#that automatically rules him out from that column

[zieisonline]

Luke’s hair is only that long because he’s begging for someone to pull it 🙂‍↕️

Warnings: smut (MDNI), sub!Luke, soft dom!reader, lap sitting, unprotected sex, hair pulling kink, spit kink, pretty vanilla tbh

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Luke’s hair is at the perfect length to tug on while you’re parked on his lap. Your fingers tangle around his looping curls, pulling tight and knocking his head back against the couch. Revealing his flushed face, eyes lidded and pupils blown. His swollen lips are parted, saliva making them shine. Your grip keeps his head tilted, giving you a perfect view of the column of his throat and his Adam’s apple as it bobs in anticipation. His chest is heaving and his own grasp on your hips tightens as you take your time taking him in, raking your eyes hungrily over his every feature. He lets out a breathy whine, begging you to do something.

He knows it would take very little effort on his part to use his strength to his advantage and flip you onto your back and pin your body to the couch.

But why would he want to do that when you look so pretty in his lap? Your eyes are hungry, dancing erratically around, not being able to handle the view of the boy beneath you. Your free hand is planted possessively on his pectoral, and he can feel your nails dig into the fabric of his tee shirt, attempting to ground yourself. Your mouth is parted, small hums of awe escaping you as you take him in, using your grasp in his hair to tug his head back farther.

He gasps at the pain, and you can feel his dick grow harder beneath you. Can you even blame him? The combination of the dull pain at the base of his skull and the pressure of your weight on his lap is intoxicating.

And you’re warm.

The heat and wetness from your core is leaking onto him, through both your panties and his boxers.

Luke dares to straighten his head, hissing at the way his hair pulls against your death grip.

“Please.” He whines, digging his fingers deeper into your hip, probably hard enough to leave a bruise for tomorrow. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You cock your head to the side and smirk.

“Awe my poor baby.” You coo, releasing your hand from his tangled curls and he shudders at the lack of contact. Your hands continue to travel down his chest, applying pressure to his hard abdominal muscles before slipping both of them under his shirt. “Want me to touch you, hm?” You whisper, shoving your hands up his shirt, groping his torso and chest, dragging your nails lightly over his nipples.

He hisses and nods frantically. “Need you so bad” he blurts out, bringing his hips up, pressing them deeply against you to prove how badly his body is craving you.

You sink your nails into his flesh at the sudden movement. The motion was meant to deter him, but he moaned out loud at the pain.

“Relax Lukey.” You soothe, leaning all the way into his space, your mouth hovering just above his left ear. “Gonna make you feel so good baby.” You whisper with as much seduction you can muster, pulling back just far enough to give you space to remove your shirt, leaving you in just your bra and panties.

Luke lets out the most beautiful whine you’ve ever heard as his fingers splay wider on their purchase at your hip. Silently begging to touch you elsewhere. But he knows better, knows your rules.

You don’t give him time to test your rules today. “Let me see you.” You speak firmly, tugging on the hem of his own shirt, and as if taking orders from you was second nature, he automatically releases you and rids himself of his upper clothing.

You take advantage of his distracted movement and lift yourself of him.

He panics, hands shooting out to grasp at you, his hair a wild mess from having his shirt pulled over his head.

You giggle and smooth his curls down as he buries his head into your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your midsection.

“I was just readjusting so we could take our underwear off Lukey.” You chuckle, petting his curls soothingly. “Unless you want to keep them on?” You ask, wondering if he was more in a dry humping mood tonight.

His arms tighten around you and he moves his head to look up at you from between your breasts.

“No, no. I want to be inside you.” He practically cries. And how could you deny him this when his eyes shine so beautifully up at you, his lips forming a perfect pout, the stray curls framing his forehead in a way that makes him look angelic.

You smile at the beautiful boy, and you can’t help but cradle his face with your hands. Reaching down, you peck his lips sweetly and give him a reassuring look.

“Take off my underwear.” You command. He doesn’t hesitate a second before unclasping your bra and gently drag the straps down your arms. He can feel the saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of you bare. His favorite place to rest his mouth after a long day. He only allows himself a quick moment to revel in your beauty before continuing on with your command.

He gingerly places his long fingers on top of the band of your panties, tracing softly from under your navel across to your hip bones. He lets out a soft sigh before dragging the material down your smooth legs. His eyes instantly locking onto the damp spot in the middle of the gusset, wanting so badly to bring the fabric to his face and indulge, but instead let it fall to the floor, awaiting your next instructions.

You hum happily, standing before him as you have dozens of times before. Naked and potentially vulnerable, but the pure love and adoration that exudes from Luke squashes any doubts or insecurities you may have.

“And yours too.” You direct him, pointing at the wet spot on his boxers, a clear sign of both of your arousal.

He lifts his hips urgently, shoving his underwear harshly down his own legs, kicking them somewhere unknown in the living room.

He’s painfully hard, his dick standing straight up, his red tip resting on his stomach, and it’s not on display long before you notice a bead of precum appearing on the slit.

His fingers are twitching and his breathing is erratic. Your own wetness is practically dripping down your legs.

“Good boy.” You praise, approaching him to greedily take back your seat on his now unclothed lap.

He moans at the pet name, and you take full advantage of his now open mouth to insert your thumb onto the flat of his tongue.

His eyes roll back at the feeling of your bare body pressed against his own, moaning around your finger in his too wet mouth.

“Open up Lukey.” You direct, his eyes struggle to focus on you fully, but he obeys, opening wide for you.

With your hand around his chin and thumb probing the inside of his mouth, you tilt his head back again, allowing your own mouth to fill with saliva.

You position your lips above his own and let a long string of connecting fluid from your lips to his. A deep, guttural moan erupts from the boy beneath you at the sight and taste of you.

You slip your pointer finger into his mouth and collect some of the wetness before removing your hand altogether.

His entire body shudders under you and you can tell he’s almost gone already.

“So good at following my orders, hmm?” You praise Luke, snaking your dry hand back into their favorite place, his hair.

He nods pathetically. Watching your glistening fingers as he swallows harshly, taking everything you have given him happily.

You bring your spit covered digits between the both of your bodies, tightly encircling his dick.

He chokes out a moan, hands shooting out to grip your thighs this time, throwing his head on the back of the couch.

You lazily drag your hand up and down his length, watching as his face contorts in absolute pleasure.

His moans are breathy and his eyes are fluttering between open and closed. You can tell he won’t last long like this.

“Please, please, please y/n.” He whimpers, trying so hard to focus on you and your face. “Need to feel you”

You could spend all night doting on him. Pulling him so close towards the edge, making every single pore of his fill with pleasure again and again until he was too physically exhausted to cum.

But your own desire is becoming harder and harder to ignore. Your pussy is throbbing, and the wetness had spread all over Luke’s lap, you could smell it between you both.

With one last pump of your hand, you lift yourself up on your knees, locking your eyes dead onto Luke’s.

You position yourself above his tip and sink down onto him slowly. Reveling in the stretch as he invades your dripping hole.

As soon as he is planted firmly inside, you bring your other hand up to rest in the mess of Luke’s hair. Your fingers twist and scratch to find the best position tangled in his locks.

He curses at the sensation, grabbing onto the soft skin of your thighs as he feels you clench around him.

“You feel so good.” He breathes out, waiting for you to move.

Feeling your own patience falter, you let out a deep roll of your hips, the angle perfect on the first try as you feel his dick hit that extra sensitive spot, deep inside you.

“Fuck, Lukey.” You moan desperately. Tugging his hair as you feel him inch his hands between you, resting his thumb over your clit.

You roll your hips again, and the feeling of his calloused digit against your clit and his hot dick against your sweet spot overwhelm you.

You continue to grind onto him, letting out desperate moans as you chase the high you know is about to come.

You push Luke’s head down to your breasts and he takes the memo, his free hand trailing up to grope your right breast as his mouth attacks your left one.

He takes your nipple in his hot, wet mouth, sucking like a man starved, and when you pull at his curls, he grazes his teeth along the bud.

Electricity shoots through you, your whole body on fire. Pleasure is coursing through your veins as you feel him so eager to please you, now moving his thumb in speedy circles on top of your clit.

You feel the hot burning tension in your lower abdomen start to build. And it won’t be long before it snaps.

“Feels so good Lukey. Gonna cum.” You warn, pulling him away from your breast. His face is shining with saliva on his chin, and his expression is completely fucked out.

“Me too.” He admits, the hot red flush contrasting with the dark locks stuck on his forehead.

“Let’s let go together.” You rush out, pulling him into you hard, smashing your lips onto his. He lets out a strangled moan at the feeling of you pulling roughly on his hair, but you swallow it whole. Devouring his kiss as his dick hits inside of you just right and his thumb rubs you with just enough pressure to send you over the edge.

You would be embarrassed of the sounds you let out, if you were anywhere near the right headspace to care. You still on Luke’s lap, hips convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your toes curl and your vision goes white.

Luke is peppering you with kisses, your neck, your collarbones, and your chest.

Whispering all the praises he can muster as he lets out one dramatic thrust from under you, filling you with his hot release.

You hold onto each other as tight as you can as you silently ride out your highs. He removes his hand from your heat, and wraps his arms tightly around you as his dick softens inside you.

After a few moments, when you both are breathing more regularly, you pull away to look at him.

His eyes are clearer, and his lips look only slightly bruised. You smile down at him warmly and gingerly adjust his curls that were stuck to his face and forehead.

“You really like touching my hair, huh?” He asks teasingly, his gaze filled with love and adoration.

“Yeah.” You hum, focusing on his sparkling eyes. “I guess I do.”

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My first piece of smut wahoo! Please let me know what you think 🫶🏼

[myownwholewildworld]

veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of ​​the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.

[twstedstoryshop]

Hi your rules link doesn't work but I really want to request if any of this is against the rules please ignore

My request is for Leona Jamil and Silver(my favourite boys) where they overhear reader gush about how attractive they are not realising the boys are listening

Female reader if you can please

Hope you don't mind that while in the middle of writing, my brain just automatically made the reader vague in their gender. Also I'm not sure if I wrote Jamil well enough. He's still an enigma to me, weeps. -Shopkeep

Leona, Jamil, and Silver Overhear MC Gushing About Them

Perhaps Leona is in his usual napping spot in the botanical gardens. He’s hidden away behind a number of bushes or plant life, lazing about under the shade of a nearby tree. He’s dozing away until his ear flicks to hear a couple of familiar voices.

It’s you, the herbivore, alongside your annoying cat companion. It seems like the two of you were chatting away about school daily life. Particularly about a practice match that Savanaclaw recently took part in.

“Man, I swear, with each passing day, those guys in Savanaclaw keep gettin’ rougher and rougher!” Grim whines. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one day, they just eat someone alive in the middle of the field!”

Leona’s ear flicks in slight annoyance at that comment. You laugh though and try to reason with Grim that the boys in Savanaclaw are working harder than ever to make up for their loss at the last Spelldrive tournament. You sigh, bemoaning that you were sad one particular student didn’t show for practice.

At this, Leona would listen in curiously despite his eyes being shut the whole time. “Ugh, I wish I could have seen him work out today. Seeing him be hot like usual would have given me energy…” Grim made a violent gagging noise.

“Ugh, can you please not fawn over that lazy lion when I’m around! What do you even see in that guy…” Now THAT caught his attention. A sly smile would curl on his lips and without alerting the two Ramshackle students, Leona would stand tall behind you and Grim. Particularly, he’s leaning over you like a hunter leering down on his prey.

“And here I thought your head was always in the clouds, herbivore. Who knew you were keepin’ such a close eye on someone.” You instantly whirl around at the sound of his voice. He’s already leaned down to your level, his poison green eyes locked with yours. “Now… What’s this about you finding a certain ‘lazy lion’ hot?”

I pray for you, dear reader, because Leona would not let you live it down that you find him attractive. He would tease you at any given moment just to watch you adorably get flustered. Like a cat toying with a darling mouse~

Jamil was in the midst of a break from his classes. He was idly leaning against a nearby column in the school hallways, observing as students conversed and walked around.

He would usually be with Kalim but the boy had run off without him, saying he wanted to meet up with Ramshackle Prefect. He was a bit worried that he’d get in trouble before reaching you, but thankfully his prayers were answered when he saw you both in the distance.

Jamil would draw closer but then stopped himself when a certain piece of information reached his ears. “Come on, Prefect! You should absolutely tell Jamil how you really feel! I’m sure he would be super flattered!” Jamil quickly hid in the shadows to hear this conversation go on.

“No, no, no, Kalim, I am not saying a single thing! What would I even say!? Oh, your gorgeous long hair reminds me of the finest dark silk. You looked incredibly amazing when you danced at that one feast. By the way, I was totally not checking out your muscles when you brokedance.” “Yes! You should say that!” “I was being sarcastic, Kalim! …Even though all of those are true…”

Jamil is trying so hard not to break his stealth because he is holding back laughter. He’s not laughing at you though, far from it, he finds your reaction and the fact that you find him attractive rather endearing.

Eventually he will come out of hiding, acting like he stumbled onto the both of you casually. Kalim is trying his best to act not so subtly in getting you two alone. Jamil would play along because he wants to see more of your behavior around him.

The whole time you both are alone together, Jamil would pull these slight seductions on you. Like casually brushing his hair or stretching in such a way that gives you a peek at his skin. He acts like he doesn’t notice but if he catches you staring, he smiles to himself knowingly.

You’ve charmed him, dear reader, so please be prepared to deal with a curious Viper circling you in his coils.

It just happened to occur through sheer coincidence that Silver was able to wake himself up in time to hear you chatting. He rose up from his slumber and looked around curiously. Seemed like he took a nap under a nearby tree.

He saw that you were sitting at a bench close to where he was, in the middle of feeding birds some seeds, and you were talking to the birds!

“He’s so dreamy, you know? Not because he’s sleeping all the time or anything! But just–” You sigh. “He looks like a fairytale prince out of a storybook. I wouldn’t mind being his one true love. Haha, but that’s just silly romantic stuff. He’s too busy working hard to be a knight…” The birds tweet at you, trying to encourage you with kind songs and maybe one flutters up to cuddle against your cheek. “Aww… You guys trying to cheer me up?”

Hearing those words, Silver would feel an excited patter in his chest. The way you spoke about this person, it was obvious, even for him, to know who you were talking about.

He cleared his throat to let you know he was approaching and you turned quickly to see him. Albeit with a bit of pink coloring your cheeks. Dread fills you for a moment, asking if he heard all that but he assures you that he found your words quite charming.

By now, the both of you are feeling rather flushed as you sit on the bench, the birds around you acting quite excited by these turn of events. The little animal friends would try to push you two to sit closer and talk.

You try to apologize for talking behind his back but Silver, ever the gentleman, reassures you that you’re fine. He tries to lighten up the conversation by saying some rather bashful words, saying, “I don’t see why wanting to find someone you really care for is silly… Even if he’s busy being a knight-in-training…”

It's a very sugar sweet moment between the two of you. Your romantic words caught him by surprise and just like love at first sight for a prince, he can’t help but be drawn to your sincere admiration.

[antilocaprine]

Frenrey w 23 or 50 (or if you feel you have the energy combine them? I feel they could be combined but it's your call)

(Kiss Prompt List)

50: ...out of love.

Gordon’s hair has mostly gone gray now, with white streaks from his temples and at the edges of his still-tightly-trimmed beard. He’s smugly proud of the volume of hair he still has. He doesn’t say this, of course, but Benrey can tell by the amount of time he puts into the combing and washing and trimming of it.

Benrey himself is going bald, mostly to make Gordon laugh and preen in comparison. He lets wrinkles form on his cheeks and brow, lets the bags under his eyes grow, and sprinkles some salt strands into his own dark hair.

They make quite a dignified couple, sitting on the front porch and looking out across the low mists wreathing the fields in the mountain town they moved to a decade after Joshua finished college and moved to Brazil. He’s partnered with some futuristic food company to work on the development of a new strain of cashews, and rides with the local gauchos in his time off. Gordon and Benrey talk to him several times a week on Gordon’s tablet, though Joshua whines about that at least once a month (“Dad, c’mon, let me get you a newer model, please”). But the tablet is the only thing left in the house that can load Benrey’s favorite old games, so Gordon refuses to upgrade.

Benrey thinks that feels a little like love.

“Did you see this?” Gordon says suddenly, and Benrey glances up from the tablet only to get a faceful of newsprint. 

“I see that you’re a grandpa,” Benrey grumbles and reaches up with one hand to push the newspaper back far enough that he can actually see the article Gordon is pointing to.

“Shut up,” Gordon says affectionately. “Tommy’s invested in the local news, we have to support it.”

“Tommy should’ve, uh, invested in something that’s better, then.” Benrey squints at the headline, then rears back, setting the porch swing (another mark in the grandpa column) to swaying. “Whuh - is that -?”

“Yes!” Gordon snaps, pulling the newspaper back and spinning it to glare down at the article. “Margaret Heinrichs is running for mayor!”

“She can’t even run a, uh, chili contest,” Benrey says.

“Exactly! And speaking of, look - look!” He holds the paper back up to Benrey’s face, one metal finger tapping aggressively at a line of text. “The firehouse is supporting her run! After what they said about the last chili cook-off!”

“Oh, what’d they say?” Benrey doesn’t remember hearing about this - though that may have been because he had to tiptoe around the house for two weeks after Gordon lost the cook-off on a technicality, even though all five judges agreed his chili was far better than Margaret’s.

“They said it was a disgrace,” Gordon says vehemently. “The chief himself told me that no one had ever enforced that rule before. Ten year’s residency, my ass - it’s fucking stupid!”

“It’s only been, what, eight years?” Benrey muses. “You gonna try again this year?”

“Fuck yes I’m gonna try again,” Gordon growls, newspaper crinkling in the tight grip of his metal hand. His flesh hand trembles a little these days, off and on, but the metal hand is strong and true. Benrey’s not sure how to feel about that sometimes.

“You gonna - same recipe?”

“No,” Gordon says, and gives him a feral grin. “I’m using a better one. Nuclear option or bust.”

Benrey’s eyebrows go up. “Oh, shit?”

“That’s right,” Gordon says, settling his shoulders against the porch swing’s backrest and smiling out at the thinning mist. “Grandma’s recipe.”

“Oh, shit,” Benrey chuckles. “Yeah, that’ll - that’ll knock their socks off.” He taps his foot against Gordon’s. Gordon snorts and taps him back.

“You and feet, man,” he says. “Always with the feet.”

“You love it,” Benrey replies automatically, and Gordon tilts his head toward him and smiles gently.

“Yeah,” he says. “I really, really do.”

They lapse into silence, and over the years Benrey has learned the different flavors of Gordon’s silences. This one starts out scheming, then transforms into something more wistful and contemplative. Benrey advances two more levels in his game, then decides he’s bored and hooks a foot behind Gordon’s ankle.

Gordon blinks and starts a little. “Hmm?”

“What’s your, uhhh plans?”

“Take down Margaret,” Gordon replies promptly.

Benrey huffs a short laugh. “No, I, uh. I meant for today.”

“Oh.” Gordon links his fingers and stretches his arms out in front of him, then catches the newspaper before it can slide off his lap. “I can’t just do that today?”

“Uh…” Benrey thinks for a moment. “I guess, but then we’d prob’ly have to, uh. Go into hiding or something.”

“Eh, Tommy could fix that for us,” Gordon says, waving a hand.

Benrey grins at him. “Okay, so, d’you wanna kill her?”

Gordon takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh that sounds like it comes all the way from his feet. (Yeah, okay, Benrey knows what he likes.) 

“I guess we shouldn’t,” he says. “Anyway, it’ll be way more satisfying to beat that hag at her own game.”

“Poison?”

Gordon snorts. “No, man, chili.”

“Poison in the chili?”

“Oh, now there’s a thought,” Gordon says, tapping at his lip with a metal finger. “But how to keep it away from the judges…?”

Benrey makes a dismissive noise, and Gordon cracks, cackling loudly enough that it startles a small flock of crows from the line of pine trees across the road.

“Let’s not even start,” Gordon says, lifting his glasses to wipe moisture from the corners of his eyes. “Don’t even - if I start thinking about how easy it would be to do, I’m gonna fucking do it, and then we really will have to leave.”

“Yeah, but - it’d be worth it,” Benrey says, leaning back and throwing an arm across the backrest. Gordon leans against it and sighs as Benrey curls his hand around Gordon’s shoulder.

“Nah, not yet. I like it here.”

They gaze out across the fields and toward the line of dark trees that the crows are circling back down into, still cawing reproachfully. Benrey’s tempted to change shape and go bother them, but he resists the urge. Sometimes when he changes back, he forgets to add the age marks - and he sees the look on Gordon’s face when Benrey appears, even for a moment, to be the same age he was the day they met. He’s not, of course - time moves forward for them all, even when it’s stopped - but Benrey’s appearance has always been under his control more than most.

“We should go make food,” Gordon says after a few minutes, but he makes no effort to move. Benrey runs his fingers up and down Gordon’s shoulder, and taps the inside of his ankle with his foot.

“Yeah?” Benrey mumbles, attention torn between playing his game one-handed and studying Gordon’s graying profile.

“Well,” Gordon says. “Eventually.”

The midmorning sun is finally breaking over the tall pine trees, its heat burning out the last wisps of mist. A car passes by on the county road - one of the newer models with hardlight tires. Benrey’s been in those, and he’s always a little disturbed by the silence. He much prefers the rattle and crunch of traditional rubber tires. At least then you know you’re connected to the road. Hardlight tires sound the same if they’re driving over a hill or driving off a cliff, and Benrey doesn’t trust what he can’t hear.

“D’you remember that brand of soda that we kept getting from those two vending machines? The ones outside Darnold’s lab?” Gordon’s voice sounds a bit distant, and Benrey’s grip on his shoulder tightens involuntarily.

“The one with the, uh, gamer colors?”

“Yes! Those ones.”

“I think it was, uh.” Benrey makes a face as he dredges his memories. “I think it was called Glub?”

“It was not.” Gordon’s voice is flat. Benrey shrugs.

“S’what I remember.”

“Is it? Fuck, how could I forget that?” Gordon’s voice trails off, and he leans further into Benrey’s side. “Fucking…Glub soda? Glub cans? Cans of Glub?”

“Can’t you Glub?” Benrey says, and he feels the memory ping in Gordon’s brain as he tenses, then laughs.

“That’s right - okay, I remember now. ‘I can Glub - can you Glub?’ We had Tommy going in circles.”

“You didn’t even like the flavor.”

“I didn’t! None of us did, it was terrible! No wonder no one outside Black Mesa has ever heard of it!”

“Well, scientists have no taste, so -” Benrey is interrupted by Gordon leaning back and whacking him playfully with the newspaper. He holds up one hand and struggles to continue. “So how could you tell if it was good or -”

“I will kill you,” Gordon cackles, and the porch swing sways wildly under them, the metal chains creaking. “Watch it, watch - you’re gonna break our fucking chair!”

“Oh noooo,” Benrey drawls, and goes for his own nuclear option to end the conflict. He wraps a hand around the back of Gordon’s skull and tugs him down into a teeth-clacking kiss.

Gordon laughs into his mouth and returns the kiss, quieting immediately. Benrey winds his fingers through the silver strands of Gordon’s hair and tugs gently. Gordon mumbles something unintelligible against his lips and cups Benrey’s face with both hands - one sun-warmed metal, and one blood-warmed flesh. The newspaper finally escapes to the wooden planks of the porch with a rustle.

Gordon disengages first, then smacks a kiss to the top of Benrey’s balding head. Benrey grins and tugs a lock of gray hair over Gordon’s shoulder, wrapping it around his finger and kissing it in turn - and that feels a little like love.

“So,” he says. “Margaret?”

Gordon’s face darkens. “Fuck Margaret,” he says. “Well, not - ugh, you know what I mean.”

Benrey snorts and runs a hand down Gordon’s arm to link their fingers together. “Yeah, I know.”

“C’mon,” Gordon says, and tugs their linked hands to pull Benrey to his feet, leaving the newspaper on the floor as he heads for the door. “I’ve got a chili recipe to find.”

Benrey raises their joined hands and presses a quick kiss to the back of Gordon’s knuckles as they head for the kitchen, and is only mildly surprised to feel metal against his lips. He hadn’t even noticed that it was Gordon’s prosthetic hand he was holding. They’re both Gordon’s, after all.

Soon, the kitchen will fill with the smell of browning meat, black beans, green chili, and spices. Soon, Benrey will be called upon to be the taste tester, and will have to come up with slightly different words of praise for each batch. Soon, Joshua will call and they will bicker over the tablet, and the upcoming cookoff, and the similarities of their two towns, separated by half a world. But right now, Benrey squeezes Gordon’s hand tighter, and admires the way the lines around his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and watches his silver hair dance as he whirls through the house, dragging Benrey after him like he can’t imagine doing anything without him.

And, well, okay. Benrey supposes that this all feels an awful lot like love.

[hxseok-honee]

sundress || part 18

written portion under the cut!

sundress [part 18] || make you feel better

previous || masterlist || next

a/n : [and if you were my little girl // i’d do whatever i could do] daddy issues x the neighbourhood

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_____________________________

Saturday, 23 October, 10:13pm

“Are you feeling any better?” Y/n blinks and looks over at Yoongi while she’s dropping empty McDonald’s containers in her garbage bin. He’s standing by the window, pushing it open and fanning himself, cheeks red. It’s starting to get rather chilly outside these days, and the castle’s finally turned on its heating systems to keep the students from freezing to death as winter nears.

The problem -- for most Slytherins, in fact -- is that Yoongi’s so used to the dungeons always being cold that it takes him some time to adjust to the heated rooms above ground in the winter. Y/n’s bedroom feels normal to her, but to him it’s a damn sauna, a sentiment emphasized by the fact that he’s stripping out of his hoodie as he makes his way to her wardrobe to look for thinner pajama bottoms than the ones he’d shown up in. When he finds what he’s looking for, he’s ducking into her bathroom, calling out to her through the door.

“Answer me, nerd.” Y/n hums, having forgotten that he’d even asked her something because she’s so busy trying to decide how to survive the night with that chill coming in through the window.

“I’m okay -- Yoongi, how are you expecting me to sleep with that window open? We’ll both catch a cold.” Pulling the door open, Yoongi tosses his other pants over her desk chair and points at his hoodie, abandoned on her bed.

“Should still be warm.” He doesn’t say anything more about it, heading over to where his laptop sits on her mattress, their movie paused. “You’re only feeling okay?” He’s very nonchalant about the whole thing, but he keeps bringing it up, so Y/n knows he wants to have this conversation.

“Yeah, I’m just -- I dunno, stressed. Tired. Overwhelmed. Did I mention stressed?” Breathing out a laugh through his nose, Yoongi checks that the battery on his laptop’s still fine while Y/n reaches for his hoodie. Sliding it over her head, she finds that he wasn’t wrong -- it is still warm. It also smells like him, and she breathes in the scent easily, already mourning the moment that the material will start to smell like her instead.

She’s so busy pressing the sleeves to her nose and humming with satisfaction at the smell that she doesn’t notice Yoongi’s watching her from where he sits on the edge of her bed. When she finally looks up and meets his eyes, she sees that he’s got a fond look on his face, smiling up at her while she gets distracted by the comfort of wearing his clothes.

“Having fun?” If this were any other day, she might be embarrassed that she’s been caught sniffing his hoodie. But she’s feeling warm and a little delirious both from the food and the exhaustion of such a long day, so she’s just nodding, pressing the sleeves to her face again. Yoongi’s lips twitch in amusement.

“Okay, well -- we can finish the movie or just go to bed? If you’re tired?” Y/n shakes her head, still feeling too wound up from the day to even fathom going to sleep right now.

“Let’s finish the movie — I’ll probably fall asleep at some point.” He nods, scooting back on the mattress until he can lean against the headboard and get under the blanket, beckoning her over with a pat of his hand on the space between his legs.

“Come on — I’ll keep you warm.” Unable to deny the excitement she feels at the thought of being held while she drifts off to sleep, Y/n crawls over to Yoongi, settling with her back against his chest. She sighs contently when he wraps his arms around her, hitting the spacebar on his laptop with his foot to resume the movie before bending his knees and caging her in. She feels safe here.

They watch the movie in silence for a few minutes, Yoongi holding Y/n’s hands in his and playing with her fingers to try and soothe her with small movements. It seems to work, because she’s curling into him even more after a moment. Pressing a kiss to her temple, Yoongi whispers to her.

“Is there anything I can do?” Y/n shuts her eyes with a smile, filled with adoration. Ever since what had happened on Thursday, when she’d expressed her insecurities, Yoongi had been more attentive than usual. Keeping an eye on her and spending more time attached to her physically, he’d been very affectionate the last couple of days. She’s not even sure he’s noticed. “Y/n?” She cracks her eyes open, letting out a noise of confusion. Yoongi smiles softly, repeating himself.

“Let me help you… please?” Humming quietly, she finds it hard to concentrate, feeling herself getting lost in his warmth — he’s solid against her, strong and secure. With his heartbeat against her back, his breathing in sync with hers… it’s comforting. She knows he’ll take care of her if she asks.

“There’s… one thing… that might be nice.” He squeezes her, letting her know he’s listening. Their hands are intertwined in her lap, but she’s extracting her right hand from the pile and placing it gently on the back of his. Guiding him slowly, she sets his hand at the base of her throat, feeling him inhale sharply behind her when he gets the message.

“I thought you said you didn’t wanna talk to Rough Yoongi anytime soon.” He says it jokingly, but she hears the genuine question within.

“It doesn’t have to be rough…” Blinking quickly, he starts putting the pieces together in his head, realizing what she wants. But his silence is a little too long, worrying her, and she’s turning just enough that she can see him out of the corner of her eye.

“We don’t have to… is it because it’s Saturday?” If he’s honest, he’d completely forgotten about the fact that this would technically break one of their rules, but he’s pretty sure he’d broken a rule at that Gryffindor party not long ago. Besides, she needs his help.

“I don’t care about that… I just wanna make you feel better.”

She’s already whining, and he hasn’t even done anything yet. Moving his hand, he wraps his fingers around her throat, pausing to meet her eyes before he does anything else.

“But I need you to do one thing for me.”

“Anything.”

He purses his lips, incredibly fond of her in this moment — usually, it takes a while to break her, but she’s already given in. She’s already relinquishing control, leaving everything up to him. It’s adorable, but he’s still cautious, not wanting to go too far -- not tonight.

“You have to tell me how you’re feeling when I ask. Sound fair?”

She nods quickly, breathing out a confirmation as she leans her head back on his shoulder and shuts her eyes.

“Mm… sounds fair…”

Keeping his gaze on the side of her face, he runs his thumb and two of his fingers along the sides of her neck, feeling her shiver against him. Satisfied, he presses the rest of fingers down, palm warm against the base of her throat.

When he squeezes tight, her body reacts automatically, a shaky breath leaving her while she clings to him. Her hands ball up the material of his pants when she grabs at his thighs, and Yoongi’s shocked to see how responsive she is.

“Are you that wound up, babygirl?” She whines quietly, and he squeezes once in warning. She hadn’t answered him. “Let’s try that again, hm?”

“I’m sorry…” He watches her frown as she apologizes, her eyes cracking open to glance nervously up at him. “Are you upset with me?” Removing his hand from her throat, Yoongi brushes his thumb over her cheek, shaking his head.

“Not upset… Just want you to answer my questions so I know you’re okay.” She nods, unintentionally pouting at him while she finally responds to his question.

“I’m still just… really tense, I guess…” Dragging his fingers back down the column of her throat, Yoongi squeezes suddenly — it’s not harsh or shocking, only firm, his hand steady against her. It pulls a sigh out of her, and her eyelids are fluttering closed as she drops her head back against his shoulder again.

“Feel good?” She smiles hazily, a whispered ‘yes… thank you’ leaving her, and Yoongi can’t help but smile at how honest she is. Pressing tighter, he doesn’t say a word about the shaky moan that slips out, only wrapping his free arm around her waist and holding her closer to his chest.

“Don’t worry about anything, okay? I’ll take care of you, babygirl.” Her whine is loud, and he sees now that that’s what she needs from him -- to help her forget. To give her a break… Yoongi plans on making that happen for her.

“Trust me?” She echoes back immediately, the ‘trust you’ breathy and distracted, like she’s not totally paying attention. But she’d remembered to answer, so Yoongi knows she’s still with him.

“Want me to fix it?” She whines out a confirmation, nodding slowly. This one’s delayed, prompting Yoongi to check in on her.

“How are you feeling?” A pause, and then—

“Good… feel good… better…” Yoongi flexes his fingers, pressing down for longer this time to reward her for being honest with him. When he finally eases up, she’s gasping for breath, and he can feel her heart racing through her back — or maybe that’s his heart. He’s not sure. They’ve done this before, but not like this, so he’s getting a little nervous that what he’s doing won’t be enough to help her. But he has to be steady for her, so he’s pushing forward, hoping he can do it right.

Pressing his mouth to the shell of her ear, he’s mumbling softly to her -- it’s permission, permission to forget everything and give him control. And, even though he’s unsure of himself, it turns out to be exactly what she needs.

“Just let it all go, babygirl… Don’t think about anything but me.” He squeezes for emphasis while he says it, only releasing her when he feels her exhale deeply, going lax against him. Running his fingers gently over all the places he’d pressed too hard, wondering if he’d accidentally left bruises, he whispers to her, checking in.

“Better?” When she doesn’t respond after a moment, his heart is dropping, and he’s glancing down at her quickly, fingers going to her chin so he can turn her head toward him.

“Y/n?” She doesn’t make any move to acknowledge him, only nuzzling her face into his neck slightly. Yoongi furrows a brow, blinking through the pounding in his ears because he needs to figure out what to do. Had he gone too far?

“Baby? Hey…” Taking her face in his hand, he shakes her gently, trying to get something -- anything -- out of her. She must be able to hear the slight edge in his voice, because she’s finally responding. Just a hum, but it’s enough to have him sighing in relief. “There you are…”

“…’m sorry…” Breathing out a laugh, Yoongi works at slowing his heart rate while he responds.

“You’re not in trouble… just wanna know how you’re doing.” Y/n shifts in his arms, turning in his lap until she’s curled up to his chest, her mind fuzzy. She only nods, and Yoongi knows that’s all he’s getting out of her. But he’s gonna need more than that.

“Feel better?” She nods again, stronger this time.

“Better… much better…” He’s glad, because he’s not sure he’d be able to keep going with this tonight, still a little on edge. But as he looks down at her, he can see that she’s completely at ease, all of the tension in her shoulders and face gone now. His chest swells, proud of himself for being able to help her after all.

And then a breeze is drifting in through the open window, and she’s shivering against him. He looks over at it, relaxing his hold on her as he considers getting up to shut it.

“Want me to close the window?” Immediately, she’s latching onto the front of his shirt, holding him back. Her eyes open then, expression laced with panic. His own eyes go wide, too, not having expected her to come out of her headspace that fast.

“No-- Don’t go…” Yoongi breathes out a laugh of disbelief.

“I wasn’t gonna leave, baby…” But he doesn’t push it, only readjusting his arms around her, pulling her close again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sliding his leg out from under the comforter, he closes his laptop with his foot, their movie completely abandoned.

Deciding he’d honestly rather risk breaking the device than letting Y/n go for even the few seconds it would take him to move it to her bedside table, he nudges the computer toward the edge of the bed, aiming for the spot where he’d left his bag earlier and pushing it off. He winces when it crashes to the hardwood floor instead. He’ll just buy a new one.

Turning to look at Y/n, he shuffles around on the mattress until they’re tucked comfortably under the blanket, Y/n’s face hidden in his chest.

“Doing okay?” He feels her nod, and then she’s lifting her head to look at him -- her eyes seem clearer now, he notes.

“I’m good now… sorry for not answering you earlier…” With a smile, he scoots down until they’re eye level with each other. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her as close as possible.

“It’s okay… I was just worried…” Y/n looks him over, seeing the lingering anxiety in his eyes. He must have tried really hard for her.

“I’m sorry, I was just… a little out of it, I guess. It felt nice, so I didn’t want to come out of it.” Yoongi nods, finally understanding what had been happening to her.

“Good… I didn’t know if it was a good thing or not that you just weren’t registering anything anymore…” He pauses, biting at his lip nervously. “It… was good, right? I did okay?”

Y/n just stares at him for a moment, wondering how he could possibly not be sure of himself after having just seen her fall apart. After having just made her fall apart. Smiling fondly, she leans in, pressing her mouth to his. It’s soft, their lips barely touching, but it’s enough to have him exhaling deeply, releasing the stress he’d been feeling.

When she pulls back, she’s smiling softly at him, but then her mind is flashing back to what she’d been worried about earlier, the feeling creeping up on her again. She eyes him guiltily, only voicing her concern when he lifts a brow at her.

“Is it okay… that I asked us to break a rule? I won’t do it again…” She’s unprepared for the wide smile Yoongi shoots her, his gums peeking through. He finds it incredibly cute how vulnerable she is, pouty and nervous.

“I really don’t care, Y/n. I just wanted to make you feel better… as long as you’re okay, nothing else matters.” She pouts again, this one more because she’s not sure how to respond, her face warming from how gently he’s looking at her, gaze full of endearment. Deciding finally to just curl up to him and hide her face in his neck again, she lies there for a moment, listening to his breathing. It’s just as comforting even now, when she’s free of the things that had been worrying her. He’s just as solid against her -- just as safe.

“Can we still finish the movie?” Yoongi snickers when she mumbles the question into the crook of his neck, shaking his head.

“Yeah… my laptop’s definitely broken, babe.”

[vannahfanfics]

The Hawk and the Turtledove

Category: Romantic Drama

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Keigo Tamaki, Fuyumi Todoroki

Additional Tags: Medieval AU

Hello, all! I am super excited to present my story for the @hawksbigbang! Please be sure to check out my partner @echodreamer’s art! Also, I am very grateful for my beta @seigephoenix​!

Keigo’s eyes were narrowed as he flitted through the columns, the face so many often called fair and handsome morphed into a hard visage of stone. His gloved hand rested on the gilded hilt of his bastard sword strapped to his hip, the leather sheath chinking against the soft fabric of his breeches and tops of his leather boots. The heavy clunk of their soles echoed through the throne room, but were drowned out by the din of conversation. In the shadows, he watched with disgust as the knights and lords and squires conversed with his king, hiding their malcontent behind regal smiles. They were vultures, all of them, all here to swoop down and claim his princess in their vicious claws. 

Keigo’s golden eyes drifted to her, where she sat on the small throne beside her father’s towering seat. Her hands folded primly in her lap, she entertained the guests with trained smiles and courteous words— but he could see right through her, always could. He could see the fear in her strained smile, see the heartbreak in her eyes. Seeing those slate-gray orbs devoid of the twinkle he loved so much made him burn with anger. He felt the emblem sewn into the bodice of his tunic searing into his chest like a brand, and he yearned to rip that roaring dragon from his chest and stomp it into the dust. Keigo had long been in the service of Enji Todoroki, and his king had done many things that some would deem questionable. Yet Keigo always believed his sovereign had ruled to the best of his ability, and really, what he was doing now was nothing unexpected. 

Kings always held tournaments to marry off their eldest daughters; it was their best means of forging political alliances and maintaining good relationships. To be passed off to a husband to bear children had always been Fuyumi’s fate, they both knew that. Yet Keigo had been so naïve, whispering in her ears with his honeyed tongue as they lay in a tangle in his bedsheets that he would never let that happen, never let anyone take her away. She was his princess, his only to have and to cherish and to love. Yet with every would-be suitor that strutted into this throne room, Keigo’s late-night promises were closing in, threatening to smother them both in what was revealed to be nothing but a web of lies. 

Keigo wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let that happen.

Like a specter, he glided behind the thrones. Fuyumi had long since grown accustomed to looking for the glint of sunlight off the golden edges of his sword; she automatically sought him out, her expression growing pained when she glimpsed him over her shoulder. The men surrounding her hardly noticed her movement, too busy clamoring their achievements or reciting poetry or proffering gifts. 

With the ever-so-slight tilt of his head, Keigo motioned for her to follow him to a side hall. Then, with a purposeful swagger in his step, he melted back into the shadows. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw her rise from her throne and give the crowd of men a polite curtsy. 

“I thank you, gentlemen, but I have grown weary and wish to retire. I am much looking forward to your performances in the tournament tomorrow. I am sure that you will all perform admirably.” The grace and poise in her tone made Keigo’s stomach boil, though he knew it was no more than practiced appearance. He nursed his envy as he leaned against the wall in the hall outside the throne room, arms crossed as his hands ached to rend every single one of those sons of bitches to disfigured body parts. He found his rage dissipating, however, when he heard the familiar swish-swish-swish of Fuyumi’s gown and the pitter-patter of her slippered feet. She all but fell into his arms after rounding the corner, tears beading on her pretty white lashes. 

“Keigo, Keigo,” she moaned in agony. “I do not know how much longer I can stand this. All of those men, they want nothing but my father’s power and influence, or worse, just to bed me! I cannot become a bride to one of them, I simply cannot!” 

“Hush, my turtledove,” Keigo soothed, sweeping a strand of her hair from her face to lay his hand against her cheek. She pushed into his touch, and he could feel the warmth of her skin bleeding through the leather. “It will not come to that. I will not allow any of them to take you from here.” 

“How?” she asked miserably. “Father will never consent to anyone but the tournament winner claiming my hand. You know how he feels; if we admit our affair to him now, he will simply execute you as the morning’s entertainment!” She wailed as gruesome possibilities ran rampant in her head, causing the tears to stream down her cheeks. Keigo shushed her and pressed a kiss into her forehead, right below the silver circlet marking her royal birth. 

“I will not face the executioner’s blade, my sweet turtledove,” he promised with a chuckle. “That I can promise you. If King Enji will hand you only to the winner of the tournament, then I suppose I will just have to win, won’t I?” 

Fuyumi gasped and reared back, looking at him with frightened eyes. 

“You did not…” 

“I did. As a knight in the service of a king, I am not forbidden to partake, so your father will simply have to sulk on his cushions,” Keigo smirked. Fuyumi worried her bottom lip between her teeth, drinking in the sudden development. Yet Keigo could see hope flooding her eyes, returning that glimmer to her cloudy gray irises that he loved so much. “Be at ease, my love,” Keigo whispered, pressing another kiss to her forehead, then her nose, both her cheeks, and then finally her soft lips. “Finally I will claim you as mine for the world to see,” he murmured against her lips. Fuyumi moaned longingly, and Keigo could not resist slipping his tongue in her mouth to kiss her passionately. Fuyumi abandoned herself to his affections, hands roaming over the soft fabric of his tunic to splay over his chest. She always tasted so sweet, like winter-frosted apples. Keigo could get more drunk off of her than the finest wine in the world; he didn’t want to stop, but he forced himself to pull away. It would be troublesome if they were caught. 

However, that didn’t stop them from pressing their foreheads together and drinking in each other for as long as they could. Fuyumi slipped a handkerchief out of her sleeve and softly tucked it under the shoulder of his vest, her token of good luck for him. She peered at him through her lashes, her eyes once more full of hope and love. 

“I love you so much, Keigo,” she whispered. “No matter what happens.” 

“Do not talk like that, love,” Keigo smirked back, “for you’ll be in my arms by the end of tomorrow.” 

Fuyumi sighed, closing her eyes and absorbing the last bit of his presence that she could. They could not spend the evening together; it was too risky with all the hustle and bustle of the castle, though Keigo longed to feel her, roam his hands over his skin, hear the way his name left her kiss-swollen lips like a prayer. She pulled away from him, yet her hand lingered in his, arm stretching as she slowly walked away. Her arm dropped when their fingertips slowly slipped apart, yet her eyes lingered on him until the gloom swallowed her whole. 

I will not fail, Keigo resolved, reaching up to grip the edge of the soft white handkerchief. I must not. 

The next morning after a fitful sleep, Keigo left at the edges of dawn to report to the competitors’ tent. The fields outside the castle had been transformed from an empty patch of grass to a grand arena; wooden seating flanked each side of the square-shaped area and flags bearing the roaring dragon of the Todoroki house rippled in the breeze, mounted on tall poles. Tents for the armors and smithers and leatherworkers crowded around the arena proper. Many of the tournament competitors had already arrived to arm themselves and ensure that their equipment was in tip-top shape. Keigo surveyed his competition as he strutted around, eyes narrowed. Many famous knights from across the realm had come, but that mattered not. He was the top knight in the service of the most powerful king on the continent. He feared no man. 

Keigo found his assigned tent, where his armor was waiting on a mannequin. He was shocked to also see Fuyumi waiting there, seated on a small cushioned bench reading a book. Her baby-blue dress rippled in the breeze, hugging her frame like Keigo had many a time in the deep dark of night. 

“Turtledove,” he spluttered, prompting her to look up at him and smile. “What are you doing here?” 

“It is customary for a princess to see her knight off to battle, is it not?” she said cheekily, rising from the bench to sashay over to him. Her hands smoothed over his broad shoulders, gazing at him in admiration. “I came to wish you luck.” Her smile widened when she saw the handkerchief still tucked underneath his vest. 

“If I have that, then this tournament is as good as won,” he hummed. Fuyumi smiled at his confidence. Her gaze slid to his armor, gleaming in the low light of dawn. She walked over to it, running her fingers over the hawk gilded in gold on its silver surface, the wing fixtures on his helmet. “Hawks,” they called him for his speed and tenacity in battle. He hoped the moniker would serve him well in the trial to come. 

“Let me dress you,” Fuyumi said softly as he approached his armor. He raised an eyebrow, but she just stared at him so beseechingly, how could he refuse. He set his sword down on the cushion while Fuyumi circled him, her hands roving over his body. She slowly went around to his back, hands sliding down to his belt. She slid it through the loops, one by one, until she let it go so it could drop to the floor. Keigo watched her ministrations with an amused smile, Fuyumi nipping playfully at his neck before pulling his tunic over his head. 

She replaced it with the arming doublet, the plush, padded fabric gliding over his body. The chainmail went on next, clinking with each of his movements. Fuyumi’s hands smoothed over him as she tucked it into place, ensuring every inch of him would be defended. Then, she began to attach the many pieces of his plate armor, fastening the shoulder pieces. She rounded him to face his front now, looking up at him with adoring eyes as she fixed the breastplate into place. 

“No matter what happens,” she said and leaned in to kiss him softly, “I love you.” 

“What did I say?” he purred against her mouth. “Turtledove, do not talk like I will never see you again. I will win this tournament for you, and we will finally be free to be together.” 

“Even so,” she smiled coyly, tugging at his armor to ensure it was properly in place, “I must tell you.” 

Before they could say anything else, the trumpet of a horn echoed through the early morning air, signaling that the tournament was due to begin soon. Keigo snatched up his sword and fixed it to his waist, then grabbed his helmet. Fuyumi swept her hands once through his tousled blond waves before he jammed it down on his head, snapping the chinstrap. The sprawling wings on either side of his helmet gleamed in the sunlight, feathers of steel ready to be painted with blood. 

“I will not fail you, Fuyumi,” he promised and gently pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Even with his bulky gloves, his touch was tender. “I promise. You and I will be together.”

“I know,” she smiled. She pushed gently on his breastplate, prompting him to walk backwards out of the tent, into the throng of knights heading toward the arena. “ I love you, ” she mouthed to him before the entrance of the tent rippled with a sudden burst of wind. When it settled, she had disappeared, exiting out the back before anyone saw her. Keigo clenched the hilt of his sword tight, feeling the handkerchief bunched against his tricep. 

Keigo was the last to enter the arena. The knights all kneeled in the grass before the king, who was seated with the rest of the royal family in the pavilion. Keigo could feel Enji’s eyes burning into his armor as he strutted across the field, armor clinking as he kneeled at the end of the line. I fear no man, he reminded himself with a smirk, not even my lord, for no man can stop me from loving Fuyumi. He raised his head slightly to look at her; her gaze was fixed on him, both hopeful and scared. He crunched the grass blades beneath his fingers. 

I will win this for you!

“Honorable knights, lords, squires, and all else who have come,” Enji began, his baritone voice echoing throughout the clearing. It signaled a hush over the crowd; all of them stared at Enji, though out of reverence or fear, none could really say. “I thank you for entering this tourney in honor of my beloved eldest daughter, Fuyumi.” He gestured to the princess, who straightened up and offered the crowd a nervous smile. “The winner today will not only receive honor and glory, but the hand of my daughter in marriage. I will take you into my family as a son, and we shall move forward together, bringing peace and prosperity to our lands.” 

The crowd erupted into claps and cheers as the king sat, his chair groaning under his muscular bulk. This signaled the competitors to all stand; the tension was so thick it could be cleaved with a dagger. All were eager to win Enji’s favor— aside from Keigo. No, he was probably the only one here who was truly interested in the fair princess, eager to keep their grubby paws off the woman he’d come to know and love in the most intimate ways. 

That was his songbird, his turtledove. He could allow no one else to hear the tune she sang for him, no one. Her soft coos were for him and him alone. 

The tourney was styled in an all-out brawl. They would fight in a massive heap of armor and steal until only one remained, the winner that would be gifted Fuyumi’s hand in marriage. It seemed simple enough, and the perfect sport to satiate Enji’s mild bloodlust. The king probably wouldn’t be too upset at a few maimings or even deaths. Such was the risk in knighthood, after all. Battle was not the only place one could lose their life. 

The knights broke from the circle to begin taking their places across the arena. Keigo moved toward the edge of the field, while the more hot-blooded and ignorant individuals remained clustered in the center, eager to wet their blades with blood. Poor bastards; they were the ones who probably wouldn’t survive this fight. The center was always the bloodiest. Sure, if you fought your way out, you would be showered in glory; Keigo didn’t need glory. He needed victory.

He hunched in an offensive stance on the outer rim of the grassy area. His sword made a grating sound against the leather scabbard as he drew it. The bastard sword was also known as a one-and-a-half blade, and Keigo made good use of it, confusing his opponents by switching between one-handed and two-handed styles like it was nothing. He started off gripping the blade with two hands, holding it in such a way that he could easily attack or defend depending on what situation arose. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, the beating sun warming his armor and the layers beneath. The battle must be quick and swift, or the heat would begin to whittle away at his endurance. His golden eyes flickered to Fuyumi’s, her slate-grey eyes ringing with a prayer. 

You must win!

The horn bellowed in the morning air, and the carnage began. Ringing steel and agonized screams mingled with the shoops and cheers of the audience as the center of the arena instantly became a bloodbath. A poor squire was trampled underfoot after being pushed over. A detached arm went flying through the air, followed by an high-pitched, excruciated howl. Arcs of red glimmered like rubies against the azure sky. Attendants of the king immediately rushed in to cart the defeated— and the dead— off the field, which was already soaking up puddles of blood.

Keigo whirled to the side as he heard footsteps rushing up on him, swinging up his sword to block the blow of a shortsword. A youth about age eighteen with a shock of emerald hair grinned at him; the boy wasn’t even wearing a helmet. 

“Sorry about this, but I’m gonna win!” 

“Try again in a few years, bud,” Keigo huffed, kicking him in the chest. The boy squawked in alarm, and as he staggered backward, Keigo brought the heavy hilt of his sword down on his head. The boy crumpled immediately, eyes rolling back to the white as he was rendered immediately unconscious. Better suffer a humiliating knock to the skull than be maimed beyond repair, Keigo thought as the boy was dragged off the field by his limp arms. Maybe that’ll teach him to prepare properly, too, Keigo smirked while spitting a lock of his hair out of his mouth, then dove into the fray. 

He could feel Enji’s eyes burning into him like suns, Fuyumi’s gaze cooling him like the moon and he bobbed and weaved through the intense battle. The song of steel was a symphony in his ears; it was one which he was familiar with, one which he relished. His blood began to pump in his arteries, full of adrenaline, making the world around him blaze. His heart sung in his chest like the holy choir, making him grin as he whirled his sword around him. The steel thrummed as he parried blows and knocked shields; it simmered with glee as he cleaved chainmail and marred flesh. There were only two places on this earth where Keigo was home: in Fuyumi’s arms, and on a blood-soaked battlefield. 

Soon there were only two of them left— Keigo, and this absolute beast of a man he was pretty sure had to be half-ogre. He was ugly enough. 

He ducked as the giant of a man whirled a morning star at him. As the heavy spiked ball embedded into the earth, fleet-footed Keigo ran up the swaying chain to clothesline the man. The behemoth gurgled as Keigo’s armored arm thwacked into his meaty neck, instantly constricting his windpipe. Keigo let his momentum carry him around his back, latching on like a spidermonkey. He wrapped both his arms around the man’s throat and pulled back, cutting off the oxygen flow.

The man let out a strained roar and stomped around, meaty hands grappling for purchase on the small blond. Keigo yelped when the sausage-like fingers dug into the gap between his plate and mail, allowing the giant to wrest him from his back and fling him like a ragdoll. He sailed across the clearing to land in a heap at the base of the pavilion. His helmet unlatched from the force and flew from his head, rolling a few times before coming to a rest, one of the metal wings bent. 

“What’s the matter, Hawks? I hope you haven’t broken a wing!” the king jeered down at him. Keigo spat out a bit of blood and unsteadily climbed to his feet, watching with fierce eyes as the giant lumbered toward him, swinging the morning star above his head. Keigo’s gaze never left him as he leaned down to retrieve his helmet, gripping it tight in his hand. 

“I’ve still got plenty enough flight left in me, my lord!” Keigo huffed, blood smeared over his sneering teeth. “Enough to fly up and take that pretty princess you’re so hell-bent on keeping from me!” 

Enji roared in anger, but Keigo ignored him. The behemoth swung the morning star again. The ground shook under Keigo’s feet as he rapidly side-stepped, one of the spikes coming just close enough to scrape the metal of his plated leg when it dug deep into the earth. The man anticipated that Keigo would try the same trick again, but Keigo wasn’t a same-trick parrot. He flung his helmet at the man’s head; it clocked him in the forehead, the sharp edge of the wing lacerating the hard, sun-tanned skin. The giant roared and clapped his hands to his forehead, infuriated by the sting; he inadvertently dropped the chain to his morning star. Keigo wasted no time in snatching it up and winding it around the man’s feet. When he pulled the chain tight, the man’s legs smacked together. Unable to bear the weight of his own body, he teetered in place for a second before slowly tipping backwards like an oak falling in a forest. 

Keigo hopped onto the man’s chest as soon as he struck the ground, putting his sword to his throat. The behemoth held up his massive hands in surrender, beady eyes wide. There was a collective silence as the crowd processed that the small knight had defeated such a giant; then, they exploded into deafening cheers. They flung rice grains and white flower petals from the stands, and it rained down on Keigo— but he could care less. 

He drove his sword into the dirt next to the giant’s head, then took off for the pavilion. Several lords and ladies sitting in the lower level screamed as he vaulted into the stands, clambering up the series of benches to get at the elevated box where the royals sat. 

“What the hell are you doing, Hawks?” Enji seethed as the blond man’s sweated, dirty head popped over the edge of the box. Grinning like a madman, Keigo climbed up into the tented pavilion, shouldering aside the two guards that tried to stop him. 

“Claiming my prize,” he said breathlessly. Fuyumi let out a happy whimper and surged up to meet him, embracing him when he swept her up in a passionate kiss. He held her by the hips as he spun her around, devouring her lips like he’d never tasted them before; perhaps he really hadn’t, as they had never been sweeter. Enji growled disgruntledly, but there was nothing he could do; Keigo was the rightful winner of the tourney and was now free to do with Fuyumi as he pleased. When they pulled apart, Keigo gently tucked her hair behind her eyes, smiling happily. 

“I told you, my turtledove,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t lose.” 

“Yes,” she hiccuped happily. Joyful tears streamed down her cheeks as she hugged him close. “I knew you wouldn’t, Keigo.” He peppered kisses all over her face, and she laughed despite the smears of sweat he left on her powdered, perfumed skin. He ripped off his gloves so he could thread his fingers through the soft silky strands of her hair. He admired her for a moment, how beautiful she was with her flushed face and watery eyes, before leaning in for another kiss. As his mouth smoothed over hers, he marveled again at the taste of her, winter-frosted apples. 

No longer was he taking forbidden fruit… Fuyumi was his now, to have and to hold forever, and he was hers. They could take flight however they wished, a hawk and a turtledove flitting through the vanilla skies with no one to cage them. The thought made small tears spring to the corners of his eyes, and he just hugged her close. 

“I love you, my turtledove,” he whispered shakily in her ear. “Now and forever.” 

“And I you, Keigo,” she murmured back just as shakily. “Now and forever.” 

The sky was all theirs now, as the sun shone down on a new tomorrow.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[cavalierious-whim]

Childe is given the job of a lifetime--to hunt down the most notorious adeptus to have ever been created.

Be sure to check this fic out here on AO3 for better formatting!

The Abyss is darker. 

Zapolyarny palace swims in its own dusky twilight, bitter-cold with the snow that drapes it, but it isn’t matched by the fathomless gloom of the world below that swallows its prey. Childe isn’t afraid of dusk; he lives and breathes it. Drinks it in and relishes it for the dark forms his entire being. He does not fear, chest full of wily confidence that strikes fear into others. 

There is little else that he knows. Failure isn’t an option, it breeds out the weak and only the strong survive. He doesn’t fear, aside from the Tsaritsa.

Or, not strictly fear, not in its purest form. It is apprehension, an instinctual drive to be anywhere but there, prostrate before her feet, bent at her will. Childe itches to turn tail and run, the feeling pricking deep at the base of his spine, smarting to his neck. 

It is programmed. Expected. Automatic. 

But he doesn’t. Childe holds himself stock-still out of practice. His feet are like lead. His tongue is thick in his mouth as his gaze settles on the polished marble floor instead of the Tsaritsa’s face. 

Harbingers do not run. Harbingers bring death and distraction at their whim, laying down the Tsaritsa’s wrath upon her enemies. They are her most loyal servants, living and breathing everything that she is, swatching themselves in her icy-cold love until their hearts are frozen solid, ceasing to beat for themselves. 

They pave the way for Snezhnaya, as thin as the claim is. It is, instead for her. Always for her. 

He, though, is different. Childe was plucked from the barren snows as a kid. His loyalty is built wholly upon necessity, his devotion dangerous in the way that it can warp and waver like an ill-treated sword that was failed by a forge. He is ruled by his desire to see violence, to paint his fingers slick with the blood of adepti. 

The moment that he finds someone stronger than the Tsaritsa he will leave.

“Chaotic,” Scaramouche once called him. It lost him an eye that had to be replaced.

“A liability,” says Signora still. Childe didn’t lash out physically, having learned a painful lesson that time before—but he snapped at her nonetheless, teeth gnashing as he called her all sorts of things. 

Unlike the first Harbinger, the Tsaritsa will coo, cupping Childe’s cheek in her cold hand, and the others quickly fall silent. She is not warm with it despite the way that she seems, incapable of the love that she so daringly claims as her being. It suits Childe just fine. He thrives in the coldest, darkest of places. 

“My darling,” she says to him this morning from where she sits upon her throne. It is large and imposing, little else to the stark room where there are only columns, cool marble floors, and the whispers of the help who think they cannot be overheard.

It is said that the Tsaritsa’s beloved Harbingers are her guard but they are not; she can handle herself, freezing the veins of others with just an icy glance. Her Harbingers are just that—bringers of doom, sweeping darkness over the land, doing her bidding so she can keep her fingers squeaky clean. 

She’d been the most powerful until Childe came along. He’s different which is why he’s coddled, encouraged by the star-cold of her hands, curled gently around his face. He’s her favorite. Everyone knows. 

“My lady,” says Childe, kneeling low to the ground, ignoring the shock of the hard floor against his knee. He’s known worse pain. The creeping dark, he thinks as his mind sinks back to the Abyss. The pain, the suffering, swirling about, the thickest poison surging through—

“I have a new job for you,” says the Tsaritsa, pulling Childe out of his thoughts, blinking at her passively.

Always a job, never a mission, carefully tailored to the person that she chooses to carry it out. It will be framed as well-paying and necessary—but the truth is that it only pays in safety. Those who don’t carry their work out are rarely seen again. 

“You have read the histories, I trust,” she continues. “This request is somewhat related.”

Thousands of years ago the Archon War ravaged the lands. Mortals won—but not before seven of the strongest adepti crowned themselves would-be rulers. These Archons don’t exist anymore, long replaced by those mortal—but there are still adepti hiding away, sprinkled throughout the lands. Some have turned to crime. Others live in peace.

All are hunted down like the dogs they are. 

That is what the Harbingers do, they track those remnants down and retire them for the good of what’s left of Teyvat. And there are none better at this than Childe. 

“There are rumors,” says the Tsaritsa, resting her chin upon her knuckles as she leans against her throne, “that Morax still lives.”

Childe’s head whips up to meet her face. Her skin is so pale that it nearly glows, ethereal and pearlescent, eyes so blue that they seem like cold fire. She smiles at him, a cruel thing that isn’t warm.

And despite the way he hates it, how it curdles his gut, it’s the only love he’s ever known. 

“Morax,” says Childe slowly, unsure that he’s heard her correctly. He licks his lips, digesting the idea. “As in—”

“Yes,” she cuts in with a voice firm. “‘He who laid waste to mankind in the time of war’,” she recites as so many books proclaim. “The so-called Martial God himself.”

Morax was an adeptus who swept the battlefield underneath his palms, laying waste to all mortal kind in his wake. He’d been war incarnate, built of martial instincts, an adeptus so feared that most mortals still tremble at the mere mention of his name. Outside of Liyue, at least.

“They executed him,” says Childe. At the end of the war, after being captured. It’s well documented on every little e-reader that can be found. Vortex Vanquisher, the lance once wielded by Morax himself, currently sits on display abroad, strung up as a warning. 

“So they say.” There is something to the Tsaritsa’s tone that doesn’t quite sit right, something in the way that it’s so calm, almost bored. As though she already knows the answer. Childe frowns. 

His loyalty to her is as far as his need for self-preservation, but there’s never been trust between them on either side, even with all her cooing about how he’s her favorite. 

The Tsaritsa straightens, lifting her chin. “He has been seen in the Liyue Expanse. My contacts are sound, as you would know.” Other Harbingers, he supposes. “You will go and retire him, as expected of any other adeptus scum.”

“Retire him,” repeats Childe. It is an addicting thought. Morax would be sure to put up the fight of a lifetime. 

The Tsaritsa cocks her head to the side as she watches him. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this. You are the strongest of my brood, my beloved Childe.”

She sends him away because he cannot be trusted, far too wily in nature, prone to chaos and whim. He wasn’t raised into his title from birth; he’s a street urchin turned killer, too volatile at his best and downright uncontrollable at his worst.

He is a risk. She’ll never leave him to his devices, and so, he is carefully watched, the eyes of the other Harbingers constantly nailed to his back.

“So,” he drawls, his gaze turning cool, “I’m to hunt Morax and retire him like all the others.” Sounds easier than he expects, of course. Morax isn’t just some adeptus if he’s actually still alive. 

Her gaze turns sharp. “I would approach this with a little more caution than usual.” Childe knows a warning when he hears one.

The Harbingers are meant to blend in and handle things quietly. Efficiently, like well-honed blades that barely make a sound. Childe never does. Astoundingly bad at it, even, flashy in his approach, others speaking of his terror for weeks to come. 

It’s gotten him into heaps of trouble over the years but he can’t help it—it’s implanted deep into his very being. The drive to show off, to be better, for others to notice. He has to.

“Caution,” he finally says. He’ll at least pretend. “Always.”

The Tsaritsa sighs and leans forward, pressing her hand to his cheek as she often does. The tips of her fingers are frozen, the cold of them leeching into his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. Then her grip tightens, nails digging harshly into his face, pinpricks of terror that bring tears to his eyes. “I trust that you understand how important this is.”

She’s drawn blood, vermillion leaking down his face. He doesn’t flinch. Childe relishes in the pain because it grounds him. Makes him feel alive in this cold and barren place. “Of course,” he replies with a thin voice. 

The Tsaritsa watches him carefully, ice-blue eyes peering right into his soul. If he has one. It’s a nagging question. “Of all the adepti still lurking around, Morax is the one that is the biggest threat that everyone stands for,” she muses. 

Morax is only feared in other nations because they never forget, even thousands of years later. Those in the Liyue Expanse speak his name in reverence, claiming that he saved them in the midst of the war. Unlikely. Uncharacteristic. Childe wonders if the histories lie.

Morax’s hatred for mortals is well-known and yet, those in the Expanse named their coinage after him. If he’s alive, Childe wonders why he’s been quiet for so long. 

“It will be taken care of, naturally,” says Childe once his thinking is done.

The Tsaritsa holds him there for a long moment, face pinned between her fingers. Then her grip loosens, letting go as she rubs her thumb over the apple of his cheek gently. “I am the proudest of you,” she says in a falsely sweet croon. “You are the only one suited for this.”

Fight runs in his blood. It calls to him, sings to him, the desire to seek out the best of the best. The need to overcome is ingrained into his very core like a programmed response. It can’t be ignored even if he tries. 

And he’s tried—the bloodlust, the burn for battle. The instinct defines him. 

The others have nothing to prove, bred and born for their titles. Childe is the Eleventh Harbinger but also an outsider who crawled from the pits of the Abyss. He must prove his worth.

Still, despite it all, he leans into her touch, desperate for affection even though he doesn’t trust her. “Everything that I do is for you,” he says, the words well-schooled and practiced. “There is no one else.”

Not even Morax, the most powerful adeptus to have ever been built, can stand in the way of it.

[yourheartonfire]

Hi! Your an amazing writer and I often stalk your page. I was wonder if you could do a civilian x villain prompt? Have a great day/night!

Thank you! I do have at least a couple 'villain x civilian' snippets around here somewhere, but it's a fun dynamic and I'm happy to do more...

The villain slammed through the front door at full strength, out of breath and just barely shy of panicking. "Leo!" he screamed.

Okay. Maybe he was panicking.

There was a long, horrible moment of silence. And then in a rustle of throw pillows Leo's head poked up over the back of the couch, blinking owlishly as he pulled his headphones off and pushed his laptop aside.

"Mal? What're you doing home at...?" His eyes widened. "What happened to the door?!"

"Oh thank god!" The villain sprang at him to grip him in a hug. Leo made a surprised umph noise as the villain pulled back just as fast. "You have to go. Now. I'll pack your bag." He darted off to the bedroom.

The villain's go bag was under the bed and he cursed himself bitterly for not making Leo one too. "I'll get your clothes!" the villain yelled. "Grab any personal items you want. You've got two minutes -"

He turned from the closet and smashed full speed into Leo. Sweaters went flying and Leo grabbed the villain by the shoulders.

"Malcolm! Slow down," he said in that voice that brooked no nonsense.

The villain grabbed Leo's wrists. He could break the grip. Hell, he could toss Leo across the room and through a couple walls too. But this wasn't an attack. Breath ragged, the villain hung on to his partner's arms and held still.

"Good, babe. Okay." Leo was doing that little stoop in his knees and his back, to bring himself down to eye level with the villain. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

"You..." The villain swallowed. "Have to get out of the city. Like, evacuate. There's gonna be, uh, weather?"

Leo blinked again. "Weather," he repeated, in a carefully neutral voice.

"Fine, not weather, but danger!" the villain snapped. Reluctantly he brushed the warmth and safety of Leo's hands away and bent to pick up clothes. "I can't explain - I'm sorry - but you are in very real danger and I need you to get away."

Slowly, Leo crouched beside the villain, sitting himself on exactly the pair of pants the villain wanted. "Because someone cracked your secret identity?" he asked softly.

"Because someone..." The villain stopped dead. Leo was looking at him sideways, giving him room to not answer. The villain flung down a sweatshirt and sat back on his heels. "You knew. How long have you know?"

"Well, I wasn't completely sure until just now when you smashed in our door like it was balsa wood," Leo said wryly. "But, yeah. I started putting things together after you moved in. How all those work emergencies lined up with cape battles around the city -"

"Technically, work emergencies," the villain could stop themselves from muttering.

"- the many, many grevious training mishaps, at your boxing gym," Leo went on. "And I started thinking how I almost died in thst [hero] on [villain] crossfire, except somehow I was inexplicably transported to an ER 5 miles away." He glanced over, almost shy. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Civilians aren't supposed to get hurt," the villain said automatically. It was a Rule. He felt himself going shaky again, remembering the feel of the lanky body half buried in the rubble beside him, the terror that this poor rando was going to die because he, the villain, hadn't ducked hero's heat blast fast enough...

Hesitantly he looked up. To his shock, Leo was still looking at him with love and understanding in his eyes. "You're not... mad?"

Leo shrugged. "It was obvious why you'd guard that secret. I figured you would tell me when you were ready." He threaded his fingers through the villain's. "I'm here for you. Or..." Leo looked up sharply, as if remembering what started this. "I guess I'm gone for you."

"I'm sorry," the villain started. "But he knows who am I... "

Leo waved him off, started gathering up clothes. There was just the slightest tremor in his hands. "And if he knows you then he'll find me and I'm an obvious leverage point. I get it. I can go upstate, stay with Javi and Kay a few days..."

"Leo -" Leo glanced up. The villain grabbed his hands, stared into his soft eyes. "I won't let him hurt you again. I'll burn the world before I let that happen."

"Oh babe." Leo swallowed, smiled so bravely. "I know."

The villain pulled his lover closer and Leo pressed against him, solid and gorgeous and so unbelievably real. "I trust you," he whispered in the villain's ear. "I'm proud of you. I love you so so much, [hero]."

"Oh," was all the villain said, as Leo buried his face trustingly against the villain's shoulder, right next to where the villain's heart had just shattered.

Slowly, the villain brought up his arms around Leo's back, careful not to squeeze too tight around all those delicate nerve endings and internal organs and spinal columns. "Love you too," he whispered, "Angel."

[anxiousstark]

S4 01 | The Dark Moon

BIG MASTERLIST | TW REWRITE | KO-FI

Stiles Stilinski x Reader! Half-sibling!Mccall

Word count: 3956

Warnings: Mentions of  injuries, blood, poison, death, seizures, dead bodies, swearing (always), etc.

A/N: Wow. This is the 4th Season already?! I noticed while writing this entire chapter this morning that we were starting season 4. This is crazy. Enjoy and I didn’t have time to proofread!

↪ PLEASE RESPECT MY WORK. DON’T COPY, TRANSLATE OR CLAIM THEM AS YOURS. NOT ON THIS WEBSITE OR ANOTHER. ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED.

I glanced around, sighing, not knowing what to expect and seeing a different scenario from the one that I was used to seeing every day. There was a lot of people in the street, wandering through street markets, trying to get the best deal.

"This doesn't seem so bad." My boyfriend rubbed his hands together.

"It's not the town, it's the plan."  Lydia rolled her eyes as I chuckled. "Stiles. This could be the stupidest plan we've ever come up with. You're aware of that, right?"

"I'm aware it's not our best." His voice lowered.

"We are going to die." The three of us started walking.

"Are you saying that as a Banshee or you're just being pessimistic?"

"I'm saying it as a person who doesn't wanna die."

"Okay." Stiles's tiny gesture made my chest pound like crazy. He had grabbed my hand, scared I would get lost as there were many people. "Would you just mind restricting any talk of death to actual Banshee predictions?"

"This plan is stupid and we're going to die," Lydia said in a cheerful tone, attempting to make the hazel-eyed boy happy.

"Oh, thank you." He smirked.

It was night when we arrived at a building. The door was being watched by two men. They both smiled at us, especially eyeing Lydia and me, which made us feel a little bit uncomfortable.

"Estamos aquí para la fiesta." I murmured to them, letting them know that we were there for the party taking place inside the building.

One of them smirked, shaking their head as if to let us know that we weren't invited to go inside. I shifted my gaze to Stiles, who was searching for something inside one of the pockets of his trousers. As soon as he found what he wanted, he lifted it. A black card. And even though it seemed like just an item without much meaning, one of the men standing in front of us stopped smiling.

Stiles noticed that there was a camera just above them, lifting the card so whoever was behind it could see the object. Automatically, the door opened and the men had nothing more to do than let us go inside.

When the door closed behind us, we sighed, worried about what we could find. There was a small corridor, walls were of an intense red that was making my headache. And it seemed like the door in front of us and the walls embracing us shook.

As Stiles opened the door, we were hit with loud music, colourful lights and the smell of alcohol and sweat. Bodies ground against each other, following the compass of the music.

Stiles clutched my hand harder as his other hand rested on Lydia's arm. He didn't want us to get lost in the crowd. We ended up in front of the bar, where three drinks were placed in front of us even though we haven't ordered anything. I furrowed my eyebrows as Stiles sought money inside his pocket.

I felt a hand gripping my shoulder, and jerking around I was met with a man. "No. On the house." He offered us an insincere smile. "Most American teenagers don't cross the border to refuse a drink."

"We didn't come to drink." Lydia clarified, dropping what seemed like a bullet with a skull on it inside the drink.

Of course, we were taken out of the party, to the insides of the building where everything was dark and where now, a woman stood before us. "Severo hates this music. Me? I've always loved the music of youth." We were sitting in front of her, while there were men all around the room, keeping an eye on us. "This kind, especially. It has a savage energy."

"We're here for Derek Hale." I was the first one to speak aloud.

"Is that so?"

"We know you have him. We've heard you can be bought." Lydia was the one continuing while Stiles placed money on top of the table with a loud thump.

"It's 50,000 for Derek."

"Now, where does a teenage boy get money like this? Japanese mafia?" A woman behind us loaded her gun, making Lydia and I jump in our seats as a man did the same next to Stiles. "Not smart to come alone."

"What makes you think we came alone?" The boy next to me smirked, and I couldn't help but take the grin out of my face. Malia, Kira and Scott had come with us.

"You brought a wolf into my home?" She got up from her chair.

It was my turn to smirk. "No, of course not. How could we do that?" She seemed to relax, but only for a couple of seconds due to my following words. "We brought an Alpha."

"My friends..." She sighed as she turned around. "I don't think you're aware of your poor timing. Do you know what the dark moon is?"

"The part of the lunar phase when the moon is least visible in the sky," Lydia said in a robotic tone.

"But do you know its meaning?"

"Some people say it's a time of reflection. Or grief." I intervened.

She glanced at me. "Grief and loss, mija. I wonder why, when you and your friends have suffered so much loss, you would risk it again for someone like Derek Hale."

"'Cause, we don't like to lose."

One of the men next to Araya stopped us from continuing talking as he started speaking to someone on the other line of the walkie talkie. I couldn't help but have a tiny smile on my face when I heard the voice of my brother through it. "Stiles. Take 10 off the table."

As the button-nose boy did what my brother had asked for, I decided to speak up. "Maybe you should just take the deal." Lydia nodded her head, smiling at the woman in a sickeningly way.

"While I'm keen to follow the warning of a Banshee," She glanced at me. "And of course, the one of a Siren. I'm going to have to decline."  

"Aaaa... Come on. Just give us Derek. You don't want him anyway. Haven't you noticed what a downer he is? No sense of humour, poor conversationalist." I tried to maintain a serious expression as Stiles's continued speaking. "Just come on, take the money."

Araya grabbed the walkie talkie once again. "Severo? Show them how the Calaveras negotiate." When Araya left the room, the three of us were manhandled by the men. And I wasn't a Banshee, but even I could feel that Scott, Kira and Malia were in great danger right now.

Thinking back, we ended up here because Scott had gone to Derek's lot, just to find that he wasn't there. He had found bullets, and sending a picture to Deaton, he had learnt that it was the mark of a family of hunters based out of Mexico. The Calaveras.

Lydia said that he wasn't sure he was dead, but she also wasn't sure if he was alive, which was perturbing.

"He is awake!" Kira informed us as Stiles and I got closer to my brother, who was lying down on the floor of a dirty and abandoned bathroom, where we have been taken. "Guys, he's awake."

"Scott, you okay?"

"Yeah." He tried to get up. "They don't have him. They don't have Derek."

"We know." I sighed, offering him a smile that he sent back, trying to let me know that he was alright. "But right now, they've got Lydia."

"Lydia? What do they want with Lydia?" He asked rapidly.

"We always have the same question and it is always answered the same way," I spoke as everyone glanced at me. "The power of a Banshee."

My brother rapidly got up from the floor, trying to open the door with his bare hands, which wasn't working.

"We already looked for a way out. I think a lot of people have." I furrowed my eyebrows as Kira talked, not sure of what she meant until I saw the marks on the walls. Marks of people who desperately tried to escape, scratching the walls with all of their strength.

Malia was leaning against a column. "I say when that door opens again, we take out whoever's standing in the way and run for it."

"What about Lydia?" Kira asked, and I sighed, knowing Malia's next words.

"What about her?"

"We're not leaving without her."

"Why not?"

Stiles shook his head, getting closer to her. "Because we don't leave without people. Remember, we talked about this? Rules of the wild kingdom don't apply to friends."

"Is that what you would do as a coyote, leave her for dead?"

"If she was weak and injured, yeah. If hunting had been bad that season, I would eat her. Then I'd leave."

"Mmm. Believe it or not, that's progress." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Stiles and I've been trying to explain everything to her."

"All right, guys, we're not dead yet." My brother interrupted. "And that means Araya wants something."

Kira glanced at the dark-haired boy standing by her side. "But if the Calaveras don't know where Derek is, that means they didn't take him from the loft. Right?"

"Maybe he left on his own." Stiles completed.

Scott glanced at the floor. "Maybe someone else got to him."

We couldn't continue with our theories as the door abruptly opened, showing three men that quickly walked to us. However, we were soon met with darkness.

When I opened my eyes, my head was aching and everything around me seemed to move in circles. My throat was dry as if I haven't drink anything in days. I gradually noticed that I was tied to a chair and that my brother was tied to another one, right next to me.

The door of the room where we were now opened, showing Araya with another man and Lydia. "Oh, God," Lydia murmured as she saw us.

"Let her go. Look... you've got me. Just let the others go." My brother begged as Araya smirked. Her gaze moved to me. My brother followed her gaze, and it seemed like he had noticed from the first time that they had taken me too. "Why did you bring her?"

Lydia was chained to another chair as Kira came inside the room, also chained while a man grabbed her. What was going on? "So, let me explain what's about to happen." The man grabbing Kira spoke. "This one, the fox, has an immunity to electricity. So she's going to turn the dial on the Alpha. If she doesn't, I turn the dial on the Banshee and the Siren."

"No. I'm not doing this." Kira tried to resist.

"I see. Are you sure? One of your friends has the power to heal. The other? Not so much." Severo smirked. "And the other one might end up dying." Who?

"What are you doing?" Scott glanced at the old woman. "Is this a game to you?"

"This is a test, lobito. Let's see if you pass. We're going to ask some questions. You answer them, nobody gets hurt." She walked around us, but I had to close my eyes and lean my head down as everything continued moving around me. "You don't answer, we turn on the dial."

When I looked up again, my brother was looking at the fox girl. "Do what they say. Okay. Whatever they want. I can take it."

"So... We don't know where Derek is. We want to find him as well. You know who took him."

"What?" My brother asked her. "How would I know that?"

"That doesn't sound like an answer to me."

"We don't know." Lydia intervened. "Why do you think we came here?"

"Kira, turn the dial." The woman ordered, but Kira shook her head. "Should we turn the dial on Lydia instead?"

My brother quickly spoke up. "No, no! Do it, Kira. Do it."

"Let's start at one." As soon as she said that, my brother grunted, his hands gripping the chair he was sitting on, trying not to scream in pain. "Tell me! Who actually has Derek? Who had a reason, a vendetta particular to the Hales?"

My brother continued panting. "I said I don't know."

"Oh, you don't know because you haven't figured it out yet. So think! Who could've taken him?" They turned the pain even stronger. "Who had the power? The power of a shapeshifter?"

"I-I don't know."

"Oh! Someone who could have turned without you knowing. Turned, but not by a bite!"

"I don't know!" He screamed.

"Y-you.." My voice was a mere whisper, but swallowing I was able to scream. "You are going to kill him!" There were tears in my eyes. "You are going to kill him! Stop!"

Araya laughed, shaking her head. "No, mi amor." She smirked. "You will die first." I furrowed my eyebrows, feeling the temperature in the room dropping. I was cold. "Something told me lobito right here was going to be hard to peel." Her gaze shifted to my brother. "Your beautiful sister has poison running through her blood." My brother quickly glanced at me. "The longer it stays in her system, the more difficult to take it out. She can end up having seizures." I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, feeling dizzier than before. "Say the name, Scott."

"Kate." What? Kate Argent?

"Okay," I heard Araya's voice. "Stop the machine." Severo did as he was told as another two men walked to Scott and Lydia, freeing them. My brother quickly walked to me, extending his hands to touch me. However, my body started shaking and I couldn't make it stop. "Severo bring the shot."

The door of the room opened again, this time two men were grabbing Stiles and Malia. Stiles's eyes widened as he saw me shaking while being tied to a chair. Before he could step forward, the man grabbing him stopped his movements.

"Don't dare any of you to touch her now." Araya's strong voice resonated through the room. Severo walked to me, stabbing the side of my neck with the syringe. I could feel the liquid running down my blood. Severo unleashed me, lying me down on the freezing ground as my body continued shaking.

"W-What did you do to her?? You old troll." I wanted to smirk at Stiles's use of vocabulary, but I was too busy being scared of the constant shaking of my body.

"She will be alright," Araya replied. "She has more water in her body than a human. The liquid we injected plus the water will do a quick job in removing the poison."

"N-nice." I tried to sound sarcastic.

"Fever might be a side effect of the poison, but you will be alright."

I watched as my brother talked to Araya while I was leaning against Roscoe with the others. Stiles was constantly asking me if I was alright. I felt a little weak, but my temperature was back to normal.

Scott finally walked to us. "So what now?" My boyfriend asked.

He shrugged. "She thinks she knows where we can find Derek."

"She gonna tell us where?" Malia asked while she leaned her head against my shoulder. My hand went up to play with her hair.

"Uh, actually, she's giving us a guide."

Stiles's face transformed into confusion, but it went away as soon as a big motorbike stopped in front of us. "You know her?" Stiles asked my brother.

As soon as the person took their helmet off, we saw a beautiful black woman whose neck seemed to be scarred. "Braeden."

"Who's Braeden?"

"She's a mercenary," Lydia added.

"Right now, I'm the only one who's gonna take you to la iglesia."

"The Church?" I questioned. "What's The Church?"

"It's not a place you'll find God," I smirked, liking her way of talking.

Getting inside the jeep, we followed her as she took us to la iglesia.

There was a comfortable silence inside Roscoe. The three girls were sitting behind as I sat on the front between my boyfriend and my brother. "Okay, I'll ask." Malia was the one interrupting the silence. "Who's Kate Argent?"

Kira put her hand up. "Uh, I'd like to know, too."

"Well, we were at her funeral. So, I'd like to know how she got out of a casket that was buried six feet underground." I chuckled, nodding my head that was resting on Stiles's shoulder as he drove.

"She was never in it." I glanced at my brother.

"She was Allison's aunt," Lydia spoke, and I could feel the pain in her voice. The pain of someone who recently lost her best friend. WAnd a total sociopath."

"You don't have to talk about it now if you don't want to." Kira whispered while glancing at the back of my brother's head.

"Um, yes, he does." I was going to scold Malia as if she was a curious child that didn't know when to keep her mouth shut.

"Yeah, she's right. You guys should know. You need to know."

"All right." Stiles sighed. "Kate was the one who set the fire that killed most of Derek's family."

"Some of them survived, like Cora, and Peter." Scott added.

"A very angry Peter," Lydia appended.

"Yeah, he's the one who bit and turned me." My brother sighed.

"And the one who scratched me." I added.

"And the one who finally caught up to Kate and killed her." Lydia explained.

"And we saw her buried." Stiles and I replied at the same time. He took his eyes off the road for two seconds to place a kiss on my forehead and ask once again, if I was feeling alright.

"No." Scott shook his head. "We saw a casket, remember? She wasn't in it. The Calaveras heard that Kate had been killed by an Alpha's claws. They wanted to make sure she was really dead. Her body was healing. More and more, as she got closer to a full moon. She was coming back. So they switched out the bodies. If a hunter is bit, they have to take their own life before they change. The Calaveras, they treat the code like law. They make it their responsibility to enforce it."

"Good for her." The were coyote intervened. "I wouldn't do it either."

"Would you kill half a dozen people to get out? Because that's what she did."

Kira sighed, placing her hand on my brother's shoulder. "So Kate's a werewolf now?"

"I don't know. You know, there's a saying, sometimes the shape you take reflects the person you are." I nodded along with my brother's words, remembering Jackson Whittemore. What was of him now?

"What kind of shape is sociopathic bitch?" As soon as the Martin girl spoke, the car was hit by something, making Stiles stop driving as we all got startled. We all got out of the car as Braeden got off her bike to ask what had happened.

"I don't know. It felt like we hit something." Stiles and Scott were examining Roscoe.

"Scott, we need to get there by night. It's too dangerous otherwise."

My brother sighed. "Go." Stiles made a gesture with his hands, trying to let him know that it was okay for him to leave with Braeden.

"Not without you."

"Dude, someone needs to find Derek. We'll figure something out. We always do. Just go."

I walked to my brother, kissing his cheek and embracing him. "Be careful, okay?" He nodded his head, wishing the same for me and sharing a look with Stiles. A look pleading him to take care of me.

Before he walked to the bike, he was stopped by the fox girl. "Scott... I can't think of anything else to say except for be careful. And...and I know 'Be careful' sounds kind of lame and I'm totally sure the second you're gone I'm gonna think of something much better, but I..."

"Uh, 'Be careful' works for me." I smiled as they embraced each other.

I sighed. "They are so cute," I whispered while wandering close to Stiles as his hands rubbed Roscoe's side, making sure that there wasn't any scratch.

"We are cuter." He replied while biting his lower lip and inspecting his jeep. I laughed and nodded my head and watching my brother disappear with Braeden.

"Guys," Malia grunted. Therefore, I turned around to look at her. "I don't think we hit something. I think something hit us." She was holding up what seemed like giant teeth or claw. I couldn't differentiate them, to be honest.

I sighed, leaning against the jeep as I examined my boyfriend inspecting the hood of his car. A screwdriver in his mouth. "Stiles, baby. Don't hate me. I know you love Roscoe but maybe we should just walk." He glanced at me with wide eyes. "It's getting colder and darker." I made a gesture to the girls as they rubbed their arms.

"Hey, I will never abandon this jeep. You understand me? Ever. Ever. Ever."

Malia glanced around. "Work faster, Stiles." She paused as her eyes continued examining the whereabouts. "There's something out here with us." I gulped.

However, night had fallen upon us and Roscoe wasn't working. Malia continued in front of us, glancing around, prepared to attack whatever was observing us. Kira had grabbed her sword while Lydia and I tried to help my stressed boyfriend. "Lydia, could you please hold the light still for a second? It's really hard to see anything if you keep shaking it like that."

Lydia scoffed. "I'm shaking it like this because we're in the middle of nowhere with your broken down jeep and we're being attacked by yet another razor-clawed monster. And I'm terrified."

"Well, just be slightly less terrified." He answered back. "You hold this." He handed me a big metal piece.

"What's this?" I inspected it.

"I don't know. I'm hoping it's not important."

"Oh god." I sighed. Things got worse as the next thing that happened was Malia running towards somewhere or something. "Malia!" I yelled. Kira ran after her while Lydia told Stiles to continue fixing the jeep.

"You... you please don't do that ever again!" Stiles scolded Malia as he drove. The jeep was finally fixed or so we were hoping.

"Do what?" She innocently asked.

"I... I thought you just took off. I thought you were running."

"I was running."

"No, I mean, like, I thought you were leaving."

Malia pouted, looking between Stiles and me. "I wouldn't leave without you guys." We glanced at her. "I would never leave without you two. Them I would leave."

"Yeah. Uh, it's progress." Stiles sighed. "I feel like the dad of a teenager girl." I nodded my head. Stiles and I had taken the paper of teaching Malia what she shouldn't do. The actions she must separate between a human and a were coyote.

"Don't do it again, okay?" I begged. "You scared us." She apologized. "And that doesn't look good."

"It's okay."

"Are you sure?" Kira looked worried as the rest of us. "It looks deep."

"I can feel it healing." I sighed in relief.

"You didn't see anything?" The Martin girl asked.

"Barely. It had a strong scent, though."

"Like what?" I asked while offering her water from my bottle.

She smiled at me as if she was a little puppy, grabbing the plastic bottle. "Like death."

When we finally arrived at the place where Scott and Braeden where we noticed that they were grabbing a young boy. Malia asked if that was Derek, to which Stiles replied 'Sort of'. That young boy was Derek Hale.

Derek Hale was a teenager once again.

.

.

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People in bold means it doesn’t let me tag them.

[heliads]

Pretty Cool

Peter Maximoff is more than a little impressed with the new girl at Xavier’s School.

masterlist

Peter’s listlessly leaning up against a wall outside the classroom. One downside of being faster than everyone is that he has to wait so much longer for his friends to show up. Class won’t start for another five minutes anyway, but he had nothing to do and so he showed up early. Finally, Jean turns a corner and walks towards him. 

“Took you long enough.” Peter grumbles, and Jean rolls her eyes. “Sorry we can’t all have the ability to go the speed of light. By the way, Scott’s not coming because he has to help the Professor with something, so it’s just us for today.” Peter groans. “Oh, come on. The highlight of my day is making fun of Scott, what else am I going to do?” Jean stifles a laugh as she walks inside the room with Peter. 

“Actually, you can check out the new girl in the back. Xavier says she arrived just this morning.” She points to the other side of the training room, where Peter can see the silhouette of a girl. She’s separate from the others, probably because no one knows who she is, but Peter is instantly taken by her. “She’s really pretty.” He blurts it out before he realizes, and Jean laughs. “Perfect. Now I have some entertainment of my own- you drooling over this girl before you even know her name.” Peter sticks out his tongue at her, then quickly speeds away to Xavier’s office. Before Jean can even blink, he’s back.

“Okay, so I did a little research and it turns out her name is Y/N L/N. She’s from some place not too far from here, and she’s really good-looking.” Jean groans. “If you’re going to go snooping in the Professor’s files, could you at least find something more interesting to talk about? How about her powers? Or literally anything else other than her name and her appearance?” Peter waves a hand at her. “I couldn’t get too far before Xavier started to sense my presence in his office. Whatever, I think we’ll find out soon enough- here comes Logan now.” It’s true- the newly appointed professor is walking briskly towards the group of students arrayed in the vast space of the training room. It’s still weird to Peter that Logan’s their teacher, but whatever. He’s the one with the most experience actually fighting people, therefore he has been chosen to train all the students.

“Alright, listen up class. Today, you’ll be taking part in another simulation.” He squints at a screen in front of him and presses some buttons, causing the room to dissolve into the simulation. As the training room creates the scenario, Logan continues speaking. “You’ll have to cross a bridge that’s guarded by two giant automatons.” He gestures at the newly formed bridge. Two massive iron robots stand in the middle of it, each easily the size of a building. Thanks to Xavier’s technology in the training room, the simulations can be any size and have anything in them. This leads to some pretty interesting lessons. “Alright, line up. You’ll go through one at a time.”

As the students shuffle into a group at the back, Jean takes her place at the start of the bridge. Jean always goes first, mainly because everyone else is too afraid to get in front of her, but she says she wants to go first just to make sure she doesn’t copy anyone else’s techniques. The consequences of being a mind-reader are that Jean is always worried that her own ideas aren’t actually hers, and just someone else’s thoughts that she read by mistake.

Jean stares down at the iron giants for a moment, considering her attack. Without warning, she shoots a beam of energy at the first one, causing a fiery explosion to erupt in its chest. She takes to the air, soaring high above it so she can envelop it in even more of her magic. The robot doesn’t stand a chance, and it collapses in a heap of rubble. The other automaton suffers a similar fate, and Jean gently glides to the ground, lightly dusting off her hands.

“Alright, good job to Jean. Who’s next?” Logan’s voice booms across the room as the simulation resets itself for the next student. Peter strolls up the bridge, whispering “Showoff” to a smirking Jean as he passes her. He stretches for a moment, readying his arms and legs for the upcoming attack, then pulls down his goggles and starts to run as fast as he can. Like usual, the world around him slows down, and he races up one of the robots, tearing as many of the exposed wires and computing parts as he can. He jumps easily from one machine to the next, destroying everything he can get his hands on. By the time he finally allows himself to slow down, the automatons are short-circuiting and falling apart behind him. To his classmates, everything happened in just a moment.

“Good, Peter. Uh, can’t really tell what you did, but you did it fast, so good for you.” Logan’s commentary makes Peter grin, and he makes his way to the other side of the room next to Jean. Peter usually tunes out the rest of the class after he finishes with his run of the simulations, but when he sees who’s stepping up to the bridge next, he can’t help but turn back around and stare out of curiosity.

The thing about simulations in Xavier’s school is that everyone goes in a very specific order. Peter’s not sure exactly when this unspoken rule came to be, but it’s a tradition that has never been broken for as long as he’s been at the school. Everyone does the simulation in order of how powerful their mutation is.  Jean goes first, as per usual, then Peter. Both of them have gone on missions with Xavier, so they are automatically the first ones to go. The rest of the students go after them, with the most powerful next and the least powerful last. That’s just the way things are. For this class, the next student to go should be a loud, slightly arrogant boy with the ability to control fire. Admittedly, controlling fire is a bit of an overstatement, as all he seems to be able to do is sporadically shoot out columns of flame that reach a maximum height of two or three feet, but it’s power over fire nonetheless. He always goes next, and that’s just what happens.

This is why Peter is more than a little surprised to see the new girl striding up the bridge instead, walking in front of fire boy to the front of the line. Behind her, the class dissolves into quiet whispers, the same confused look on everyone’s face. New students will go last, that’s just what they do. What is she doing, going third?

To her credit, the new girl seems to be utterly unfazed by the whispering behind her. She eyes the automatons for a moment or two, then suddenly slams her hands down to the ground. Instantly, a wave of ice erupts from the place where her hands touch the ground and spreads rapidly across the bridge. The ice climbs up the robot’s feet, spiraling up its body until the entire automaton is covered from head to toe in ice in a matter of moments. Y/N eyes the robot, then flicks her hand at it. Suddenly, the iron giant shatters in a storm of ice crystals, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of motor oil.

The new girl turns her attention to the other robot, which has realized her presence and started to charge her. The echo of its massive footsteps echo around the training room, but the girl doesn’t even flinch. She flings her arms forward, sending out shards of ice that are several feet long and sharper than a blade. The automaton slumps to a halt, impaled by the swords of ice coming out of it. As it shuts down from injury, it silently dissolves into just a few pixels that rearrange themselves into the open air of the simulation. Y/N studies the ice she’s left coating the bridge, but at a small movement of her fingers, it rises up and is summoned to her, disappearing into nothingness once it reaches her hand. 

The girl calmly walks off the bridge, leaving the entire class in stunned silence. Logan clears his throat, trying to keep the astonishment from his voice. “Uh, good job, Y/N. By the way, class, this is Y/N. Our new student.” Y/N walks over to where Jean and Peter are standing, and watches as another student steps up to the bridge. Peter, doing his best to sound cool, smiles at her and introduces himself. “I’m Peter.” Y/N smiles back. “I’m Y/N, but I guess you already knew that.” Relaxing, Peter can’t help but keep talking to her. 

“How’s your first day so far?” She leans back against the wall, taking in the class around her. “It’s pretty good. I think I confused people by going third, but I didn’t really know order was such a big deal.” Peter shakes his head to dismiss her fears. “Don’t worry, I think people won’t have any problems with you going third from now on. What you did was pretty cool- uh, pun intended.” She laughs at that, and the happy gleam in her eyes when she smiles is enough to make Peter want to tell a hundred more jokes. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to cause too much drama on my first day.” 

They keep talking until the end of class, and Peter is more than a little disappointed to hear the bell ring to dismiss them. “Do you need any help getting to class? I can show you around.” Y/N beams at him. “I’d love that, Peter.” They walk off together, talking happily together like they’ve known each other for years, and Peter can’t help but hope that she’s in more of his classes so he can spend even more time with the prettiest girl he’s ever met.

[threeminutesoflife]

Manifest Destiny

Pairings: Dark!Stucky x Dark!Reader Warnings:  18+, non/con, sex pollen, lab experiments, kidnapping, stucky bj, female masturbation, minor mention of death. Summary: Reader invents sex pollen, selfish relationship issues w/ her boyfriends, breaking up is hard to do Word Count: 8.2k a/n: This was written for the ever-sweet and incredibly welcoming @imanuglywombat​   The Ugliest Wombat Challenge. She’s an amazing writer- Congrats on your 1.7k! Thank you for hosting!

Prompts: Desert and Mountain Moodboards-

It’s odd, the revelations and ideas you come up with when your mouth’s filled with cock.

“Take it.”

“B-Bucky, wait-”

“Don’t whine, you’re ready,” Bucky panted above you, “you feel good enough to me.”

Bucky's hips connected painfully into yours as your back dug into the table, “Be good- take Steve in your little mouth, baby girl.”

His hands cemented around your waist while you lay haphazardly across the small kitchen table; the back of your neck hit the table’s edge with every sharp snap of Bucky’s hips.

Steve murmured your name drawing your attention to him. Looking up, Steve loomed over you stroking himself, balls knocking against his fist as he slid his hand down his shaft. Standing with his legs apart, Steve’s figure jarred in and out of your vision as Bucky used your body.

“Open.” Steve was in your vision.

“Now.” Steve was out of your vision.

Bucky pushed in and out of you greedily; vision jerking, neck snapping.

“Hurry up,” Steve tsked impatiently, annoyed you didn’t automatically know what he wanted. Guilt fell down upon you when your compliance wasn’t fast enough. “Convince me you’re not selfish. Show me how grateful you are for us, sweetheart.”

The table scrapped against the floor as Bucky ground into you deeper and harshly twisted your leg higher on his shoulder. You yelped when your neck snapped against the table’s corner.

“Good girl, keep that mouth open for me,” Steve dipped his knees and moved himself closer to your lips. “Drop your head. More. More goddammit. Now- relax that throat, sweetheart. Yeah. Just like that. Fuck- feel so good. Wanna see my dick fill up that smooth throat of yours.” He laid his large hand down along the column of your neck as Bucky’s deep thrusts caused your body to rock up and meet against Steve’s open palm. Steve tightened his hold around your expanding neck, smirking when he felt himself slide deeper in you beneath his palm, “You owe us for being ungrateful. Don’t ever keep us waiting, sweetheart.”

They left for a mission the next morning, a year later you were gone.

Twelve months ago / first day away: The flash hit your eyes before the sound erupted in your ears. Shock delayed your reaction time. Your arms shot out in front of your face but you were too late to duck away from the table top’s explosion. The ceiling extinguishers released, followed by the air duct vacuums removing any traces of smoke and fog in the lab. Pulling yourself together, you recited the chemicals and amounts mixed shortly before the mini-detonation. The corners were singed on the formula’s trial and error notebook, one notebook of many that helped track your successful and unsuccessful runs. When you shakily flipped over a sheet to write down the amounts that wouldn’t be combined again, you saw it. In the reflection of a container, you were missing an eyebrow. The boys left before dawn this morning, departing for an estimated seven-month deep mission. There would be no communication with their handler unless an extreme emergency arose, meaning death. An absolute rule of no messages or check-ins to outside parties, meaning you. At least under the forced silent conditions, you wouldn’t have to find a way to hide your missing eyebrow. You wouldn’t have to listen to them bemoan and force you to stay out of a dangerous lab. Their “reluctance” to go was felt by everyone in the building but thankfully for you, Fury said there was no other option. Their storm of distaste for leaving you unattended, and free to roam out from under their thumb, had everyone counting down the days to their departure. You were used to their anger and shortness, but this long absence would be a blessing. Your time would be yours and you’d be able to work freely on your experiments. You wouldn’t have to convince the boys that they were your number one priority, while missing an eyebrow.

Eleven months ago / first month away: You rolled over and stretched, legs twisting out and around the soft comforter- flaying your limbs across the wide bed, claiming any and all space. A giggle escaped you as you rolled your body over to the far left side of the bed, only to roll yourself back over to the opposite side. Laughing harder when you realized there were no consequences if you accidentally woke up a sleeping super soldier. You rolled over once more just because you could. You fixed the bed the night before, a small act of deviance when you tucked the corner of the newly purchased sheets under the mattress. The same set of sheets you were outnumbered on buying earlier. Grabbing a pillow, you flipped yourself over to the foot of the bed and turned on the television you put in the bedroom last month. Resting your chin on the pillow, you wiggled your toes under the throw pillows at the head of the bed. You inhaled deeply and enjoyed the pleasant detergent fragrance, you could hardly register their scent anymore. A late morning of watching tasteless shows of your own choosing; you couldn’t wait to bring in leftovers and eat them in bed between the new covers.

Ten months ago / second month away: The tower floors were quiet, peacefully so. Even the inanimate objects seemed to breathe easier without super soldiers dictating about. You came and went at all hours to the lab or outside to grab food. Sometimes you went for short walks when you needed time for your ideas to ferment. The freedom and fewer restrictions were new at first, leaving you hesitant and feeling guilty for enjoying them. But slowly, it became easier to indulge. It was a treat to only having to be concerned about yourself and your wants and desires. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about Bucky and Steve, they gave what they could. Or rather more accurately, they gave what they wanted. But it was a relationship built on their terms. Their needs and wishes- those came first. The boys provided what they thought was needed in a relationship, but it was restricted to what you felt was essential. They’d give you the shirt off their backs, but then tell you how to wear it. Bruce noticed your newfound sense of self first, the looseness in your shoulders and no more worry-filled glances at clocks. He didn’t want to say you smiled more when your boyfriends were away, but he noticed more enjoyment and excitement in you.

Nine months ago / third month away: Staring at the computer screen in disbelief, a laugh stuttered out of you. It was coming together, the formula. You were meant to create this. The idea that once formed in your head as a fleeting sarcastic notion- how to make sex more enjoyable and ready your body quicker for intercourse- lead you here. However, it became a bit more sinister with Steve and Bucky’s influence. In the beginning, the idea was only to assist you in finding more pleasure and to be ready for whenever they wanted it. Now the idea grew into something that would drive the subject into a state of painful, distracting lust until one was able to achieve an euphoric release. Something that would fully consume the users and allow another a window of opportunity in that chaotic distraction. And it was slowly coming together.

Seven months ago / fifth month away: Trials with subjects, successful: the rabbits were going at it like rabbits.

Six months ago / sixth month away: You accepted the offer. The chance at a taste of freedom and a sense of accomplishment made you agree immediately. The minor detail about temporarily relocating to the desert wasn’t a concern. You were looking forward to testing the formula further out west. SHIELD wanted more extensive experiments on your sex pollen idea, or as you called it, Dionysian. You would conduct more trails here and then proceed out to Groom Lake for more immersed testing in the SHIELD designated areas. Now you just needed to find a way to inform Bucky and Steve. But this, this was your destiny.

Five months ago / seventh month away: The boys were never a thought when you accepted the testing opportunity. But with their return approaching, you couldn't stop thinking about their reaction. You needed to rehearse your words when you’d sit them down to talk. You tried convincing yourself that they would hear you out. You tried convincing yourself that they’d understand this opportunity meant a great deal to you. They’d agree and encourage you to go, right? That’s what people offered each other in healthy relationships- encouragement, support. You, however, were not in a healthy relationship. And the thought of seeing them only made you uneasy and sick. You would be lying if you said they were missed. Depending on how you treated each other these next upcoming months, you might blaze your own trail without them. As the elevator climbed to your living quarters, your stomach twisted at the thought of telling them you’d be away; twisting at the thought of their anger. As the elevator doors opened to your floor, you decided you wouldn’t tell the boys that you already accepted the offer. Instead, you’d talk to them about a possibility of one, and then present it in a way that it’d seem as if they were giving you permission to go. Stepping into the hallway, you noticed utility bags thrown to the side. Shit. You didn’t realize they were back already. Seven months away and you were in a meeting instead of greeting them when they landed. How long have they been here? You walked into the bedroom and saw both men freshly showered, towels wrapped low around their waists. The three of you stood awkwardly in the silent bedroom. Scanning the room, you noticed the television missing and your new sheets ripped off the bed, crumpled on the floor.

Four months ago: The boys left for a three week mission and before they left again, things around the apartment were less than ideal. During an argument last month, you suggested about getting your own bedroom in the Tower. The boys didn’t appreciate that thought, edging you for a full night until you apologized for being inconsiderate. You sobbed during your climax, your body wrecked and colored with embarrassment. A lie and a promise passed your lips to them- you were sorry and you’d treat them how they deserved to be treated. Pulling out your notebook, you set up the timer and recorder and hooked up the body monitors. You nervously brought over a glass of water and pulled out the dropper for the liquid Dionysian. You’ve been trying to convince yourself to test it out, unwisely on yourself. Closing the notebook, you shook your head at your would-be actions. Don’t do this. But then glancing at your phone, the screen filled with missed texts from Steve and Bucky. Each bubble angrier than the last. “Where are you?” “Why are you keeping me waiting?” “You better answer Steve, baby girl.” “Text Bucky back right now, sweetheart.” “Do you need to learn your lesson again?” You threw your phone aside and turned on the recorder. One drop of Dionysian in the water, you drank and waited for a reaction. This was a last resort, but you needed to be prepared just in case. You decided that before taking your leave out west, you’d try your hardest to work with them and determine if it was possible to miss them. For now, you’d try to be how they wanted you to be and see if this was the future you’d actually want for yourself. You'd try to be their good girl. Maybe there was something salvageable for you three. But if nothing could be saved, you’d be prepared. Your next three weeks would be filled with testing and orgasms while the boys were away.

Three months ago: “There’s talk of an opportunity,” you started shyly across the table. “No.” A set of deep voices cut off any further discussion, silverware crashing against the plates. “But it would only be for a few months away, and I’d get to further my research. You should hear all the new breakthroughs we’re having with this formula. It’s beyond impressive. It’d really be a great tool out in the field. The fact alone that it would keep the target so incapacitated, too preoccupied to achieve relief, one could escape easily and put several hours of distance between them and other operatives,” you pleaded for them to listen. Why couldn’t they just listen? You listened to them- helped them achieve their goals. When did this relationship turn into something less for you? Why did you allow it to turn that way? “Buck said no-” “Steve said no-” Simultaneously conjoined sentences of dismissiveness sailed across the table at you. That hurt, but you weren’t about to give up easily. You excelled too far in your career, achieved too much in the lab for your boyfriends to shut you up. “With more testing, we could really extend the release time and keep the subjects immobilized, maybe up to 12 hours, hell, maybe even longer. I mean, just depending on the concentrated amounts of what would be administered. Wait, I need to write this down,” you excitedly pushed the chair away from the table with the intention to get your notepad. “You better be only getting up to bring us back a slice of the apple pie you baked earlier, sweetheart.” You shut your eyes at Steve’s warning, your shoulders tensed at his commanding tone as you tried memorizing your ideas to record later. “I’ll take an extra slice tonight, baby girl,” Bucky handed his plate over with a wink. Collecting Steve’s dish also, you reminded yourself to remain calm. They’re not selfish, they love you. They do care about you, they’re just reluctant to share you. You would try another time.

Two months ago: Sweaty bodies on either side of you, tired and loose from the orgasms given and received. Panting breaths slowed as lazy hands drew circles on your hips. “There’s a chance for a promotion…” “Keep talking and I’ll stick my dick back in your mouth,” Bucky grumbled. “Quiet, sweetheart.” Steve chided and slapped the side of you thigh, “Stop trying to ruin the moment, it’s not polite,” Another time then.

One month ago: “There’s interviews being held in the next couple days for-” “Not this again,” Steve cursed. “Why aren’t you happy? What could it possibly be that causes you to be so fucking miserable here with us?” “We thought you were happy. Are you lying to us?” questioned Bucky. You couldn’t be sure if there was menace in his words. His eyes were sharper though, you couldn’t deny the warning slowly brewing in them. You picked your next words carefully, but a part of you knew they’d never be the right ones said, “…I am happy. I care for you both, so much. But it’d be only five months at the most and only three away for certain. I mean, you both had a mission that lasted seven months with no communication. And with me there, we could still talk everyday. It’s only a temporary relocation. I’d be by area51, so it’s well-guarded. Maria said I’d be able to talk and skype when I’m away from the labs, I could call you in the evenings. Plus, SHIELD has their own designated areas there- I’d be with our people. Please. Let me do this for my research. Please, Steve. Please, Bucky. It’d mean so much to be able to test out there with more free range-” “-You care for both of us?!” Bucky cut in, cold impatience in his voice as he said your name. It was as if he never heard you say anything else after that line. “What the fuck is that suppose to mean, baby girl?” “Now, Bucky- easy,” Steve lazily placated him. Steve thought a little fear supplied by Bucky would do you good, maybe you needed help to reevaluate what was important in your life. Them. “I’m sure our girl didn’t mean it like that. I’m certain she didn’t want it to come across as awful and hurtful as it did. Am I right, sweetheart?” “Do you not fucking love us like we love you?” Bucky stepped closer with his accusation. “Of course, she loves us. Our little sweetheart wouldn’t dare hurt us like that. Would you?” Steve cupped your cheek and ran his thumb across your cheekbone. “She knows how much it’d physically hurt us, if she was away from us again. She knows how physically ill it made us- not being able to talk to her when we were gone all those months. The daily pain we were in for leaving her behind on that mission. That mission she brought up so casually, as if it was nothing.” Your lip trembled under Steve’s thumb but you kept your back straight. You created this formula from the ground up. You worked for this achievement. You needed them to be on your side, or out of your way. You were tired of being their cheerleader when they didn’t reciprocate. You wanted the chance to develop your own personal mission of success. “I remember,” you stilled your lip from trembling as Steve ran his thumb over your chin. I remember how much I do for you both, and how little you allow me to do for myself. “You better fucking prove how much you love us,” Bucky challenged as he unzipped his pants. Good cop, bad cop. You were running out of time.

---

The kitchen timer sounded, startling you as you hid the suitcases in the back of the closet. The scent of cinnamon and apples hung thickly in the air from the pie you pulled out the oven. Looking between the closest and homemade pie, spiced special for tonight, you were ready to leave for good.

---

“Would you like to know what’s going on with your bodies?” You watched the two men double over from the cramping, gripping the edge of the nearest piece of furniture. “Your bodies truly are superior, I’ve been fucked over enough times by you both to know. But still... I hope I administered enough for you, Steve. And I hope you didn’t get too much, Bucky,” you winked at them as Bucky grunted through another painful muscle contraction.

“What,” Steve panted as his stomach squeezed, “did you do?”

“Broke one of your rules, sweetest. Brought my work home with me. Gonna break a couple more, too. But at least you’ll have each other to help you through it. Because Steve... Bucky’s going to need your help.”

Bucky and Steve shot you glares between sucking in their breaths and squeezing their eyes shut through the increasing punch of stomach cramps.

A fake pout across your lips, you crossed your arms and leaned back against the chair, “What. No questions? No sharp words?”

The room filled with wheezing and coughing, the scent of their sweat started climbing in the air.

“I tell you, boy- I wasn’t expecting the silent treatment.”

Painful grunts and twisted moans echoed out of them.

“You two are boring. How’s this, blink twice if you need help,” you snickered louder when the boys growled out their anger. “Oh relax, babies,” you cooed with contempt. “The more you fight it, the more it’ll hurt. I made sure.”

“Fuck this,” Bucky rasped, “I’m burning up. Even my arm feels hot.”

Sweat beaded across Steve’s brow as he watched Bucky curl in around himself. Steve was miserable, but Bucky looked like shit.

“Let me see,” Steve put his hand on Bucky’s forehead. “Jesus, Buck. You’re on fire. What did you give him?” 

Steve tried to spin around at you, but Bucky caught Steve’s hand and pulled it back on his forehead. “Hurts less when you touch me.”

“What?” Steve questioned, looking at Bucky’s sickly complexion.

“Just keep your hands on me, Steve. It hurts less.”

Steve cupped Bucky’s face before turning to you in horror, “What did you give him, y/n?!”

“Relax. I gave him the same thing I gave you, but porker here just ate more pie than you. Which by my estimations, your next heat wave should start kicking in soon. If not, there’s a chance tonight will get more interesting- and messy.”

Steve was about to scream out more questions when a fresh wave of pain hit him. He gritted through another contraction. It helped to touch, just like Bucky said, but he could still feel the pain slowly getting stronger. He also started feeling his dick getting harder. 

Steve risked a glance away from you to see Bucky’s pants painfully tented, “Steve, touch me more. I need you.”

“Better listen to him, Steve,” you sat down in a chair that was far enough away to enjoy the show.

“You’re in so much trouble when this shit wears off,” Steve gritted out, holding onto Bucky. He was torn between helping Bucky and locking you up.

“I’m taking the job, boys. I’m leaving shortly.”

“What? You can’t leave,” Bucky whirled his slumped over body to look at you. Hair wet against his forehead, sweat stained his shirt. “Fuck. Help me out.”

“I can take it and I am. You two are better for each other. I don’t want this anymore.”

Bucky howled, a painful mixture of trying to fight the sex pollen and realizing they were losing you.

“Goddammit,” Steve ground out in anger, his hand tightened on Bucky’s shoulder. He tried keeping himself upright, still attempting to touch Bucky and ease them both through another contraction. “You’re not fucking going anywhere. You’re mad, we get that. But right now- you better fucking help us out!”

“Help yourself!” you shouted back, rising up from the seat. “Fuck each other. That’s the secret. I can already see the precum on Bucky’s pants. Give each other a hand, literally. You’ll be helping one another for most of the night while I fly out.”

Bucky took a deep breath and lunged his body in your direction. He didn’t make it far. You only shook your head at them. Steve was in too much pain to grab Bucky, but at least Bucky managed to pathetically pull himself up to sit. This wasn’t playing out as gleefully as you thought it would. Instead, you were angry. Angry at them, angry at yourself.

Both men commanded, then pleaded for you two stay with them again, “Baby girl.” “Sweetheart.”

For a moment you thought you should, but then you saw your notebook next to your bag and you knew you were leaving. A wave of resentment hit you when you thought of what led you here. “God. Must I do everything for you, little boys?”

Bucky grunted when he fell on all fours from the push you delivered between his shoulder blades.

Tangling your fist in his hair you pulled Bucky by his locks across the room. You dog walked the Winter Soldier, crawling his way like an animal in heat, before Steve’s feet. Grabbing Bucky by the nape of his neck, you forced his face closer to Steve’s cock.

With your free hand you pinched your fingers around the bottom of Bucky’s cheeks, squeezing harshly. His mouth parted and lips puckered out as you bent down to his ear, “Open and enjoy.”

Steve stood immobile, taking in Bucky’s weakness and your strength. His tip weeping with arousal at the drastic change in dynamics.

Steve quickly undid his pants eager for pleasure, “Maybe I should get you first, but this will help us quicker. Suck me dry, Bucky. Then I can help you better.”

You scoffed at Steve, even now he portrayed himself as selfless when he was actually selfish.

Your actions were harsh and voice mocking as Bucky’s lips wrapped around Steve’s dick. Both moaning in pleasure with the contact.

“No, no little bear. I know you can get the honey out better than that. Put some effort into it,” with a swift shove of your foot, you pressed your shoe into Bucky’s firm ass cheek. 

Suddenly and ungracefully, Bucky lurched forward and impaled his mouth further down on Steve’s dick.

A deep growl from Steve’s chest vibrated out down along his torso and into Bucky’s mouth. Pressing Bucky harder into Steve’s crotch with your foot, your eyes connected with Steve’s. He couldn’t look away from you. Bucky coughed and choked on Steve’s length as you pressed him harder into Steve with a devious smile. 

Steve lost it. Instead of trying to pull Bucky off him to allow him to breathe, Steve grabbed Bucky by his hair and pulled his face in closer. 

Bucky’s nose to Steve’s pelvis, you bit your lip and undid the button on your jeans. Slipping your hand under your panties, you felt your wetness as Steve kept his eyes locked on you. You licked your lips, spurring Steve on. The whimpers you let out when teasing yourself made Bucky suck harder. You found your release at the sight of Steve’s hard thrusts and Bucky slipping his hand down his own pants.

---

“Thanks again for the ride,” you said, nestling the grocery bags between your legs.

“No problem, needed a few snacks too. Seemed like a good idea when you mentioned it.”

“You’re just gonna miss me, partner. What will you do now that we’re not shadowing each other 24-7?”

“Hey! There’s only so much junk food on base. You know I need variety. Besides, a drive into town seemed like a nice way to break up the evening. How else am I supposed to keep you out of trouble?” Aaron teasingly quirked an eyebrow, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

“Yeah, yeah- chaperon, my chaperon. Thanks again for the extra time you put in with the project. Shaved off a month from the schedule, couldn’t have done it without you staying around those extra nights.”

“I’m looking forward to us getting back to New York.”

“Hmm,” you rolled the window down halfway, trying to keep yourself busy to avoid commenting.

Aaron looked over at you, “Hey. It’ll be nice to go back home to New York, right?”

You shrugged, “It’ll be nice to leave tomorrow. With us already submitting the results the other day, all we have to do is clean and pack up. It’s quiet with only us being there in the SHIELD section now.”

“New York bound it is then!” Aaron tapped your thigh and gave your knee a friendly squeeze. “I can’t wait to get back, who’d of thought I’d miss the wife’s cooking?” Aaron mused, slowing down at the yellow light.

“I’m just happy to have some time off. Take in some sights and then venture into a new contract at my own leisure.” You flipped the radio’s volume up a few clicks higher, resting your head back against the seat.

“It’s amazing how much we accomplished in that time frame. It’s your estimates that allowed us to finish earlier than expected. Your calculations were in the zone, only needing minimal tweaking. Some days it was like you already tested the product out, especially with how close we were with each ingredient’s measurements,” Aaron shot you an amused smile but it slowly dropped when you didn’t smile back. “Oh, hey. Hey, you okay?”

Clearing your throat, you sat up straighter. “Um, yeah. I’m good,” turning your head to look out the passenger window, “now.”

Nodding his head at your words, he easily mistook your reaction, “What I’m trying to say is- if you ever need help with another project, think of me.”

“…Thanks. I will,” your mumble of gratitude seemed like modesty but it was guilt.

You shifted in the seat, putting more room between you and Aaron. Almost like you were giving your emotions more space to sit comfortably in the car also. You knew why your calculations were so close to being correct with making the sex pollen viable. You recorded and studied the muted video you made of Steve and Bucky’s reaction times to those test doses. But some nights, when you couldn’t sleep, you slipped your hand between your thighs and watched it with the sound on low.

Aaron straightened the car out of the turn, “Can’t wait till agents are able to use this in the field. There’ll definitely be some interesting stories. Get ready, I’m sure an offer will come to stay on permanently with SHIELD. You’d want that, right? It’d be nice to be back in that lab with Banner.”

You sighed at the New York reminder. These last several months had been wonderful. You enjoyed all the research tasks guilt-free instead of juggling them with two demanding Avengers. When they were away, you got to decide how to fill your days and nights. You got to immerse yourself in your own research missions of experiments and notes. You enjoyed organizing the videos and recording, typing the trial and errors, outlining notes on coffee-stained scribbled books.

But you weren’t ready to give your freedom up, you were in no rush to return to New York or Banner’s lab. It was a hard call you made to Bruce the other day. You didn’t want to burn any bridges with him, not when he was a mentor. But you weren’t ready to return. You didn’t want to be in close proximity with Steve and Bucky anymore. So when you spoke to Bruce earlier, you told him you’d be taking more time for yourself and wouldn’t be returning to New York...

“What do you mean you’re not coming back?”

“Bruce, this is essential.”

“Essential to your career or essential in avoiding your relationship status?”

That cold splash of verbal water made you pause. A heavy silence was met on both ends of the phone. A few seconds past as neither you or Bruce said anything. Finally, Bruce broke the standoff by sighing in agreement of your request to take a break before signing a new contract. But not before he gave scientific advice, “You’d feel better if you talked to them. They miss you, you know. This avoidance and stress,  it’ll just make you sick.”

“No, I’d feel better if I had more time alone. Space, lots of space to decide what I want to do. Somewhere-”

“Listen, Jailbreak,” Tony queued up your call over the speakers causing Banner to send him a sour perturbed look.

You moved your jaw back and forth, trying to tamper down the annoyance of hearing Tony’s voice cut in on your private call, “..Yes?”

“It’s time.”

“No, actually Tony, it’s not. Nor will it be.”

“Yeah super, I hear ya small fry and that’s really great you think that. But now hear what I’m saying, it’s time.”

“Stop, Tony. I’m taking time for myself.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Don’t call me that!”

Tony cringed at your tone, mildly forgetting Steve’s nickname for you. Bruce rolled his eyes at Tony’s less than accidental slip-up. “Okay, okay. What I mean is and I repeat, it’s time. You can find that inner peace bullshit back here. You need to come home.”

“That’s not my home anymore. I’m doing what I want and going to figure-”

“Then what? I have two out of control super a-holes on back to back missions because they’re pissed their girlfriend left them.”

‘In compromising positions,’ you thought. “It’s ex-girlfriend now, Tony.”

Tony’s laugh was dry and crisp, “Hardly an ex.”

“I am. I have no claim on them, they have no claim on me. Hence, the ex part.”

“They’re taking back to back missions so they can kill- legally, sweetheart.”

“Well, they’re doing it together so it’s an Avenger date night. They have each other, that’s enough.”

“Quit fooling yourself, spit out the kool-aid. There’s no getting out of this. You aren’t an ex to them and you will never be an ex to them. Realize it, quickly. For your own sake. And more importantly, for the sake of my cleaning bills. Ring your energy bell, light your candles- then come home.”

“I called to say thank you to Dr. Banner, not to get into an argument with you, Mr. Stark. My contract has been completed,” you gritted through your teeth. You were over all this, especially Tony putting his nose into everything. After this, you planned on finding something else with a different company. Another life.

Tony tapped the mute button on the screen and leaned away from the desk. A look of disbelief on his face as he waved his hand over the table to Bruce. “What kind of attitude are you teaching her in here? Am I handing out bonuses to be cashed in for disrespect? Is it not registering with her that I sign everyone’s payroll?”

Bruce looked at Tony over his glasses, mumbled an apology on your behalf and turned back to his project.

Tony flipped the mute button off, “Funny, thought I owned the company. Thought I owned a multitude of companies. Remember that, lil'miss girlfriend to Steve and Bucky.”

“Tony,” closing your eyes, you took a moment to gather yourself. The man was exhausting, “Please stop, I didn’t call to fight. I only called to say goodbye to Bruce, and now, it seems to you also.”

“Look, deserter. Bruce agrees you should have some time away,” Tony pointedly looked at him causing Bruce to nod quickly in agreement. “I’ll set you up in a cabin. It’s a nice place. Mountains, woods, big ponds, Bambi bullshit. It’s far enough away from noise and people. Town’s about an hour’s drive, so you’ll get to concentrate on what matters there. I’m sending over the location now, it’ll be stocked when you get there. Get your priorities sorted. Get this out of your system, you had your streak of rebellion. There’s new projects you’re needed on here. Reevaluate what matters and then head back. This is where your home is.” 

Tony ended the call without giving you a chance to agree or protest and smirked at Bruce.

“Oh no, no. Don’t do that to her, Tony.” Bruce frantically shook his head causing his glasses to fall further down his nose.

“They’re coming back soon anyways, a reason to head back a few day earlier will be fine. I’m not dealing with them and their fucking destruction anymore. They’re out of fucking control without her. Their missions are the only things keeping my building intact here.”

“Tony, you can’t do that to her- she wanted out. They just need more time. They’ll eventually come to terms with this,” Bruce tasted the lie as soon as it was out.

“She made her bed- sandwiched right in between a jagged tin-can and captain popsicle. They’re her problem to deal with and no time like the present,” Tony scrolled through the screen again. “Besides, you know I’d find you if you ever tried to leave me. That’s one thing I actually get where they’re coming from. You’ve learned your spot is with me. Lil'miss escapee will learn her spot is with them.”

“And if she has to learn it the hard way?”

“Well, that’s between them.”

--

The noon sun beat down on Steve as the com crackled with an incoming call, “Speak, Stark.”

“How much of a favor do you and Manchurian want to owe me?”...

--

Aaron patted your knee and called your attention back, “What do you think?”

“Sorry. What?”

“New York. When we get back, you want to start in the lab right away or take a week off?”

“Um,” you shifted in your seat, “I’m not going back, Aaron.”

“…So you’re staying out here for a bit longer but then heading back?” Aaron’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his eyes darted from the empty road to you when you didn’t answer. “You’re coming back with me, right?”

“No. I spoke to Bruce earlier and said goodbye. I’m taking some time off. I’ll figure out a new place to work later.”

“You’re not serious.”

“It’ll be for the best for-”

“You can’t do that,” he spat acidly.

“What do you mean, I can’t do that?”

“I need to call the wife.” Aaron angled the car over to the side of the road. A pair of unnoticed headlights shut off in the distance as you were too preoccupied with Aaron’s outburst.

“…Can’t you call her back at base?”

“No. I definitely can’t,” he said bitterly as he whirled his body to face yours. “When the hell did you even decide this? How could you keep this from me?”

“I- what. I’m sorry, but what does that matter? I appreciate your help on this project but you don’t need me, Aaron. You’re great, you’ll get picked up for a new contract with Stark. Or, maybe even think about going to a different place like I am-”

“That’s not the fucking point! FUCK! I need my phone.”

“What’s wrong? You’re freaking me out.”

Aaron ignored you while he frantically patted himself down, “Fuck. Gonna be pissed, accuse me of doing this on purpose or some shit. Goddammit, I don’t have my phone. Give me yours.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Give me your phone. Now.”

“I left it at base,” you lied and pressed the back of your heel against your purse on the floor.

“Give. Me. Your. Phone.”

“I don’t have it!”

“You’re as selfish as they said. FINE,” Aaron punched the steering wheel and started the car up. “We’re going to the base. I’m calling the fucking wife. Then you and I are going back to the Tower.”

You stared at your friend who literally morphed into a complete stranger right before your eyes. Your heart sped up as he looked at you with contempt.

“I want out,” you reached down to grab your purse, but Aaron took a hold of your thigh and squeezed painfully making you yelp.

“No! You’re fucking staying rig-”

Before he could finish, Aaron’s window was violently smashed in.

The force rocked the car for a moment; glass confetti flying, little shards landing on his lap and chest. Screaming, you pressed your back into the car door as a silver arm flew through the shattered window and delivered a punch into Aaron’s chest.

Bucky. “Oh my god-”

TAP, TAP, TAP.

Your fearful whisper was cut off as you jolted away from the passenger window and the tapping by your ear.

A tear ran down your cheek when you saw Steve lean against your car door, smiling. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Aaron groaned beside you. His face bloodied from the broken glass and Bucky’s metal hand pressured against his sternum.

“Good to see you, baby girl.”

Before your brain could catch up to your fear, Aaron coughed and wheezed in his seat, “I didn’t know. I swear.”

Bucky tsked and pressed his fist into Aaron’s chest harder.

“When did you find out, Aaron?” Steve asked as he moved his hand through your open window and gently caressed your cheek. “Think he’ll lie to us, sweetheart?”

“Just now,” Aaron struggled for a full breath against Bucky’s weighted arm, “I swear.”

“You swear a lot, don’t you Aaron?” Steve tapped your nose. “We heard you swearing at our girl. We didn’t like that very much.”

“Baby girl.” Your eyes cut to Bucky’s as you pressed your back further against the seat. “Is he a liar?” Bucky slightly lifted the pressure off of Aaron’s chest.

Wetting your dry lips, your brain was muddled by the confusion of seeing them here. “Lying, about what?”

Aaron hatefully hissed your name before shouting out, “Goddammit! Fucking tell them I didn’t know you weren’t coming back.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Bucky warned steelily.

Your eyes darted between Steve and Bucky, your mind still whirling, “He didn’t- I didn’t-”

“Tell'em I just found out, you bitch!”

The plates in Bucky’s arm shifted as he knocked Aaron against the seat, “Mind your fucking manners.”

“Is that true, sweetheart? You just told him?”

Before you could answer, Aaron squeezed your thigh, “Tell them!”

You hissed under his grip, Bucky and Steve’s eyes zeroed in on Aaron’s hand covering your thigh.

Before you could yell no, Bucky reached in and grabbed Aaron’s hand off you.

A metal fist over flesh, he squeezed until bones crunched. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”

Bucky dropped Aaron’s mangled hand and looked straight at you, “Get out of the car, baby girl.”

The car door creaked open, Steve’s palm rested on the frame with his other extended for you. With shaky fingers, you unbuckled your seat belt and reached for Steve’s offered hand.

“You did this,” Aaron bit out over the pain, “you selfish, bitc-”

Bucky ripped the door open and grabbed Aaron by the back of his neck. In one swift move, Bucky drilled Aaron’s face forward into the steering wheel. You jumped at the sound of the horn blasting as Steve walked you away.

“Careful, sweetheart. Don’t worry, we got you,” Steve pulled you in closer to his side before opening his car’s backdoor.

“Steve, please he has a wife,” you pleaded, your brain now clearer on what was about to happen to Aaron. “He didn’t know I wasn’t coming back until just now. I swear. I only told Bruce and then Tony found out. But- but Aaron didn’t know.”

“Sweetheart,” Steve cupped your face, his touch deceptively tender as he reached behind his back. “There’s no wife. Aaron was calling us, keeping track of our soon-to-be wife. But his hand on your thigh, the way he spoke to you? We can’t allow that. He did this to himself. Get in the car, we have a cabin to get it to.”

The last thing you felt was a pinch on your skin. The last thing you heard was a gunshot.

---

Before you even opened your eyes, you felt the headache knock against your skull. You gingerly rolled over enjoying the feeling of a warm, comfortable bed. But who’s bed? The question shook you, making you sit up with a jeering head rush. Sandwiching your hands to your forehead, you took in your surroundings. Expensive rustic furniture lined a cabin wall, exposed logs and chinking ran the entire room. A vaulted ceiling showcased wooden beams, and a partially open door showed an attached bathroom.

Was this Tony’s cabin? Crawling up to the windowsill above the bed, you peered out to see the rich, green scenery. A thick forest and mountains in the background, if it were under different circumstances you might have enjoyed the mockingly peaceful scenery. But instead, it reminded you of a gaudy oil painting and Tony’s words of Bambi-bullshit. You continued to scan the grounds when you noticed you weren’t on the ground level.

“Glad to see you’re up. Bet you’re thirsty,” Steve casually entered the room, water bottle in hand.

You silently turned around on the bed to watch him.

“Plotting takes a lot out of a person,” he placed the water bottle on the desk and leaned against the mahogany design.

“Want to go over what’s expected of you, or would you like to test this drink first?”

“Is Aaron dead?” You were back to being a pawn on Steve and Bucky’s chessboard, but you risked the question. You knew the answer but you wanted him to confirm it. Pushing your luck further you asked again, “He is dead, Steve?”

“Guess we’ll talk about what’s expected of you first,” he gruffly replied.

“You can’t keep me here, Steve. People will be looking for me, they’ll be looking for Aaron.”

With a smirk, Steve crossed his arms over his chest, “I can and we are, sweetheart. No one’s looking for you.”

His confidence alarmed you. “They will be looking for me, Steve. My stuff’s still at the base.”

“No, baby girl,” Bucky entered the room, setting down your suitcase and a large brown paper bag. “Tony offered a little digital help. If anyone looks, there’s cameras showing you packing up and leaving much earlier. But who’d even look? Not us, you broke up with us. Not anyone at SHIELD, your contract’s fulfilled. Plus, you told Banner you weren’t coming back to the Tower.”

“…No,” the cabin’s walls were closing in on you.

Steve got up and stood with Bucky at the foot of bed, “You should’ve appreciated what you had, sweetheart. You hurt us. If you talked, we would have listened. You can always come to us.”

Your eyes narrowed at Steve’s delusion.

“You say please and thank you, but you’re not really grateful for how good you had it. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You stared past their shoulders, finding a knot on the wooden wall behind them. Afraid a wrong word would set them off further, you didn’t trust your voice with the fear and anger swimming in you.

Steve chuckled, “Well, look who’s giving who the silent treatment now.”

“Look at us, baby girl. I said, look.”

With your lip between your teeth, you slowly made eye contact with Bucky. He grabbed the water bottle off the desk and tossed it by your feet, a soft thump sounded when it landed in the blankets. “Drink it.”

With a scratchy voice, you lied- “I’m not thirsty.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn, can’t wait to bend you over and break you,” Bucky laughed at your discomfort. “What’s wrong? Can’t trust what we give you?”

Steve nodded toward Bucky and the bag before speaking, “It’s simple, sweetheart. You’re staying in here until you can’t take it anymore. The water’s off in the bathroom, so rethink that. You get the water we give, and we’ll see how you react. ”

Beep. Bucky set his watch causing Steve to smirk at your worried expression.

Putting his hands down on the mattress, Steve leaned in, “If you get desperate enough, we’ll help you out- if you ask nice enough.”

“Better ask really fucking nicely, baby girl. Better make my dick fucking blush at how well you beg.”

“Sweetheart.”

Your watery eyes found Steve.

“If you don’t ask nicely, we can’t help.” Steve stood up and crossed his chest again, “And if you continue to be stubborn, but those fingers aren’t doing enough…” Steve trailed off as Bucky opened the brown bag.

Your chest burned with fear when Bucky pulled a gun out of the bag and dropped it down on the mattress. “Maybe you’ll find relief with this, baby girl.”

You would die here. With the tears pooling in your eyes, Steve and Bucky’s figures blurred. Finally, the dam in your throat broke. A sob of spittle and fear ran over your lips. Wiping the tears away, you saw the boys exchange looks.

“Why are you crying, sweetheart?” Steve cooed venomously, large shoulders rolling back. “Aren’t you pleased with our offer to help?”

With a tilt of his head, Bucky twisted your fear further, “Why the tears? Just offering you help to find an ultimate release, baby girl.”

“Y-you’re going to kill me because I left? You’re going to kill me like Aaron?” You’re self-preservation crumbled knowing you were always their thing to play with.

Bucky and Steve looked at each other before bursting out laughing.

“Why are you being so dramatic, baby girl?”

“Sweetheart, what gave you the idea that we’d kill you?”

Your lungs squeezed as you glanced at the weapon. Bucky picked up the gun and began wiping it, “No baby girl. The gun’s mine. This is yours.” Bucky gestured his head to Steve.

On cue, Steve reopened the bag and pulled out an apple pie. “We’re gifting you pie and water. Let’s see how long you hold out until you need to drink or eat.”

“Then we’ll see what happens next, baby girl.”

“Our own little experiment,” Steve connived. “Looking forward you see who’s hypothesis is successful.”

“I was always a fan of science, baby girl.”

You moved to your knees, the mattress soft beneath you, “I don’t want this, please. Just let me go, I’m sorry. Bucky- please. Steve?”

“Listen sweetheart, take your punishment like a good girl and give us some entertainment. It’s the least you can do for us, since we’re protecting a possible murder suspect.”

A vile taste hit the back of your throat again, “Murder suspect?”

“Baby girl.”

Before your mind registered your actions, you caught the gun Bucky tossed you. A drowning sensation hit your body when a misery-filled tsunami crashed against you. Your vision tunneled, your lungs burned- you fell for it.

“Oh baby girl, don’t worry. It’s not loaded, this time. Now, eat your pie and drink your water. We’ll come back to check on you.”

“At some point,” Steve sneered.

“If the urges get to be too much, put the gun between those nice thighs,” Bucky winked at you.

Steve shook his head in amusement, “Bucky…”

“Ah, alright,” Bucky leaned forward and took the gun from you with his left hand. “I’ll let you fuck a different gun, get that barrel nice and clean for me. Sound good, baby girl? But Steve’s right, gotta save this one- fingerprints, leverage. Silly details.” Bucky dropped the gun in the paper bag and tucked it under his arm.

“Why can’t you let me just let me go? You could have anyone else-”

“Sweetheart, we’re getting married. You’re it for us. We’re doing this for you.”

“We’re protecting you. You should be thanking us, baby girl.”

“How are you protecting me?!”

Steve sent Bucky a smile before facing you, “If we’re married, we won’t have to testify against you.”

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 1: Orders

Masterlist / Ao3 / Next Chapter

Rowan Whitethorn arrived in Doranelle exhausted.

He had been flying without sleep for three days and nights, obeying the urgent summons of his queen and master. Maeve, the Queen of all the Fae.

Though his power was drained and his wing muscles twitched with exhaustion, Rowan didn’t slow his relentless pace. The closer he got to Doranelle, the stronger the tug was in his heart and soul. Even though he hadn’t seen Maeve in weeks, the blood oath’s pull was relentless. Inescapable.

Rowan swooped down from above the clouds, a soft gray morning unraveling beneath him. The city of rivers spread out below his straining wings, hills and bridges, winding roads and rushing water.

Doranelle was a stronghold of pale stone built on a massive island, natural moats encircling walls of granite. On the north end of the city, several rivers combined to form a massive waterfall, causing waves of mist to float over the city’s blue rooftops. Mist that currently stroked Rowan’s gray and white feathers, greeting him with the welcoming fingers of a long-awaited friend.

The winds of Doranelle were cool and soft, a familiar temperate climate. The winds of home. Or at least, the home he had come to accept.

Rowan closed his eyes for a moment as a slash of pain rent through him. Invisible snow fell on his shoulders. Mountains towered before his eyes while blood stained hidden fingers. Screaming echoed in his head. Lyria.

But the pain was expected, the screams an old friend. He barely reacted as the cold blankness iced over his heart, barely flinched as he forced the images to fade, the soundless cries to weaken.

Rowan’s wings settled back into their usual rhythm and he soared over the entry bridges, their guards nodding to him. His queen must have told them of his imminent arrival, ordered them not to impede his progress. Maeve was impatient.

Curiosity narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t like Maeve to do this – to call without warning and without explanation, to invoke the blood oath through a missive, rather than in person. It set him on edge.

His summons had been very brief indeed.

Prince Whitethorn –

We have received news of great significance, and your presence is required in Doranelle. You are ordered to leave immediately. Fly swift, I expect to see you within the week.

– Maeve

Even thousands of miles away, Rowan could feel that tug in his chest, that need to obey. While the blood oath relied on specific and clear demands, and often needed close proximity to subdue resistance, this summons could not be ignored. Even if Rowan had cared enough to want to fight it.

So he’d left, without any goodbyes, or any of his belongings. Traveling as fast as his wings could carry him.

The only stop Rowan made before leaving was to inform Lord Siarill’s manservant of his imminent departure. He had been stationed among a royal court in the far east, a place where humans and Fae lived and worked together in peace.

However, the royals had decided – for some godforsaken reason – that they no longer wanted to abide by a trade agreement they had set with Maeve. Therefore Rowan had been dispatched to convince them of their folly. As a reminder of exactly who would be coming after them if the tensions between their two nations escalated.

After centuries of peace, Lord Siarill and his family had gotten complacent, and arrogant.

Though the court was Fae itself, they were isolated from much of the western world. Enough so that rumors of Maeve’s retinue of elite warriors had not reached them. They knew none of his stories, none of the vicious tales that had followed him for nigh on three hundred years.

The royal family had expected a demure figure, one that was aloof, but kind. Who had one foot in the forest, and eyes only for the stars. They had not anticipated a warrior, born and bred for battle, honed by three centuries of bloodshed and conflict. They had not prepared for him.

And so, his task was ever easier.

Rowan had been sent on many such missions, as much a royal emissary as a military commander. And while the royal courts were always comfortable and luxurious, and he was always treated with the respect he was due as a Prince of Doranelle, Rowan far preferred brawling in the mud to sparring with barbed words over decadent banquets. He would rather spend weeks campaigning, go months without adequate sleep and days without food in seemingly endless battles than spend even one day fielding pointed attacks from spoiled royals and corrupt, self-serving politicians.

And Maeve knew it. So, he acted as diplomat whenever she wished.

Maeve loved doing things like that, thrived on those little acts of cruelty that she knew added up over the years, the centuries, until they dug in and nestled in your very soul. Maeve was an expert in breaking people to her will – not only because she was a skilled manipulator, but because she enjoyed it.

So this – this impromptu summons, chafed on Rowan.

All of Maeve’s warriors were given a great deal of independence in which they could act on her orders. No free will, no real autonomy, but in the details, in planning and strategizing, they were often left to their own devices.

Rowan had expected to remain within Lord Siarill’s court for several weeks to come, acting the part of the foreign dignitary while simultaneously mining them for information. It wasn’t like Maeve to cut their missions short, to interrupt them with letters or news. In fact, Rowan was unsure whether he had ever received such a notice in his three centuries of service. Not once.

Something important had happened. Something unprecedented. And not knowing what was to come, not knowing what he was flying into, aggravated Rowan.

He turned towards the north, to the great waterfall and the stone palace concealed in its wake. It was large and imposing, not overly luxurious the way many royal houses were. His queen’s castle gracefully straddled the line between royal courthouse and military stronghold; it was a commanding structure, but it didn’t tower over the rest of the city, and its many fountains and gardens softened the hard lines of its stone architecture.

Rowan efficiently swooped down towards the grand entryway, its massive carved stone doors inscribed with ancient images of the three sisters, the three queens: Mab, Mora and Maeve.

Mab and Mora had long passed, exalted into godhood millennia before Rowan’s birth. But Queen Maeve remained, still ruling over the city of rivers.

Rowan shifted into his Fae form, landing lightly on his toes as he emitted a quick flash of cold, white light. The sentries at the door marked him carefully, but automatically opened the doors to let him in.

Rowan forwent a bath, heading directly for the throne room.

He swept past courtyards filled with columns wrapped in jasmine, past corridors covered in extravagant mosaics depicting scenes from dancing maidens to idyllic pastorals to starry skies, past arched ceilings dappled with colored light from stained glass windows. And always water, pools and fountains and rivers bubbling and murmuring from every corner.

Even the hallways cradled tiny streams, offshoots from the great rivers surrounding the city. Occasionally, in corners and crossroads, they would gather into delicate pools lined with waterlilies.

He paid none of it any heed, striding ceaselessly towards his queen and master. Obeying the pull of the blood oath currently constricting his chest.

His quiet steps down the stone corridors were loud, echoing through the silent palace. Despite the rich furnishings and inviting decor, the fortress was nearly empty. His queen didn’t maintain much of a court, finding babbling courtiers a nuisance.

Even so, sentries were everywhere, both those he could see and those he could only sense. Hiding in dark corners and behind false walls. But they only added to the strange atmosphere of hushed, anticipatory quiet. It was almost oppressive, the silence. But Rowan was used to it, welcomed it even. The quiet of the castle calmed the noise within him.

Eventually, he reached a wide veranda overhanding the river. The great waterfall was now very close, its roaring effectively making it impossible for anything spoken in the exposed space to be overheard.

His queen was waiting for him, lounging casually on her throne like a cat in a patch of sunlight. She was wearing a heavy dress of black velvet, emphasizing the paleness of her skin and the depth of her black hair. The ever-present owl sat perched on the back of her seat, its eyes intent.

The owl was a Fae – Rowan could tell that much from the creature’s scent. But in all the years he had served in Queen Maeve’s court, he had not once seen the individual in Fae form. So he knew nothing at all about them, not their gender, age, or purpose. Not that he really cared enough to find out.

Maeve never hid important information from her court, never hid her plans or strategies from her blood-bonded. Nothing of significance wasn’t shared between them. Meaning that the owl wasn’t worth mentioning, and that was that.

Maeve’s face was carefully blank, though intense. Only her eyes betrayed her vicious power, and they pierced Rowan through like blades of obsidian.

His queen was power incarnate. He could almost see the waves of darkness roiling around her, lying in wait. Even now, after centuries in her service, he marveled at the sheer force contained within his queen. They all did, Maeve’s blood-sworn court.

There were six of them. A group of warriors that were feared and respected throughout Wendlyn, and notorious in lands much farther than that. They were some of the most powerful Fae males living, and they used that strength to serve their queen in any and every way she required them to.

Rowan was the only one present for this meeting, but he could sense the powers of at least two others somewhere in the palace, their magic a dark, hovering presence in the corner of his mind.

While Rowan was unsure exactly who the power belonged to, he knew at least one of the warriors had to be one of the twins. Fenrys and Connall, the Wolves of Doranelle. Maeve always made sure to retain one of them here, as a way to hold sway over the other. Whoever it was, they were probably hidden upstairs, warming her royal bed.

Rowan’s nostrils flared slightly, and he carefully contained the disgust that swirled in his stomach. They were held in more than one kind of slavery, Maeve’s warrior-court.

Even if his familial bond with Maeve exempted him from that exact manner of service, Rowan knew what kind of female sat waiting before him. Had known when he swore the blood oath all those years ago – had known when he signed away his life, his very will, away to her like so much chattel. But he hadn’t cared. He had been too far gone, too lost for it to matter.

Even now, with malice curling on his queen’s lips, Rowan couldn’t bring himself to regret the decision. It had been a choice between two different sets of shackles. And Rowan had chosen purpose, and power, and glory. And the privilege to serve, to protect and defend the way all Fae males longed to.

Even so, he didn’t love his queen, didn’t worship her the way some of the others did. Especially his commander, Lorcan Salvaterre.

Lorcan pursued Maeve relentlessly, was utterly devoted to her. He was convinced that they were matched for each other, that their shared dark powers called to each other. But Maeve had no desire for love or companionship. She had physical needs, and those she sated in other ways.

Maeve rejected Lorcan and instead bedded the twins, knowing that it made them all suffer immeasurably. She delighted in it.

Rowan didn’t resent Lorcan for his affection towards their queen, or Fenrys for his distaste. He understood it. All of them, Rowan included, were drawn to power. And their queen was the most powerful Fae living.

Rowan approached the dais and knelt.

“Majesty,” he murmured.

Maeve didn’t acknowledge him, instead clapping her hands loudly to summon an attendant. They entered, received their orders and left swiftly, heading down the hall and into the depths of the castle, their errand unknown to Rowan.

Maeve kept him kneeling on the stone floor through the long minutes while they waited. She could keep him waiting there for weeks, for years if she wished. Could force him to kneel until he wasted and died.

Eventually, she spoke. “How fare our eastern neighbors?”

“Less well than they were before my arrival, Majesty.”

The corners of her lips turned up. “Should I expect any more trouble from them?”

“I should think not. Lord Siarill turned out to be quite persuadable. It was his daughter that we will have to watch out for – it turned out that she, and not her father, was behind the breaking of your agreement and of incensing the people against you.”

“And why would Princess Aniya do such a thing?” Maeve’s voice turned dangerous. “We hosted her here once, you know, when she was a child.”

Rowan gritted his teeth, the bearer of bad news. “Aniya, like all of the Siarill family, are pure blooded Fae. But their city, along with the rest of their kingdom, has a very large population of demi-Fae. Because of where their kingdom is situated, they have always had large populations of both Fae and humankind that could not easily avoid one another.”

Rowan’s knees were beginning to ache, the blood oath compelling him to speak far more than he normally would have. “Unlike our brethren in the west, or here in Doranelle, neither group could overpower the other. They came close to civil war on several occasions, but now have lived in peace for centuries. So demi-Fae have become increasingly more common.”

“A disease of half-breeds spreading though the east.” Maeve’s voice was dark and stormy, while her magic gathered in a great cloud around her.

Rowan had to hold in his wince at the word. Half-breeds. An insulting term for those with both Fae and human parents. In Doranelle, mortals and demi-Fae were both thought of as lesser, as below the more powerful and worthy Fae peoples. However, Demi-Fae people had the unlucky experience of facing this from both Fae and from human nations, and often had to live in the wild, on the fringes of society. But not in Lord Siarill’s kingdom.

“Aniya fell in love with a demi-Fae female. They are set to marry in early summer.” Maeve’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And it seems that she is…averse…to our methods of dealing with the demi-Fae in Doranelle.”

“What are her plans.”

“Nothing was set in stone upon my arrival, majesty. Only discontented rumblings and whispers behind closed doors. I managed to halt the rebel groups for now, but was called away before I could do much more to prevent coming violence.”

Maeve turned her piercing gaze on him. “Are you perhaps blaming me for your inability to contain the eastern princess?”

“Of course not, your majesty.” Rowan spoke into the dirt between them.

“I thought not.” Maeve smiled, her face twisting into something dark and suggestive of violence, but at that moment the servant reentered.

The attendant was accompanied by an unremarkable figure, who bowed low while the servant retreated into the shadows. The newcomer was of average height and dressed in all black. Rowan couldn’t detect any hidden weapons on their person, but he wasn’t able to see much with his gaze still forced towards the stone dais.

“Majesty,” the figure said softly, her voice suggesting her to be a young female.

Maeve inclined her head towards the girl, and turned back to Rowan, saying, “You have been missed these past days, Prince. While you were off cavorting with Princess Aniya and her whore, we received news,” she paused, her gaze intensifying. “Of Aelin Galathynius.”

Of all the names Rowan may have expected to hear fall from her lips, this was last. The princess of Terrasen?

“She’s not dead?” The words escaped his lips without his permission. The blood oath relented somewhat, allowing him to straighten out of his crouch.

“It appears that the princess has had a very interesting journey.” Maeve’s eyes glinted slyly as she gestured for the figure in black to stand and speak, while Rowan felt a wry curiosity growing within him, breaking through the cold disinterest.

“We have learned,” said the female, as she stood and faced their queen, “That Celaena Sardothien has been sent to Wendlyn, to Varese, to assassinate the royal family and steal their naval defense strategy.”

Rowan felt his confusion mount, but he remained silent as the figure in black continued.

“Sardothien was trained by Arobynn Hamel, the King of the Assassins of the western continent, and became well-known as Adarlan’s Assassin. Now, she has found herself employed by Adarlan’s king as his Champion, and has been sent to Wendlyn on his orders.”

She paused, her jaw twitching slightly. “It was not until very recently that we discovered that Sardothien and Aelin Galathynius are in fact one and the same.”

Rowan stiffened, taken aback. The princess, hiding as an assassin?

“…We do not yet understand the circumstances of her survival, or how exactly she spent the many years between the fall of Terrasen and her appointment as King’s Champion – other than the many rumors that have been spread of the supposed exploits of Celaena Sardothien.” The female’s voice twisted in irritation, her eyes flitting up to look at their queen, as if seeking some kind of confirmation, or reassurance.

“But we do know without a doubt that she is a girl of barely nineteen, with golden hair and turquoise eyes with a central ring of gold.”

Ashryver eyes. Unmistakable.

“She was spotted and recognized by a source, on a merchant ship headed for Varese barely one week hence. They contacted a hand of mine through the method we discussed,” the female nodded to their queen, “and they then passed the information on to me.”

So the female was one of Maeve’s spies, a member of a vast network that spanned throughout Erilea and beyond.

The spy continued. “Aelin Galathynius was nearly across the sea when my hand received this message. If she has not already arrived, she will within a few days.”

“How trustworthy is this report?” Rowan interjected.

“The source who retrieved the information has always been reliable, and I am inclined to believe their assessment. They have no reason to pass on false information, and as they were once familiar with the Galathynius and Ashryver families, they have every reason to be able to recognize a member of that family.” The spy continued to look at their queen, even though she was replying to Rowan. “Regardless, we already possessed the information on Celaena Sardothien’s movements from a source within Rifthold’s court, and the physical descriptions of the women match perfectly.”

“Rumors of Celaena Sardothien have been circling Wendlyn for many years now.” Rowan did the math in his head, calculating. “Terrasen fell barely a decade ago. If Celaena Sardothien and Aelin Galathynius are one, that means a child not even into her late teens has been the one responsible for her many crimes.”

The spy nodded. “Yes. Most had assumed Celaena was older, and there were many rumors speculating her gender was a lie as well. But no, for perhaps half a year now we have had confirmation that Celaena was a woman barely into her twenties or late teens.”

“And there is no question that the assassin is Aelin Galathynius?” Rowan pushed.

“None.” It wasn’t the spy who replied, but his queen.

“I have my own ways of keeping watch on the world, and I have long known that Terrasen’s heir lived on. The wildfire brought into the world upon her birth did not burn out with the fall of her nation. And now it draws ever closer to our shores.”

Maeve looked out onto the water, and the pale stone walls that had now stood so long, unchallenged. Stone and water. It had long been known that his queen had a distaste, even a fear, for fire. That had been made apparent millennia ago…

He turned away from those thoughts as his queen asked, “Is that all, spymaster?”

“I have only the details of her arrival and departure from Rifthold, and the rumors we have gathered of her life as Celaena.”

“Why do you not have more concrete information on the assassin?” Rowan asked.

“At the time, she was not considered a priority.” The spy shrugged. “Celaena rose to prominence during our most recent conflict with Akkadians in the northeast, and the minimal spies we retained on the western continent were focused on Adarlan’s court, and acquiring information on their continued conflict with the other nations in the west, such as Melisande and Eyllwe. We had no reason to focus on the life of an assassin in the slums of Rifthold.”

“Even though she posed enough of a threat to become famous across the sea?” Rowan challenged.

“Enough.” Maeve’s quiet command silenced them immediately. She jerked her chin to the door behind her, unceremoniously dismissing the spy, who bowed low and departed through the door behind the throne.

“Brannon’s heir, surfaced once again,” Maeve mused after a moment of silence.

Rowan didn’t respond. There had once been rumors that the girl’s power rivaled that of Brannon, her ancestor. Wildfire strong enough to encircle the world, his queen’s only weakness. Rowan’s jaw clenched.

“I need you to collect her for me, Rowan.”

He nodded, staring directly back into her hard eyes.

“When this came to light, nearly a week ago now, both Lorcan and Fenrys were present. Fenrys of course immediately volunteered his services.” Her eyes glittered with wicked amusement. “The girl is apparently very pretty. A wild, fiery creature – the princess made assassin.”

Rowan’s jaw twitched ever so slightly.

Maeve’s smile grew. “I decided to let him go as an advance guard, to track her down before you collect her. But I want you to bring her to me.”

Fenrys loved anything wild and beautiful. To dangle this princess before him, but make Rowan actually collect the wild girl…it was a punishment for both of them. Rowan's jaw clenched.

“Instead Fenrys will remain in Varese, containing the Ashryver royals – who have become increasingly more irritating in their requests to strike back at Adarlan’s forces. They know that they cannot go to war until I allow it, but they seem to be getting more and more forgetful.”

Rowan just nodded once again, trying to disguise his frustration.

The Ashryvers had always been an irritation for Maeve – and over the past few decades, their disobediences have become more and more frank. It was an easy task to throw the reckless and willful male. Give him a taste of freedom, only to snatch it back once again when it would hurt the most.

But Rowan barely spared Fenrys’ plight a thought. He was already thinking of what he would be facing in Varese when he arrived. Whenever Fenrys was set free, even for a few days, he completely lost himself.

The male was beyond infuriating. Rowan had absolutely no desire to show up in Varese only to have to drag the debauched male out of some ditch or hovel. Wild and reckless, no discipline, no self-control.

Maeve continued. “The princess has been ordered to assassinate the Ashryver family. Obviously, that cannot be allowed. But I also have become aware that she has another purpose…one that concerns me.”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, while his body stilled. If the Heir of Fire had been sent to assassinate Maeve…

But his queen just said, “Bring her to the outpost at Mistward, and I will meet you there.” Rowan couldn’t restrain a slight jerk of surprise at the words. His queen was going to leave Doranelle? At the behest of some foreign brat?

Rowan couldn’t hold in the question. “What does the girl want, majesty?”

Maeve fingers twitched, her lips curling once more. “Knowledge. She seeks answers to…ancient questions. But that is not why I wish to meet with the girl.”

Rowan cocked his head.

“I’m sure you remember tell of her power.”

His lips tightened slightly, brow furrowing. It was not like Maeve to avoid questions, or to withhold answers...

“The Heir of Fire. The Heir of Brannon.” She paused for a moment, considering, “The girl probably has little to no control over her magic. But still, we cannot be certain. Make sure that you bring her to me unharmed, and without having destroyed anything irreparable. You know how irritating the Ashryvers can be, and I doubt they’d take well to the destruction of their capital.”

The words were teasing, his queen always preferred a light touch. But Rowan knew what she was implying, the wounds she was prodding. He refused to react, while a city crumbled behind his eyes. Sollemere.

Her lips twitched once again. Maeve was enjoying herself. “The princess is probably already hidden within the city – she may even have sought refuge with her relatives, despite what the Adarlanian king ordered. Find her for me.”

Rowan just nodded again while his Queen stared him down, her words radiating with command. “Travel swiftly, I expect to meet Brannon’s heir within a fortnight.”

Her eyes were focused, predatory. Filled with desire. Maeve wanted this princess more than just for a meeting, to answer some questions or discover a new source of power. Perhaps the princess was intended as another tool, another weapon in her arsenal.

Regardless, Maeve had drawn a net around the Heir of Terrasen, a spider in a great web, and was using Rowan to ensnare her. Not Fenrys, not Lorcan, but Rowan. She had called him from another assignment, and required him to capture the girl. The question was, was he the hook or the bait?

While Rowan couldn’t help speculating idly, the ice coating his limbs did not shift an inch – he didn't really care either way. Maeve would tell him what she was planning when she wanted to, be it in a week or in a century. He had decided long ago to surrender such feelings for the honor of service.

Rowan took off, shifting into his hawk and flying out of the throne room into the waiting mists. Breaking the intent gaze of his queen and master. There was something more to this foreign princess, something more than just the promise of power.

The heir of fire had risen from the ashes.

Had she come to burn them all to the ground?

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Next Chapter

[5oclockcoffees]

Fahrenheit 451

With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. "When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule-book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its own. Then motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass. And because they had mass, they became simpler. Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me? Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending. Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more. Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic? Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought! School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts? Empty the theatres save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, don't you, Montag? More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refuge. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before. Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat-lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic-books survive. And the three-dimensional sex-magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these. Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean. [There was a girl next door. She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How? How did she happen?] Here or there, that's bound to occur. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely `brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the Theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment." We always talk about 1984 and Brave New World as the dystopias we are living in today, but Ray Bradbury´s book, written in the early 50s, is scarily accurate, describing perfectly and especially the last three/four years.

[ericdeggans]

How My Love for Sean Connery and Bond Led to a Serious Case of White Guy Hero Infatuation Syndrome

Like a lot of people all over the world, I have long considered myself a stone Sean Connery fan.

I often recited the juiciest dialogue bits from his Oscar-winning turn as a beat cop-turned crusader in he Untouchables (in addition to the speech everyone quotes, I loved how he told Eliot Ness he knew he was a treasury agent without seeing his badge because “who would claim to be that who was not?”) I watched the painfully clumsy 1986 B-movie Highlander mostly for his charming turn as Egyptian (!) immortal Juan Sánchez-Villalobos Ramírez.

And, of course his work as James Bond always set the ultimate example for urbane cool. Which explains why I often felt the theme song thrumming in my head whenever I wore a stylish suit or hopped off a plane in a cool city. For men from the generation before mine, he practically defined the sophisticated, stylish machismo found in the pages of Esquire and Playboy.  

For these reasons and more, I have always loved the rogueish Scotsman as an actor. And yet, when news of his death at age 90 spread across the world, I couldn’t bear to pay tribute to him on my social media pages, until now.

That’s because his passing highlighted my problem with a particular malady. I call it White Guy Hero Infatuation Syndrome. And I have suffered from it for many years.

Put simply, my fan’s brain knows that Connery’s landmark performances were the stuff of film legend – especially as Bond. Cool, authoritative, suavely menacing and mostly unflappable, his take on a secret agent who knows the best suit designers nearly as well as the best pistol manufacturers set the template for escapist espionage fantasies over the next half century and beyond.

His first line as the character – “Bond. James Bond.” – has become pop culture legend.

But as a media critic, I also have to contend with James Bond’s status as a relentless sexist and a British agent who walked the world as if it was made to be ruled by wealthy, capable white men. Watch him slap the behind of a pretty blonde who was massaging him poolside in 1964’s Goldfinger when CIA agent Felix Leiter turns up for a chat. “Man talk,” he tells her dismissively, sending her out of the scene.

Or check out how he treats Quarrel, the bug-eyed Black man who acts as a “fixer” for him in Jamaica during the first Bond film, 1962’s Dr. No. Scrambling across a beach to avoid the bad guys’ goons, Bond turns to Quarrel and tells him “fetch my shoes” -- as if he were his butler, rather than a local ally helping him avoid thugs with automatic weapons.

And there’s loads of scenes where Bond forces himself on women who quickly succumb to his charms – like Honor Blackman’s character in 1964′s Goldfinger – perpetuating a dangerous myth that a man can earn a woman’s love by pushing her into being romantic with him. (Or that a dismissive, vaguely annoyed tone with women – treating them like impertinent children or misguided simpletons – is also, somehow, irresistible to them.)    

When Connery played Bond, he played a character who was the embodiment of white privilege. He made it look sexy, virtuous and necessary – the natural state of things in a 1960s-era world that, outside the comfortable confines of Bond’s make-believe spy games, seemed to be coming apart at the seams. But in the America of 2020, it’s a symbol of how media can teach you to accept a limiting legend.

And this was a fantasy I bought into eagerly. As a kid, my mom and I bonded over the heroic white guys she loved on film and TV, mostly from westerns. Just this past December, as she was fighting cancer and months before she would succumb to an infection, we sat and watched Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, Kevin Costner and Robert Duvall save the day too many times to count.

As I got older, I’d make fun of all the misogyny, racism and white centering going on in these shows – gibes which my mother, a proud Black woman who loved her people and culture, tolerated with a weary smile. “These are my guys,” she’d say playfully, swatting aside any idea that there was a deeper impact from gorging on stories which treated these virtuous white men as the noble, natural center of every story. I wish the issue were that simple; it often isn’t.

For me, it wasn’t just a problem with Connery. As a kid, I loved Eastwood’s 1970s-era Dirty Harry movies, where the taciturn cop with a Magnum pistol cut through all the nonsense to nab the bad guy. Same with Bronson’s Death Wish films, where the solution to rampant street crime wasn’t better policing, but a taciturn, middle class white guy with a gun shooting down street criminals. It’s a potent fantasy, especially if you’ve ever had to deal with the numbing bureaucracy of real-life law enforcement or the brutal violation of being a crime victim.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized many of those bad guys Harry Callahan was hunting were young hippies and Black people – the kind of folks who, in real life when Dirty Harry was released in 1971, were trying to get America to face how it was chewing up poor, young men in an unwinnable, unnecessary war in Vietnam. It was a prime example of “copaganda” – convincing the audience that the excesses Detective Callahan committed to nail a person the audience already knew was a serial killer, was justified.

Even now, I wonder: Can I watch these movies and appreciate why they are thrilling, while rejecting the tropes that present a white male-centered world as just and appropriate? In my work on race and media, I’m often telling audiences that people who insist they are not affected by media subtexts are often the most affected by them. Couldn’t that be true for me, when it comes to heroes like Eastwood, Bronson and Connery?

(One caveat: Sitting in an arena in Tampa, watching Eastwood give his infamously strange “empty chair” speech at the Republican National Convention in 2012, broke me of my affection for his work. I have avoided watching new Clint Eastwood films since then. Click here to read my report on the empty chair speech for the Tampa Bay Times.)

In his later years, Connery denied or walked back quotes where he seemed to approve of physically hitting women in real life. His roles in films like Highlander, The Untouchables, Hunt for Red October, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen often featured him playing the older mentor to younger white guy heroes portrayed by the likes of Harrison Ford, Alec Baldwin and Kevin Costner.

And so, as the question of Connery’s legacy in show business arises, the fanboy part of me is at war with the media critic. One side of me is lost in the absolute coolness of the suave masculinity he so often symbolized, particularly as the world’s most successful secret agent.

The other is painfully aware of the inequalities and oppression such portrayals enabled, and how much they may feed our real life fantasies for a powerful white male savior to set things right, even now. 

Especially now.

And saying these characters were a product of their flawed times somehow doesn’t seem enough.

This is a tough column to write, and not just because there are so many fans who want to focus on the best moments of Sean Connery’s life now that he’s gone. It’s difficult because he was a personal hero of mine for a long while – and remains one of my favorite performers – even as I acknowledge the terribly male-centric and white-superior ethos he embodied in so many roles.

This may sound like disrespectful nitpicking to hardcore fans and family. It’s never easy to sit with the more uncomfortable aspects of a great artist’s legacy. And the time after his death has been filled with heartfelt tributes to Connery, a man of great talent and no-nonsense sensibilities who was respected and loved by a great many people who worked with him.

Sometimes the media critic’s job requires being a buzzkill; insisting the public pay attention to troubling aspects of a film or TV show that we would all just rather sit back and enjoy. Because part of unwinding the effect of past portrayals is acknowledging their power in the present day.

Which means, every time I watch Connery stride to a baccarat table in Goldfinger, Dr. No, or Diamonds Are Forever, archly demanding a precisely constructed alcoholic beverage, I also have to remind myself of the damage done by too many characters like that offering too constricted a vision of what a hero looks and acts like. And I suggest you do the same.

It's the only way to balance a comforting myth with the reality of how that legend can, unwittingly, teach us to cling to ideas that ultimately hold us back.      

[olliepig]

Waiting in the Wings Ch 2

The next chapter is finally written! Massive thanks again to @willow-salix for reading through it last night and making sure it actually made any kind of sense.

It can also be read in full on AO3 here.

***********************************

Two weeks after Penny’s party, Cat sat in the chair in her dressing room, getting her hair and makeup done for the show. Usually, it was time she used for quiet reflection on the work that had led up to that moment as well as time to focus on the upcoming performance but the events of the past 14 days seemed determined to seep into her head and take up residence. As promised, she had heard from Scott the day after the party and she smiled to herself as she remembered the sudden jolt of excitement that had gone through her when she’d seen his name flash up on her phone. Their messages had started out as a means of simply catching up on what they’d missed from each other’s lives but they had slowly shifted focus and increased in quantity to become an ever-present discussion about their daily lives.

The first time she was aware that he had been called out on a rescue had thrown her and a frown crossed her face as she remembered the doubts that had crept in about their continued friendship at that point. Her concentration in rehearsals had taken a nosedive while she knew that he was risking his life somewhere. That distraction was a threat to her laser focus on everything she did with her dancing and made her seriously weigh up whether it was prudent to continue their budding friendship or not. The irony of that, given his reasoning for breaking up with her in the first place, was not lost on her. However, something in the back of her head kept niggling away, telling her not to make any decisions too rashly, so despite the unpleasant experience of fretting until a message lit up her phone several hours after he had got home, she had carried on. A ground rule had been established though - if they were to be friends, he had to let her know as soon as he was back from a rescue.

Continuing to automatically move through her usual routine, her mind wandered back to the party and she could suddenly feel the sensation of Scott’s arms around her waist and see the smoulder in his eyes as he had held her right before she had left. It wasn’t the first time that memory had popped up unbidden at the most inopportune moment and she took a deep breath to try and ground herself before she got lost in a daydream. She didn’t need or want a relationship right now, and certainly not one with someone on the other side of the planet. She shook her head to clear it, trying to ignore the dawning realisation that he had become both the first and last person she thought about each day. Without those piercing sapphire eyes and rakish grin in front of her to draw her in, she was almost able to convince herself that they were going to be able to maintain just a friendship. Almost.  

Hair and make-up complete, Cat gathered up her shoes for the night and headed up to one of the big studios to begin warming up for the performance. Walking through the hubbub of a big company starting the preparations for a show brought her back to the occasion of the night.  Being asked to dance on the night that one of the patrons of the company was to be in the audience for was something that might have made others nervous but the fact that the patron in question was also her best friend meant that it didn’t faze her in the slightest. However, she did have to admit to herself that having not one but two members of arguably the most powerful family in the world there that night too was definitely something that would be hard to ignore. She shook her head in annoyance. This daydreaming was not the sort of behaviour that had gotten her to where she was today as a principal dancer with one of the best ballet companies in the world. She had always prided herself on being able to compartmentalise everything else that was happening in her life while she was dancing and she wasn’t going to let a certain Tracy derail that. Squaring her shoulders, she determined not to think of him again until after and stepped into the studio where Mark, her partner for the night, was also warming up and shot him a smile. Putting everything else to the back of her mind, she concentrated on making sure her body was completely ready for what was to come before heading back to her dressing room to change into her costume and complete the transformation into the young peasant girl Giselle.

****

“Honestly, you’re just as bad as each other! Contrary to popular belief I do know how to behave in public you know” the young man replied huffily to his big brother as their car pulled up outside the Royal Opera House.

Seemingly oblivious to the stares of passers-by and audience members alike, Gordon Tracy jumped out and ran around to open the door for Lady Penelope Creighton Ward, who was followed closely by the heir to the Tracy empire. The white columned building seemed to tower above them and Scott took a moment to take in the scene before hurrying after his brother and Penny, making their way together through the opulent front of house areas towards the private box that was to be theirs for the night. The year he’d spent with Cat had been filled with her telling him repeatedly how beautiful and special this theatre was but none of that had prepared him for the reality of walking into the auditorium for the first time. He’d been to plenty of theatres over the years and, while the older ones tended to have their charms, he had to admit that he generally saw them as just a place in which he had to sit and watch something he wasn’t particularly interested in for a few hours. There was something about this one that definitely felt different although he struggled to put his finger on the reason for that. The sheer opulence of the twin red velvet curtains embroidered with royal crests in their centre corners, the ornate gold of the proscenium arch and the four tiers curving around in an elegant horseshoe combined to take his breath away and for once he found himself speechless. It was a far cry from the ultra-modern and somewhat soulless theatre he’d watched Cat perform in before and he could finally understand why she had always dreamed of performing there.

Penny smiled to herself as she watched the two men’s reactions to the place. Like Cat, she had once harboured dreams of dancing on the Opera House stage and the place still held a special place in her heart. Being a patron of the Royal Ballet was her way of staying connected to that world and she always delighted in introducing newcomers to it whenever she could.

“What do you think then? Will this do for a night out at the ballet?”

“It’s beautiful” replied Gordon immediately, still taking in the sight of countless red seats in front of them. “I’ve never been anywhere that looks quite like this before.”

“How about you Scott?”

Scott could only manage to nod in agreement, still trying to imprint the scene in front of him in his mind and only vaguely aware of a ruby red programme being pressed into his hand by an usher as he took his seat. Coming back to himself, he realised that the conversation in the box had moved on without him so he let his mind wander and was not surprised to find that it returned to the events of the previous weeks that had brought him to this point. Despite his carefully cultivated image as a carefree bachelor, he’d found that he enjoyed having someone to share his daily life with more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t news to him that he didn’t actually have any close friends left, having prioritised his duty to his family over all of them a long time ago so being able to talk regularly with someone had definitely helped to assuage some of the loneliness he occasionally felt. He hadn’t felt able to share any of the unedited realities of his work with Cat yet but it had definitely felt good to be able to just talk normally to someone outside of his family. Just having a slice of what he remembered ordinary life had been like in amongst the endless rescues and paperwork reminded him of what he’d missed out on over the years.

He had to admit that he’d been surprised at Cat’s reaction the first time he told her that he wouldn’t be in touch for a while because he was going out on a rescue. Having not really had to deal with an outsider’s perspective on International Rescue before, he hadn’t even considered that there might be anything for her to be worried about as nobody on Tracy Island batted an eyelid when a call came in. It was only afterwards that he realised how unnerving it must be to know that someone you care for is going into a dangerous situation that you know nothing about. Reflecting on it later though, he had no idea why he’d ever thought that she might not be affected by it as she cared deeply about everything and everyone. It was one of the things he had loved about her before so he was happy to agree to her condition of letting her know as soon as he was back safely. Really, he thought as the lights began to dim, it was the least he could do.

****

“Wasn’t that wonderful? How did you gentlemen find that?” Penny asked, turning to her guests as the lights came up again at the start of the interval.

“Why were there so many villagers? I didn’t see the point in them and I didn’t really understand all the mime either. But I think I’m enjoying it” answered Gordon with a small frown.

“Well that’s good to hear. And how about you Scott?”

“It’s how I remember ballets being when I saw them before to be honest. There’s been a lot of faffing around so far but not really much dancing…” Scott tailed off, surprised to find that his voice felt rather thicker than he expected.

“Well personally I think it’s being beautifully danced, especially by Cat and Mark. They’re both wonderful and have such a lovely partnership. You could really feel and see their relationship developing as the act went on and the betrayal at the end was just wonderful.”

“I’ll grant you that actually. That definitely packed a bit of a punch that I wasn’t expecting” Scott conceded. His throat was still oddly tight and he found he was strangely unwilling to admit that the first act had affected him, especially the end with Giselle’s discovery of her lover’s deception leading to her sudden madness and death.

Further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of an usher with 3 glasses of champagne that Scott gratefully received and handed out to his companions.

“Wait, is that it? Are we not getting ice creams?” asked Gordon, eyeing up the tray suspiciously, as if it were hiding something.

“Why would you think we were?” asked Penny with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

“We did when Scott took Alan and I to the pantomime.”

“When on earth was that?” Penny had certainly never imagined that any of the Tracy boys would have even heard of a pantomime, let alone been to one.

“Don’t you remember Scott?” asked Gordon looking at his big brother for confirmation that he wasn’t making the whole thing up. “It was when you were at Oxford and we came over that Christmas because dad was too busy. You took us to the panto and Alan spent the whole time pretending he wasn’t enjoying it when he really was. We got ice cream at the interval and I thought that was just what you do at the theatre…”

“I think that’s more for kids but if you really want one, I think I saw a kiosk in the foyer. You could always go and ask.” Scott smiled, his heart swelling with the realisation that his little brother had remembered that trip to the pantomime many years before. Gordon bounded out of the box grinning like the Cheshire cat, leaving the other occupants of the box in his wake.

“You really can’t take him anywhere” Scott commented to no one in particular.

“On the contrary. I think it’s rather sweet.” Penny picked up her programme, effectively ending further conversation and Scott followed suit, conscious that the conversation was perhaps straying into an area that was not yet comfortable for his friend. Their peace was soon shattered however, as Gordon burst back in, flushed with the success of procuring not one but three cornettos.

“I got you both one too. It’s our new tradition” he exclaimed, handing them around. The three of them spent what was left of the interval in companionable silence eating their ice creams and sipping champagne, each lost in their own thoughts as the theatre filled back up and the lights dimmed for the start of the second act.

****

As soon as the curtain calls were over, Cat and Mark breathed a sigh of relief and chatted on the stage enjoying the typical post show exhilaration of a job well done. Around them, the stage started to fill with a mix of invited guests, company management and stage technicians, all with different priorities and jobs to do. In amongst them all, Cat could feel herself getting restless and couldn’t help but keep looking into the wings for the arrival of her friends, wondering what was taking them so long to arrive.

The arrival of their coach was a welcome distraction and Cat quickly ended up deeply embroiled in conversation with him and Mark looking at improvements they could make for their next performance. It was something that never took more than a few moments, with the bulk of the work being done in the studios in the days to follow but it was reassuring to Cat to feel in control of her work. Like most dancers, she was a perfectionist through and through and had never felt comfortable about not addressing corrections straight away when they were fresh in her mind. Catch up finished, Cat glanced up from her conversation just in time to spot the group she was looking for.

“Penny! I was wondering when you’d get here” Cat exclaimed running over. “Gordon, Scott it’s so lovely to see you both again” she added, feeling slightly more flustered than she’d have liked by the intensity of Scott’s gaze when she caught his eyes and suddenly feeling very unsure of herself.

“You were wonderful tonight darlings. Congratulations.” Penny gave both Cat and Mark big hugs in appreciation, knowing just how much work went into preparing for the show.

“Thank you. We were pretty happy with it, all things considered. What did you both think?” Cat asked the two men present, suddenly feeling a lot more nervous than she had before.

“It was amazing!” Scott enthused. “I’ve never seen you dance like that before. The first act was good but the second half really went up a notch. The way you were lifted up like you weighed nothing was incredible. You could almost believe that you really were a ghost.”

Scott had been surprised at how much he had actually enjoyed it as ballet in general really wasn’t the sort of thing he’d watch, especially one that told a love story that involved an entire act full of vengeful spirits. It definitely wouldn’t have been his first choice of how to spend an evening but he found himself thinking that he was perhaps wrong to have written it off before. While it wasn’t something he would want to go to every day, he could definitely be persuaded to go to more, especially if a certain ballerina was dancing.

With a start he realised that his introspection had taken him away from the conversation and he realised with horror that he hadn’t heard a word of Cat or Penny’s replies. He tuned back in just in time to hear the tail end of Gordon’s verdict.

“… was much more what I was expecting.”

“No offence Gords,” he cut in before anyone else could speak “but how did you know what to expect? You’ve never seen a ballet before!”

“No,” Gordon admitted, straightening slightly and with a look of defiance about him which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. “But I did look some up because I knew we were coming and I didn’t want to be going in blind. I couldn’t remember which one we were coming to though so I think I ended up watching some of Swan Lake instead.” he added, turning to Cat apologetically.

“Gordon you never fail to surprise me” Penny laughed as Scott simply stared at Gordon, his mouth slightly agape.

“Well, I’m very glad you liked it.” Cat smiled. “We’re actually doing Swan Lake later in the season. I can see about arranging tickets so you can come and see it if you’d like?”

“Yes, that would be lovely” Gordon replied, with a big grin that was at least partly directed smugly at Scott. That would teach his brother to assume that he knew nothing about culture.

Looking around, the group realised that the stage had all but emptied and they headed back to the dressing rooms for Cat to get out of her costume and ready for the night ahead. Walking ahead of the rest, Mark and Cat slipped arms around each other’s waists as they chatted amicably. This cosy looking walk was a post-show ritual that they’d had for years and Cat had always loved the way it defined the boundary between the intensity of their on-stage relationship and the close friendship that they’d shared since she’d joined the company and they started regularly dancing together.  

To Scott however, it seemed anything but friendly and innocent. Confusion reigned in his mind as he was certain that there had been plenty of opportunities for a boyfriend to have been mentioned over the past 2 weeks. While no hint of one had been given, that certainly wasn’t the impression he was getting from the dancers in front of him and he suddenly felt very foolish for any hopes he may have harboured of a romantic reunion. Feeling surprisingly alone at that revelation, he glanced behind him to speak to the others, just catching sight of Penny slipping her hand into Gordon’s to a look of total adoration from his younger brother. He looked away quickly, embarrassed at having caught a private moment that had certainly not been intended for his eyes.

He still didn’t officially know what was going on between them although both he and the rest of the family had their suspicions. Gordon had been unusually tight-lipped about anything to do with their London agent, and the only time Scott had tried to ask the answer he was given was so vague that he thought that he was actually more confused afterwards than he had been before. Whatever it was, he felt very much like a third wheel and even if the circumstances weren’t quite what he had hoped for, he was very much looking forward to adding another member to their group for the remainder of the night.

****

Following a quick shower, Cat felt that it was most definitely time to get out of the theatre and start the more relaxing part of her evening. First though, was the small matter of making it through the throng of autograph hunters at stage door. The rest of the party hung back while Cat made her way through the groups which filled the public area inside at the stage door and spilled right out into the street. In between signing autographs and talking to fans, Cat couldn’t help but keep stealing glances at her friends, and at one member of the group in particular if she was honest with herself. Penny and Gordon were engrossed in conversation but somehow every time she looked up Scott seemed to be watching her. She couldn’t help herself and kept holding his gaze for just a fraction of a second longer than she should before looking away, finding the flutter of excitement that stirred in her stomach each time addicting.

Scott, meanwhile, was finding it very difficult to reconcile the girl he had known back in Richmond, Virginia all those years ago with the one in front of him now. Back then, there had been barely anybody waiting for the dancers after a show and he remembered clearly standing alone at the stage door with a single red rose for her on more than one occasion. Earlier in the week when he’d pictured how this evening would go he’d never considered that she might have fans waiting to speak with her and he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she made her way through the crowd, chatting to everyone, taking photos and signing programmes as she went.   Endearingly, as she moved between people she would glance up as if to check that they were still waiting for her, catching his gaze each time for what felt like just fractionally longer than it should be. He was finding it very difficult to tell and the uncertainty of whether it was purely a look of friendship or whether her glances were a sign of something more was driving him mad. Not being a man who did well unless he knew everything about a situation, these looks combined with his uncertainty about her relationship with Mark was like torture for him.

After what felt to Scott like hours, the last autographs were signed and the group assembled outside. Knowing that Parker was waiting outside the front of the theatre to take them back to Creighton Ward Manor, they made their way round to him in high spirits for what the rest of the night would bring.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 24 Mar 2020 (Nebula Awards move online, Make America Well Again stamps, Data is the new toxic waste, Stock Jump, Grandparents Optional Party, Quarantine Book Club, the Party of Death, financial stability vs economic stability, quarantine vs workforce automation, bailouts and moral hazard, MIT's open source ventilator)

Today's links

This year's Nebula Awards will be held online: It's $150, and raising funds to bail out corona-shattered writers.

Make America Well Again stamps: from the artist who brought you the Trump Zero Cents stamp.

Data is the new toxic waste: It never was the "new oil" (my latest podcast).

Stock Jump: A ski-game that lets you play the stock charts of cratered businesses.

Murdering 20% of elderly Americans is bad strategy for the GOP: Terrified old people are the turkeys who vote for plutes' Christmas every four years.

Join me on the Quarantine Book Club: April 1, 3PM Pacific.

The Party of Death: It's a good time to buy exterminism futures.

Financial stability vs economic stability: Debts that can't be paid, won't be paid.

Quarantine reveals the falsity of the automation crisis: Augmentation isn't replacement.

Bailouts and moral hazard: If we never teach big business, it won't ever learn.

MIT's ingenious manual/automatic open source ventilator: Now in FDA testing.

This day in history: 2005, 2010, 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

This year's Nebula Awards will be held online (permalink)

This year's Nebula Awards weekend is moving online, thanks to decisive action from SFWA and Mary Robinette Kowal.

https://www.sfwa.org/2020/03/22/announcing-the-transformation-of-the-2020-nebula-conference-and-covid19-relief/

It'll include "panels, solo presentations, conference mentorships, workshops, forums, chats, and virtual room parties (including a dance party hosted by John Scalzi)." Part of the proceeds will go to relief for sf writers who are in covid-related financial distress.

It runs May 29-31, including a livestream of the Nebula Awards banquet. Registration is $150 and comes with a year of access to archived materials and the SFWA Bulletin.

Make America Well Again stamps (permalink)

I bought some of Ben Hannam's Trump No Cents stamps in 2017 and never looked back. I still put 'em on letters.

Now he's got a Make America Well Again stamp, which you can lick (if you dare) and stick for the duration. Remember, USPS is profitable and unsubsidized and Trump's swamp-dwellers want to shut it down and replace it with donors like Fedex and UPS!

Data is the new toxic waste (permalink)

My latest podcast is a reading of "Data – the new oil, or potential for a toxic oil spill?" — a column arguing that data was never "the new oil" – instead, it was always the new toxic waste: "pluripotent, immortal – and impossible to contain."

https://www.kaspersky.com/blog/secure-futures-magazine/data-new-toxic-waste/34184/

Data breaches are inevitable (any data you collect will probably leak; any data you retain will definitely leak) and cumulative (your company's data breach can be combined with each subsequent attack to revictimize your customers).

Identity thieves benefit enormously from cheap storage, and they collect, store and recombine every scrap of leaked data. Merging multiple data sets allows for reidentification of "anonymized" data, and it's impossible to predict which sets will leak in the future.

These nondeterministic harms have so far protected data-collectors from liability, but that can't last. Toxic waste also has nondeterministic harms (we never know which bit of effluent will kill which person), but we still punish firms that leak it.

Waiting until the laws change to purge your data is a bad bet – by then, it may be too late. All the data your company collects and retains represents an unquantifiable, potentially unlimited source of downstream liability.

What's more, you probably aren't doing anything useful with it. The companies that make the most grandiose claims about data analytics are either selling analytics or data (or both). These claims are sales literature, not peer-reviewed citations to empirical research.

Data is cheap to collect and store – if you don't have to pay for the chaos it sows when it leaks. And some day, we will make data-hoarders pay.

Here's the podcast:

https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/23/data-the-new-oil-or-potential-for-a-toxic-oil-spill/

Here's the MP3:

https://ia801406.us.archive.org/9/items/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_334/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_334_-Data-_the_new_oil_or_potential_for_a_toxic_oil_spill.mp3

And here's the link to subscribe to the podcast:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

Stock Jump

Stock Jump (permalink)

Last week, those of us lucky enough to have retirement savings joined the rest of the world, because our 401(k)s all cratered and all the promising stocks (teleconferencing, guillotines) are all way, way overpriced thanks to panic buying by Republican Senators.

But when life gives you SARS, you make sarsaparilla.

Enter Stock Jump, a ski-jump game whose courses are procedurally generated by the stock charts of shares from around the world.

It's really fun! If you can see through the tears.

http://stockjump.sos.gd/

Murdering 20% of elderly Americans is bad strategy for the GOP (permalink)

A thread by Patrick Nielsen Hayden on Making Light crystallized a thought that literally had me tossing and turning all night, about Trump's decision to risk the lives of ~20% of elderly Americans to goose the stock market.

https://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/016643.html#4402672

The thing I find baffling is how short-term this thinking is.

Not for Trump, of course, who is legendary for his view of life as a game of running across a river hopping from the back of one alligator to another before he can get his leg bitten off.

But for the right-wing establishment, whose whole schtick is "rationality" and "long-term thinking" and "self-control" (think of the gleeful repetition of the discredited Marshmellow Test and the rhetoric about the "poor life choices" that lead to single parenthood, addiction, and inadequate retirement savings or health insurance).

How is it that these self-congratulatory long-game-players can't see that murdering one in five American seniors is a self-limiting move when frightened old white people are the primary source of turkeys who can be counted upon to vote for Christmas every four years?

The right has an antimajoritarian, elitist agenda. Right-wing thought is essentially the belief that some people are destined to rule, and others are destined to be ruled over by their betters, and the world is best when the right people are atop the pyramid. Splits in the right are about who should rule: Dominionists want Christian men in charge; libertarians want bosses in charge, imperialists want America in charge, racists want white people in charge, etc.

Antimajoritarian projects struggle in democracies, for obvious reasons. When your platform is "only 1% of us should be making decisions" it's hard to win 51% of the vote. That's why the right focuses so hard on gerrymandering and voter suppression, and why the otherwise untenable coalitions — finaciers and young-Earth Creationists, say — persist.

But the biggest source of ballots in support of rule by elites is frightened people, especially frightened bigots who think that the elites will promote their interests ahead of the disfavored minorities (think: Dixiecrats).

So murdering 20% of the most reliable source of votes for elite rule is a farcically shortsighted thing to do.

I am terrified of a Biden candidacy not merely because I think his policies are poor, but because I think he is really bad at being a candidate, and will struggle to win.

But Trump murdering 20% of his base might just be enough to make him lose. It may be that while he could murder someone in the middle of 5th Ave and get away with it, he can't sentence 20% of US pensioners to gruesome deaths and get away with it.

I'm not gleeful at this prospect. I am totally aghast. I barely slept last night, waking up dozens of times with this genocide playing out in my imagination.

But I am incredibly surprised. How does the self-declared Party of the Long View not see that this is going to destroy it?

The stock market is circling the drain and obviously this is very distressing for the donor class, but almost no Americans own any significant stocks, because most Americans have NO savings. The idea that rescuing share prices by killing the elderly will get the turkeys out to vote for Christmas is clearly wrong.

For more on antimajoritarianism and the right, read Corey Robin's outstanding book, "The Reactionary Mind."

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1234117673316782082

Join me on the Quarantine Book Club (permalink)

I'm going participate in a session of the Quarantine Book Club on April 1 at 3PM Pacific, where we're discussing my book Radicalized. Tickets here:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/quarantine-book-club-cory-doctorow-tickets-100931360416

If $5 is a burden for you, you can get in free with the code ALLAREWELCOME.

Hope to see you!

The Party of Death (permalink)

In his 2017 book Four Futures, Peter Frase uses science fiction to sketch out four ways our society could go as capitalism ruptures, from communism to exterminism, this being the expression of bosses' fear and dependence on workers.

https://boingboing.net/2017/01/06/four-futures-using-science-fi.html

Frase posits a possible mass-automation event that makes workers superfluous (I'm skeptical of this: climate change guarantees 2-3 centuries of full employment, e.g., relocating every coastal city).

But in light of the Current Situation, he imagines a different form of exterminism.

https://jacobinmag.com/2020/03/coronavirus-economy-public-health-exterminism/

It's not just the GOP's willingness to murder 20% of seniors in the hopes of rescuing the Dow.

Plutes and their bootlickers have been calling for mass-deaths as a preferable alternative since the crisis first manifested, as when Tea Party founder Rick Santelli suggested "Maybe we'd be just better off if we gave it to everybody."

And of course, there was Boris Johnson and Dominick Cummings' plan to infect all of the UK to create "herd immunity." As Cummings said, "if that means some pensioners die, too bad."

Now Trump wants to potentially murder 20% of American seniors to rescue share prices, and the GOP is going along with him.

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1242444277264740353

The Republicans have become the Party of Death, with establishment figures like Thomas Friedman providing ideological cover (""let many of us get the coronavirus, recover and get back to work").

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/22/opinion/coronavirus-economy.html

Frase: "The ghoulishness of this strategy will become apparent when it is too late, when the hospitals fill and the health care system and the economy both collapse."

"Those in power will be held blameless, and those with wealth will sadly lament the foolishness of the lesser orders."

"Socialists have always insisted that human needs should take precedence over profit, that the stock market is not the economy, and that we need to utterly transform an economy that is immiserating working people and destroying the planet. That message will only become more urgent as our opponents across different parts of the ruling class come to the conclusion — mournfully for some, gleefully for others — that in the contest between loss of profit and loss of life, they choose death."

Financial stability vs economic stability (permalink)

Michael Hudson is a fascinating thinker, an expert in the history of debt and debt-forgiveness. See, e.g., this:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/23/tacocat-vs-dog-prostates/#jubilee

In a new interview, Hudson delves into that history: interest-bearing debt was invented in the third millennium BCE, and quickly kings learned that they had to have periodic debt forgiveness, or compound interest would render all debts unpayable.

https://digitalfinanceanalytics.com/blog/debt-and-power-with-michael-hudson/

Greeks and Romans did away with the practice, and so had to live with six centuries of debt-revolts, as ever-larger fractions of their populace ended up in a form of debt slavery.

Greek Democracy was created to allow commoners to serve in government and so vote to cancel debts. Roman emperors conquered Greece and did away with debt-cancellation, creating an increasingly unstable oligarchy.

That's not far off from where we are today. 90% of debts are held by the richest 10%, and these oligarchs own the political process and refuse to countenance debt-cancellation.

Obama promised to write down mortgages, but instead he bailed out finance, who kicked us all out and bought our houses out from under us, and then rented back to us. Since then, the Fed "has created $4.5 trillion of credit to support prices for real estate."

"The aim has been to make housing more expensive, enabling the banks to collect on their mortgages and not go under. Credit keeps the debt overhead in place, thereby keeping the financial system afloat instead of facing the reality that debt needs to be written down."

Trump's gonna do it again, giving $50b to airlines/Boeing. Since 2008, Boeing has spent $45b on buybacks. Trump's message: "Spend 92-95% of your income to buy your own hares, and the government will print money so you can do it again, because our priority is stock prices."

"Financial stability" is incompatible with "economic stability." Financial stability means never writing down debts so that the bad loans oligarchs made never turn into bad debts. Economic stability requires debt write-downs so that people can be productive.

Obama's bailouts increased big banks' Too Big to Fail status. That's why since 2008, "GDP per 95 percent of the American population is actually shrunk. All the growth in America's GDP has occurred only to the wealthiest 5% of the population."

Today, plutes "hope to use the crisis not to revive the economy, but to just pound it into debt deflation, leaving the debts in place while bailing out the banks and the landlord class."

Here's what "financial stability" looks like: "you have to pay this exponential growth in debt, [and] have less and less to buy goods and services."

Quarantine reveals the falsity of the automation crisis (permalink)

Automation-based unemployment has always been overhyped. Any work that robots take over merely frees up human workers for the 2-300 year project of climate remediation, including relocating every coastal city in the world.

But automation is also vastly overhyped. Take the oft-repeated claim that "truck driver" is the most common job in America, and first in line to be automated. It's just wrong.

First, because the BLS "truck driver" category includes long-haul truckers, delivery drivers, couriers, and dozens of other subprofessions, most of which are far, far away from being automatable.

https://hbr.org/2019/09/automation-isnt-about-to-make-truckers-obsolete

(More importantly, though: the most automatable category is long-haul driver, and an automated long-haul truck in its own dedicated lane is just a shitty train).

The overhyped nature of technological displacement is on perfect display during the pandemic quarantine. As many "low skilled" (which is to say, "low waged") workers withdraw from the workforce, the economy has ground to a halt.

So much so that the right is now prepared to throw 20+% of seniors into the volcano to appease the market gods.

The category error committed by automation-fretters is to confuse "automating a job" with "augmenting a worker."

"We know that robots are great at repetitive work. they can do that forever. What's not so great is anything with a human-centered context, a cultural context." -Julie Carpenter

https://www.wired.com/story/robot-jobs-coronavirus/

Bailouts and moral hazard (permalink)

It's been barely a decade since the USG bailed out big businesses and the fact that we're here again reveals some of the glaring failures in the last bailout. Any new bailout should correct those errors by putting restrictions on bailed-out companies.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/19/gb-whatsapp/#peoples-bailout

There have been some good proposals on these lines, like those from AOC and Stephanie Kelton:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/21/most-dangerous-ghost/#peoples-bailout

(whenever I write about this in public, I'm inundated with angry tweets from sociopaths with "investor" in their bios)

We're running out of time to get this right. DC is so filled with money-hungry lobbyists that they can't practice adequate social distancing, and they're collectively seeking trillions in string-free public money for their paymaster.

https://www.ineteconomics.org/perspectives/blog/rule-number-1-for-government-bailouts-of-companies-make-sure-voters-and-taxpayers-share-in-the-upside

At a minimum, any bailouts should come in exchange for convertible corporate bonds that let the USG take an ownership stake in any business that fails to repay its public debts. That's a minimum, as is a ban on stock buybacks for bailed out companies.

We need very strict limits on lobbying by bailed out firms: "If we are not to finance our own bamboozlement, any company receiving bailouts must be required each month to file full reports on political contributions and lobbying expenditures to candidates and parties."

This goes for dark money contributions, including 527 funds, and corporate/exec contributions to trade associations and other lobbying fronts, think-tanks, and other political influence vehicles.

"Unlike last time, when Hank Paulson, Tim Geithner, and Ben Bernanke failed to give the public a serious share of the upside, the bailed out firms should be compelled to issue convertible bonds to the government."

"Those bonds should make the government the senior creditor to the firm for the value of the principal as long as the debt is unpaid…As firms and the economy recover, the shares can be sold on the open market, yielding a handsome return to the Treasury."

The right likes to harp about "moral hazard" as an excuse for cutting aid, to, say, single mothers ("It only encourages them"). But what about businesses that needed trillions in 2008 and now need trillions more? What lesson are we teaching them?

(Image: Alex Proimos, CC BY)

MIT's ingenious manual/automatic open source ventilator (permalink)

At the end of last week, a crowdsourced design for an open-source hardware ventilator entered testing with the Irish regulator, a week after work began on the project.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/20/pluralistic-20-mar-2020/#oshw-breathing

Now, hot on its heels, an MIT open source hardware ventilator team has submitted its design to the FDA for testing and approval, under the Emergency Use Authorization (EUA) authority.

https://e-vent.mit.edu/

It eliminates many possible sources of failure by replacing an electric pump with a manual one, which can, in turn, be operated by a separate, very simple, Arduino-controlled system (which can be readily swapped out for a human hand if it fails).

As Hackaday points out, "Almost as interesting as the device itself is the comments people are leaving about the design."

https://hackaday.com/2020/03/23/mit-ventilator-designed-with-common-manual-resuscitator-submitted-for-fda-testing/

This day in history (permalink)

#15yrsago Record sales up, P2P sales up — RIAA's story doesn't add up https://web.archive.org/web/20050822053404/http://news.com.com/2100-1027_3-5631698.html

#15yrsago Octopuses dressed up as sea coconuts sneaking on two legs https://www.nature.com/news/2005/050321/full/050321-14.html

#10yrsago Pooh vs Alien: Webcomics realize their full potential at last http://godxiliary.com/alienvspooh/

#10yrsago Airport worker caught photographing screen as female worker passed through naked scanner https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2010/mar/24/airport-worker-warned-body-scanner

#10yrsago UK record lobby: democracy is a waste of time https://www.openrightsgroup.org/blog/2010/corporate-lobbyists-no-need-for-democracy

#5yrsago How medical abortion works https://www.ohjoysextoy.com/medical-abortion/

#5yrsago ACLU sues TSA to make it explain junk science "behavioral detection" program https://www.aclu.org/press-releases/nyclu-and-aclu-sue-tsa-records-discredited-behavior-detection-program

#5yrsago Randomized dystopia generator that goes beyond the Bill of Rights https://www.harihareswara.net/dystopia/

#1yrago Man stole $122m from Facebook and Google by sending them random bills, which the companies dutifully paid https://www.bleepingcomputer.com/news/security/lithuanian-pleads-guilty-to-stealing-100-million-from-google-facebook/

#1yrago Chelsea Manning is being held in prolonged solitary confinement, a form of torture https://xychelsea.is/?page_id=28

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Tor.com (https://tor.com), Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/), Slashdot (https://slashdot.org/).

Currently writing: I'm getting geared up to start work my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Data – the new oil, or potential for a toxic oil spill? https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/23/data-the-new-oil-or-potential-for-a-toxic-oil-spill/

Upcoming appearances:

Quarantine Book Club, April 1, 3PM Pacific https://www.eventbrite.com/e/quarantine-book-club-cory-doctorow-tickets-100931360416

Museums and the Web, April 2, 12PM-3PM Pacific https://mw20.museweb.net/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020. https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a new introduction by Edward Snowden: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250774583