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[ilfordbusinesscenter]

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[jaegeraether]

The Runaway - Chapter 8 (Alexia Putellas x original character slow-burn)

Jae's Masterlist

(Disclaimer: I do not speak Spanish, or Catalan, so go easy!)

CHAPTER 8

DELANEY

Delaney was at war with herself. Alexia had made a mistake - a small one. One she hadn’t meant to make. And Delaney knew that. Rationally, it was okay. But what wasn’t okay was the way Jenni clung to her like she still had a claim, as though some invisible thread still tied them together. And Delaney hated how much it twisted inside her. She didn’t want to feel this - didn’t want to be jealous, didn’t want to be the kind of person who flinched every time Alexia stood beside someone even remotely her type. But the feeling came anyway, sharp and hot, feeding all the old fears she worked so hard to keep buried.

Worse than the jealousy was the loss of their privacy. Delaney didn’t care about being seen naked; she cared that Jenni had popped their happy little bubble while they were still trying to grow it. Still trying to grow into something safe. Secure. She didn’t need that kind of drama in her life.

Following the New Years Eve celebrations, the photos began to come out. Group shots filled with Alexia’s friends, family - and both of her exes, Jenni and Olga Rios. Looking at it from a Spanish perspective, there was nothing wrong. They were all equally intimate. The touches were casual, the kisses on cheeks affectionate, the smiles genuine. But through Delaney’s damaged lens, they felt heavier. More uncertain. Like shadows on everything Alexia had promised her. The opposite of the quiet stability Alexia had been offering since the very beginning.

She was ashamed of how she’d reacted after what had happened. She felt it. Her walls coming up. Her platonic demeanour becoming default to avoid hurtful emotions. She thought she’d run.

And yet, here she was again - phone in hand, screen glowing, Alexia’s name sitting there patiently. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t replied. She had. She’d kept the conversation soft, simple, friendly.

But Alexia was patient. Alexia waited. She gave her space, and reminded her that she was still there simultaneously. And that’s what got her heart racing. Because Alexia was exactly the kind of person who could ruin her.

The missed call sat there, a gentle reminder that Alexia was still waiting for the conversation Delaney was avoiding. Not because she didn’t want to talk - but because she didn’t know what her reaction would be. Would she push her away? Would she open up again, only to be hurt constantly? She wouldn’t ask Alexia to change the way she lives, and who she lives it with. And was this all just her overreacting?

She groaned and threw her phone on the couch. She was now home in London - as was evident from the horrid downpour outside - and waiting for Mariona who’d just flown in and had asked to stay the night. There were ‘too many’ people in her apartment, but Delaney knew she most likely just wanted to see how she was doing. She just wondered if it was her decision, or if Alexia had asked.

She wandered over again to the stew she’d made for their dinner, stirring it in the slow cooker. It was her favourite home cooked meal that her Mum made them as kids and thought it would be appropriate for a wet day like today. She wondered if the Spaniard would like it. How could you go wrong with a warm stew with fresh bread and butter?

Her phone buzzed from the couch and she wandered back over to it.

‘I’m here.’

Fuck, Mariona was supposed to give her some notice to get the umbrella. Abandoning that idea, she ran down her entryway, seeing Mariona’s car driving away and was confused until she opened the door.

Standing there, dripping wet, was Alexia.

She took in a sharp breath. Alexia was not meant for the rain. She was a sunshine princess. Every part of the image in front of her was wrong. From her soaked jacket hood - attempting to cover her drenched hair, to the visible breath leaving her perfect pink lips and the shiver that ran down her body.

Delaney grabbed her by the jacket and pulled her inside, in the warm.

“Ale? What are you.. fuck.. you’re soaked.” She took the dufflebag from her shoulder, dropping it to the floor with a wet thud. She unzipped her jacket, pushing the hood back, and sliding it off her shoulders. All the while, Alexia just stared at her, like she’d forgotten everything she had to say.

She noticed her fingers shaking the worst and took them in her own, realising they were like ice. Turning, she dragged the footballer through her apartment and to her bathroom. She assumed she’d just gotten off a plane and wanted to unwind and get clean anyways. She turned the shower on, the steam rising quickly throughout the room.

“I’ll bring you some clothes, leave your wet ones in the sink for me to wash.”

Alexia opened her mouth to talk, but Delaney was quicker to leave, all the while thinking to herself that it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

She came back in the bathroom while Alexia was showering to bring some clean towels and her dufflebag. She set it down and opened the top for easy access, seeing that she must have come straight from Ibiza to London.

She turned to leave when Alexia spoke. “Danny..”

She didn’t reply but also couldn’t seem to will her feet to move.

“I yam so sorry..” But why was she sorry when she didn’t even know what to be sorry about? She had no idea at how insecure the photos of Alexia and her exes throughout social media had made her feel. She thought this was all because of-

“-I yam sorry she took from us.”

Delaney looked at her then. Not her naked body, spattered with tattoos and water running down her.. but at her. Her melancholy expression – that funny little frown she had on her face often, especially whenever she was thinking.

“Olga was there too.”

That surprised her. She tilted her head.

Delaney had no idea what she was about to do next, and went with whatever her emotions pulled out of her. She approached her – the glass shower door in between them.

“I don’t care that Jenni almost saw me naked. I care that she took our privacy. I care that there are photos all over the internet of you and two of your exes, kissing each other and flirting and looking like you and Olga and not in fact, broken up.”

Alexia listened, still surprised, reacting to the words she recognised.

“I get that it’s a cultural thing. I understand that. But we haven’t spoken about our pasts. Our exes. I don’t even know if you’re single! This-” she gestured between them. “-has developed out of nowhere! Fast. Maybe too fast.”

Alexia shook her head. “No too fast i I yam not dati-”

“-I’m not done.” She squeezed her fists as Alexia closed her mouth to listen. “Everything in my head tells me to run. Because that’s what I do. I find one small thing and use it as a reason to protect myself. But for the first time, I don’t want to run. Because it’s you. Because you do everything right. Because you are there. You’re consistent. You’re reliable. You say and do all the right things. You’re patient. You understand me without words. And you accept me for who I am.” She realised just then that she was crying. “This is such a fucking struggle between my heart and my brain right now. I want to run but I want you. I want to run to you. I want whatever this is. But I’m scared you don’t know me well enough to like all of me.”

“Tell me..” Alexia rasped, her hand against the glass between them. Delaney wondered how much of the conversation she’d understood.

“I..” She put her hand against Alexia’s, her forehead touching the glass. “You asked me before what I need? Ale, what I need is not healthy. I need everything. I need someone so reliable that it borders on obsession. I need to know you won’t leave me like my dad left me. Again, and again, and again. Always building up hope. Just like my ex. Only to realise I was too much. I need to not question whether we’re all in together. I need too much. Love and support. I need to show my emotions through sex. I need.. fucking.. t..too much.” Her voice broke, and she let her tears flow.

To be honest, it felt better than therapy. But Alexia didn't deserve any of this. God - how could anyone put up with so much emotional insecurity and baggage?

She wasn’t sure how she came to be in her arms, only that she was. Delaney leant into her damp body, clutching her like a lifeline as she cried. She felt like she could with her, because Alexia had lost her own father – albeit that was not his choice to leave.

She felt the water flowing down Alexia’s strong back. Felt her own clothes getting soaked. There was not a single care there beyond how the woman holding her felt, how she made her feel safe to let it all out. She cried until there was nothing left; Alexia whispering sweet nothings against her skin, some in English, some in Catalan.

At some point, Alexia helped her out of her clothes and fully under the shower. She let her wash the sadness away and was there when she came out. She was there in every single step, until they were curled on the couch together, Delaney against the side of her body, her head against collarbone. She reached out to stroke the artery that throbbed whenever she spoke.

Alexia’s eyes fluttered. “There are nothing with me i Jenni, Danny. No for long.. long time. I care.. for her. I always wheel. But only as a friend.”

“I know,” Delaney whispered, but the words scratched at her throat.

“I left Jenni because it was not.. sana.."

She rubbed her tummy.

"Healthy?" Delaney offered

"Sí.. no healthy. It was muy controladora. I do not like... this."

Delaney understood enough. Jenni was unhealthy. She was controlling. Alexia liked to be in control. To make her own decisions. “And with Olga... that was different. Soft. But still it was not right.”

Alexia rarely spoke about her past relationships. This was new.

“I hurt Olga when I leave. I don’t liking to hurt.. people. So I keep them close.” Delaney swallowed hard at the thought of being in the same position as Olga. “But this.. this is new, carinyo. This is especial.”

God, the way her tongue made it sound like a lisp on the 'c' sound was enough to make her stomach flutter. Delaney nodded against her and took a breath. “My dad first left when I was twelve.” The words came out before she even realised she was saying them. “Just... disappeared. One day, he was there. The next, gone. No warning. No explanation. Just gone. He came back a few times, making promises he never kept. The most reliable thing about him was knowing that he’d leave again.”

Alexia rested her head against her own, but she stayed silent, listening.

“And then my ex... I thought she was different. She knew what my dad had done. But she did the exact same thing. She came. She left. So many times I should be embarrassed. Finally she said she couldn’t handle the distance. But I knew she couldn’t handle... me.”

The weight of those words hung between them. Heavier than anything they’d shared before.

“This is why you move.. country i club.. so you not getting close to people. It why you are scared.” Alexia’s voice was quieter now. “Why you.. pull away from me.”

Delaney felt her lip tremble. “Because everyone leaves, Ale. Eventually. And if they don’t, I leave first. It’s easier. Safer.”

Alexia didn’t speak right away. She let the words settle.

“You no think you are worth staying…” She said rhetorically, as if just realising it. She inhaled sharply. “I yam not them, carinyo. I don’t leaving people I love.”

Delaney froze. The word hung there. Love. Alexia hadn’t said it accidentally. But she hadn’t forced it either. They were not ready for that. They didn't know each other well-enough just yet. But they could both feel the potential, and it was.. terrifying. Amazing.

Delaney closed her eyes, feeling both the warmth of the words and the icy fear they triggered inside her.

“I don’t know if I can trust that yet,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

“Then don’t..” Alexia said gently. “Trust me and with.. time you see. I will wait long. I yam here.”

Delaney wiped at her eyes before they could spill over. “I don’t deserve you.”

Delaney didn’t understand Alexia’s muttering in Catalan, but from her head shaking, she knew she disagreed. Her long fingers drifted up over her jaw, cheek, and tilted her head back to make sure she was looking at her as she spoke Catalan. It felt as if it were all of the words she’d been wanting to say, but didn’t have the English vocabulary for. Delaney could do nothing but listen with a look of wonder in her eyes at Alexia’s beautiful face as she spoke. The way her eyes creased at the corners, her artery throbbing in her neck, her lips moving with the melodic tone of her voice in her first language. The husky emotion to it.

“Sí, el meu carinyo?" She said gently as she brushed a loose strand of hair from Delaney's face with a gentleness that melted her.

It was rhetorical, but Delaney was far emotional, too turned on, and responded anyways. Gliding her hand from her neck up to her still damp blonde hair, she pulled Alexia towards her, whispering against her lips like a beg to taste her, “Sí, Ale.”

TBC..

[andy-15-07]

Hii! I would love to see a fic where Paul Mescal and the reader are snowed in their apartment in London and it’s just cute and cozy!

Snowed In with You

PAIRING:Paul Mescal x reader

WORD COUNT: 810 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Paul Mescal Masterlis

The snow outside their London apartment had been falling steadily since the early hours of the morning, blanketing the city in a thick, soft white. Y/N stood by the window, her fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea, watching the world turn into a winter wonderland.

"We’re officially snowed in," Paul announced as he walked back into the living room, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. He stretched out, clad in sweatpants and one of his thick jumpers, looking every bit as cozy as the atmosphere around them.

Y/N turned, a smirk playing on her lips. "And this is a problem because…?"

Paul grinned. "It means I have no choice but to spend the entire day annoying you."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the amusement in them. "You do that every day anyway."

"True," he admitted, reaching out his hand. "Come here, let me keep you warm."

She obliged, padding across the wooden floors before settling against him on the couch, tucking herself under his arm. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his stubble scratching lightly against her skin. "This is nice," he murmured, his voice a soft hum of contentment.

Y/N smiled, snuggling deeper into his side. "It really is."

They spent the next hour lazily wrapped up in a blanket, flipping through films on the telly, neither of them able to agree on what to watch. "Rom-com," Y/N suggested, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Paul groaned. "We watched one last night."

"And your point?"

"Something with a bit more action? Maybe a thriller?"

She scoffed. "We’re snowed in, Paul. I need cozy, not heart-pounding."

He sighed dramatically but reached for the remote. "Fine. But you owe me."

"Owe you what?"

He smirked. "I’ll think of something."

They settled on Notting Hill, much to Y/N’s delight, and halfway through the film, Paul had given up pretending to protest. His fingers traced lazy circles on her arm as they watched, the warmth of their little cocoon making the outside world seem like a distant place.

When the credits rolled, Paul stretched, pulling her even closer. "Alright, I have an idea."

"Uh-oh."

"Oi," he nudged her side. "Trust me. It’s a good one."

Y/N raised a skeptical brow but let him pull her to her feet. "Are we making a snowman?"

"Nope."

"Sledding down the stairs?"

He chuckled. "Tempting, but no. We are making the best hot chocolate in the world."

She grinned. "With whipped cream and marshmallows?"

"Obviously."

They moved into the kitchen, working together to heat the milk and melt the chocolate. Paul insisted on adding a pinch of cinnamon, claiming it was his "secret ingredient." Y/N scoffed but let him have his moment.

As the hot chocolate steamed in their mugs, they clinked them together in a silent toast before taking a sip. Y/N let out a happy sigh. "Okay, fine. You were right."

Paul smirked. "I always am."

She lightly kicked his shin, making him laugh. "Careful, love. I’m fragile."

They carried their mugs back to the couch, curling up once more. Outside, the snow continued to fall, thick and endless, but inside, everything was warm, soft, and perfect.

Paul looked at her, eyes shining with something impossibly fond. "You know, if we’re stuck here forever, I wouldn’t mind."

Y/N smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Me neither."

The afternoon passed in a haze of soft touches and quiet laughter. They built a blanket fort in the living room, draping fairy lights around the edges to give it a golden glow. Paul crawled inside first, patting the space next to him. "Come on, love, it’s got everything—cushions, warmth, and most importantly, me."

Y/N laughed but crawled in beside him, settling between his legs and resting her head on his chest. "This might be the best snow day ever."

Paul hummed in agreement, running his fingers through her hair. "Told you I had good ideas."

They lay there for a while, wrapped up in their little world, until Paul suddenly whispered, "You hungry?"

Y/N turned her head to look up at him. "Always."

"Alright," he said, reluctantly pulling himself up. "Stay put. I’ll make us something."

She watched as he disappeared into the kitchen, hearing the familiar sounds of cupboards opening and the clatter of pans. Minutes later, he returned with grilled cheese sandwiches and another round of hot chocolate.

They ate inside their blanket fort, giggling between bites. "I think we should do this every time it snows," Y/N said, nudging his knee.

Paul grinned. "Deal. But next time, I get to pick the movie."

She pretended to consider. "Fine, but only if you keep making me hot chocolate."

"Done."

As the snowstorm raged on outside, inside their little cocoon of warmth, everything felt perfect. And for that day, at least, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

[lulubelle814]

Some of my favorite fics w/summary

A Startling Realization by @muddyorbsblr

Summary: Oakley returns to campus after a trip with his mates and steadily comes to realize he's developed feelings for you

Feels Like Mine by @muddyorbsblr

Summary: You wake up in a bed that isn't your own, living a life that seems to be pulled straight out of your wildest dreams

The Lakes by @lokisgoodgirl

Summary: Based out of a tiny and remote cottage, your reluctant role as the resident 'outdoors expert' is put to the test by the frustrations and temptations of your recent ex-, Loki

The Proposal by @michelleleewise

Summary: You had the perfect life. A perfect fiancée, pursuing your dream in culinary school, had a beautiful apartment……until it all came crashing down around you. You were on the tip of financial ruin when your friend suggested a way out…….you had no idea what you were in for when you filled in your information.

Follow the Crow by @gigglingtiggerv2

Summary:

Ragnarok has happened, is happening, will have happened - time gets a little murky around cataclysmic events such as this.

Asgard has been destroyed, the Gods are dead or dying, but Fenris is not done yet.

Freed from his imprisonment, Loki must save the remaining realms and bring his unruly off-spring to heel. In order to do this, he will have to find his way to the 'Everywhen' and take back control of events.

Easier said than done, for the Everywhen lies deep in the shadowy space between the realms, where even Gods fear to tread.

What he needs is a guide - but do any of the original guardians remain?

Double Cross (Eighth Circle Series - Book One) - by @gigglingtiggerv2

Summary: In Dante’s inferno, the Eighth Circle of Hell was reserved for liars, panderers, thieves and murderers.  For the criminal underworld it is an opulent London club, representing neutral territory where deals can be made, grievances aired and scores settled. 

For the owner, Thomas Cross, it is his own private kingdom, one where he makes the rules and wields absolute authority. Recently, however, that authority has come under threat.  In order to maintain his standing and the Club’s ruthless reputation, it is imperative he find the perpetrator.

In this violent place, where lies are currency and everyone has their own agenda, who can he trust? Certainly not Verity Williams, the talented thief who has her own reasons for infiltrating his organisation.  

Neither can deny the sparks that fly whenever they’re together, but if he’s not careful, will those sparks burn down everything he’s created?

My Best Friend by @vbecker10

Summary: What you thought would be a relaxing girls night quickly turns into an interrogation by Nat and Wanda about your non-existent relationship with Loki. After denying you are anything other then friends for as long as you can, you finally tell them how you really feel about him... and why you know he will never feel the same. The night goes from bad to worse when you realize Loki overheard you talking to them and you try to hide from him.

Language by @vbecker10

Summary: Captain Rogers thinks you curse far too much at work so he came up with a way for each word to cost you fifty cents no matter where you are in the Tower. You are desperate for it to stop and go to Loki to see if he has a spell that can help you outsmart J.A.R.V.I.S.

Down Under by @superficialdomina

Summary: Oh no! Hydra has released a sex-pathogen in the Australian outback! Can a small band of Avengers prevent a mass outbreak of a dangerous, if nonsensical, bioweapon?

The Redbridge Hunts by @fanficshiddles

Summary: Claire moves to Demsdale to take up a new job as an assistant teacher for one Loki Laufeyson. She’s also very intrigued with all of the rumours within the borough of Redbridge. However, as she starts to fall for Loki’s charm and good looks, she also learns that all of the rumours might not just be rumours after all.

Addicting Temptations by @fanficshiddles

Summary: Alphas Tom and David run not only the city but a health insurance business with a darker side to it too. At one of their elusive parties, they take a liking to an already mated omega. But mated or not, they always get what they want. 

Dangerous Night by @fanficshiddles

Summary: Melissa catches the eye of Jonathan Pine while on holiday visiting her friend. Her friend warns her of Pine and Roper, of their gang. But Melissa finds the thought rather thrilling. Jonathan invites her back to a hotel for the night, she can’t resist the offer. The one-night stand leads to more, because who could deny the handsome Jonathan Pine. Not to mention the luxurious lifestyle he can offer his new princess…

This Wasn't Part of the Plan by @fanficshiddles

Summary: Melody is struggling to keep up with her college work. Working three jobs just to get by, she doesn’t have much time to study and do homework. Her rather nasty teacher, Mr Hiddleston is very blunt when he finds her work not up to par. In desperation, she turns to a sugar daddy website. When she goes to meet with one who reached out to her, she is shocked to find it’s none other than her teacher, Mr Hiddleston.

Covenant by @meowmeow-motherfucker

Summary: With the five year anniversary of the attack on New York approaching, Odin and Fury come to the agreement that an arranged marriage between Asgard and Earth would show good faith toward all future interactions. When Odin refuses Jane’s candidacy, Agent Coulson is tasked with finding a suitable wife for the prince of Asgard.

[callmearcturus]

(i posted this but tumblr fucked up the formatting SO BAD and then the editor would not open so here's a re-do i guess!

bless u, bc this is the one that's gonna be Another Batshit Arcturus AU

except all the scenes I have sketched out are massive Act Two spoilers.... so instead, I'm gonna share the work-in-progress outline for Act One. or, specifically the modern day half of Act One. this story is told in approximately 2024 and 2011 concurrently, with the 2011 plotline providing vital context for the 2024 plotline.

for context: Ted is a director working with Rebecca's A24-style production company. Trent is a writer. Keeley is Trent's agent who managed to convince him to sell the movie rights to one book. act one is Ted trying to get those rights before a larger studio snaps them up. Act two is the filming of the movie. Act three is post-production and press tour.

One piece of additional context is that Trent is a reclusive writer who keeps writing extremely location-accurate novels set in America. Ted is shocked to learn the guy's not American, tbh. Here's the bibliography i made up for Trent:

[SPOILER, REDACTED]

editor for a few anthologies

The Sarpedon EP, 1968 (moody psuedo-mythical story about psychedelic/progressive rock in Nashville)

An Aquarian Guide to Atlantis, IL (weird, almost ergodic story of a hitchiker trying to get from St. Louis to Chicago and finding a strange town)

The Tides of Static (an anthology of seemingly disconnected vignettes that wind up linked by a radio DJ working a remote blowtorch tower)

Paris of the Plains (a sports drama/romance about a journalist uncovering a massive scandal in Kansas City football while trying not to rekindle her love of an old fling who's now working on the same team embroiled in the scandal. later adapted into the film The Time After The Last Time, directed by Ted Lasso, produced by Rebecca Welton)

so here, a glimpse of how I outline a story

ACT ONE: Pre-production

Storyline A (Ted POV):

Ted, modern day: Ted has to find Rebecca. She's supposed to be on vacation and Ted would never dream of interrupting her HOWEVER there's a scoop in Variety that Trent Crimm is auctioning the rights to his latest book despite years of resistance. Ted is terrified that someone is gonna buy the rights and make a bad movie or worse sit on the rights and never make anything out of them.

finding Rebecca takes some doing but Ted is determined and he knows all her offices and hiding places.

Ted is a huge fan of Crimm's work, has read all his previous books and has been keeping an eye out for him to maybe offer something up for adaptation. That it's specifically the one about a football scandal in Kansas City with a fantastic sense of space and also is a romance? Ted HAS to direct this movie, but Rebecca's studio can't compete with the huge prices that a Paramount or Disney would be throwing around. So they need to make a direct offer before the sale.

Rebecca emails Crimm's agent. This first attempt gets a polite, impersonal dismissal. So Ted is the person to reply (as Rebecca watches over his shoulder to ensure he's not making a fool of them) and tries to convince them to reconsider bc Ted is specifically interested in doing it right.

Still no.

T: "Get me an address, I'll fly out--" R: "Fly out? The address available through his agent is in London." T: "Okay, wouldn't've called that."

Rebecca gets Ted the address and Ted takes the Tube to get there bc he still doesn't have a car-and-driver. (He claims its organic location scouting.)

The address seems to be Trent's house but he's not there, just Keeley and Adelaide Crimm. They will not reveal where Trent is.

Ted notices Adelaide's accent and is relieved Trent is American. Adelaide says no, he's super british, but he took a job in America when she was young and brought her along.

The house is fully of photos of places. Addy is a photographer. Ted is thrilled to see shots of the Paseo, the Plaza, and other KC landmarks.

Keeley explains they are not really looking to option the book out because, well. They're not.

Adelaide kind of likes Ted and how he talks about her dad's books so she texts him later, gives Ted her dad's email. the one he actually checks, not the fake ones that get listed.

A turn for the epistolary as Ted attempts to reach Trent Crimm.

Ted emails Trent, who is baffled that he found this email address. Thanks Ted for his interest but tells him it was difficult enough to decide to offer up any rights and he frankly doesn't want to talk about it further, goodbye.

Ted takes a little time to try to read/watch every interview he can with Trent Crimm. They are basically non-existent and the ones that do exist are fully text.

Emailing each other continues: Eventually, Trent admits he's hoping the book rights are bought and sat on forever. Keeley was the one to convince him this was a good way to ensure Adelaide was set up for years to come and he could write his next few books without concern about money. But actually seeing such a movie? He wants nothing to do with it.

There's something unique about this email, a slip-up: Trent mentions he's in KCMO. The moment Ted realizes, he's inbound, racing to get there in time.

All for naught: Ted makes good time, probably the best possible time a guy can make from Heathrow to MCI to Emmanuel Cleaver Blvd without use of a fighter jet.

Still: Trent's gone, and Keeley's there.

Ted hangs a lampshade on the running gag: How in the sam hell is she always there instead of Trent?! "Yanno, I ain't ever seen the two of you in the same room together, Ms. Jones." Keeley cackles. "He's a slippery one! But trust me, you'd know him if you met him. He's got that aura of irritable uptight fiction author."

Ted is extremely discouraged that he missed Trent yet again, tells Keeley he is bound and determined to make sure this movie's done right but doesn't know what to do anyone. Keeley cracks, sympathetic, and gives Ted the Actual phone number for Trent. "Do not call him. He blocks all unknown numbers. Text."

So Ted does. Takes a photo of the fountains at the Plaza at night and sends it to Trent.

TL: I think the fight between Kit and Moses happens here at night, when they turn the lights on under the fountains and it's beautiful, all that watery glow. The contrast there, it reminds me of how painfully obvious it is that Moses wanted to take her there for real, to see her son playing in the water. It's the right place and the wrong time, it's always right place wrong time with them. LONG pause but Ted sees the text has been marked as "Read". Honestly he's surprised Trent has read receipts on. TC: Why are you in KCMO? TL: Flew here hoping to catch you. Last email, you accidentally hinted you were at your rental off Emanuel Cleaver. TC: Ah. An amateur mistake, I see. But I've slipped your net again, it seems.

Ted returns back home to London, resigned to taking another project and letting this one go. Pulls his copy of Paris of the Plains from his bag, reads it on the plane back.

Gets off the plane and he's missed a call from Trent Crimm. Shocked, Ted immediately calls back.

TC: "You have one shot, Mr. Lasso, so make it count. Tell me why you're so determined. It's not the job of a director to try to cajole a reclusive, unfriendly author into optioning his book to a boutique film studio. So why?" TL: "When I first moved to the UK, I was missin' home so much, I was turning into a barely-functioning daydrinker, and I almost gave up, went back to Kansas, gave up my career. But Beard loaned me his copy of Atlantis, IL and you... knew those roads and those people. You gave me a home I could carry around in my bag. Dunno if I would have survived without. Then I read Sarpedon, and Rebecca got me an advance copy of Tides of Static for my birthday." TC: "So you're a fan." TL: "No! I mean, obviously I'm a huge admirer, yeah, but... Trent, I just flew almost nine thousand miles just for a chance to talk to you about this, so I'm not gonna split hairs here. I need to be the guy to direct this. No one else is going to get it right, and I need it to be right, 'cause I know it. If you give me a chance, I'm going to move the whole production out to KC, I'm going to take what's in my head and put it on the screen. And I-- I think it's what's in your head, too." TC: "You know, it's supposedly my worst book. That was part of the little joke of it all; Keeley convinced me to sell something, so I picked the one the critics hated. You'll need someone good to do the adapting." TL: "Heck, if I need to write the treatment myself, I'll do it." TC: "..... Alright." TL: "!!!!" TC: "Nine thousand miles is an absurd ordeal to put yourself through and the writer in me wants you to get some payoff for it. So. Tell Ms. Welton to tack on another five million and its yours."

[sitp-recs]

you got me hooked on harry x teddy !!! ive, hand on my heart, never before even considered that ship as a possibility and here i am now swiming in fresh waters of moral deprivity. much appreciated <33 a whole new batch of previously undiscovered fics just opened for me wohoo

on that note, could you please rec some of your favorite harry x teddy fics? thanks <33

ahhh I’m so very happy to hear this anon! I live to serve the small but mighty Hardy nation so I’m feeling very accomplished right now. hopefully I’ll convert even more readers into moral deprativity one fic at a time 😌 here are my top favorites, a special shoutout to LQT for their service as always 🫡 I also got a Tedrarry list if you’re interested :)))

grasp by onbeinganangel (E, 1k)

Teddy has wanted Harry forever. Of course he wants to be good for him.

Love is a Verb by @wolfpants (E, 1.7k)

The summer after Teddy graduates from Hogwarts, Harry takes him on a trip to the remote beaches of Land's End.

Coming Up for Air by @lqtraintracks (M, 2k)

I could have died of it, your tenderness toward me. Instead I decided to live.

so slide back down and close your eyes by lqtraintracks (E, 3k)

When the magic goes out at Harry’s place, and no one can get home, and it’s cold as a witch’s tit outside… well, what else are you going to do?

Beneath a Foreign Moon by lqtraintracks (E, 3k)

Harry visits Teddy in the middle of the night.

Simple As It Is, Complicated As You Need by lqtraintracks (E, 4k)

It's not something they do often, this whole 'Daddy' thing. But to be fair, they don't even have regular sex as often as Teddy would like either. It's not as though they've even admitted they're doing anything. One of the benefits and curses of both of them being Legilimens actually: Nobody ever has to talk.

Surface Texture by @the-starryknight (E, 5k)

I've drawn a hundred portraits, but none quite like Harry's. In the early hours of the morning, I lay him bare in charcoal and paper.

Waiting Under Vain by supergrover24 (E, 5k)

Teddy wants to know how sex really should be. Harry can't resist, no matter how much he tries.

When It Alteration Finds by lqtraintracks (E, 7k)

Teddy thinks this is the way to finally get what he wants. But there is more than one way to Harry's heart.

Holding Out for A Hero by @writcraft (E, 7k)

Even as he says no, Harry’s hands push into Teddy’s hair. Even as he protests, his lips connect with Teddy’s. Before Teddy can offer any reassurance his heart’s thumping wildly in his chest and Harry Potter’s kissing him as if there’s no tomorrow.

Seven Years Gone by suitesamba (E, 7k)

Seven years after his partner’s death, Harry has rebuilt his life with his friends’ help, but hasn’t managed to move forward romantically. Teddy Lupin, 28, is back in London for good after years of studying and working abroad. When he finds himself in need of some extra space at his new shop, he consults with Harry and Hermione, who have built a successful business around creating Wizarding Space.

Flesh Memory by @citrusses (E, 11k)

Harry’s going to put a stop to this before it goes too far.

Game, Set, Match by Writcraft (E, 13k)

Teddy is smitten, Harry is lonely and tennis seems like a great way to avoid dealing with this thing between them.

Putting Out Fires (with Gasoline) by lqtraintracks (E, 13k)

Teddy stays with Harry for a summer to help him figure out his life, or maybe to figure out his own, or to seduce his godfather, or maybe to fall in love.

Darling, Don’t Think Twice by @shiftylinguini (E, 18k)

Leaving the Aurors, and then England, after his divorce with Ginny was finalised was the best thing for Harry, and for Ginny, too ― but not for the godson who worshipped the ground he walked on. Now that he’s back, all Harry wants is to set up his own place, and to spend time with Teddy as he tries to fix their fractured relationship.

Bonus: a Drarry fic with some Hardy kissing

Wield Me by @tackytigerfic (E, 10k)

Draco Malfoy, blacksmith, is renowned through the magical world for his skill and exquisite creations. He could quite easily spend the rest of his days making pretty trinkets for the fae court, and being handsomely rewarded for the privilege. But why take the easy route when instead he could get involved in a dangerous mission with Unspeakable Harry Potter (who also happens to be Draco's... well, he's something, isn't he?).

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Preliminary Round

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Hands of the Emperor (The Hands of the Emperor, At the Feet of the Sun, and other stories) by Victoria Goddard

Endorsement from submitter: "Amazing epic and intrinsically queer story about leaving home to change the world, about being a bridge between worlds, about what it means to choose to leave your home even which it is the most important place in the world to you. And so much more."

An impulsive word can start a war. A timely word can stop one. A simple act of friendship can change the course of history.

Cliopher Mdang is the personal secretary of the Last Emperor of Astandalas, the Lord of Rising Stars, the Lord Magus of Zunidh, the Sun-on-Earth, the god. He has spent more time with the Emperor of Astandalas than any other person. He has never once touched his lord. He has never called him by name. He has never initiated a conversation.

One day Cliopher invites the Sun-on-Earth home to the proverbially remote Vangavaye-ve for a holiday.

The mere invitation could have seen Cliopher executed for blasphemy. The acceptance upends the world.

Fantasy, romance, politics, secondary world, series, adult

The Principle of Moments by Esmie Jikiemi-Pearson (Order of Legends series)

A century-spanning space fantasy novel that will take you on a whirlwind adventure, from a Regency Era love affair between a time-traveller and the prince waiting for him in the past, to a rescue mission in the 60th century, where a girl desperately races against time as she searches for the sister the emperor stole.

6066: In Emperor Thracin’s brave new galaxy, humans are not citizens. Instead, they are indentured labourers, working to repay the debt they unwittingly incurred when they settled on Gahraan - a desert planet already owned by the emperor himself. Asha Akindele knows she’s just another voiceless cog working the assembly lines that fuel his vast imperial war machine. Her only rebellion: studying stolen aeronautics manuals in the dead of night. But then a cloaked stranger arrives to deliver an impossible message, and her life changes in an instant.

1812: Obi Amadi is done with time-travelling. Never mind the fact he doesn’t know how to cure himself of the temporal sickness he caught whilst anchoring his soul to Regency London, the one that unmakes him further with every jump. Or if the prince he loves will ever love him back. Or why his father disappeared. He is done. Until he hears about the ghost of a girl in the British Museum. A girl from another time.

When Obi’s path tangles with Asha’s and a prophecy awakens in the cold darkness of space, they must voyage through the stars, racing against time, tyranny, and the legacy of three heroes from an ancient religion who may be awakening, reincarnated in ways beyond comprehension.

Science fiction, fantasy, time travel, historical fiction, Regency, space opera, adventure, series, adult

[sunnysanae]

undue (pt. v) Aventurine x reader

Explanations really do us no justice.

pt.iv recap: It's the familiarity that creates distance, especially in the dark, especially beside him. Series synopsis Series masterlist

notes: modern!au, uni student!aventurine & corporate!reader, f!reader (she/her pronouns), found family trope, guardian-like reader, age gap (19aventurine-24reader, flashback no romance: 11aventurine-16reader), set in imagined london.

It was another day in your life, with yet another reason affirming your choice for a walk-in wardrobe. The frosted glass wardrobe door set the perfect amount of distance between yourself and Aventurine. 

It’s 7:20 now, and your coffee was already ordered and ready for pick-up downstairs.

“When do you have to get to school by?” You asked as you carefully pulled out your watch drawer. Today, you need a low-key watch, you can’t outshine your client, and all your bracelets don’t seem as formal. You look through all your watches, and you pick one with a white-gold case and a shiny mint green dial. It was almost as if even your watches welcome his presence. 

“You sound like a parent.” He mumbles in response.

He groans and you hear him flip around in the bed. 

“Is it Friday yet?” He whines into the pillow. 

You look down at the “10” on the dial of your watch, and smile as you say back, “Yeah, it is.”

“I have a 9 a.m. today.”

“Want me to drop you off at your dorm? You can grab your things and move in for the weekend.” You knew that he had his reasons for not wanting to stay in the residence. Like always, you don’t need an explanation from him to comply. 

His voice brightens up, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll Uber, you get to work first.”

“Plus… can’t get up.” He leans back into the bed. 

You laugh, “Okay, I got you a breakfast sandwich and breakfast tea,” you pull open the sliding door.

“Should be ready in 15 minutes at the café on ground level.” You walk over and pinch his face—no longer chubby like the one from your memory—sweeping his messy long hair to the side. 

As you step into a pair of less-steep heels compared to the ones from yesterday at the entry, you say, “Bye~~” the sound echoing through the space. 

You turn to see him leaning on the kitchen counter, with a glass of water, the couch blanket wrapped around his upper body, and a pair of pajama trousers extending to his mid-shin. He waves at you, smiling sheepishly, while he lays the mug down to the counter to use his free hand to rub his eyes.

“Hey! That’s my mug.” You deadpan. Eyes fixed on the Duffy Bear mug in his hands, that he was casually sipping from.

It’s impossible to not smile at this sight. 

The sun wasn’t up yet, but the dim kitchen became a bit sunnier.

And you shut the door.

Meeting. De-briefing. Plan devising. Coffee-chatting. Client meeting. Risk managing. Tracking. Documenting. Your morning was packed with events back-to-back, and that’s part of what you enjoyed about this job, that you got to challenge and push yourself. You were back at your desk after a short remote meeting, now on to managing the schedule for next week.

‘Ding!’ It was a notification from your messenger, you open it on your phone. There’s a big cartoon emoticon with a wink, and it reads:

K.K.: [Sticker]

K.K.: Are you hungry? Seen 11:37

Quickly, you respond,

Hungry. Break at 12:50. Seen 11:37

You send back another sticker with a character busily writing named “busy at work”. In an hour’s time, you’re done reviewing the presentation one co-worker sent you, and it’s about time to take a break. There was only a couple people in your team that haven’t gone for lunch.

‘Ding!’

K.K.: I’m here. Seen 12:38

? Seen 12:39

You walk to the lift, going down to ground. Walking out to the entrance, you see a familiar silhouette. At the corner of your vision is his car, which you assume to be his from it’s flamboyant style, is parked outside the bollards. By the time you’re in front of him, he’s panting a bit, and he holds a paper bag up.

“Lunch.” He says between pants, “I made it for you, but it was also a goodbye gift to my roommates.” 

You laugh. “Thank you for your honesty. I guess there are benefits to welcoming you as my new ‘roommate’.” 

“Don’t you have class?” Your eyes narrow at him. 

“No, I don’t.” He raises his hands in surrender. 

“I have class from two to six-thirty.” 

You think of the new deal your boss mentioned for dinner. “As a thank you for lunch, how about we go enjoy dinner together tonight? I’ll pick you up at 6:45.” 

“Oh, so generous?” He chaffs, moving in and leaning close—so close you can feel the chilled mint from him gum on your nose.

“Family Day deal.” You push on his shoulder, “Thank you for the lunch.” 

His gaze flickers to something behind you.

You look back. 

The motion of your two friends pauses and they move to the side. You definitely had tea to spill to them on the way back.

‘Ding!’

Jade: Boyfriend? Delivered 12:50

[mariacallous]

On paper, the first candidate looked perfect. Thomas was from rural Tennessee and had studied computer science at the University of Missouri. His résumé said he’d been a professional programmer for eight years, and he’d breezed through a preliminary coding test. All of this was excellent news for Thomas’ prospective boss, Simon Wijckmans, founder of the web security startup C.Side. The 27-year-old Belgian was based in London but was looking for ambitious, fully remote coders.

Thomas had an Anglo-Saxon surname, so Wijckmans was surprised when he clicked into his Google Meet and found himself speaking with a heavily accented young man of Asian origin. Thomas had set a generic image of an office as his background. His internet connection was laggy—odd for a professional coder—and his end of the call was noisy. To Wijckmans, Thomas sounded like he was sitting in a large, crowded space, maybe a dorm or a call center.

Wijckmans fired off his interview questions, and Thomas’ responses were solid enough. But Wijckmans noticed that Thomas seemed most interested in asking about his salary. He didn’t come across as curious about the actual work or about how the company operated or even about benefits like startup stock or health coverage. Odd, thought Wijckmans. The conversation came to a close, and he got ready for the next interview in his queue.

Once again, the applicant said they were based in the US, had an Anglo name, and appeared to be a young Asian man with a thick, non-American accent. He used a basic virtual background, was on a terrible internet connection, and had a single-minded focus on salary. This candidate, though, was wearing glasses. In the lenses, Wijckmans spotted the reflection of multiple screens, and he could make out a white chatbox with messages scrolling by. “He was clearly either chatting with somebody or on some AI tool,” Wijckmans remembers.

On high alert, Wijckmans grabbed screenshots and took notes. After the call ended, he went back over the job applications. He found that his company’s listings were being flooded with applicants just like these: an opening for a full-stack developer got more than 500 applications in a day, far more than usual. And when he looked more deeply into the applicants’ coding tests, he saw that many candidates appeared to have used a virtual private network, or VPN, which allows you to mask your computer’s true location.

Wijckmans didn’t know it yet, but he’d stumbled onto the edges of an audacious, global cybercrime operation. He’d unwittingly made contact with an army of seemingly unassuming IT workers, deployed to work remotely for American and European companies under false identities, all to bankroll the government of North Korea.

With a little help from some friends on the ground, of course.

christina chapman was living in a trailer in Brook Park, Minnesota, a hamlet north of Minneapolis, when she got a note from a recruiter that changed her life. A bubbly 44-year-old with curly red hair and glasses, she loved her dogs and her mom and posting social justice content on TikTok. In her spare time she listened to K-pop, enjoyed Renaissance fairs, and got into cosplay. Chapman was also, according to her sparse online résumé, learning to code online.

It was March 2020 when she clicked on the message in her LinkedIn account. A foreign company was looking for somebody to “be the US face” of the business. The company needed help finding remote employment for overseas workers. Chapman signed on. It’s unclear how fast her workload grew, but by October 2022 she could afford a move from chilly Minnesota to a low-slung, four-bedroom house in Litchfield Park, Arizona. It wasn’t fancy—a suburban corner lot with a few thin trees—but it was a big upgrade over the trailer.

Chapman then started documenting more of her life on TikTok and YouTube, mostly talking about her diet, fitness, or mental health. In one chatty video, shared in June 2023, she described grabbing breakfast on the go—an açaí bowl and a smoothie— because work was so busy. “My clients are going crazy!” she complained. In the background, the camera caught a glimpse of metal racks holding at least a dozen open laptops covered in sticky notes. A few months later, federal investigators raided Chapman’s home, seized the laptops, and eventually filed charges alleging that she had spent three years aiding the “illicit revenue generation efforts” of the government of North Korea.

For maybe a decade, North Korean intelligence services have been training young IT workers and sending them abroad in teams, often to China or Russia. From these bases, they scour the web for job listings all over, usually in software engineering, and usually with Western companies. They favor roles that are fully remote, with solid wages, good access to data and systems, and few responsibilities. Over time they began applying for these jobs using stolen or fake identities and relying on members of their criminal teams to provide fictional references; some have even started using AI to pass coding tests, video interviews, and background checks.

But if an applicant lands a job offer, the syndicate needs somebody on the ground in the country the applicant claims to live in. A fake employee, after all, can’t use the addresses or bank accounts linked to their stolen IDs, and they can’t dial in to a company’s networks from overseas without instantly triggering suspicion. That’s where someone like Christina Chapman comes in.

As the “facilitator” for hundreds of North Korea–linked jobs, Chapman signed fraudulent documents and handled some of the fake workers’ salaries. She would often receive their paychecks in one of her bank accounts, take a cut, and wire the rest overseas: Federal prosecutors say Chapman was promised as much as 30 percent of the money that passed through her hands.

Her most important job, though, was tending the “laptop farm.” After being hired, a fake worker will typically ask for their company computer to be sent to a different address than the one on record—usually with some tale about a last-minute move or needing to stay with a sick relative. The new address, of course, belongs to the facilitator, in this case Chapman. Sometimes the facilitator forwards the laptop to an address overseas, but more commonly that person holds onto it and installs software that allows it to be controlled remotely. Then the fake employee can connect to their machine from anywhere in the world while appearing to be in the US. (“You know how to install Anydesk?” one North Korean operative asked Chapman in 2022. “I do it practically EVERYDAY!” she replied.)

In messages with her handlers, Chapman discussed sending government forms like the I-9, which attests that a person is legally able to work in the US. (“I did my best to copy your signature,” she wrote. “Haha. Thank you,” came the response.) She also did basic tech troubleshooting and dialed into meetings on a worker’s behalf, sometimes on short notice, as in this conversation from November 2023:

Worker: We are going to have laptop setup meeting in 20 mins. Can you join Teams meeting and follow what IT guy say? Because it will require to restart laptop multiple times and I can not handle that. You can mute and just follow what they say ...

Chapman: Who do I say I am?

Worker: You don’t have to say, I will be joining there too.

Chapman: I just typed in the name Daniel. If they ask WHY you are using two devices, just say the microphone on your laptop doesn’t work right ... Most IT people are fine with that explanation.

Sometimes, she got jumpy. “I hope you guys can find other people to do your physical I9s,” she wrote to her bosses in 2023, according to court documents. “I will SEND them for you, but have someone else do the paperwork. I can go to FEDERAL PRISON for falsifying federal documents.” Michael Barnhart, an investigator at cybersecurity company DTEX and a leading expert on the North Korean IT worker threat, says Chapman’s involvement followed a standard pattern—from an innocuous initial contact on LinkedIn to escalating requests. “Little by little, the asks get bigger and bigger,” he says. “Then by the end of the day, you’re asking the facilitator to go to a government facility to pick up an actual government ID.”

By the time investigators raided Chapman’s home, she was housing several dozen laptops, each with a sticky note indicating the fake worker’s identity and employer. Some of the North Korean operatives worked multiple jobs; some had been toiling quietly for years. Prosecutors said at least 300 employers had been pulled into this single scheme, including “a top-five national television network and media company, a premier Silicon Valley technology company, an aerospace and defense manufacturer, an iconic American car manufacturer, a high-end retail store, and one of the most recognizable media and entertainment companies in the world.” Chapman, they alleged, had helped pass along at least $17 million. She pleaded guilty in February 2025 to charges relating to wire fraud, identity theft, and money laundering and is awaiting sentencing.

Chapman’s case is just one of several North Korean fake-worker prosecutions making their way through US courts. A Ukrainian named Oleksandr Didenko has been accused of setting up a freelancing website to connect fake IT workers with stolen identities. Prosecutors say at least one worker was linked to Chapman’s laptop farm and that Didenko also has ties to operations in San Diego and Virginia. Didenko was arrested in Poland last year and was extradited to the United States. In Tennessee, 38-year-old Matthew Knoot is due to stand trial for his alleged role in a scheme that investigators say sent hundreds of thousands of dollars to accounts linked to North Korea via his laptop farm in Nashville. (Knoot has pleaded not guilty.) And in January 2025, Florida prosecutors filed charges against two American citizens, Erick Ntekereze Prince and Emanuel Ashtor, as well as a Mexican accomplice and two North Koreans. (None of the defendants’ lawyers in these cases responded to requests for comment.) The indictments claim that Prince and Ashtor had spent six years running a string of fake staffing companies that placed North Koreans in at least 64 businesses.

before the hermit kingdom had its laptop farms, it had a single confirmed internet connection, at least as far as the outside world could tell. As recently as 2010, that one link to the web was reserved for use by high-ranking officials. Then, in 2011, 27-year-old Kim Jong Un succeeded his father as the country’s dictator. Secretly educated in Switzerland and said to be an avid gamer, the younger Kim made IT a national priority. In 2012, he urged some schools to “pay special attention to intensifying their computer education” to create new possibilities for the government and military. Computer science is now on some high school curricula, while college students can take courses on information security, robotics, and engineering.

The most promising students are taught hacking techniques and foreign languages that can make them more effective operatives. Staff from government agencies including the Reconnaissance General Bureau— the nation’s clandestine intelligence service—recruit the highest-scoring graduates of top schools like Kim Chaek University of Technology (described by many as “the MIT of North Korea”) or the prestigious University of Sciences in Pyongsong. They are promised good wages and unfettered access to the internet—the real internet, not the intranet available to well-off North Koreans, which consists of a mere handful of heavily censored North Korean websites.

The earliest cyberattacks launched by Pyongyang were simple affairs: defacing websites with political messages or launching denial-of-service attacks to shut down US websites. They soon grew more audacious. In 2014, North Korean hackers famously stole and leaked confidential information from Sony’s film studio. Then they targeted financial institutions: Fraudulent trades pulled more than $81 million from the Bank of Bangladesh’s accounts at the New York Federal Reserve. After that, North Korean hackers moved into ransomware—the WannaCry attack in 2017 locked hundreds of thousands of Windows computers in 150 countries and demanded payments in bitcoin. While the amount of revenue the attack generated is up for debate—some say it earned just $140,000 in payouts—it wreaked much wider damage as companies worked to upgrade their systems and security, costing as much as $4 billion, according to one estimate.

Governments responded with more sanctions and stronger security measures, and the regime pivoted, dialing back on ransomware in favor of quieter schemes. It turns out these are also more lucrative: Today, the most valuable tool in North Korea’s cybercrime armory is cryptocurrency theft. In 2022, hackers stole more than $600 million worth of the cryptocurrency ether by attacking the blockchain game Axie Infinity; in February of this year, they robbed the Dubai-based crypto exchange Bybit of $1.5 billion worth of digital currency. The IT pretender scam, meanwhile, seems to have been growing slowly until the pandemic dramatically expanded the number of remote jobs, and Pyongyang saw the perfect opportunity.

In 2024, according to a recent report from South Korea’s National Intelligence Service, the number of people working in North Korea’s cyber divisions—which includes pretenders, crypto thieves, and military hackers—stood at 8,400, up from 6,800 two years earlier. Some of these workers are based in the country, but many are stationed overseas in China, Russia, Pakistan, or elsewhere. They are relatively well compensated, but their posting is hardly cushy.

Teams of 10 to 20 young men live and work out of a single apartment, sleeping four or five to a room and grinding up to 14 hours a day at weird hours to correspond with their remote job’s time zone. They have quotas of illicit earnings they are expected to meet. Their movements are tightly controlled, as are those of their relatives, who are effectively held hostage to prevent defections. “You don’t have any freedom,” says Hyun-Seung Lee, a North Korean defector who lives in Washington, DC, and says some of his old friends were part of such operations. “You’re not allowed to leave the apartment unless you need to purchase something, like grocery shopping, and that is arranged by the team leader. Two or three people must go together so there’s no opportunity for them to explore.”

The US government estimates that a typical team of pretenders can earn up to $3 million each year for Pyongyang. Experts say the money is pumped into everything from Kim Jong Un’s personal slush fund to the country’s nuclear weapons program. A few million dollars may seem small next to the flashy crypto heists— but with so many teams operating in obscurity, the fraud is effective precisely because it is so mundane.

in the summer of 2022, a major multinational company hired a remote engineer to work on website development. “He would dial in to meetings, he would participate in discussions,” an executive at the company told me on condition of anonymity. “His manager said he was considered the most productive member of the team.”

One day, his coworkers organized a surprise to celebrate his birthday. Colleagues gathered on a video call to congratulate him, only to be startled by his response—but it’s not my birthday. After nearly a year at the company, the worker had apparently forgotten the birth date listed in his records. It was enough to spark suspicion, and soon afterward the security team discovered that he was running remote access tools on his work computer, and he was let go. It was only later, when federal investigators discovered one of his pay stubs at Christina Chapman’s laptop farm in Arizona, that the company connected the dots and realized it had employed a foreign agent for nearly a year.

For many pretenders, the goal is simply to earn a good salary to send back to Pyongyang, not so much to steal money or data. “We’ve seen long-tail operations where they were going 10, 12, 18 months working in some of these organizations,” says Adam Meyers, a senior vice president for counter adversary operations at the security company CrowdStrike. Sometimes, though, North Korean operatives last just a few days— enough time to download huge amounts of company data or plant malicious software in a company’s systems before abruptly quitting. That code could alter financial data or manipulate security information. Or these seeds could lay dormant for months, even years.

“The potential risk from even one minute of access to systems is almost unlimited for an individual company,” says Declan Cummings, the head of engineering at software company Cinder. Experts say that attacks are ramping up not just in the US but also in Germany, France, Britain, Japan and other countries. They urge companies to do rigorous due diligence: speak directly to references, watch for candidates making sudden changes of address, use reputable online screening tools, and conduct a physical interview or in-person ID verification.

But none of these methods are foolproof, and AI tools are constantly weakening them. ChatGPT and the like give almost anyone the capacity to answer esoteric questions in real time with unearned confidence, and their fluency with coding threatens to make programming tests irrelevant. AI video filters and deepfakes can also add to the subterfuge.

At an onboarding call, for instance, many HR representatives now ask new employees to hold their ID up to the camera for closer inspection. “But the fraudsters have a neat trick there,” says Donal Greene, a biometrics expert at the online background check provider Certn. They take a green-colored card the exact shape and size of an identity card—a mini green screen—and, using deepfake technology, project the image of an ID onto it. “They can actually move it and show the reflection,” says Greene. “It’s very sophisticated.” North Korean agents have even been known to send look-alikes to pick up a physical ID card from an office or to take a drug test required by prospective employers.

Even security experts can be fooled. In July 2024, Knowbe4, a Florida-based company that offers security training, discovered that a new hire known as “Kyle” was actually a foreign agent. “He interviewed great,” says Brian Jack, KnowBe4’s chief information security officer. “He was on camera, his résumé was right, his background check cleared, his ID cleared verification. We didn’t have any reason to suspect this wasn’t a valid candidate.” But when his facilitator—the US-based individual giving him cover—tried to install malware on Kyle’s company computer, the security team caught on and shut him out.

Back in london, Simon Wijckmans couldn’t let go of the idea that somebody had tried to fool him. He’d just read about the Knowbe4 case, which deepened his suspicions. He conducted background checks and discovered that some of his candidates were definitely using stolen identities. And, he found, some of them were linked to known North Korean operations. So Wijckmans decided to wage a little counter exercise of his own, and he invited me to observe.

I dial in to Google Meet at 3 am Pacific time, tired and bleary. We deliberately picked this offensively early hour because it’s 6 am in Miami, where the candidate, “Harry,” claims to be.

Harry joins the call, looking pretty fresh-faced. He’s maybe in his late twenties, with short, straight, black hair. Everything about him seems deliberately nonspecific: He wears a plain black crewneck sweater and speaks into an off-brand headset. “I just woke up early today for this interview, no problem,” he says. “I know that working with UK hours is kind of a requirement, so I can get my working hours to yours, so no problem with it.”

So far, everything matches the hallmarks of a fake worker. Harry’s virtual background is one of the default options provided by Google Meet, and his connection is a touch slow. His English is good but heavily accented, even though he tells us he was born in New York and grew up in Brooklyn. Wijckmans starts with some typical interview questions, and Harry keeps glancing off to his right as he responds. He talks about various coding languages and name-drops the frameworks he’s familiar with. Wijckmans starts asking some deeper technical questions. Harry pauses. He looks confused. “Can I rejoin the meeting?” he asks. “I have a problem with my microphone.” Wijckman nods, and Harry disappears.

A couple of minutes pass, and I start to fret that we’ve scared him away, but then he pops back into the meeting. His connection isn’t much better, but his answers are clearer. Maybe he restarted his chatbot, or got a coworker to coach him. The call runs a few more minutes and we say goodbye.

Our next applicant calls himself “Nic.” On his résumé he’s got a link to a personal website, but this guy doesn’t look much like the profile photo on the site. This is his second interview with Wijckmans, and we are certain that he’s faking it: He’s one of the applicants who failed the background check after his first call, although he doesn’t know that.

Nic’s English is worse than Harry’s: When he’s asked what time it is, he tells us it’s “six and past” before correcting himself and saying “quarter to seven.” Where does he live? “I’m in Ohio for now,” he beams, like a kid who got something right in a pop quiz.

Several minutes in, though, his answers become nonsensical. Simon asks him a question about web security. “Political leaders ... government officials or the agencies responsible for border security,” Nic says. “They’re responsible for monitoring and also securing the borders, so we can employ the personnel to patrol the borders and also check the documents and enforce the immigration laws.”

I’m swapping messages with Wijckmans on the back channel we’ve set up when it dawns on us: Whatever AI bot Nic seems to be using must have misinterpreted a mention of “Border Gateway Protocol”—a system for sending traffic across the internet—with national borders, and started spewing verbiage about immigration enforcement. “What a waste of time,” Wijckmans messages me. We wrap up the conversation abruptly.

I try to put myself in the seat of a hiring manager or screener who’s under pressure. The fraudsters’ words may not have always made sense, but their test scores and résumés looked solid, and their technical-sounding guff might be enough to fool an uninformed recruiter. I suspect at least one of them could have made it to the next step in some unsuspecting company’s hiring process.

Wijckmans tells me he has a plan if he comes across another pretender. He has created a web page that looks like a standard coding assessment, which he’ll send to fake candidates. As soon as they hit the button to start the test, their browser will spawn dozens of pop-up pages that bounce around the screen, all of them featuring information on how to defect from North Korea. Then loud music plays—a rickroll, “The Star-Spangled Banner”—before the computer starts downloading random files and emits an ear-splitting beep. “Just a little payback,” he says.

Wijckman’s stunt is not going to stop the pretenders, of course. But maybe it will irritate them for a moment. Then they’ll get back to work, signing on from some hacking sweatshop in China or through a laptop farm in the US, and join the next team meeting—a quiet, camera-off chat with coworkers just like me or you.

[outfoxedashes]

Note: Fic reboot, placeholder post. Watch this space.

Ashes of Empires - Clerith Edition

We wonder, and some Hunter may express wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness where London stood, holding the Wolf in chase, he meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess what powerful but unrecorded race once dwelt in that annihilated place.

—Horace Smith, 'Ozymandias'

Chapter 1 In the Wilderness

And in a single moment, it was done. The Lifestream receded, and the last of the light faded from the sky. The great calamity that had threatened their world was no more, vanishing in one last, blinding burst of energy, leaving only a shower of particles in its wake, drifting through the night sky. Where there had been chaos mere moments before, silence now reigned. The Avalanche members gathered on the Highwind's bridge looked to one another, half in disbelief, as they realised the significance of what they had just witnessed. It was over. Their long struggle had finally ended.

In the days that followed, they occupied themselves with aiding the survivors of the Meteorfall incident, joining in the rescue operations taking place throughout the remains of the once-great city of Midgar. Then came the reconstruction, during which time due remembrance of the fallen was given, followed by a celebration of their victory and survival.

Then, little by little, their various obligations forced them to return to their prior lives. Despite great reluctance on everyone's part to disband the group, they all knew that this eventuality could not be delayed forever. In the end, they went their separate ways. And the world kept on turning.

But the roots of their struggle ran far deeper than any of them ever suspected...

A year had lapsed, and most members of the old Avalanche crew had settled down, easing into the roles required of them, with some adjusting to the changes better than others, as a new world emerged from the ashes of the old one.

Despite his initial reservations, Vincent Valentine had elected to return to Nibelheim to retake the old Shinra manor. At the outset of his venture, he had questioned whether this task was worth undertaking at all, whether it was even a good idea to return here, to the birthplace of so many nightmares for himself and the world alike. In the end, he deemed his mission unavoidable, an unfinished duty that fell to him alone. There was no telling what horrors the late Hojo had left in his wake. And thus he set about cleansing the old manor house, stamping out the last traces of his tormentor's deranged experiments.

The days following his arrival were spent purging the manor of its lingering wraiths, a cathartic enterprise, and one that kept his mind busy; a literal approach to exorcising his demons, figurative and real alike. He took care to be thorough, scouring the infamous manor of its roving abominations until not a single one remained. With his reckoning completed and his new lodgings thus secured, he began to delve into the basement laboratory's voluminous library, sifting through its scientific collectanea, more for the sake of satisfying his own curiosity than any practical concerns.

And so he gradually began to settle down in the old Shinra manor, having made it habitable once more. The countryside's seclusion suited him. The mansion was not so remote from human civilization that it made acquiring provisions difficult, but still far enough removed that few visitors troubled him. Shortly before his own arrival, a group of displaced people from the eastern continent had come across the facsimile of old Nibelheim, now abandoned, and resettled the ghost town. The new inhabitants quickly made the town their own, to live and work in, with little idea of its sordid past. They kept away from the brooding mansion at the edge of town, paying no heed to the solitary figure that could sometimes be glimpsed watching over the town from the upstairs window. Few concerned themselves with who lived there, if anyone, and most were simply too preoccupied with their own lives to care. Observing life continuing in this manner, Vincent reflected upon how quickly the world forgot. Perhaps, he thought, it was for the better.

Then, late one night, near the end of the fall, he found himself roused from his state of torpor by a heavy knocking at the door, as that of someone beating against it with the last of their strength. He set aside the heavy tome resting in his lap and got up from his chair to see who it was. Shifting back the heavy door, he was surprised to find Tifa Lockheart standing outside in the torrential rain, shivering from the autumn cold, looking tired and forlorn, her eyes red and swollen. She spoke up before he had a chance to ask what she was doing out there all by herself, the question half-formed on his lips as she struggled to speak in between laboured breaths.

"He's gone."

There was no need for her to explain further. He knew who she meant. He wrenched the double doors open, urging her to come in from the rain. She took half a step before faltering. He caught her, enfolding her in his arms as she wept, her body half-hidden by his thick cloak.

He served the two of them supper, a quiet and somewhat awkward affair, given how unused he was to having company. They exchanged few words, though the look on Tifa's face told him she was grateful for his hospitality.

Once their meal was concluded, he urged her to rest, after what had no doubt been a harrowing journey. He fashioned her with a comfortable bed in one of the guest bedrooms, and it was not long before she was asleep, drifting off to the sound of rain beating against the glass.

These things were, he knew, mere salve for her trials and tribulations. With little else to do, he pondered the cause of her distress. She and Cloud had parted ways. The exact nature of their falling out eluded him, though it was not hard to guess that it had been a bitter one. It was difficult for him to understand how the two of them had failed to find happiness together after their victory over Sephiroth and Jenova. He had watched from a distance as their relationship slowly disintegrated, as what seemed a foregone conclusion never came together the way everyone expected it would.

Her anguish, Vincent realised, was not merely the result of her own frustrated desires, but the way in which she remained powerless to stop her childhood friend from sabotaging himself out of misguided guilt. From his vantage point as an outsider, their relationship always seemed a case of 'too little, too late'. Perhaps it was never meant to be, he thought. But that did not make their parting any easier.

He stood in the doorway, watching over Tifa as she slumbered,

tracing the delicate outline of her face by the warm glow of the flickering candlelight, wishing there was something more he could do.

Cloud Strife marched on through the snow field, a solitary figure passing through the wintry desolation of the frozen north. He drew up the collar of his shirt, covering the lower half of his face to guard against the bitter wind and heavy snowfall as they threatened to coalesce into a full-fledged blizzard. Deviating from his current path, he pressed on, seeking shelter in the nearby forest as the weather grew more severe.

The wind died away, little by little, as he passed between the thick columns of birch and oak, ancient titans older than man, towering over the winter landscape, casting long shadows. Reaching the first visible clearing, he pulled his collar down again, inhaling the cool, crisp air, now that he was out of the worst of the storm, no longer assailed by cold blasts of wind that threatened to snatch one's breath away.

As he moved towards the centre of the glade, he became aware of some unseen multitude mobilising in the shadows, stalking him. He could hear the faint sounds of branches being trampled, the nearly imperceptible patter of footsteps in the snow. Then, a low howling as his pursuers drew near. He turned to see a large grey wolf emerging from behind the trees. Then another. A third. Before long, the whole pack had revealed itself. Glancing from one side of the clearing to the other only confirmed his suspicion; he was surrounded, caught in their ambush.

The wolves stood their ground, encircling him, cutting off every possible escape route. They observed the human in their midst with a guarded demeanour, as though waiting for something. Cloud realised his error. He was trespassing on their territory, and the wolves, clearly angered by such a brazen violation of the sanctity of their domain, had rallied against him, though it was not clear whether they intended him harm, or if they were simply trying to scare off the intruder that had wandered into their sanctum. Adopting a defensive stance, he slowly reached for his blade, drawing it a few inches from its sheath, while holding up his free hand in a propitiatory gesture, hoping to communicate to them that he meant no disrespect, and that he merely wished to pass through.

"Easy.."

His eyes darted from one wolf to the next, regarding each in turn, watching for signs of movement as he backed away, taking slow, tentative steps towards the edge of the clearing. The wolves crouched low, bending their ears back even as they bared their teeth, their expressions a blend of aggression and fear. It was doubtful that they encountered many humans, being so far removed from any of their settlements, and their behaviour betrayed an uncertainty of whether to attack the unwelcome visitor or let him go.

Though they remained tense, their growling began to quiet down as he moved away from the clearing, watching them carefully as he retreated. Before he had made it halfway from the centre, however, an old wolf, the alpha male of the pack, emerged from the shadows. The wolf, a prideful and great brute, whose scarred visage spoke of untold trials faced during the years of guiding and protecting its pack, fixed the human interloper with a murderous gaze. It snarled at him, its anger provoking the other wolves out of their state of hesitation. They began to bark and howl, as well, their clamour rising in a gradual crescendo as they worked themselves into a hunting frenzy.

Cloud froze in place, turning as the alpha wolf charged at him. He drew, dodged, and cut, all in a single, practised motion as the wolf leapt up at him. The tip of his blade cleaved the side of the wolf's torso, and the great beast fell heavy to the ground. Staggered, he held his blade up, hands trembling from the lingering reverberation of the blow. He drew a terse breath as he looked to the other wolves, who remained in place, watching the confrontation with dismay, uncertain of whether to fight or flee. For a long moment, neither he nor they made any move, as if waiting to see whose nerve would give out first.

Their stand-off was interrupted by a low growl, coming from the twitching body of the head wolf. Cloud looked over his shoulder to see the beast, which he had assumed dead, slowly rising back to its feet, all but ignoring the fatal wound he had dealt it. The great wolf shook with pain and rage, its unchecked, maniacal fury twisting its face into a demoniac mask.

Before he knew what was happening, the wolf charged him a second time, bounding through the snow with alarming speed. Bracing himself, he swung again as it jumped up. This time, however, he missed, and the wolf came down hard, overpowering him with its bulk, forcing the sword from his hand as it drove him down to the ground. His head smashed against the cold earth, the force of the impact leaving his ears ringing and his vision blurred.

In his hazy mental state, he was vaguely aware of the other wolves closing in, galvanised by their leader's charge. They circled the two combatants, howling and chanting, spurring on the monstrous, frantic thing towering over him. He shook off his disorientation, dodging in time to avoid a fatal bite. His aggressor, however, gave no quarter, pinning him to the forest floor as it continued its relentless attack. Cloud seized the frenzied beast by the throat, holding the great wolf at bay as it snapped at him, aiming for his face and neck with its powerful jaws.

Searching for some way to counter the wolf's attacks, he spotted his blade lying in the snow, having slipped from his hands as he fell. He made to reach for it, but the wolf's erratic movements made it impossible for him to release his grip on its neck without risking letting it overpower him. He was left no other choice, however. The other wolves were drawing nearer still, and his assailant's attacks were growing more manic and unpredictable. The wolf simply would not let up, having been driven out of its mind by pain and anger, raging at him hysterically, with no care for its own safety, as though wishing to damn its mortal enemy with its dying breath.

With great effort, he managed to deflect the wolf's attacks, pushing its head to the side with one hand, freeing up the other to reach for his weapon. He extended his arm as far as he could without losing his grip on the wolf, and his fingers brushed against the hilt, but it was too far away for him to take hold of it. The wolf, meanwhile, managed to break free from his hold and threatened to overwhelm him, forcing him to abandon his sword in the snow to hold it off with both hands again.

Frustrated, he gave up on trying to reclaim his weapon. There was only one option left to him, one that had slipped his mind in the sheer chaos of the moment. Still keeping his attacker at bay, he reached for the knife concealed underneath his loose sleeve, taking the hilt with an underhand grip. Tearing the knife free from its scabbard, he plunged the blade deep into the side of the wolf's neck.

To his surprise, the wolf, though temporarily fazed, continued to press, biting and snapping away in spite of the critical wound it had just received. Gritting his teeth, Cloud wrenched the knife back out, sending a spray of blood gushing from the laceration, before stabbing repeatedly against the wolf's head and neck, attacking wildly in order to stymie his enemy's onslaught.

The final blow struck the wolf's head, piercing its skull, but even this was not enough to discourage the enraged beast's aggression, though he had finally managed to force it to a temporary halt. He gripped the knife more firmly, forcing the blade deeper, inch by painful inch, while the wolf continued its attempts to sink its teeth into his flesh.

Despite the great beast's unnatural vigour, he could see the light in its eyes begin to fade, its mental faculties slowly degrading as the cold steel dug into its grey matter. The thing began to tremble, yet it fought on, even as the knife robbed it of its cognition and strength. The wolf's movements finally began to slow, however, its attacks reduced to an ineffectual gumming, and its roar faded to a pitiable whimper. It stared down at him with discoloured eyes, half-blind from the blood pooling beneath their surface. At last, the wolf surrendered its struggle. Its head sank down to the ground, and it lay there, unmoving, breathing its last.

Exhaling heavily, Cloud loosed the knife from the wolf's head again, rolling away the heavy carcass as he forced himself back to his feet. He snatched up his blade with his free hand, drawing a ragged breath as he watched the other wolves for their reaction, bracing himself for a second attack with his sword in one hand and the knife in the other. The great wolf's lifeblood dripped from the tip of the latter weapon, as well as his clothing and face, colouring the snow beneath a deep crimson. The rest of the pack watched him with newfound apprehension, remaining perfectly still, uncertain of what to do. None of them, it seemed, had suspected this outcome. They looked to one another for a moment before dispersing, vanishing into the woods as quickly as they had appeared, leaving him by himself in the clearing once again. Relaxing his guard at last, he breathed a sigh of relief.

A few moments later, he found himself kneeling at a small brook, the outlet of some subnivean stream further away, washing the rivulets of blood from his face with the freezing water. He then picked up a handful of snow from the ground, cleaning his weapons and clothing as best he could. As he worked, he felt something tugging at his pants leg, as if some small creature were nipping at his heels. Surprised, he turned and stood to see a wolf cub, no more than two months old. The cub, having got his attention, stared back up at him with earnest curiosity, panting and wagging its tail.

The cub had strayed from the rest of the pack by accident, it seemed. It appeared to be unaware of what had transpired only moments earlier, or it was possible that its curiosity about the strange visitor in the woods had overpowered its sense of danger. In either case, it continued to watch him with interest, yapping a couple of times, then tilting its head, its manner friendly and unassuming. Innocent.

Cloud looked back down at the whelp with a wistful expression on his face. No doubt killing the old wolf would leave the cub's pack more vulnerable to predation, and less able to fend for themselves in the harsh winter. Though it had done its best to take his own life, he couldn't help but feel a vague regret over slaying the great beast. He had been trespassing on their territory unknowingly, after all.

He knelt down, reaching out to touch the wolf cub's head, moving slowly to see if it would object. Seeing that it did not seem to mind, he stroked it briefly, patting its head. The pup responded favourably to the gesture, leaning into his touch, whimpering softly as he ran his hand over its lightly mottled coat.

"I'm sorry."

He looked up again as he heard a barking in the distance, emanating from the woods. The cub, too, turned its attention to the older wolf, perhaps its mother, watching the two of them from a nearby hillock clothed in thick firs. Cloud rose to his feet, growing alert again in anticipation of a second attack. The parent wolf merely stood there, however, waiting while the cub darted back to its side. It turned away, exchanging one last glance with the human invader, as if to bid him leave in peace. Their territory thus demarcated, the wolves departed for good.

Peering at his reflection in the water, Cloud noticed a thin scar, almost imperceptible, running down his cheek as a result of the earlier encounter. Such attacks, he knew, were uncommon, apt only to occur in the deep of the wilderness, far from any settlement, where the animals remained unaccustomed to human depredation. The whole affair was a lamentable one. But it would not do to dwell on such things for long, he reminded himself. Here was a world more savage, more primal, far removed from the pretensions of civil society. Such extreme isolation should have repelled him, as it did other people, who valued their security above all else, but to his surprise, he found that the solitude of the wild and its honest savagery suited him better than the clamorous cities of the world, where would have been no less ill at ease. Here, at least, there was no pretence of innocence. Only predators, prey, and the thin line dividing the former from the latter. And, as he had learned today, a moment's indiscretion could quickly change on which side of that line one stood.

With this in mind, he took off once more, bracing himself for the journey that lay ahead. The Northern Crater awaited him, and he had places to visit along the way, few of which were any more hospitable than his current whereabouts.

Yuffie Kisaragi slipped inside her room, having dismissed her bodyguard and retinue of servants for as long as she felt she could get away with without rousing suspicion. She slid the door shut, then seated herself on the floor in front of the small vanity situated near the entrance, adopting the customary posture for formal occasions purely out of habit, even though she was all by herself.

She stared at her reflection for a long moment. Nearly two years had passed since Avalanche's dissolution, and her transformation could not have been more radical, on the outside, at least. She no longer recognised the ghost in the mirror, this pale imitation of the energetic young girl who had travelled half-way across the world on her own, before joining up with the band of resistance fighters on a whim.

She had grown her hair out, painstakingly grooming and layering it, wearing it in the style of traditional Wutaian court fashion in an attempt to strike a more 'lady-like' figure, in accordance with her father's wishes. Her face, too, evinced a number of outward changes, caked as it was with heavy white make-up, coupled with subtle red and black accents around the eyes and a hint of blush applied to her cheeks. In all, she resembled a porcelain doll more than a human being, a model of perfect manner and grace, docile and restrained, nothing like her old self.

This change was not the result of coercion on her father's part, or anyone else's, for that matter. Despite her profound disdain for authority and tradition, she had forced herself to undertake this alteration as something she deemed necessary as part of Wutai's healing process. She understood that now that Shinra was gone, it was, as her father liked to remind her, a time of rebuilding, not of conflict, and that called for a different kind of sacrifice. She had known the day was coming when she had to 'grow up'; that was, to give up her natural inclination to eschew her duties towards her country in favour of running off to explore the far corners of the world. It was unavoidable. She simply had not expected it to come so soon.

Her refusal to accept this duty had played a large part in her running away from home the first time, along with her constant squabbling with her father over that very matter. But as much as she resisted the notion, she knew Godo was right. So she played her part, assuming her role as his aide and right hand on the council, suppressing her naturally effusive personality in order to blend in during their various political engagements inside and outside the country. Her new act was little more than a social mask, of course, worn for the same reason as her sudden change in dress and bearing. That's how it had begun, at least. Now, she was not so sure. That mask was getting to fit a little too well, she thought. A little too closely..

She shifted her position as she regarded the impostor staring back at her. Sitting in this manner had presented her with some difficulty when she first began to attend council meetings along with her father, being that she was nearly allergic to the stifling artifice demanded by such events, and had avoided them for the greater part of her life. As a result, she had never grown accustomed to displaying the decorum and grace that was, by tradition, expected of women of her lineage. In the beginning, she had harboured serious doubts about whether she would be able to master the discipline required to do so. She was not alone in her doubts, as evidenced by the surprised look on everyone's faces when she suddenly decided to set aside her transient and careless approach to life in order to participate in the court's political affairs. It was the first time that she had ever displayed, or, at any rate, feigned, any interest in such matters.

It was no secret, after all, that she preferred the freedom and excitement offered by the other side of her heritage. During her childhood, her father had tolerated her near-obsession with her ninjutsu training, reasoning that it was the only way that she would even sit still for what he viewed as her proper lessons. He had hoped that her enthusiasm for such unbecoming behaviour, as he termed it, would fade away in time, but, much to his growing consternation, her interest never waned. Indeed, it had only gotten worse when she first discovered materia and its various applications in combat. Before long, she had proven herself the foremost of her master's disciples, something that their pride forbade them to admit.

Similarly, the courtiers' doubts about her ability to adjust to court life had served to spur her on, igniting in her the same spirit of defiance that had driven her during her childhood, the only difference between then and now being the activities into which she channelled her energy. Much like before, she was motivated by the intent not to let anyone get the better of her. As exacting as the strictures of Wutai's high society could be, she would be damned if she let its members smugly affirm to themselves the worst that they thought of her by giving up.

Even so, making the requisite changes had been a great struggle for her. Having to partake in ancient rituals and ceremonies, and adopt old and obscure customs for their own sake, something for which she could find no purpose or rational justification other than vague appeals to 'tradition', went against her nature in every way possible. The temptation to say to hell with it all and simply run away again had been overwhelming, and several times she had come close to doing just that. She persevered, however, out of loyalty to her country, if nothing else. In time, the lessons from her childhood, the ones she had done her best to ignore and forget, had come back to her, little by little. By now, she had perfected the act, and had even come to believe it herself at times. She had proven her doubters wrong, deriving a sly satisfaction from doing so. But her little victory had come at a great cost, and she was starting to fear that if she did not break away from the masquerade soon, her true self would be subsumed by the false exterior which she had worked so hard to maintain.

In the end, the choice to undertake all of this effort had been hers, but after nearly two years of pretence, not to mention the hardships and restraint it demanded, she was beginning to question the wisdom of her decision. While it was true that her motherland had recovered to a great extent since Shinra's downfall, and that she had no doubt played an important role in that recovery, Wutai's society remained rigid and unchanging as ever, especially in regards to its implicit enforcement of gender roles and social order. Any attempt on her part to challenge the dominant patriarchy, whether from within or without, seemed destined to failure so long as she remained the only one to openly criticise the otherwise unquestioned conformity that allowed such conditions to persist, long after the rest of the world had done away with them.

It was heartbreaking, watching her country vanishing back into the past, rather than forging ahead towards the future, as she had hoped it would. She was sick of pretending in front of the endless cavalcade of vacuous ministers, politicians and dignitaries, whose only motives, as far as she could tell, were to preserve a retrograde social hierarchy that had long been engineered in their favour. If preserving tradition meant remaining stuck in the past, she wanted no more part in it. And as much as she wanted to help Wutai, she doubted that she could bear the burden much longer if it meant losing herself in the process.

She took another look at herself in the mirror. Her old self was indeed close to disappearing beneath her counterfeit exterior. Even her smile was no longer her own, more closely resembling a grimace than anything else. Breaking away from her reflection, she steeled herself mentally for what was to come next. Her mind was made up. All that was left was to follow through with the act itself.

She reached for a sheet of paper and a brush from the nearby desk, grinding a coarse block of ink into a bowl and mixing it with water before dipping the brush into the fresh mixture. Touching the tip of the brush against the smooth paper, she began to write.

"Dear father,

I'm leaving Wutai. I'd explain the reasons why, but I think we both already know.

With our old enemy removed, our greatest threats now come from within. Perhaps they always have. What Shinra did to us was criminal, but what we keep doing to ourselves may be even worse.

Our empire will be restored. Of this, I have no doubt. Wutai will flourish, with or without me. I see that now. I only wish it could mature sooner. I've tried doing things your way, because I thought I could help make that change from within. But the problem is greater than I could see. Greater than either of us. Things are changing, yes, but not quickly enough. I worry that we will be eternally trapped in the past if we continue to rely blindly upon tradition alone to guide us, and I don't see that changing any time soon.

You are not to blame in this. But I can't keep up this facade any longer. This is not who I am.

Don't look for me. I'm not coming back.

-Yuffie"

She composed her letter in finely-wrought calligraphic script, the end result of countless hours spent in cold classrooms during her childhood, labouring under the watchful eye of her unforgiving tutor, earning a sharp strike on the back of her hand for every malformed character and accidental slip of the brush. She tried her best not to wince as she thought of those times, concentrating instead solely on the act of writing. Once finished, she laid the brush aside, folding the letter and stamping it with the imperial seal.

Having left her message, she turned her attention to her physical appearance. She removed the hairpins and ornaments from her hair, loosening and unweaving the bun into which it had been tied, letting her long locks flow past her shoulders, extending nearly to the small of her back. Gathering them up in one hand, she took a knife from the drawer and pressed it up against them. Hesitating, she glanced up at her reflection for a moment before continuing, slicing through her locks with the sharp blade, breathing a sigh of relief as they came loose. She cast the severed strands aside, the slight regret she felt over discarding them after nearly two years of care and attention outweighed by her relief at having rid herself of such an encumbrance. She then proceeded to wipe away the heavy make-up from her face with a damp cloth, until at last some semblance of the person hidden underneath it all began to emerge.

Her transformative ritual completed, she slowly rose to her feet. Ducking behind the folding screens in the corner of the room, she quickly undressed, leaving her brocaded garments on the floor, before throwing her closet open and rummaging through it, piecing together an outfit by haphazardly picking out whatever clothes she could assemble in under a minute: Boots, stockings, shorts, a black camisole with a floral pattern, and a grey jacket. Thus attired, she knelt down in front of the wall behind the closet, sliding open the hidden compartment where she kept her old collection of weapons: throwing daggers, caltrops, materia, and her combat shuriken.

Unable to locate her old headband, she replaced it with a simpler one, tying it in a hachimaki as she headed for the window at the opposite side of the room. She paused in front of the mirror, trying on a different smile, now that she was free of her self-imposed restraints. Better, if not quite as luminous as her usual, carefree grin. But it would do for now.

As she pushed open the window, she stopped again for a moment, hesitating as the full weight of her decision occurred to her. This was no mere flippancy on her part. She was leaving her home for good, burning every bridge she had spent the last two years building here in the process. Knowing that her own reluctance was the only remaining threshold to be overcome, she was resolved not to abandon anything she might regret leaving behind. After this, there would be no turning back.

She looked over her bedroom one last time, taking in its sparse furnishings. A few hanging scrolls lined the walls, a simple paper lantern in the corner cast a dim glow amidst the shadows, and a small alcove held most of the trinkets she had deemed worth keeping around: folding fans, decorative carvings, and other keepsakes. Nothing out of the ordinary. A nearby shelf displayed an array of animal shapes wrought from folded paper, a hobby she had taken up in order to keep her hands busy and maintain her finger dexterity in lieu of sparring or open combat, neither of which she'd had much cause to engage in since her split with Avalanche.

One object caught her eye as she turned to climb out the window: an old scroll passed down from one generation to another, its inscription a reminder of her bloodline's heritage, drawn from the folk tales of her people:

'Child of Leviathan'

This, too, she would have to leave behind, abandoning the gilded cage for an uncertain future that held no promise of anything for her, save for a vague notion of freedom. In the end, however, she could think of little here that she would miss. There was no more time for second thoughts. She decided that if it was too heavy to carry with her, it wasn't worth worrying about.

Satisfied that she had everything she needed, she vaulted out onto the roof, easing back into the acrobatic bearing that she had all but suspended for the better part of two years. She leaned over the edge, enumerating the potential obstacles in her path, before leaping down to the ground with the aid of the branches of a nearby pine tree. Shouldering her backpack and pulling the hood up over her head, she took care not to be seen by the royal guards stationed around the outer perimeter of the Kisaragi mansion.

The sheer number of soldiers patrolling the area forced her to circle around the floating pavilion opposite the mansion, but eventually she got far enough away from the estate to feel safe to remove the hood once again. Reaching the marketplace, she did her best to blend in with the multitude, which swayed in every which direction, in an effort to escape the scorching heat of summer. Two years ago, she might have been concerned that someone would recognise her as she wandered about freely, but considering how little the outside world had seen of her since those days, there was hardly any for her to fear being called out by a stranger. By the time she had made her way into the bustling thoroughfare at the edge of town, she was just another face in the crowd.

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

Roadtrip (Part 1/?)

“I’m not going in the back.”

“You’re going in the back.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No—”

“Reggie is up front with me, I need a good guide.”

Regulus smirks at Sirius, tongue out and teasing as he opens the front door. “There you go, Sirius. I’m a good guide,” he says, closing the passenger side door with a snide smile.

Asshole.

Sirius throws hands, opening the back door and climbing in with Remus, who’s already settled in, kindle open. He doesn’t look up as Sirius slides in. “You know you were never getting in front, sweetheart, right?”

Sirius kisses his teeth. “It’s like Reggie’s trying to steal my best friend from me.”

Remus hums, “It’s possible to have several best friends.”

“No. James is one of a kind.”

Remus turns back to his kindle, “Then date him instead,” he shrugs.

“No!”

Remus’ eyes are back on Sirius, twinkling. “No?”

Turning to his right to grab the top of the security belt, Sirius mutters as he slides it on. “I don’t want to date him, I’m just saying he and Reggie have been chummy with—”

“Aannndd we’re ready to go,” James says as he slides into the driver’s side, smiling with all his teeth. “Take us away, space man,” he says, passing the map to Regulus, who opens it up.

“Tell me again why we aren’t using Google maps?” Sirius asks, and Regulus reaches back to slap the map over Sirius’ head.

“Hey!”

“Because Google maps is turning our brains into mush, and we’ll miss all the fun,” Regulus says.

Sirius rubs at his head. “All the fun of…knowing where to go?”

Regulus kisses his teeth. “I have a map, I know where to go.”

“But you could be using Google maps,” Sirius reasons.

“Yes, I could,” Regulus starts, with the tone of someone who is about to launch— “And I could also have chosen a different breakfast, a different degree, I could have decided to wake up and pick another type of shirt, there are so many options around me, all the time, and I am picking a map on purpose.”

“But—”

“It’s the adventure,” James interrupts again, pulling out of the main house.

The Black summer house is less of a house and more of a mansion, where most of them have been spending a lot of time this summer. To cap it off, the general consensus was that a road trip—wouldn’t it be fun?—would be a great way to end it. In two weeks, Remus and Sirius need to be back in England, where Remus will start teaching. James will head back to England a few days after. He’s got friends to see in Paris, so he’ll make the final leg of the drive up with Regulus before abandoning him to the clutches of City of Love while he goes back to London.

In the meantime?

Two weeks of road tripping the french countryside, from Cassis, where the Black family owns a house, all the way to Bordeaux, where the boys will take a train to Paris, leaving James and Regulus to climb up alone.

The problem Sirius has, is that Regulus and James have become friends.

The problem Sirius has, is that he is no longer the center of attention, the main tool through which everyone communicates. Over the course of the past two weeks, he has seen the blossoming friendship between his brother and his best friend, and he’s not—happy about that.

James has been remote working, and so has Regulus (who technically, is remote working from anywhere), while he and Remus have been on proper holidays. And okay, their schedules have been different. Okay, maybe James and Regulus have been left alone while Sirius took Remus out and about town, kayaking and paddle boarding to nearby islands, and maybe it would make sense for them to bond. And okay, it would have been sad for them not to get on, but they’re just… getting along too well. It’s freaking Sirius out.

“The adventure,” Regulus confirms, opening the map to its maximum before folding it back the way he prefers. “Right, Jamie, you’re going to take a left and follow the signs all the way to A50.”

Sirius is right there, once again, “Why Marseille, Reggie?”

“Because you’re going to have the best ice cream of your life there, that’s why.”

“But I hate Marseille.”

“And so you shall suffer.”

Sirius rears back, turning to look at Remus, who’s sporting a little, barely-there smirk, “He’s already bullying me!”

Remus doesn’t look up, reaching one hand to tangle it in Sirius’. “He’s not bullying you. You agreed to this road trip, you knew Reggie was going to pick the stops.”

“But Marseille?”

Regulus turns around from the passenger seat. “If I give you music rights, will you leave it?”

And that, is that.

Sirius grabs the aux cord and starts fiddling with Spotify. “Oh, there’s so much, I have so many ideas, let’s start with Chappell Roan.”

Regulus is quick to reach for the aux, “No, not Pink—”

“Pink Pony Club,” Sirius nods. “Yep. That’s the one.”

Regulus turns his head to James, please help, but James just shrugs. “I’m happy with all music.”

“No,” Regulus moans, just as Sirius fist pumps the air. “James, turn the car around.”

James doesn’t look up from the windshield. “Nope, we’re in this together now. No one is ruining this for me.”

“For you?” Regulus asks. “How has my road trip become yours?”

James sneaks a look at Regulus, “Since you sat next to me, polluting my work environment and telling me everything you wanted to do and whether everyone else would be on board.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

James scoffs, “Sure it isn’t, Baby Black.”

“This is actually the worst thing to come out of this adventure,” Regulus says.

And Sirius is there, right away, putting his head in between the seats, pulling on his seatbelt. “Baby Black?”

“I like it,” James says right as Regulus quips, “It’s horrible.”

Sirius squints between the leather seats. “I can’t decide.”

“Sirius, the beauty of it,” James starts, taking a right, “is that there is nothing you have to decide on. It’s been decided on already. I like it, so I will use it.”

Regulus looks out the window, “I’m pretty sure that’s not how democracy works,” he pouts.

“Funny of you to think it’s a democracy. I am driving—”

“It’s my car—”

“I’m in charge of the music,” Sirius cuts in right before Remus grabs his arm and pulls him back to his seat behind Regulus, enough of that.

“Remus, they’re—”

“They are chatting. Leave them alone.”

“They’re flirting.”

“They’re not.”

Sirius turns to James. “James, are you flirting with my brother?”

“Um, not really?”

Remus turns to Sirius, “See?”, just as Regulus turns to James.

“’Um’? What a vote of confidence.”

“Well, do you want me to flirt with you?”

“No,” Sirius says, just as Regulus says nothing.

Regulus says nothing.

Regulus says.

Nothing.

“Reggie.”

Silence.

“Reggie.”

“Sirius, don’t say anything,” Remus says.

“I—”

“Just. Leave it.”

Sirius does.

For a minute.

“Okay, but—”

[just-french-me-up]

Heatstroke

Fandom : The Sandman (AO3 link) Pairing : Dreamling (Dream x Hob) Rating : Explicit | 2.1k Tags : Smut, Fluff, Established Relationship, Blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics Summary : England is suffering through its second week of a scorching heatwave, and Dream's presence in his flat does nothing to cool Hob down... or does it? "I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns." "Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly." "Could you now?"

Heat was everywhere. It was the air he breathed, the water from the tap he drank, the sheets he slept on, the walls he tried to find shelter behind. It was under his skin, ever present, unescapable, and Hob felt as though he was going mad from it.

It had been one week of this, sweltering heat sweeping through the south of England, unleashing all of its scorching might, with London at its epicentre. The city had not been built to withstand such temperatures, and Hob's flat was no exception. Closing the blinds and sleeping with the windows open had worked for the first few days, but, insidiously, the heat had filtered in Celsius by Celsius, invading the space until there was no longer any respite from it.

Ever the harbinger of doom, the forecast had announced another week of this, sending London into a frenzy, between those who could afford to retreat north (or better yet, abroad, to more scenic and forgiving shores), and those who didn't have that luxury.

Hob was part of the latter.

Work kept him anchored in the city between lectures and research, the university administration staunchly refusing to trigger their remote learning protocol, citing the poor exam results following the pandemic as their main concern. God forbid they lose their prestigious ranking. At least the faculty's archives provided Hob with a few precious hours of cool air. Such commodity was hard to come by, these days.

At home, Hob had grown used to living in semi-darkness, the blinds permanently closed, only leaving a sliver of light in. He often congratulated himself on having bought a fan one heatwave ago, before the entire stock had been raided by his heat-striken fellowmen. It did little to cool him down, though. Hot air was still hot air, no matter how much velocity it hit you with. He spent his days in nothing but his underwear, moving as little as possible, taking his mind off the heat as best he could.

Nights were almost bearable. When he didn't spend them at the New Inn, Hob would lie on the couch, crushed by the thick atmosphere, listening to this or that book, his body far too hot still to fall asleep yet. He was struggling to follow his latest pick when a deep, familiar voice startled him.

"I was not aware nudity was the latest fashion."

Hob sat up awkwardly, staring at the dark silhouette standing by the bedroom door. God, when he'd told Dream he could waltz in whenever he pleased, he never imagined himself sweaty and practically naked when that happened. Well... not at the onset, at least. In spite of the relative darkness, he could see the quiet smirk tugging at Dream's well-studied, often worshipped lips. Also wait, was he wearing a turtleneck, of all things?!

"It's something of a national trend, at the moment."

Dream took a few steps around the living room, the hem of his coat swaying gracefully against his ankles. Hob could feel himself sweat just imagining the weight of those layers. Morpheus, statuesque as ever, didn't seem the least bit bothered.

"How are you not cooked medium rare, right now?" Hob asked, looking for the faintest hint of a flush on those fair cheekbones of his, finding none. That turtleneck had to be awfully warm around his throat, though, the black, soft-looking fabric clashing deliciously with his skin. If he could just slip a finger underneath... Another kind of heat spread through Hob at the thought, doing nothing to improve the miserable state he was already in.

"I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns."

He said it as though it was barely worth mentioning, boringly mundane, and not easily the most fascinating thing Hob had heard all week. Hell, all year. He relaxed against the back of the couch, observing Dream's slow prowl towards him, suddenly acutely aware of his lack of proper clothing and undignified posture.

"Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly."

A low hum rose from Dream's throat, a cross between a chuckle and a huff. He was looming over him now, their knees nearly brushing.

"Could you now?"

Whatever clever retort Hob's brain had come up with, it died on his lips as Morpheus' hand ran across his damp scalp, his fingers combing through his hair. His skin was cold, impossibly so, his touch leaving tingling trails behind, making him itch for more. Hob let out a hearty, breathy sigh, leaning into the palm of Dream's hand.

"Fuck, that feels good."

He didn't mean to sound so achingly needy, but it was, by far, the best sensation he'd had all week. He had tried to beat the heat in various (and increasingly desperate) ways, but nothing matched the soft, cold silk of Dream's skin sending shivers down his spine. It felt... clean. Like fresh fallen snow, pristine and undisturbed. Which was a descriptor he could not quite apply to himself, in spite of many daily cold showers.

"I'm disgusting," he groaned, thinking of the sweat no doubt covering Dream's fingers now, a sensation he didn't envy.

"You are human," he countered gently. "You can not pick and choose which laws of your world apply to you or not."

Hob flashed a sly grin.

"Save for one."

"Quite right," Dream conceded, amused.

His fingers were still raking through Hob's hair, providing much needed relief. Running so hot had helped Hob in the past, back when central heating was still but a literal pipe dream in someone's head, but what had felt like a blessing then passed for a curse now. Much like the walls of his flat, he'd been build to keep the heat in.

Dream's fingertips brushed his ear, causing delightful sparks to shoot down his jaw.

"How does it feel, then, getting to choose which principles of physics apply to you?"

He'd meant it as a tease, expecting another one of Dream's huffed chuckle, but the reaction he got was more intense than what he had bargained for. Morpheus' gaze was consuming, to say the least, his pupils almost too wide and eerily dark to pass as human. A hand left his scalp to follow the line of his neck, fingers trailing down his throat like drops of icy rain.

"At present?" Dream's voice was a low murmur. Hob could almost feel the warmth of his breath against his ear although Morpheus over him, his back straight. "Exquisite."

Hob's adam's apple bobbed at the brush of his fingers. He did not fully understand how Endless' senses worked, but he could bet everything he owned that Morpheus could actually feel his heartbeat through his skin, his heart wreaking havoc in his chest. His lack of proper clothing left him exposed, the effect of Dream's ministrations painfully obvious, preternatural abilities or not.

"You are quite warm," Dream pointed out, as though he was only now realising the extent of Hob's predicament.

"So that you're choosing to feel."

It was hard to fight the edge in his voice between the cold caresses exploring his shoulders and Dream's almost predatory gaze. His only garment was getting too uncomfortably tight, his erection pressing against the fabric with yet more torturous heat.

"Touching you would hardly feel the same if I shielded myself from it."

Exquisite, he had called it. Touching him felt exquisite, even like this. Hob could hardly fathom it.

"So I am the sun-soaked rock you cold-blooded beauty like to lie against for warmth," he quipped, smirking up at him.

"In a way, perhaps."

Dream's hands reached his torso, sending more shivers through him on the way down. Hob could feel his throat go dry as Dream lowered himself on his knees in a fluid motion, his pupils wild through his lashes. A hand trailed up Hob's thigh, tremors following in all of his leg. He did not expect the gasp that escaped him when Dream wrapped his fingers around his cock through his boxers. The cold felt odd, at first, though far from unpleasant. Quickly, Hob found himself wanting it more. The clash between his burning skin and Dream's was intoxicating, making his hips roll at the touch.

"I thought you liked touching me," he groaned, frustrated by the pesky, unbearable barrier between them.

Dream merely smiled, that fucking cheeky smile he'd given him in 1789, and Hob's hips bucked of their own volition. Fuck that perfect face of his, God! To add insult to injury, Dream's thumb brushed light circles against the head of his cock, drawing a hiss out of him, his cock aching for more.

"Dream."

His attempt at being firm melted into something more pleading, but Hob was past caring. He needed and he wanted and he was not above begging. Mercifully, Morpheus pulled down his boxers, exposing him hard and sensitive to his cold breath. A strangled moan rolled out of him as Dream lapped at the throbbing tip, the ice on his tongue on the verge of burning, but ultimately divine.

"Fuck!"

Hob threw his head back, reclining fully against the sofa, his body trembling from the heat, Morpheus' mouth and the pleasure rushing through him. The surreal combinaison of sensations was making him dizzy in the heavenliest way possible. By the time Morpheus had him in his mouth, his hand stroking the base of his cock, Hob was moaning mindlessly at the ceiling, his hand tangled in Dream's hair.

"Fuck, you feel so good, love."

He could barely focus on words half of the time, babbling praises, stretching his back to accommodate the surge of pleasure threatening to undo him. He could not remember what he'd said after a while, but Dream hummed around his cock with such sinful wantonness Hob felt blood rush to his cheek.

"Don't stop," he panted heavily. "Don't stop, you're going to make me come."

Dream dragged his tongue along his length, drawing relentless swirls around the head of his cock. Hob grabbed the arm of the sofa, holding onto it for dear life. Morpheus' cool breath against his oversensitive skin caught him off guard. Dream's eyes were black now, bottomless pools of stars calling for him to jump and drown in them. When he spoke, his voice purring and sultry, Hob could hear it as close as if he'd spoken right next to his ear.

"I want you warm on my tongue, Hob Gadling."

Fuck! The words were barely gone that Dream wrapped his lips around the tip, his eyes still staring into Hob's as he teased it with a pointed tongue. Overwhelmed, Hob spilled with a gruff shout, tension stretching all of his muscles taut, before his body sank into the sofa, boneless and breathless. He could feel the stifling pressure of heat in his lungs, exertion weighing his body down even more than before. The cold press of Dream's body came to alleviate the ache as he leant against Hob, a hand against his mad, immortal heart.

"Never died of a heatstroke before," Hob chuckled hoarsely, his voice nothing but a prolonged wheeze.

"This is quite a serious accusation."

He did feign offense really well, that one.

"I think you tried your best."

Hob wrapped a heavy, lazy arm around Dream's waist, seeking skin under all those layers.

"Wouldn't mind you trying again," he added, his brain still floating hazily inside his skull. Dream pressed his forehead against his, bringing him some relief. "I could get you out of all that bloody fabric, for a start."

"Perhaps you will. I am told the Waking World will suffer another week of this," Dream said, pointing his chin at the nearest window. "I would hate to withhold any helpful assistance from you."

"I'm sure you would."

They held each other in comfortable silence, Hob slowly catching his breath.

"Sleep is notoriously difficult for humans during such times," Dream said after a while. "It makes for strange dreams. Or no dreams at all."

"It's been a struggle for a few days, yeah."

Hob slowly furrowed his brows, replaying Dream's words in his head. A stupid grin then stretched his lips, pushing against his cheeks.

"Is this your way of telling me I've not been visiting often enough?"

"I would not word it in such terms."

He gave Dream's hip a light squeeze. Did he posh himself up on purpose to visit him?

"I missed you too."

The proud git would not say it, but the way he leant heavier on Hob spoke louder than words, anyway.

"So, would it please you, other... visits? Should the weather continue to interfere with your sleep?"

Hob did not have the heart to tell him those were called "date", in this day and age, although he suspected Dream would sooner disappear for a millennium rather than 'wording it this way'.

"Yes. It would, shitty sleep or not. Although I admit I do enjoy your blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics."

"I thought you might."

[emmalostinwonderland]

💜 “Will they revoke my queer card if I don’t get oat milk in my lattes?”

FirstPrince please!

I was so hoping someone would pick this prompt lol. Thank you, Steph! For you, here's a bit of established-relationship cuteness featuring autistic Henry. Up to you if it's canon or not, it really could go either way imho. It also ran a bit longer than expected (which I should've seen coming - of course your prompt request would come with your short-fic-runs-long deal lol), so half is under the cut.

“I’ll have an Earl Grey, please.” “Okay, just the tea or did you want to try our lavender oat milk London Fog?” Alex looks up from his phone to find Henry staring in mildly-stunned confusion at the pink-haired barista behind the counter at whatever local shop they wandered into today. It’s loud in there – enough that it’s even grating on his own ears a bit – and it’s a brand new spot for them. He gives his boyfriend a moment to cope with the change himself, but Henry’s mouth opens and closes twice without any sound coming out, so he pipes up to rescue him. “He’s a black tea kinda guy, but thanks.” Henry bumps shoulders with him in a silent ‘thank you’, but the barista just shrugs, scribbles on the side of a cup with a sharpie, and sets it aside. “For you?”

“Medium latte with cinnamon. Actual cinnamon, not syrup.” “Iced?” Alex shakes his head. “Hot. And yes, I know it’s summer.” “Did you want that with oat milk?” They don’t even look up from the cup they’re writing on. “Sorry, did I miss a memo?” Alex laughs, mostly to show he’s just being a little snarky and not a complete asshole, but Henry gives him a look.  “Excuse me?” “You’re upselling on oat milk like. A lot. To the couple in front of us, to my boyfriend, now to me… Do you have 2%? Or will they revoke my queer card for not getting oat milk in my lattes?” “Alex,” Henry hisses at him.  The barista isn’t remotely fazed though. They just look exhausted. “My manager ordered double what we usually get, and I was told to push it. You can have whatever you want, man, I just work here.” “...I see. I’d like it regular please.” “No problem.” They ring up the drinks, and Alex pays, stuffing a 20 in the tip jar to make up for his attitude.  Henry pulls him into a hug while they wait at the other end of the counter, and Alex melts into it. They aren’t normally super touchy-feely in public spaces, but Henry has always had a sort of sixth sense for Alex’s mood shifts. He blames the autism, but Alex secretly thinks it’s proof that they were each designed by some higher power with the other in mind. “Are your batteries getting low, love?” It’s a little odd hearing the phrase from Henry – that’s usually his line when they’re out and about. He nods after only a moment’s consideration, rubbing his cheek against the wear-soft fabric of Henry’s old Oxford polo team t-shirt. “It’s been a long week. I’m sorry.” “It’s alright. We’ve ducked out of plenty of things early for me; it can be your turn this time. Let’s skip the movie and go home.” "You sure?" “Definitely. We can even watch Empire if that would help.” “I seriously fucking love you.” Alex smiles for the first time since they walked into the coffee shop when he feels Henry kiss his temple. “I love you too.”

More Ficlet Friday Prompts

[sapphicromanoffxo]

Mission Accomplished... Unsuccessfully?

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Warnings: Natasha has a penis, Daddy kink, face fucking, dirty talk, breeding kink, pet names, degradation

Word Count: 3,740

Summary: Natasha has a mission wherein she will be seducing a man in order for her to gather intel. However, the target turned out to be a woman.

A/N: this is my contribution to Kinktober 2023! I hope you like it. :)

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff, known as the Black Widow, was renowned for her ability to adapt to any situation. She had faced countless dangerous missions, but none quite like the one Nick Fury had just assigned her. As she sat in the dimly lit briefing room at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, she listened intently to Fury's briefing.

"Natasha, we have a high-priority mission," Fury began, his eye patch casting a shadow over his stern expression. "You'll be going undercover as a successful businesswoman. This man that goes with the name Petro Ivanov, is a high-ranking official with connections to several criminal organisations and he has a right hand man. We do not know this person's name and that's your mission to know so we can get to Petro. We need you to get close to his trusted person in order for us to gather crucial intel."

Natasha nodded, her red hair framing her face like a fiery halo. She was the best at what she did, and she cannot wait to show off her skills again. She had the charm, and the intelligence to make this mission a success. This is a classic operations where she'll seduce the target, plant a bug on their devices, and get out.

As Natasha prepared for her mission, her girlfriend, Wanda watched her from a distance. Wanda had been a part of the Avengers for some time now, and she understood the sacrifices that came with their line of work. Still, the thought of Natasha seducing another person made her uneasy.

Wanda was also assigned to be on the mission but to only observe and offer support if needed. She will stay near the location where Natasha will be in, use her telepathic abilities to communicate and observe the other people's thoughts . She concealed her presence to avoid detection, determined to ensure Natasha's safety and to also look out for her girlfriend in case the mission goes south.

Natasha arrived at a luxurious hotel in London where the party was in full swing, dressed in an elegant red business suit that accentuated her every curve. Her cover story was that of a wealthy businesswoman seeking investments from Petro Ivanov's conglomerate. The plan was simple: identify his right hand man, charm him, get close, and extract information.

However, as Natasha makes her rounds inside, she spotted Petro and watched him closely, but still maintaining a respectable distance. She was eavesdropping on whatever Petro was babbling about to his comrades and he suddenly introduced a person. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my most trusted person, Isabella Petrov. She's the one who has been handling all my businesses without any issues."

Natasha's training had not prepared her for this unexpected twist. The man that she was supposed to seduce turns out to be a woman! Maintaining her composure despite her annoyance, she stayed where she was and waited for the right time to approach Isabella. This is going to be a long night.

Isabella Petrov, eyed Natasha with a mix of curiosity and interest as the redhead stands out in the crowd. Their eyes met when Natasha turned around and she tipped her glass as an acknowledgement to the other woman.It seemed that Natasha's charms were working naturally without her even trying. Natasha patiently waited and when she was about to leave her space, she was greeted by the sight of Isabella.

Meanwhile, Wanda sat in a remote location and listened intently to their conversation. She clenched her fists, anger simmering within her as she watched Natasha engage in playful banter with Isabella. Her jealousy grew with every passing moment, and she couldn't help but think of Natasha being intimate with someone else, even if it was just an act.

As the night progressed, Natasha skillfully extracted information from Isabella, who was unaware of Natasha's true identity. The mission was going smoothly, and Natasha was doing an exceptional job, but Wanda's frustration continued to build. She couldn't bear the thought of Natasha seducing another woman.

The spy left the hotel and headed toward Wanda's location to return to the compound. However, upon arrival, she was met with an irate expression on her girlfriend's face and a warning, "Don't you even speak to me!"

Natasha was surprised by Wanda's sudden anger and sought to defuse the situation with the fiery witch. "Detka, what's wrong? Did I do something to upset you?"

"Yes! You were acting all sweet with that man! Only to find out your target was a woman, making this mission even more stupid," Wanda continued to vent, and Natasha found it somewhat amusing.

"Are you jealous, darling? You know it's all an act, and I can't help being good at my job." Natasha treaded carefully, aware that one wrong move and Wanda might hex-blast her through the roof.

"You even complimented her eyes! How could you say that when you've told me I have the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen?" Wanda paced around the room, her words flying at Natasha like a storm.

"Wanda, it's true. Your eyes are the most beautiful I've ever seen, and nothing compares to you. I said those things to Isabella to manipulate her and get her retinal scan. Trust me, malysh."

Natasha's charm seemed to soothe Wanda's fiery temper momentarily, but her pride held her back from giving in to Natasha's tactics.

"Whatever. You're sleeping on the couch until I'm no longer angry with you." Wanda turned away and headed for the quinjet waiting on the rooftop.

All Natasha could do was sigh and respect her girlfriend's eccentric ultimatum.

They arrived at the compound a few hours later and Natasha tried once again to placate Wanda's jealousy but nothing productive happened and further aggravated the witch. Natasha has no choice but to sleep on the couch at the communal area.

In the morning, Natasha woke up on the uncomfortable communal couch, her hair dishevelled, and her pride bruised. She had successfully completed the mission, but at what cost? A night without her girlfriend in her arms and a soft bed.

Natasha got up and decided to go to the kitchen to brew some coffee to kick start her day. Little did she know that she would encounter two of her fellow Avengers, Steve and unexpectedly, Tony who were eating their breakfast.

As she entered the kitchen, still looking like she had been through a rough night, Steve and Tony exchanged amused glances. Tony couldn't help but to tease, "Well, look who's had a rough night on the town. Natasha, you look like shit!"

Natasha sighed, not in the mood for their teasing. "It's not what you think. The mission went sideways. The target turned out to be a woman."

Steve raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A woman? That's a new one. How did that go?"

Natasha recounted the events of the previous night, and as she spoke, both Steve and Tony burst into fits of laughter. Tony wiped away a tear of mirth, saying, "Oh, this is priceless! Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, seducing the wrong gender. Classic!"

Despite her frustration, Natasha couldn't help but crack a smile at their reaction. "Glad I could amuse you both."

Steve patted her on the back, still grinning. "Well, at least the mission was a success. You can always count on Natasha to adapt to any situation, even an unexpected one. How come you look like a ton of bricks fell down on you?"

"Well, Wanda doesn't share the sentiments that both of you had and was not happy at all with what happened last night," Natasha answered truthfully, her expression reflecting her concern.

Tony couldn't help but find the situation absurd. "So, Tabitha over there would rather see you seduce a man than a woman?" The thought seemed utterly ridiculous to him.

"Apparently. She even banished me from our room, hence my shitty morning appearance," Natasha responded with a hint of defeat. She hoped that Wanda had cooled down and would allow her back into their room after she finished her coffee. However, before she could contemplate the upcoming encounter further, FRIDAY delivered a message.

"Agent Romanoff, Miss Maximoff has requested your presence in your room."

Natasha's eyes widened, and she suddenly felt a rush of nerves. The two men couldn't resist teasing her, further provoking her anxiety.

"Both of you, shut up! Jesus Christ. I have no idea what's going to happen up there. If you don't see me tomorrow, make sure to organise a search party for me," Natasha quipped with a mix of humour and genuine apprehension, her voice betraying her unease as she contemplated the impending conversation with Wanda.

Natasha was talking to herself as she approached her room, "I'm the Black Widow, for heaven's sake. This kind of thing shouldn't make me feel anxious."

Standing in front of her room, Natasha was about to knock when the door swung open by itself, revealing wisps of Wanda's red magic. This sight made Natasha gulp, uncertain whether it was a good or bad sign.

As she entered the room, Natasha spotted Wanda sitting on the bed, wearing her SHIELD hoodie with her name imprinted on the back. "Wanda? You wanted to see me?" Natasha asked gently, trying to break the tension.

"Natty, I'm sorry about last night," Wanda's voice quivered, and she appeared genuinely remorseful. "I don't know what I was thinking. I know you were just doing your job, and you're damn good at it. But I couldn't stand seeing you so close to that woman."

Natasha joined her on the bed, gently tucking a few stray hairs behind Wanda's ear and taking her hands. "Baby, you don't have to apologise, and I understand how you felt. I'd feel the same if our roles were reversed. But I want you to know that you can trust me, okay? You're the only one for me."

Wanda looked into Natasha's eyes, sensing the sincerity in her words. "Do you mean it? You don't want to run off with a girl closer to your age? Someone mature and can really keep up with you. Look at me, I'm only 22 and still acting immature." Insecurity laced Wanda's voice, and it pained Natasha to see her like this.

"Wanda, I'll never tire of reminding you how amazing you are to me. I love you for who you are, and I'll never even think of looking at another woman, regardless of her age. I want you, and only you," Natasha reassured the witch as best she could. "What can I do to make you feel better, detka?"

"How about you shower first? You need to get rid of that woman's scent on you and I can still see her lipstick on your collar," Wanda responded with disdain.

Natasha couldn't resist a playful quip, "I could have done that last night if I hadn't been banished from my own room."

"If you hadn't flirted so heavily with that skunk, maybe you could have slept in your own bed and had your way with me," Wanda shot back while grinning.

"Don't test me, detka. I can still make up for it after I shower," Natasha raised her eyebrows teasingly at Wanda.

"I was so angry with you last night that I couldn't help but touch myself. You looked so good in that suit, Natty," Wanda matched Natasha's tactics, leaving the spy pleasantly surprised which made her dick throb.

Natasha walked back to the bed and leaned down while wrapping her hand around Wanda's throat. "What did I tell you about not touching something that is not yours, hm?"

"Maybe you should punish me for being a bad girl, Daddy." Oh, Wanda acting like a brat excites Natasha to the bone. She cannot wait to fuck the jealousy and insecurity out Wanda.

"We will see about that. Stay put. I'm going to shower now."

Minutes later, Natasha walked in the room looking deliciously wet, with a towel wrapped around her torso which ended on her mid thighs. Wanda cannot take her eyes off her girlfriend as she spotted the obvious bulge that is hidden behind the fabric.

"Feeling alright, Princess?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Take off your hoodie and panties. Lay down with your head hanging on the edge of the bed." Natasha demanded, the witch hurriedly removed the offensive garments off her and positioned herself the way Natasha instructed.

Natasha removed the towel that was wrapped around her and stood in front of Wanda's head. Wanda can clearly see Natasha's veiny 8-inch cock, standing proudly above her.

"I have no problems with reassuring you but if you doubt yourself again, I will have to punish you. Remember that you are mine, and I would never spare a glance at someone else. Understand?"

"I understand. I'm sorry, Daddy"

Pleased by Wanda's response, Natasha laid out her plans. "I'm going to fuck your throat until I come in that little mouth of yours, then I'm going to fuck your tight pussy and breed you like a slut that you are. Open your mouth for me." Wanda obliged without hesitation and felt Natasha's cock enter her mouth.

From above, Natasha can clearly see that indent of her manhood and was feeling proud of her baby. Wanda's gag reflex is non-existent at this point due to the countless times she gave head to the spy which trained her throat to take Natasha as deep as she could.

"Fucking hell, baby. Your mouth is so small my cock can barely fit. But you are a slut and will take it, hm?"

Wanda whimpered as she couldn't respond to Natasha properly and she moved her tongue a bit to add a slick friction on the cock that is shamelessly moving in and out of her. Her moans further triggered Natasha's pleasure as the woman started playing with her stiff nipples.

"Might as well fuck your tits later, I don't want to neglect them" Natasha pulled out for a second so Wanda can say what she wants. "Would you like that, detka?"

"Yes, please. I like that, Daddy."

"Very good. Open your mouth for me again sweetheart."

A couple more hard thrusts and Natasha spurted her cum inside Wanda's throat, and the witch gladly swallowed every drop.

"Good girl, baby. I'm proud of you. You deserve a reward from me. I will grant whatever you wish for, malysh."

Wanda sat up and kneeled in front of Natasha, but was suddenly feeling all shy. "Use your words, baby. Tell me."

"I want to ride your face, Daddy." Wanda finally admitted. There was something about riding Natasha's face which makes her cum at an instant. Her personal record was under 2 minutes.

"Hmm. That can be arranged, sweetness."

Natasha then laid down the bed, with her head close to the headboard so Wanda could have something to hold onto. "Come on, pet. Sit on my face."

Wanda crawled forward and placed her things on each side of Natasha's head. She gently lowered herself at the redhead's awaiting tongue and moaned loudly the moment it touched her aching clit.

"Daddy! So good, so good. Just like that please." Wanda's hips are moving back and forth, and slowly grinding Natasha's warm and wet tongue. Her left hand is holding onto the headboard while her right hand is gripping Natasha's hairs.

"Fuck! Daddy, I'm cum– ahhh!!!" Her movements suddenly halted as her thighs started to shake violently. She was still holding herself up since she's too afraid that she might crash her girlfriend.

Natasha placed her hands on Wanda's waist and lifted the young woman off of her face as she's suddenly having a hard time breathing. She placed Wanda on her thighs and the witch collapsed at her chest.

"Baby, you almost killed me there. But I won't regret dying since the last thing I tasted is your pussy."

"Stop teasing, Natty. You're so bad." Wanda further hid her face at Natasha's neck to hide her blush. She bet she looks like a tomato.

"What's so bad about you cumming in my mouth, while you ride my tongue? What a cool way to go."

This earned a giggle from the brunette and she suddenly felt Natasha's hardened member that is currently being sandwiched between them.

Wanda sat up and looked down at her girlfriend's cock and started pumping it with her right hand. "Natasha, you are hard again."

"Your moans are enough to make me hard. Ride me pretty girl, you won't do a damn thing. I will fuck pussy until you can't walk."

The brunette nodded and positioned herself. She sank down slowly so her pussy could adjust to the size and leaned down to kiss Natasha.

The spy instantly wrapped her arms around Wanda and planted her feet on the bed. "Ahh, Daddy. Your cock is so big. I love it so much."

"You will love my cock even more when I start pounding on your tight little pussy. Scream as loud as you want for me, sweetheart. I want to hear you."

Natasha wasted no time and pounded as hard as she could. The muscles on her thighs are bulging and the outline of her quads are in full show.

Wanda was a whimpering mess. Her moans are being swallowed at each thrust and she can feel Natasha's cock hitting her cervix.

"I feel so full, Daddy"

"You're gripping me too hard, baby." Natasha is growling at Wanda's ears as she continuously abuses her hole. "No matter how many times I fucked you, your pussy is still so warm and tight."

The slapping noises of the flesh and the two women's moans are the only thing that can be heard inside the room. Natasha is pretty sure that the whole compound can hear them but she doesn't give a damn.

"Just like that, baby. Keep on clenching my cock." Natasha then attached her mouth on Wanda's neck and started sucking, purposely leaving a trail of hickeys.

"Ugh. Daddy, I'm close. Please fuck me harder!" Natasha spread Wanda's buttchecks so her cock can glide in smoothly and gripping them at the same time.

"What a slut you are! Asking for more." Natasha flipped their position and the show of strength aroused Wanda even more. Wanda clawed at the older woman's back, leaving a trail of red lines and the redhead placed Wanda's legs on each side of her shoulder, pushed down brunette's thighs and continued her assault on the young woman's core.

"Yes! God, right there. Please fuck me like that." Wanda's pleas and high-pitched moans are music to Natasha's ears.

"I am no God, baby. It's just me," Natasha reached down and pushed her thumb in between Wanda's lips. "Look at me when I'm fucking you, sweet girl."

"Shit. You feel so good inside me." Wanda's fingers raked at Natasha's bulging biceps.

"Baby, are you close? I'm going to cum inside you, Wanda. Cum with me. I'm going to breed you like a whore."

Both of the women screamed in ecstasy and Natasha painted Wanda's insides with her thick cum. They struggled to maintain their breathing afterwards as the high of the orgasm left their senses.

"Are you feeling alright?" Natasha tucked all of the stray hairs on Wanda's face while she was still panting from all of the energy that she exerted.

"I'm okay, Natalia. Give me a minute to catch my breath."

"I'll get you some water, be right back."

Natasha is no doubt the best lover that Wanda could ever ask for. She is the most perfect woman with a loving streak but will fuck you senseless on the sheet. You will never see Wanda complaining though.

"Here you go. Drink up, baby."

Wanda felt the strain in her legs as she sat and drank the water in one go.

"Do you think you can stand up so we can take a shower? I will run you a bath instead so we can relax in the tub."

"Can you carry me to the tub? I don't think I can walk. I can feel my calves are stiff as fuck."

"See what happens when you are being a brat? It will make you go limp." Natasha quipped once again as she's feeling smug about her performance.

"Me being a brat or not, you always fuck me good."

"I know, detka. I can't get enough of you. I love you." This was sealed by a soft kiss from Natasha which Wanda reciprocated naturally.

"I love you more, Daddy."

***

The two women headed down to the kitchen, famished after their day-long nap.

Natasha, armed with a knife, was busy chopping onions to prepare Wanda's beloved "Gigi Hadid pasta," a recipe she'd picked up from TikTok and had become influenced by its viral trend.

As they prepare their meal, Steve and Tony unexpectedly join them in the kitchen. Tony couldn't resist poking fun at the ladies. "Ohhh, look who's here. The witch and widow. I guess there's no need for a search party then, Romanoff?"

Natasha, not one to take such teasing lightly, issued a sharp warning, knife in hand, "Be careful, Stark. I'm currently holding a knife that might just find its way to your mouth."

Curious about Tony's comment, Wanda questioned, "Natty, calm down. What do you mean by that, Tony?"

Tony continued to push his luck, "Natty over there was all scared and shaken because you kicked her out of the bed. Never thought I'd see Romanoff being a scaredy kitten around a witch."

Natasha had enough. In a split second, the knife whizzed just an inch from Tony's laughing face, leaving everyone in shock.

"Whoa, whoa, Natasha! Jesus Christ," Steve hurriedly stepped in to prevent Natasha from going too far and harming Tony.

With impressive reaction time, Wanda skillfully caught the knife mid-air with her magic, preventing any damage to the kitchen appliances.

Wanda directed a stern gaze at Natasha, who couldn't help but wear a devilish grin in response to Tony's shocked face.

"Can we please just cook and enjoy our meal without any more theatrics?" Wanda's voice held a hint of exasperation as she chastised Natasha and Tony.

Tony, still recovering from the near miss with the knife, chimed in dejectedly, "Note to self: never make jokes about Romanoff again." His usually confident demeanour had been momentarily shattered by Natasha's swift and menacing reaction.

"Take that as a lesson, Stark." Natasha smirked and sent a wink to Wanda.

[scotianostra]

January 3rd 1959 saw the death of the poet and scholar Edwin Muir.

He was was born on a farm in Deerness , Orkney Islands in the remote northeast of Scotland. In 1901, when he was 14, his father lost the farm and the family moved to Glasgow. In Glasgow first his father, then his two brothers, and then his mother died in the space of a few years. His life as a young man in Glasgow was a depressing experience for him, involving a succession of unpleasant jobs. In 1919 he married Willa Anderson (they would later collaborate on English translations of such writers as Franz Kafka and Hermann Broch) and moved to London. From 1921 - 1923 he was in Prague, Dresden, Italy, Salzburg and Vienna; he returned to England in 1924. Between 1925 and 1956 Muir published seven volumes of poetry which were collected after his death and published in 1991 as The Complete Poems of Edwin Muir. From 1927 to 1932 he published three novels and in 1935 he came to St. Andrews where he produced his controversial Scott and Scotland (published in 1936). From 1946-1949 he was Director of the British Council in Prague and Rome. 1950 saw his appointment as Warden of Newbattle Abbey College (college for working class men) near Edinburgh and in 1955 he was made Norton Professor of English at Harvard University. He returned to England in 1956 but died in 1959 at Swaffam Priory , Cambridge and was buried near Cambridge.

His childhood in remote and unspoiled Orkney represented an idyllic "Eden" to Muir, while his family's move to the city corresponded in his mind to a deeply disturbing encounter with the "fallen" world. The emotional tensions of that dichotomy shaped much of his work and deeply influenced his life. His psychological distress led him to undergo Jungian analysis in London. A vision in which he witnessed the Creation strengthened the Edenic myth in his mind, leading him to see his life as an individual and his career as a poet as a working-out of archetypal fable. In his Autobiography he wrote, "the life of every man is an endlessly repeated performance of the life of man"; our deeds on earth constitute "a myth which we act almost without knowing it." Alienation, paradox, the existential dyads of good and evil, life and death, love and hate, and images of journeys, labyrinths, time and places fill his work.

His Scott and Scotland advanced the claim that Scotland can only create a national literature by writing in English; an opinion which placed him in direct opposition to the Lallans movement of Hugh MacDiarmid. He had little sympathy for Scottish nationalism. Remembered for his deeply felt and vivid poetry in plain, unostentatious language with few stylistic preoccupations, Muir is a relatively little known but significant modern poet. In 1965 a volume of his selected poetry was edited and introduced by T. S. Eliot. An excellent essay discussing Muir's literary career (Edwin Muir?s Journey, by Robert Richman ) is available in the online archives of The New Criterion. Many of Edwin and Willa Muir's translations of German novels are still in print.

Edwin Muir died in Cambridge on this day in 1959 and is buried in the churchyard of St Mary, Swaffham Prior, the village in which he spent his final years in Priory Cottage, directly opposite the churchyard. Muir is also remembered in St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall, Orkney

Friend, I have lost the way. The way leads on. Is there another way? The way is one. I must retrace the track. It’s lost and gone. Back, I must travel back! None goes there, none. Then I’ll make here my place, (The road leads on), Stand still and set my face, (The road leaps on), Stay here, for ever stay. None stays here, none. I cannot find the way. The way leads on. Oh places I have passed! That journey’s done. And what will come at last? The road leads on.

Edwin Muir

[justforbooks]

Charles Handy

Philosopher and management thinker who coined the phrase ‘portfolio’ career, and believed companies should retain their humanity

For a country that prides itself on its professional and financial services sector, the UK has produced remarkably few world-ranking management and organisational thinkers. At the very top of that pile, however, is Charles Handy, the writer and social philosopher – his preferred designation – who has died aged 92.

As both a thinker and educator, Handy was unusual. Although a professor – he was a founding faculty member of the London Business School (LBS), the UK’s first graduate business school, in the 1960s – he never followed the conventional path, ploughing a narrow furrow and publishing in specialist journals.

What he did was think, about the big human issues of business, society and democracy, turning his thoughts, often anchored in his own experience, into books, articles and talks with characteristically evocative titles such as The Age of Unreason (1989), The Empty Raincoat (1994), The Hungry Spirit (1997) and The Second Curve (2015). They gained him an international audience and global sales of more than 2m.

In his ability to perceive and articulate developments in the world of work before they crystallised, and in his big-picture approach, Handy took after another atypical European academic, Peter Drucker, dubbed the “father of management”, whom Handy admired. Handy was writing about the future of work as early as 1984, foresaw an era of discontinuous change in The Age of Unreason – his breakthrough book – as well as predicting the advent of the gig economy, remote working and the fragmentation of the traditional career. The “portfolio life” was his coinage, which he defined by living it.

In management terms, Handy’s legacy is his steadfast defence of the company as an evolving community of people rather than a machine or set of contracts. This was based on an unshakeable belief in humanity – “humanity will triumph – people need people”, he said in a podcast interview in 2021, at the height of a pandemic lockdown.

To thrive, a company had to make space for human purpose, human balance and human fulfilment. “Doing your best at what you are best at,” was his Aristotelian recipe, adding “for the benefit of others” at the end. This fed into his belief that the organisation of the future needed to be flexible, decentralised and built on trust rather than formal hierarchy and a rule book.

Born in Ireland, in Clane, Co Kildare, the son of Joan (nee Scott) and Brian Handy, a Protestant clergyman, Charles went to Bromsgrove school, Worcestershire, then studied classics at Oriel college, Oxford, from which he absorbed influences that marked his thinking throughout his life.

Just as formative was his first job at an outpost of Shell in Borneo in 1956, only doubly so: first because it was while there that he met Elizabeth Hill, then working at the British High Commission in Singapore, at a party in Kuala Lumpur, and second because, with her trenchant help, it showed him what he did not want to be. They married in 1962.

The epiphany came in 1965, when he found himself back in London, in an anonymous shared office at Shell HQ, greeted by a three-page list of responsibilities on his desk with no name on it. That struck him as not very human. Liz more forcefully gave him to understand that seeing the adventurous expat she had met and married turn into a dull office drudge was not part of their life’s plan.

Instead he relocated to the US – another formative experience – to attend the Sloan executive study programme at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, from which he returned to London in 1967 to set up a UK version of the programme at the LBS.

He endowed it with a humanistic cast far removed from the usual finance and quantitative orientation. “Charles always had a sense of what it is to be human,” his friend and close LBS colleague Lynda Gratton said. “He inspired students, readers and friends to think more deeply, question more profoundly and live a life nearer to being human – with all its complexities and questions.”

Handy left LBS for a four-year stint as warden of St George’s House at Windsor Castle (1977-81), a sort of spiritual thinktank, before, again egged on by Liz, deciding to quit and go freelance as a writer and speaker. They reorganised their life, and, half-joked Handy, rewrote their marriage contract.

Henceforth they would split the year in two, with the work of first one, then the other, taking priority. Liz became his formidable agent as well as resuming her own career as a successful photographer – they subsequently collaborated on several books – and their time would be spent half in their former farm labourer’s cottage in rural Norfolk and half in their London home. They also shared cooking duties for the many visitors who arrived at both places to discuss world events, photography and politics over a generous lunch.

Relishing the new regime, Handy launched into a series of books that conquered an audience stretching far beyond business types. In fact, the latter were sometimes dismayed by what he had to say. He rejected shareholder capitalism, deeming shareholder ownership of companies a fiction and a fraud, and fretted that big corporations had become “prisons of the soul”.

For him, “good organisations are like a small English village. Everyone knows each other and what the other does. There’s no job title, you’re just Charles or Liz, and you help each other out. It’s not owned, people belong to it.” In those circumstances, management becomes a matter of common sense, not the technocratic exercises described in the textbooks he scorned.

If Handy’s writing style was conversational and accessible, his speaking could reach heights worthy of the ancients he had learned from. This was done without bravado, PowerPoint or notes, but with a quiet intensity that made every listener feel as if he was addressing them personally.

It was there that his inner firebrand sometimes surfaced. Few of those present will forget his closing speech, or the spontaneous standing ovation it prompted, at the Global Peter Drucker Forum in Vienna in 2018, when he called for a Lutheran Reformation of management, urging the audience not to wait for a great leader but “to start small fires in the darkness, until they spread and the whole world is alight with a better vision of what we could do with our businesses … If not us, then who? If not now, then when?”

Handy was active almost until the last. His final book, suitably titled The View from Ninety: Reflections on Living a Long, Contented Life, is due for publication in 2025.

Liz died in a car accident in 2018. Handy is survived by his son and daughter, Scott and Kate, four grandchildren and by two sisters, Ruth and Margaret.

🔔 Charles Brian Handy, social philosopher and management thinker, born 25 July 1932; died 13 December 2024

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