M42 bus back home to Gravesend. He passed a urine-scented alley five blocks down from the hospital, with an over-flowing dumpster. He shoved the stethoscope and clipboard inside, puncturing a bag and letting its foul contents fall over his temporary props.

Logan nodded when he glanced at his watch under a streetlight. He still had time for his shower before he needed to be up for the NASDAQ, the actual market he was watching today.

And after he was clean, it would be wise to make some time for breakfast. He hoped Patton hadn't found his stash of Crofter's yet.

---

taglist: @mavenmush @demon9980 @crossiantgay @psychedelicships @justmeandmygayships @tsfanficarchive

[highladyluck]

“Magic Dagger Curse Is My Middle Name” & Human Evil in Wheel of Time

Part 2 of a series of essays on the theme “Tuon is Mat’s Replacement Shadar Logoth Dagger”. (Part 1 was “Stealing Is The Way to Mat Cauthon’s Heart”.)

This discusses the many parallels Tuon has to Mat’s dagger on a symbolic level, covering both her and her role as leader of Seanchan. But mostly, I talk an extraordinary amount about how the Shaido, Whitecloaks, and Seanchan reflect the archetypal in-universe human evil of Shadar Logoth.

Magic Dagger Curse Is My Middle Name

Tuon Athaem Kore Paendrag (now Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag) has a lot of names, and I'd found puns or references in most of them. There's the "Lady Luck" pun of "Empress Fortuona". There's the very appropriate "Kore" (Persephone's and Tuon's pre-kidnapping moniker, meaning "Maiden") for a girl who gets kidnapped and dragged through both the human underworld (a circus, and a dive bar that's literally called a hell) and the death-related underworld (a literal ghost town full of ghosts, and the hell of guerilla warfare). There's "Devi", a reference to divinity, which replaces "Kore". Paendrag is of course an Arthurian legend reference.

But the one name I never quite understood was her only other permanent name- "Athaem". The 13th Depository Blog suggests it was meant to evoke both "athame" - a knife or dagger used in magic rituals - and "anathema" - a curse, especially one that exiles someone. Go on, let that sink in. Tuon's middle name is "Magic Dagger Curse". Tuon "Magic Dagger Curse" Paendrag. Fortuona "Magic Dagger Curse" Paendrag. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE ENOUGH THAT TUON'S ACTUAL MIDDLE NAME HAS ACTUALLY BEEN "MAGIC DAGGER CURSE" THIS ENTIRE TIME.

Basically that's all I actually need to say here to prove that Tuon is the symbolic return of Mat's sexy cursed magic dagger that isolates the bearer via paranoia and suspicion, but let's throw in some of the other parallels just for fun and so you have time to recover from the psychic damage I just dealt you. There's some fun ones just around rubies specifically and the color red.

The Shadar Logoth dagger has a large dark ruby on it, the size of Mat's thumbnail. Mat estimates it would buy a dozen farms back home, and when Mat first meets Tuon, he notices she's 'wearing a fortune in rubies'. Also, before she becomes Empress, Tuon's signature color is red; she's got red fingernails, red and a very dark green are the imperial colors as seen on the Deathwatch guards, she buys a lot of red silk in Jurador, and presumably the roses in the Raven and Roses imperial sign are red, as she treasures Mat's present of red silk rosebuds. (Interestingly, she starts going more blue once she becomes Empress- I'm thinking specifically of the blue nails and dress she has when she declares maritime Ebou Dar her capital.)

Tuon also has other physical similarities to edged weapons in general, and the dagger specifically. Like the dagger, she looks ornamental but could absolutely kill you. Mat describes her hands as "bladed like an ax" when she strikes a footpad in the throat to save him. She's also sharp, in the sense of being very intelligent and canny. Also, she could learn to channel, and in being a sul'dam is a conduit for magic, so she fits that aspect of the dagger as well. And, last but not least, like the dagger, Tuon is a fascinating and deadly artifact of a powerful civilization that embraces a uniquely human form of evil.

Shadar Logoth as Ultimate Human Evil

In the books, Shadar Logoth is our loadstone for what is described as a specifically human kind of evil, separate from the absolute, somewhat abstracted "evil for evil's sake" that is the province of the Dark One. The Dark One's ideology as practiced by humans ends up being nihilism, or rather, self-interested nihilism. (Ishamael isn't a pure nihilist, he's ok with getting worldly power while there's still a world.) In contrast, Shadar Logoth's downfall is a kind of corruption; evil things done in the name of, and for the sake of, good things. There are other cultures that do that, of course, but Shadar Logoth is the purest example of 'the ends justify the means', since their 'end' was fighting the Dark One.

"The victory of the Light is all. That was the battlecry Mordeth gave them, and the men of Aridhol shouted it while their deeds abandoned the Light. [...] No enemy had come to Aridhol but Aridhol. Suspicion and hate had given birth to something that fed on that which created it, something locked in the bedrock on which the city stood." -Moiraine, The Eye of the World

The goal of opposing the Dark One (an abstract idea of evil) at any cost led them to turn on and destroy not just their allies but ultimately each other.

Mat's Shadar Logoth dagger is a part of Shadar Logoth that has most of the powers of the whole. When carried by an individual, it can brainwash, induce (semi-justified) paranoia, kill via corruption, and infect others. These are all powers associated with Aridhol/Shadar Logoth. About the only thing the dagger can't do that we see other elements of Shadar Logoth do is shapechange or snatch bodies (#JustMordethThings) and move semi-instinctually on its own (like Mashadar). Shadar Logoth is established as Peak Human Evil, an evil so archetypal it has undergone a sort of dark apotheosis and become both a physical and metaphysical force.

Because it is so archetypal, we should expect to see aspects of it reflected in other Randland cultures that are antagonistic to our heroes, but which are not explicitly pledged to the Dark One.  We should also expect to see the same part to whole dynamic in those cultures' leaders. Rand is a great example of this part-to-whole dynamic; as the Dragon Reborn who is 'one with the land', he struggles against increasing paranoia and self-hatred, which leads him to act as his own antagonist for much of the series, even as he explicitly fights against the Dark One. It's the Shadar Logoth struggle writ large. Therefore, the leader of a corrupted, Shadar Logoth-esque culture will be a powerful and faithful representative of the traits of that culture; you could say they are the purest expression of that culture.

This is a tenet of Robert Jordan's worldbuilding and narrative, and applies to more than just the antagonist leaders; protagonist leaders also stand in practically and symbolically for their culture or group. Over the course of the series, nations and groups end up led by the 'best' people for the job, where 'best' is some combination of 'most representative', 'most competent', and/or 'best adhering to their culture's ethical tenets' (which often happen to be our protagonists). This has the possibly unintended/unconscious effect of justifying autocracy, monarchy, etc in-world because it's all adhering to aristocracy, 'rule by the best', where 'best' is rather culturally relative. It's also an artifact in-universe of the world moving to a wartime footing; anyone who isn't the best person for the job gets tossed out of the way in the name of prepping for Tarmon Gai'don, by some combination of The Will of The Pattern as well as actual effort on the part of our heroes.

On a more meta level, Robert Jordan's choice to use third person limited points of view means we get a lot of POV characters who are very embedded in their cultures and serve as an immersive cultural crash course for the reader. They tend to be either main or secondary characters who are movers and shakers in the plot (justifying the time we spend in their heads) or there to provide an outsider reaction to main or secondary characters (again, justifying the time we spend in their heads.) Robert Jordan's writing is concerned with the use, abuse, and fluctuations of power, but it's worth noting that he doesn't give us POVs of characters who are structurally and permanently without power.

POV characters often have moments of powerlessness, either in the beginning of their narratives or at the end, but if you happen to be a WoT character who never had power and never will, RJ isn't interested in showing us the inside of your head. For example, we don't ever get a POV from an ordinary da'covale who spends the entire series out of control of their own destiny, even though that could be a very powerful outsider perspective. Instead, we get POVs from sojhin, who are movers and shakers in their own right. (These are great POVs--Karede's POV in chapter 36 of KOD is maybe my favorite of the entire series, it's a work of art--but again, there's a bias here in who we observe observing.) In a series where people bemoan or celebrate being constrained by fate and consciously question if they have free will, we somehow don't hear from those who have never had worldly power; we only hear from those who do, or once did.

(I find this disappointing, and it's one of the reasons I find it difficult to recommend the Wheel of Time books- which are obviously deeply personally significant to me, and which I find fun, interesting, and more often than not, well-written- without caveats. The series is so obviously about power and choice and the ways they influence each other, and uses third person limited POV so skillfully, that it is surprising and disturbing to me that we are not exposed directly to the point of view of those who have been permanently and structurally deprived of power. We miss an opportunity to engage with the core themes on that level, and also uncover an authorial bias that hasn't aged very well and which makes me look at some of RJ's other choices with a more jaundiced eye. I believe WoT would have been stronger and richer thematically if it had grappled directly with the realities and perspectives of those who remained powerless throughout the events of the series. And whether it was an unconscious or deliberate choice to leave out those perspectives, not having them there lessens my trust and acceptance of Robert Jordan's takes on power and choice. But I digress!)

Heirs of Shadar Logoth: The Shaido

So, there are other antagonist cultures that we spend a lot of time with but which are not explicitly allied with the Dark One (though we are always shown their leaders being subject to the Dark One's influence, through their advisors and high-ranking coworkers, who are Darkfriend characters that have positions of structural power and influence.) Overall, the Shadar Logoth archetype means we are looking for structural corruption, fear, hatred, and the cultural belief that the ends justify the means. In-universe, that's what human evil looks like, and we expect to find it in our secondary antagonists.

So let's take a look at the Shaido, who are attempting to recapture a glorious (fictional) past by imposing a corrupted version of their original values on others; the Whitecloaks, who spread authoritative dehumanization and bigotry in the name of order and righteousness; and the Seanchan, who have the dubious distinction of doing *both*, which is why they win the door prize for Most Problematic Antagonist Who Isn't Literally Allied With The Dark One.

The Shaido are an example of a corrupted culture that imposes its corruption on others, especially others that do not meaningfully consent to be assimilated. Their corruption starts with suspicion and fear and leads to brainwashing; they choose to believe a lie because it is more palatable than the truth, and because they fear becoming powerless and losing their cultural identity. They and the Aiel that joined them cannot accept Rand's truth bomb about the origins of the Aiel as pacifists. It's an idea so counter to modern Aiel self-image and culture that the secret was carefully hidden and used as a test of character for Aiel leaders.

In the test, the knowledge that they had betrayed their original ideals to survive was presented in the original emotional and logistical contexts, which may have helped the Aiel who went through the test survive learning about it; it's easier to empathize and overcome fear and disgust if you know why people made the decisions they did. To survive, and to self-govern, the honor-bound Aiel leadership has learned to forgive themselves for their corruption, while not losing the lessons they learned from it, and empathize with people almost entirely unlike themselves. (How effective are they at that? Your mileage may vary.)

Normally, only those who could accept the information could reach the highest leadership roles. Sevanna, whom the Shaido exodus coalesces under after the death of Couladin, is the only Wise One who didn't go through that testing process (she got in on a technicality), which makes her uniquely qualified to lead the group that can't accept this information. Like that group, she lacks humility or the ability to accept unpleasant truths; however, she's self-confident, politically skilled, culturally competent, and has a clear vision for her people, which are the other qualities that the Aiel select for in their leaders. (I cannot believe that today I woke up and said nice things about Sevanna!)

She's presented as somewhat 'corrupted' by wetlander ways, greedy for wealth and power, but I think it's more that she's off the leash of strict Aiel morality; she goes on a reign of terror, taking more than she needs of any resource, and capturing non-Aiel and keeping them as permanent gai'shain. This is clearly slavery in a more modern sense. The Aiel proper have a sort of ancient-style slavery, based on taking prisoners of war, that is time-bound, highly regulated, and that everybody more or less consents to by living in that society. (I say more-or-less; not sure your average civilian Aiel precisely consents the way a warrior might consent, but then again, everyone in Aiel society is a little bit of a warrior.) Sevanna's unconsenting, permanent, non-Aiel gai'shain are a clear violation of all of these tenets, and resemble the bodysnatching and invasive nature of the Shadar Logoth evil. Fear turns into hatred of both kinds of uncorrupted Aiel (the originals, and the modern) and of those groups of people who are not like them. In the end, the Shaido dissolve, their corruption having weakened them so that they fall prey to outside forces.

Heirs of Shadar Logoth: The Children of the Light/Whitecloaks

The Whitecloaks are an obvious heir to Shadar Logoth, as they persecute channelers and anyone they consider a Darkfriend in the name of order, righteousness, and the Light. Whitecloaks represent the paranoia, assassination, and brainwashing powers of Shadar Logoth, and insofar as they have assimilated Amadicia and make forays across borders, they also cover invasion, though to perhaps a smaller degree than the Shaido (or the Seanchan). The Whitecloaks are also good intentions, corrupted; yes, Darkfriends are bad, yes, the Light is good, no, not everyone you don't like or who has power you want is a Darkfriend! They turn neighbor against neighbor, harrass, torture, and murder the innocent as well as the guilty, and generally do all the bad behavior you would expect of a military quasi-religious order that considers itself above the law. Also, Mordeth/Fain literally got his grubby hands all over the Whitecloaks early in the story and made them even worse.

Galad is a really good example of the 'best man for the job' ending up in it; Galad's extremely uncompromising morality is most likeable and practical when he's fulfilling a 'reformer' role in a group that really needs it, and when he's not in that role, his entire deal can feel excessive and alienating. (Although I will note that if you think about how his mom abandoned him to pursue what she was told was her duty, and his dad was a real asshole, you can kind of see why Galad has such a strict moral code and won't let something like family or feelings get in the way of carrying out his duty... anyway just having feelings about Galad, don't mind me.) When leading the Whitecloaks he recalls them to their original ideals and purpose, which is literally fighting the Shadow on an actual battlefield, and makes them hew to ethical standards from the original Lothair Mantelear text and his own personal extremely high standards.

He purifies the Children of the Light, insofar as they can be purified, purging the corrupt people and practices. This allows the Whitecloaks to ally with the Light, rather than sitting out the Last Battle or killing important Light-allied groups. But the Whitecloak channelerphobia is not going to be eradicated so easily, and that's mostly what Galad’s family was objecting to about him joining the Whitecloaks in the first place. And even Galad starts to succumb to it by the end of the series, although to be fair the White Tower had definitely done a number on his family by that point. Post-Last-Battle, Galad is really going to have to grapple with 'what is the practical purpose of a bunch of armed busybodies who think they're better than everyone else and who have a very deep-seated hatred and fear of channelers?' One hopes he'll convert them to a peaceable monastic order doing community service. If anyone can do it, it's probably Galad, but I think it's not going to be easy and it's also not clear to me if Galad is going to have the same opinion about the necessity that I do.

Heirs of Shadar Logoth: The Seanchan

So, now we come to the Seanchan, who are a rich, complex, fascinating culture that combines the best and worst thematic elements of both the Shaido and the Whitecloaks. Twice the fun, twice the flavor! Like the Shaido, they are the corruption of an honor-based culture that now assimilates other people and cultures without their consent. The Seanchan have a strongly-held honor system that uses public and private shame as a deterrent to unethical behavior, similar to ji'e'toh, but like the Shaido, they apply it to conquered peoples under duress; even if the Seanchan themselves are ok living this way, there's no real consent happening when they conquer.

Like the Shaido, the Seanchan claim to be the true heirs of an ancient legacy, the children of the child of Artur Hawkwing, but have spent enough time in Seanchan to absorb all sorts of concepts Artur Hawkwing never had (slavery, taming weird beasties, exploiting Aes Sedai rather than just avoiding or fighting them). Their culture is also built on convenient fictions; the knowledge that sul'dam can learn to channel, and that some can be held by the a'dam, is likely to produce a truth bomb down the line, one way or another. And the Seanchan are an imperial power, which means they automatically follow the natural growth and rules of empire; always be expanding, always be consuming, always be exploiting. They're Mashadar, baby!

Let's zoom in on the slavery, since that's one prong of what makes the Seanchan evil. It's a kind of bodysnatching and brainwashing, and there are some really interesting parallels here to the Shaido and Aiel. The Seanchan have three forms of institutional slavery; so'jhin, da'covale, and damane. So'jhin, hereditary upper servants of the upper class, have the most power and are analogous but not precisely equivalent to normal Aiel gai'shain. Like standard gai'shain, they are considered property that can be traded, have some level of autonomy and ability to direct their lives, certain rights and privileges, and in theory can be manumitted.

Unlike gai'shain, they actually can have more political power than free people. Also unlike gai'shain, they are not guaranteed manumission after a set time, and while I think the gai'shain consent issue is a little muddy (Aiel can't help being born Aiel and thus subject to Aiel raids) so'jhin are born into slavery and have therefore absolutely not consented to it. So'jhin appear to be based at least partially on Byzantine examples of high-ranking slaves, and slavery in other very complex and bureaucratic cultures where those in power needed highly competent administrators, but didn't want the administrators supplanting them.

Da'covale are equivalent to Shaido gai'shain; often (but not always) captured from other cultures, absent the rights and privileges of regular gai'shain or so'jihn, and bound to involuntary servitude for life, although they can in theory be manumitted. (Shaido gai'shain have the option of trying to escape, I guess.) They have very little autonomy and power to direct their lives. It may be possible for da'covale to become so'jihn, so again there is a kind of internal mobility/potential access to power that doesn't have an exact equivalent with the Aiel models, but that's offset by the lack of consent; da'covale can also be born into slavery. One can be made da'covale as punishment for defiance or anything else the Seanchan see as a crime, or born into it. It seems historically equivalent to ancient, prisoner-of-war-type slavery, mixed with the carcereal state; you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or you fucked up, and that's the justification for making you a slave.

Damane have some points in common with both regular Aiel and Shaido versions of dat'sang; they are all slavery in the form of the carcereal state/slavery as an outcome of the justice system. Dat'sang are 'despised ones', usually those accused of being Darkfriends or who have committed heinous crimes. It's a punishment that is apparently permanent and unrecallable, and they are sentenced to the most shaming labor in the worst conditions. They are cast-out from the community and forced to serve it in the most degrading way. Marath'damane, channelers with the spark who are not leashed, are treated like dat'sang are, in that they are cast out of their communities and shamed for their 'crimes'. Once they are leashed, though, they become integral parts of Seanchan society and are told to take pride in the service they can provide, which is very unlike the dat'sang cultural experience. Damane are enslaved and exploited for their talents, ostensibly to keep the general population safe from their magic powers and their potential political power, but also because they're an incredibly powerful military and infrastructure resource.

The first damane was created out of a combination of fear, greed, and hatred. One Seanchan-local Aes Sedai captured a rival and brought her to Luthair Paendrag, who she knew would be receptive to constraining the power of channelers. What she didn't count on was that solution being institutionalized, and that she'd eventually fall prey to it herself; a classic Shadar Logoth "do a shitty thing unto others and eventually you'll just be doing a shitty thing to yourself" move. Both the existing Seanchan population and Luthair's group had already othered, hated, and feared channelers, the Seanchan possibly for logical contextual reasons (seems like the Seanchan Aes Sedai were all independent Americans who didn't want to be governed by a universal code of ethics or subject to institutional oversight, which is not conducive to living in a society), and Luthair because of Ishamael’s original corruption of Artur Hawkwing.

In the end, the combined Luthair group/original Seanchan institutionalized their channeler bigotry, saying that the ends (preventing channelers from exploiting non-channelers) justified the means (exploiting channelers). Damane are never, ever freed and now the Seanchan think of channeling independently as inherently a corruption and a crime; something that makes the involuntary channeler evil and unhuman. They also break channelers, brainwashing them into thinking that this is for their own good (and not just for the good of the state).

(Another meta aside: Because involuntarily channeling is a genetic trait that the channeler has no control over, leashing damane feels to a modern reader, especially US ones, I think, very much like the race-based slavery of our recent past. Especially the idea that the enslaved person is enslaved as a punishment for a crime; this is something that would hit a US reader pretty hard, given that the US's booming prison population is the only legal slave labor force in the US and is also disproportionately made up of people of color. I am pretty sure that explicit parallels between racist slavery and the practice of leashing damane would be supported by Robert Jordan, especially since he literally put the Seanchan on post-apocalyptic North and South America. They have other influences, including Imperial Japan and Imperial China, and the Byzantine Empire, but in this way, and also because of the Texas accents, they are very, very American.)

The Seanchan are also similar to the Whitecloaks; they're both military groups who hate and fear channelers, and they are particularly susceptible to paranoia and assassination/extrajudicial murder. The Shadow didn't have any trouble infliltrating either the Whitecloak command structure (especially the Questioners) or the Seanchan Blood; there's a certain background level of 'the ends justify the means' going on in Seanchan and Whitecloak power centers that makes them fertile ground for recruitment. The Whitecloaks and the Seanchan both have a kind of secret police; Questioners and Seekers (they even have similar names!) who operate under certain strictures with respect to their upper management, but who can basically do whatever the hell they want to ordinary people. And I'm sure I don't need to tell you that secret police are PEAK Shadar Logoth; they were always judging everyone else, generating paranoia and mistrust.

The Blood and Imperial family are also a really great example of Shadar Logoth values creating a (somewhat) functioning society full of extremely fucked-up people; the more power you have, the more delicately you have to step and the harder you have to watch your own back. The higher up you go, the less trust you are able to have in others, until you reach the point where people are sending assassins after an imperial baby, and the imperial baby grows up thinking that's completely normal and fair and it's their fault if they are ever not good enough to dodge it. (Hi, sorry, please excuse me and my many, many feelings about Tuon.) That kind of thing makes you very, very sharp, assuming you survive; it also makes you very inured to violence and most comfortable when you've got a high baseline paranoia going at all times. It puts you in danger and it gives you the means to survive danger; it's very Shadar Logoth dagger, which attracts Darkfriends but also gives you the ability to sense the Darkfriends right back, and incidentally stab the hell out of them.

A Part With the Power of the Whole: Tuon and the Seanchan

So, we have all the sins of Shadar Logoth united in the Seanchan; they're invaders, they brainwash and bodysnatch, they're paranoid, they assassinate and murder, they've institutionalized hate and fear, they're structurally corrupt in that power in their society is based on lies and exploitation, and they think that when it comes to dealing with their mortal enemies (channelers), the ends justify the means. And their leader, Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag, Empress of Seanchan, is indeed many of these things wrapped up in one efficient and deadly package.

She's a sul'dam and she enjoys her work breaking and training damane; she's had siblings assassinated and we've seen her kill onscreen; she's deeply suspicious, always second-guessing and skeptical (except about received values and information from her culture); she embodies and enforces Seanchan culture and power. She is all Seanchan in one person, and she'd tell you that proudly. She tries to assimilate *herself* into the state, because she thinks that's what she's supposed to do, to best serve her people. She wants to be the part that is an exact mirror of the whole, and she wants the whole to be perfect, so she wants herself to be perfect, too.

Do you see the shades of Galad, here? Like Galad, she has a strict and impractically idealistic moral code that makes her somewhat unpopular wherever she goes; she's too unpredictable, merciful, and flexible for her counterparts in the Blood (she's always surprising them with her unconventional choices) and too perfectly Seanchan for her allies (who are all horrified by the damane thing, or the da'covale thing, or the assassination thing, etc etc.) The things people grudgingly praise her for are sincerity, competence, compassion within the bounds of her ethical structure, and (sometimes) a willingness to consider new information or accept oversight, the last of which is only impressive because of how enormous her ego is and how thoroughly she's been indoctrinated to believe she's inherently correct and all-powerful.

She is the best of Seanchan, within the context of Seanchan: she survived, took, and kept power, making her the most competent imperial daughter; she's very ethical within Seanchan strictures, not striking first unless threatened, working to acknowledge and correct personal faults, keeping her word, showing concern and mercy for those she believes are suffering, being thoughtful and careful of consequences when she exercises power; she is most representative of all of Seanchan's flaws and virtues, as a sul'dam, Empress, and Lightside ally. (That said: is Tuon the most ethical Seanchan within a broader cultural context? Hell no, that's Egeanin, who goes through a long and painful process of realizing and rejecting the corrupt and nasty parts of Seanchan culture, after it rejects her.)

To conclude: just like Mat's Shadar Logoth dagger, Tuon is a fascinating and dangerous tool of a powerful, antagonistic civilization that embraces a uniquely human form of evil. Her middle name is literally "Magic Knife Curse", Seanchan is the most Shadar Logoth-y of non-Shadow-aligned antagonist cultures, and she also follows the very Robert Jordan pattern of leaders fractally reflecting the culture or group they lead.

[badsext]

I know this is a non-Halloween related one, but could I get a robbie x reader fic where the reader isn't cleanly shaved anywhere, and when it's time to get intimate, she gets insecure. he reassures her, and fluffy smut ensues. 👉👈

Natural: Robert Sheehan x (Fem) Reader

Thank you for the request! I hope you like it.

⚠️ Drugs, Alcohol, and Smut including unprotected sex

————————————————————————————————

“It’s not a party. Niki takes one last toke on her vape. “It’s just a small group of friends getting together,” she says on the exhale. She offers you some, but the contact high inside the car is more than enough. Your anxious mind doesn’t want you too relaxed.

“I just think it’s a little weird that we had to park in the cul-de-sac.”

“I’m just being polite.”

“And you know someone at this party?”

Niki scowls at you playfully. “I know, I know, not a party.” You hold your hands up in mock defense.

You follow her on foot through a very nice neighborhood and up a steep incline. Suddenly Niki stops at what you assume must be your destination, a huge modern six bedroom house. She grabs your wrist. “Come on.” Breaking into a trot, she circles you around to the back of the house. “Now just blend in.” You look around. There must be thirty people in the backyard alone. You shoot Niki a look of betrayal, but she has already struck up a conversation with an attractive group of strangers. She winks. You slink off to find the bathroom.

The line stretches down the hall. “God, you’d think with a house this size there would be more available bathrooms,” you say somewhat rhetorically to the stranger next to you. You see him only in profile. “There are actually four bathrooms in this house,” he says. “The two upstairs are being used for some kind of intervention and ritualistic bathing.” His voice and his accent sound familiar.

“Really, okay,” you laugh. “What about the fourth one?”

“Oh, that one is for the cats. There’s a sign on the door.” He turns to get a better look at you and you recognize him. It’s Robert Sheehan. Your mind suddenly goes blank and you have to remind yourself to blink.

“Cats, yeah,” you mumble. You’ll have to snap out of it if you want to continue this conversation. “I’m y/n.”

“Rob.” He bobs his head in greeting.

Suddenly the bathroom door opens and its occupant emerges, holding the door for Rob to take his place. “You wanna go first?,” he offers.

“Thanks, it it’s not that serious. I actually just got here and I’m nervous about meeting new people so I’m stalling.”

He smiles. “Cheers, then.” The door closes behind him.

You stand there berating yourself for the 2.5 minutes he is in there pissing and washing his hands. He opens the door with smile and a gleam in his eye. “Will you come meet me in the kitchen for a drink when you’re done?”

“Um, yeah,” you respond happily, but with a hint of skepticism.

You look in the bathroom mirror just long enough to psych yourself up and not out. Then you head trepidatiously to the kitchen. Rob sees you from across the room and comes over with two bottles and an opener.

“Y/N, you made it! Beer?” Your name sounds so good in his voice.

“Sure.”

He opens it for you and clinks his bottle with yours. “To meeting new people...Shall we mingle?” You nod. He leads you back to the patio. There are a cluster of chairs facing one another. You take the one closest to Rob. Rob waves and greets the others “Dan, Steve, this is y/n.”

“Hey. We were just talking about strip clubs,” Dan admits.

“What do you think of them?”

Rob laughs. “I’ve been dragged to a few. I prefer burlesque.”

“How about you, y/n?”

“You don’t have to answer that.” Rob senses this topic might make you uncomfortable.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve only ever seen them in the movies.” You want to blend in, make friends. “It’s funny, I’ve always been curious what happens in a real strip club after they cut away. Do they take off their bottoms?” You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth, a misguided attempt to be ‘one of the guys.’

“Depends on the club.”

“Wow, ok.”

“They do the splits and you can see everything.” The guys make faces at each other.

“Do they like move the hair?”

“The hair? What kind of fucked up 1970’s strip club are you talking about? No, they don’t have pubic hair!” Dan laughs. “Everybody shaves. Pubic hair is gross. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t shave.”

“Yeah.” You respond looking into your beer.

Rob turns to you and says loud enough for all to hear, “Let’s go somewhere else. I didn’t realize these guys were such assholes.”

It was a sore subject. You had very sensitive skin and from the first time you tried it shaving caused painful, visibly red irritation that never seemed to go away. You tried every razor, lotion and depilatory cream in existence, but it was no use. Finally a few years ago you decided you were better off with the hair than enduring such extreme measures to remove it. Fuck society and their beauty standards. Accept you hated the judgement whenever your hairy skin was exposed. When the weather got warm you started wearing long bohemian skirts to hide your legs and sheer coverups to hide your underarms. Draping yourself in long loose delicate fabrics became your signature look. It made you feel magical.

“I’m sorry about those guys,” Rob says walking away. “For the record, I do not share those opinions.” He tucks a few stray curls behind his ear with a smile. “Do you want to go somewhere less crowded, get something to eat? I’m already sick of this party.”

“I thought it wasn’t a party.”

“What?”

“Sorry, it’s an inside joke I have with my friend, Niki. She brought me here. I should tell her I’m leaving.”

“Where is she?”

“God only knows. I’ll text her.”

Rob pointed to the door behind him. “This is my room. I’m going to change and charge my phone.”

“Wait, your room? You live here?”

“No, I’m only staying a few nights in the guest room. Want to meet me back here in ten minutes so we can go?”

“Perfect.” As you go to find Niki, you realize that Robert Sheehan essentially just asked you on a date and walked you to his room.

Niki is found in the living room singing and playing the piano. An audience has gathered to watch. From across the room you give her the signal that you are leaving. She smiles and flashes a thumbs up between piano chords. That is when you notice the butterflies in your stomach. Rob is waiting for you.

You dash down the hall, footsteps speeding up to match your elevated heart rate. Your free flowing garments flutter behind you as you approach the guest room. Rob answers the door, looks at you and smiles. “Are you ready?” You stumble forward into his arms for a kiss. He responds, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you inside. At this proximity you become aware of his scent, thick and sweet. You part your lips for him, the feel of his tongue gliding against yours casting sparks down to your core.

He pulls his lips from yours and grasps your hand. “Would you like to see where this goes?” He searches your eyes for doubt. Your doubts are not for him but for yourself.

So he is not grossed out by a woman who doesn’t shave her pussy, but what about a woman who doesn’t shave at all? There is no way to be sure if you don’t ask, but asking might kill the mood.

He can sense you are conflicted about something. “We can still go out now if you-“

You sit down on the edge of the bed. “Before this goes any further, I think I should tell you that I don’t shave...anywhere.”

“You don’t?” His voice is soft.

You shake your head.

“Anywhere?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Nope.”

He looks down at your feet. “May I?”

You slip one foot out of its sandal and place your heel in Rob’s open palm. He rests the sole of your foot against his chest. The angle of your leg causes the fabric of your skirt to ride up. Your breath gets caught in your throat as Rob glides his hand slowly along your unshaven calf. He smiles deviously before tickling you right behind your very ticklish knees. You giggle and thrash around, pulling him on top of you in the process. Once the laughter subsides you hold each others gaze for a moment. You always thought he was gorgeous on film, but now, experiencing him in the flesh...You are spellbound.

Both of you start to undress. You instinctively cross your arms over your chest to hide the hair under your arms. Rob reaches up to cradle your face in his hand. “You don’t have to hide this with me.” He kisses the top of your shoulder while his green eyes stare. “I fancy you.” Your arms relax and a little smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “There you are.”

You kiss him hungrily as your hand slides down to grasp his hard length. Rob inhales a shallow breath at the sudden presence of your touch. You start to work him up and down a little, but he stays focused on you. He boldly plunges his long fingers into your fuzzy little nest of curls. Rob rubs your clit in little circles while his mouth finds your nipple. You whimper and moan at the sensations building inside you. Then you are shocked by the sudden absence of his mouth on your breast. You open your eyes to find him nestled between your legs with his long hair tucked behind his ears.

“Oh, Rob you don’t have to-“

But his fingers are already gently separating your labia and his tongue is already licking you in perfect rhythmic strokes. He looks up at you and smiles. His licking turns to gentle sucking. It feels so good you grind back against his face. He slides his hands underneath you to draw you closer and squeeze your ass. Your body convulses into a powerful orgasm. He slides back up to gage your reaction, his lips coated with your essence. He picks a stray hair off his tongue.

“Fuck me, Robbie. I want you to fill me.”

Robbie grabs your hips and buries his stiff cock into your slick opening. He stretches you just right, grinding on your swollen clit. Each thrust bringing you closer and closer. Your muscles contract around him as this orgasm flows through you like waves crashing on the beach. Rob gets such pleasure in watching you cum it triggers his own release. He moans softly and kisses you as he pulls out. Then he throws the blankets over you both to shield you from the excessive air conditioning. “Weren’t we going out somewhere? What would make a good first date?,” he asks.

“‘First’ date?”

Robbie laughs. He is nervous a moment, but you smile and wrap your arm around him. “In a minute. I have to find out where you are ticklish.”

[foreverlostindreams]

So many questions

“Tony that's not what happened!” Why was he the only one pointing that out again? They all would be free to go, so much faster, if he wasn’t the only one correcting all the crazy exaggerations the man was making. “Oh come on old man, why do you have to be so boring?” Tony wasted no time shooting back, while turning around to him “We spend nearly a week following every step of the plan Fury and his little friends here developed and now I can’t point out its flaws for two minut - what's that on your arm? Did you get a tattoo to fit in with the young kids?” Talk about turning around the conversation, if he didn’t expect some kind of distraction from the man, he would have gotten a whiplash. “Tony, can we just get this over with?” “Who is changing topics now?” “What are you even talking about?” “Your arm! You think I’m joking?” he gripped sayed arm and held it up into his view and everyone else's looks followed. Just in that moment new scribbles started appearing on his skin “Oh you just turned a lot less boring, star spangled banner” Tony concluded.

A few more inappropriate comments from Tony, questions from everyone and an intermission from Bruce, who led him away to deescalate the whole situation. Steve was storming a few steps ahead of the doctor right to his lab. “I was born nearly a hundred years ago, I should not be here. How can a soulmate connection start now?” he asked his most pressing question“Soulmates links cannot be concluded under any kind of logic, Captain. Some people have it, some don’t. Sometimes they show up early, sometimes later in life, sometimes it never does. And it might have started earlier for you as well, a lot of people draw and scribble a lot on their skin in childhood and teenage years. Hoping of course that they would get a reaction, if this was a person fitting your age now, not counting your - um time-out, that would have been approximately fifteen to five years ago, when you were - hm unable to notice it or return that favour.” Banner concluded. “But I shouldn't be alive! That person would have lived without a soulmate!” Steve seemed furious at that thought as Bruce noticed not without smiling a little. “Like I said, not everybody has a soulmate Captain. There were a lot more in your time but now, less and less people in each generation have one. Science is still trying to find out reasons for that, but not having one doesn’t mean people lead an unhappy life. Your person probably still believes themself one of those people.” he pointed out. “Let's also not get started on the discussion of what higher power or fate could be behind this, that would explain knowing you would wake up again in time, to be a part of this person's life.” 

“So what is the Text?” Banner asked, when they were finally in the lab “Kiyosaki, rdpd, 2014” Steve read aloud, not grasping any kind of meaning from it “Jarvis?” “Rdpd is most commonly used as an abbreviation for the book Rich dad, poor dad by Robert T. Kiyosaki advised as lecture in most colleges for courses of finances.” “So a college student” Barner concluded “if we assume that he or she must be in a lecture right now, we can cross off all colleges that do not teach a fitting course or are in a fitting time zone. How many would that be, Jarvis?” “There are 5300 Colleges in the United states, in your chosen parameters are 1134 of those.” Steve's head was swimming, was this how he was supposed to find out about his soulmate? He could still just reply with a pen on his skin and hope to not scare off the person on the other end. But as Banner had mentioned, he had been quiet for years, what if his person had built a good life for themselves without him? Had he a right to just barge in? Being his soulmate would come with a lot of safety problems and needed changes for that person, would he want that? 

Banner noticed his wandering mind. “If you want, I can continue searching without you.” he offered “If we find something, I will write it down for you and put it in an envelope. Then you can decide when you want to know. But Shield would need to know, there are certain protocols and measures for every soulmate of shield agents, if they know about us or not.” “Are there more out there, who don’t know, their soulmate is not answering, because he or she is a special agent?” “Unfortunately, yes. Like I said, I am not the biggest believer in fate, but I do believe, since soulmates exist, you would not be connected to somebody unable to handle you and your life. And making that decision for the both of you is quite the choice.” He very quickly noticed that he stuck his finger directly where it hurts and paddled back “Still, it is your life and your soulmate Captain, I am just a scientist, not a guru for the best life decisions. I mean, I turn green every once in a while.”

“Captain, Mr. Stark is calling a spontaneous meeting right now” Friday alerted him about a week of him wrecking his brain about the decision without a conclusion later. “Do we have a mission?” he asked, looking up from his sketches, ready to take off in seconds, only to relax when the AI denied. “It seems Mr. Stark has a visitor, he is excited to introduce to everyone.” Steve knew what was going on, before he even stood up, the white envelope Bruce handed him four days ago burned in the back of his mind and his anger boiled up the whole way to Tony's favourite of the meeting rooms in the compound. 

“You had no right!” he pressed out in between his teeth the second he saw the man, trying to calm his need to scream at him. “I know you people who are as old as dirt feel like you have time, but you don’t so I was doing you a favor really capsicle.” he answered totally unbothered by his anger as always. “I would like to take this moment to say ‘ I had nothing to do with this, he hacked my user’ “ Bruce piped up and threw Steve a look full of apologie and pity. Nats look on the other hand was on Tony the whole time and made pretty clear that she as well had not known about this beforehand and was also not in favor with his doing. “Well we always knew he was an ass, but who would have thought, he was this overreaching.” she commented, voice full of poison. “Oh come on, as if you all were not interested who on earth could be the perfect match for our golden boy here.” he argued back “Being curious has nothing to do with what you did!” Even Pepper argued for Steve's side and while Tony threw his hands dramatically in the air, Steve realised something else. 

“So you all have seen her already” “Finally you're focussing on the important things here, capsicle. Your soulmate is quite the view and from what her grades can say about intelligence, she -” “Will. You. Shut. Up!” Pepper finally hit him. “This has nothing to do with you or your opinions, you shouldn’t even be here.” and as if speaking those words out loud made her realise, she repeated “We all shouldn’t in fact.” She straintend her jacket, threw her soulmate another angry look and was back to business, hurrying everyone along, before Steve could vocalise his gratitude. 

Finally alone he took a couple of deep breaths, before he felt like mostly himself again only to realise, he didn’t even know with what explanation Tony invited her here. Did she know, or was it all hidden behind some kind of white lie? How was he supposed to go about  this? How not to offend her if she knew and he seemed to taken aback and how not to overwhelm her, if she didn’t know? When he entered the room it was without a plan, but knowing letting her wait any longer would definitely be insulting. 

When their eyes met, he could not stop himself from agreeing with Tony, she was quite beautiful. “Hi, I’m Steve.” he clumsily started. “I’m sorry you had to wait - and also for anything else my friends or colleagues might have said to you.” he added after a second thought. She grinned back at him “I’m Y/N and don’t worry, I know the type. If my friends would have managed to figure out it was you, they would have stormed in here years ago.” Steve felt floored at her ease with the whole situation. “We are quite well equipped against intrusion” he heard himself say, before his mind even caught up. She laughed at that. “Against equipped fighters maybe, but the ways determined college students find? I don’t think anyone can plan for all those random and stupid ideas.” Steve felt himself starting to grin back at her, without really planning to. She was amazing. “Would you like to go to dinner with me? I fear we have quite a few cameras in here and a lot of noisy people.” he proposed, somewhere in the back of his mind still trying to figure out how to best keep her safe, while all the rest of him just seemed too busy admiring her. “I would love to. I have heard quite a few stories about you, that I need clarification on and even more questions.” And for the first time, Steve couldn’t wait to answer all of them and ask even more himself.