#they have this pre-determined opinion of what the story is supposed to be that they have been fixed on since s2

[starbylers]

No but I do find it funny how Mlvns are throwing tantrums, furiously conceding that Byler could possibly happen, cursing the writers and saying they’ve given into fan service, all because of ST day ignoring their ship when tbh marketing should be the last thing causing anyone to lose hope this early on 😭 Like how is this the thing that took you out yet Mleven lying fighting separating and not speaking once after Mike’s ugly-lit monologue with Will’s kicked puppy face in the back didn’t phase you? Will showering Mike with love to comfort his insecurities instead of his literal girlfriend doing it, and the reminder of those misattributed-to-El feelings giving Mike the strength to “confess” didn’t make you stop and think?? Not even the insanely staged final scene Byler + couples framing made you blink??? I just think it goes to show that they really pay attention to and place importance on the wrong things, having to have things spelled out for them by the ST promo team (like that Will’s hidden love confession is obviously the most heartfelt moment) in order for them to even acknowledge a different perspective, meanwhile the rest of us just watched the show lol.

[vincite-noctem]

A/N: Typed this on my phone, because Jonathan Crane is bbg and I had a random idea that grew into a short little story thing. It's written in third person because I'm trying the style out for myself. The MC knows of Jonathan's business as Scarecrow and the toxin.

Summary: She is the second in command of Arkham, working side by side with Jonathan Crane. When Rachel Daws doubts Crane's diagnose of Falcone's insanity, she asks Y/n for a second professional opinion on the matter. She may not be corrupted by Falcone, but other, arguably higher forces impact her honesty in the matter...

Warnings: mention of blood, lying to authorities, Jonny is a bit of an idiot because he can't figure out that r! has feelings for him.

words: 1430

A dull knock resonates from the wooden door to Jonathan Crane's office. He stares angrily at the frosted glass pane and the silhouette of the person vaguely visible through it.

"What could be important enough to get on my nerves with at this late hour? Make it quick, I don't have all the time in the world."

The door opens, and through the thin crack slips a female figure, clearly recognizable by the usual dark garb she tends to wear - black turtleneck shirt and gray slacks. In her hand she holds a small medical kit.

"You don't have to take your frustration out on me," she says snappishly and takes a seat in the chair opposite his office chair, the med kit on her lap.

"Y/n, what's your concern?" he asks, his questioning gaze fixed on the small black bag on her lap. "I've got a lot to do, and really no time for any little games."

She sighs. "Daws asked me to do a second diagnosis on Falcone. She doesn't trust you, but she thinks me trustworthy enough because I'm one of the few people he hasn't bought into yet. She also wants a blood test to make sure you didn't drug him," she explains quietly.

"So, what is that supposed to tell me now? My second-in-command is going to rat me out to the authorities and take my place, and I'll spend the rest of my days in the pokey-"

"No." she interrupts him, "Just listen to me first. I need you to draw my blood." She sets the first-aid kit on the table.

"Why should I draw your blood?" He doesn't seem to fully grasp her train of thought.

"So I can switch up the samples. I'll take Falcone's sample later in the presence of Daws, and then evaluate it down in the lab. I'll switch the two samples, and run the tests on my own blood. You know your toxin would show up on the lab results, we determined that weeks ago. There are no substances in my blood, I have no pre-existing conditions that would show up in the results, everything looks completely normal. If I give her those lab results, plus the diagnosis of his mental illness, then she can't present anything else to the court and he stays here."

At the end of her brief monologue, she rolls up the long sleeve of her black shirt and holds out her arm to him, the pale skin of the crook of her arm turned upward.

Jonathan looks at her closely, his blue eyes sparkling insistently behind the narrow lenses of his glasses.

"And what do you get out of Falcone staying here? Why are you helping him?"

She shakes her head vigorously. "You need to understand me. I'm doing this for you, Jonathan. If his blood test is clean and my diagnosis is the same as yours, it will spare your reputation and save you from discredit and jail. So, take my blood now, I have an appointment with Daws in ten minutes."

She pushes the first aid kit further in his direction. He caves and reaches for it, pulls the sterile gloves over his hands, and disinfects the crook of her arm before carefully sticking the needle into her vein. Y/n watches intently as the ruby red liquid drips into the test tube until it reaches the fill line and Jonathan pulls the needle out under pressure. He closes the tube and she sticks the label with Falcone's name on it before carefully sliding it into her pocket. She pulls the sleeve of her shirt back down to hide the puncture site and stands up.

"Fine. I'll be on my way, it would be counterproductive if someone sees me coming out of your office," she mumbles and turns to leave. She is already standing at the door with the handle in her hand when he finally says something again.

"Why are you doing this, Y/n?"

As she looks back at him over her shoulder, their gazes meet. She is unable to hide anything from the intense blue of his eyes - at least she thought so until now. Her voice is soft as she answers.

"You have no idea, huh? You're an intelligent man, Jonathan. Think."

With these words, she leaves his office and quickly darts away like a shadow, towards a completely different wing of Arkham. Covering Tracks. Jonathan quickly disposes of the medical kit, dropping it into the bottom drawer of the small cabinet next to his desk. All the while, his thoughts run a mile a minute. What is Y/n's motive in this? What does she get out of helping him in this situation, what advantage does it have for her?

Y/n, meanwhile, is punctual as a stopwatch when she arrives outside the cell Falcone is situated in at the moment. Rachel Daws is already there, briefcase in her hand, staring through the smudged window into the interior. Y/n puts on her therapeutic smile, the one that earned her the reputation as Arkham's soft psychiatrist, the kind young goody two shoes, who has no other thoughts than helping the poor patients in her care. How deceiving a smile can be, she thinks.

"Ms. Daws, I suppose you'll come into the room with me? Or do you prefer to wait out here?"

The prosecutor shakes her head and says in the weighty tone she seems to automatically adopt while executing her legal business, "No no, I stayed here to monitor the whole thing. I'll come with you."

Y/n just nods sympathetically and opens the heavy steel door with the sleek key card. She thanks herself for the nerves of steel she had developed from working at Arkham Asylum. If she didn't have them, her hands would surely be shaking like aspen leaves with nervousness. She takes the blood from Falcone with practiced movements, sticks the label on the test tube and puts it in her pocket. Daws immediately protests and asks to personally bring the sample forward for safekeeping on the way down to the lab. Y/n, who had already expected this, hands her the test tube - the wrong one, of course, having already mixed up the two samples in her bag without Daws noticing.

"Of course. I beg your pardon Ms. Daws, it's a force of habit," she says placatingly.

The two women make their way downstairs to the lab, where Y/n examines the sample under Rachel Daws' watchful eye and evaluates the results. Fifteen minutes later, she hands the results to the prosecutor in writing. All the values of the test are completely normal, nothing indicates that Falcone is under the influence of any substance.

"Ms. Daws, under these circumstances, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do but declare Falcone mentally incompetent. I am sorry. I will fax the report in writing to your office tonight." The psychiatrist says, and sincere displeasure resonates in her voice. Of course she wants to see Falcone behind bars, the man is a smug pig and an absolute monster. Except that in this case, however, Jonathan's career directly hangs in the balance, and if she has to choose one of those things, it's without a doubt Jonathan. The frustration on the young prosecutor's face is clearly visible as she resignedly accepts the lab results and lets them disappear into her files.

"Thank you anyway, Dr. L/n." she says quietly, and turns to leave with a nod.

"I hope they can still charge him with enough than he's going to Blackgate." Y/n calls after her. She's unsure if the lawyer hears her, because she doesn't get any more replies. Alone in the lab, she sighs and leans against the table, her head hanging back and her eyes closed against the cold light of the old fluorescent tubes.

Shortly after, she begins to clean the work surface and equipment, wiping them down with saline solution and then disinfecting them first with ethanol, then with hydrogen peroxide, and placing them on one of the numerous perforated trays to drain. The door behind her opens, and she feels a familiar, inquisitive look at her back.

"Why did you do this, y/n? Why are you risking all this for me? You know who I am, what I do. Why?"

[spotlightlowlife]

Controversial take. I hope Eve hazbin Lilith ALL ALONG.

I don't mean that seven year gap, but as far back as pre Charlie, making her Charlie's real mother.

Hear me out.

This could be a shortcut in explaining why Charlie feels so at home amongst the sinners, they really could be blood family. Maybe she could even have been raised amongst them because this supposed Lilith wanted to be around her descendants. For whatever reason.

What if sinners were dropping into hell and real Lilith, as the story goes, was making hell a nice place to be and like Adam, Eve felt that those are her offspring who should be showing that gratitude to her. A meaningful shared opinion that was acted upon and not just something the villain of the moment said but nobody cared. Let characters have something to do with one another!

Maybe real Lilith and fellow dreamer, like Lucifer and Charlie, was also like them, a pushover who is up for shortcuts. Seeing as selling souls to one another is a thing in this, what if Eve set out to replace Lilith and took on her image? What if it had been a contract not looked over properly, also a thing as seen in spinoff series Helluva boss?

What if this is the explanation behind Lilith and Lucifer's love that seems to have fizzled out overtime?

This would helpwould mean Lucifer, who writing is determined to paint as fun and innocent, was oblivious.

This could help explain the overall awkward family dynamic.

The big pink elephant in the room I hope people caught onto would be that this would mean their relationship was a drawn out SA, consent was not offered to Eve. Considering the fact that this is an adults show that has its moments or seriousness and we are told that Eve bought evil upon the world in receiving the gift, why not brave this story?

It will give Charlie who has had weak angst sent her way (since being robbed of the 'normal' nuclear family she had in the pilot) something truly horrible to have to learn and live with.

Charlie was robbed of the opportunity of having a particular opinion on the father of the sinners who mean so much to her, now what of the mother of sinners is also her mother, there's no way she can have a lack of content and input this way surely?

[mayimkjs]

FOOL's MATE Master Post

What is "FOOL's MATE"?

FOOL's MATE will be a documentary about Kayano Mikoto from MILGRAM. The goal of FOOL's MATE is to discus all of the theories and dive into all of the aspects of his character.

MILGRAM (ミルグラム) is an ongoing interactive music project by DECO*27 and Takuya Yamanaka that was first established in April 2020. MILGRAM is a mysterious, magical prison that houses 10 prisoners who have all committed a murder and it’s the job the guard to determine if their crimes are forgivable. Mikoto, the 9th prisoner, has Dissociative Identity Disorder. This means that he has multiple personalities/identities called “Alters”. Because of this, he has the most complex and confusing story out of all the prisoners. No one knows who truly committed "his" murder.

Why am I doing this?

I'm currently getting my Bachelor's in Digital Media Production and in a few terms, I'll be having a documentary class. I thought I'd get a head start on pre-production. I'm also making this as something for my portfolio.

Notes

The research document is sorta like a jumping off point for multiple other things like the script and a shot list. Because I'm basing my script off of this, it's sorta wordy and there are some jokes (one's an inside joke).

So far in terms of filming, I'm planning on having a scene where I go to an actual psychic to get their opinion on Mikoto's tarot reading in MeMe. There will also be a continuous scene that's going to be sorta inspired by Mystery Files, so me presenting this shit to my friends like an insane person. 

Disclaimers

I do not claim to be a mental health professional by any means. This documentary is being made for entertainment purposes only. If I get anything wrong, please correct me.

I do not condone the harassment of any involved party due to the contents of this project.

The content in this documentary are suppose to have a neutral view point and based on fact and common theories unless stated otherwise.

School Dates

These are so people know sorta where I am and how close I am to my docu class. Don't worry, these are vague enough that I won't get doxed.

Current: Summer, Term 8

Docu Pre-Pro: Fall, Term 9

Docu: Winter, Term 10

Tags

Research - #fools mate research

Behind the Scenes - #fools mate bts

Update Posts - #fools mate update

Polls - #fools mate poll

Asks - #fools mate asks

Storyboards - #fools mate boards

Promo Videos - #fools mate pv

Misc - #fools mate extras

Forms

Feedback

Commissions

Volunteering

Links

FAQ

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Milanote

Latest Tumblr Update

Latest Reddit Update

Latest Research Doc

This post will be updated as time goes on

[musamora]

MUSE !! how do u plot a rlly long fic :0 curious bc i might be... Thinking about something after my current multi-chapter fic BUT SHHHHHH !!

HI RED !! i'll be completely honest, the entire process i'm currently undergoing has been trial-and-error. i've never actually plotted a fanfic in such a detailed way, but here are a few things that have definitely helped me with my current one (•̀ᴗ•́ )و

first, i've written down the exact goals that i wanted to accomplish with the fic. the more goals you have, the longer the fic will likely be to properly fit those goals in a timely manner, so be aware! second, the middle! the proclaimed hardest part of the story. i've found that working with a pre-made plot structure (such as a three-act structure or the "save the cat" plotting method) has helped me focus on the details i absolutely need to include and filter out the unnecessary filler. the way i've mostly written the middle is by starting at the very beginning, gaining momentum from a confident introduction and doing the writer version of sketching out the middle using that energy. it doesn't have to be perfect, and it doesn't have to make sense. the great thing about a sketch is that it can easily be erased, but oftentimes it leaves traces that help better determine exactly where you actually want the story to go. third, change. it's important to keep an open mind whenever writing! you may be super in love with a certain plot point, but it may not work with what you want to accomplish. writing can be a process of compromising, so sometimes you have to say goodbye to those ideas to incorporate better-fitting ones. finally, breaks. it's important and (in my opinion) vital to take breaks from plotting. if you feel yourself becoming drained by writing, take a break. it could be an hour, a day, a week, or even a month! i know as writers, we oftentimes leave wips in the drafts, but most of the time, that's because our only memories of them are being bogged down with stress. fanfic writing is supposed to be relaxing, but we oftentimes act like we're working for a publishing company. you don't owe anything to anyone (even though we obviously love our readers very much). and this applies to all parts of the writing process, not just plotting!

this was a lot longer than i thought it would be, but i hope it helps! can't wait to see what you plan to write, i know it will be great! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

[justathoughtfulangel]

Story Writing Tips

Hello lovelies! I had a friend ask me for some story writing tips IRL and figured I could share them here as well for whomever they may benefit :) These are not organized in any particular order and are really just practices I follow. Your writing is wonderful and beautifully unique, whether these practices resonate with you or not. 1) Let your characters decide ~ This is one of my best tips for dealing with writer's blocks. Suppose you're reaching a climactic point in your story and feel like it could go in five directions from that point on. Don't force yourself to make a decision and stick with it. When you get to that pivotal moment, rather than pre-determining what happens to your characters, let them take the lead. How they will react and what they will say will come to you as you immerse them and yourself in the moment.

2) Don't feel pressured to write chronologically ~ Again, something to help with writer's block. If you're having trouble getting through a plot point, don't write it next. Jump to a part you feel you can write for and go back to the one that's got you stuck.

3) Do not delete anything you write ~ Some of my most successful stories have come to life because I was planning to write something else entirely but incorporated a different plot point because I wanted to use a previously written paragraph. Even if you don't love how a paragraph turned out, have a half-baked idea you couldn't complete, or any other reasons for miscellaneous paragraphs, don't delete them!! You don't know when they may come in handy later. 4) Synonyms are one of your best friends ~ I love using synonyms for potentially commonplace words. They add a layer of richness and deeper meaning beyond what you would initially deliver.

5) Vary sentence length to increase the readability of your works ~ Just as high school English teaches us, sometimes it can be tough to read multi-line sentences back to back. Varying your sentence length and going between long, mid-length, and short sentences will create a flow for your reader.

6) Nothing is really original ~ I know, controversial opinion. I just believe so much has been done; coming up with new plot twists and character arcs and story tropes is next to impossible. Let this idea motivate you, not deter you! Even if something's been done, your unique take on it will make all the difference and give your readers something amazing to encounter. Maybe something seems obvious to you because you've spent hours mulling over a detail/plot point. I promise you, your reader will be in for the ride of their life. I hope these are helpful for you! Always remember that you have an unbelievable capacity to be a phenomenal writer, and if you need a reminder, I'm here to give that to you at anytime. Lots of love, JustAThoughtfulAngel

[unbreakable-oaths]

FFXIV Write Prompt #8- Shed

Takes place during Shadowbringers, sometime after the death of the Rak’tika lightwarden.

AO3 Link

An au ra doesn’t often shed their scales. At least, not after puberty they don’t. For starters, it’s physiologically fatiguing, and it leaves the individual bereft of their natural armor while they wait for their new scales to finish growing in and hardening. Of course, old and damaged scales would always need replacing, but for a full body shed to be prompted after an individual was already full grown? Something truly traumatic would have had to occur.

Ibakha glared at the pearly white scales scattered on her pillow and very pointedly did not examine her blanket to see how much had been shed from the rest of her body during the overnight hours. She didn’t need to know. She didn’t want to know. Those scales were the wrong colour so therefore they couldn’t have possibly come from her. And surely, if she just kept telling herself that, it would be true. The light damaged scales winked back at her, making a mockery of her thoughts.

Truly, she supposed, taking in enough light aether to kill a normal person three times over with plans to continue doing so would be a suitably traumatic enough event to prompt a shed of this caliber. While that light hummed with power under her skin, enhancing her combat abilities beyond even her previous limits, it was also corrupting her physical form beyond recognition. No wonder Y’shtola didn’t recognise her when she arrived in Rak’tika. She couldn’t even recognise herself anymore if you were to hand her a mirror and she didn’t want to know what that meant her aether looked like to her partner.

And this constant shed had her exhausted. The others had definitely noticed that by now, as much as she had tried to hide it. Fewer fetch quests, more interference when strangers tried to approach her, the Scions had definitively closed ranks around her with only the gravest of concerns making it all the way to the “warrior of darkness”. Ryne stole her equipment before she had a chance to either attempt to maintain or repair it and, with Thancred’s help, brought it back spotless before she needed it again. Urianger and Alphinaud seemed determined to talk the ears off anyone who tried to approach her in such a way that they eventually gave up in frustration. Alisaie was running fetch quests like a madwoman, singularly fixated on both proving her worth and keeping Ibakha from attempting to do them herself.

The funniest of all though, in Ibakha’s opinion at least, was Shtola self-appointing herself as bedrest enforcement. She couldn’t leave camp without an escort (usually a certain white-haired miqo’te) lest she “sneak off and do something foolish”. She would have argued that she was too tired for “foolish”, but unfortunately for her the Great Serpent of Ronka that now followed her about told a different story about her willingness to ignore her fatigue in search of a new adventure. While they were within the larger settlements Y’shtola had also taken to barring entry to their (now shared) chambers to anyone not a Scion, and even they were still banned sometimes. (Alisaie told her, once, that Y’shtola had sent the Exarch himself packing once while they were staying in the Crystarium simply because he had happened to try to stop by while Ibakha was sleeping.)

As terrible as the shed was, Ibakha reflected, it wasn’t all bad. It was certainly odd to be the one being protected, instead of being the one doing the protecting, but it was nice to be surrounded by all the tangible evidence of how much they all cared. What was also nice was it now took nearly no effort to convince the miqo’te to cuddle with her because, after all, didn’t she want Ibakha to be resting? Y’shtola was, more often than not, willing to oblige her even if she did drag one of her many books with her too.

The scales winked at her again in the pre-dawn light. Tiny shimmering diamonds that belonged to her yet didn’t. The mirror lied, but her friends did not, and, with them beside her, she would save this world. After all, isn’t that what heroes like her were supposed to do?

[inbarfink]

I’ve seen a few discussions in the Deltarune fandom, especially during/right after the Spamton Sweepstakes, trying to like… determine the time period in which Deltarune take place. I think the most common assumption is that it’s a contemporary setting based on the ‘202X’ year written down in the hidden files for Ralsei’s Manual back in Chapter 1. But I’ve seen arguments that the very retro look of Noelle’s Blog as seen in the Sweepstakes links indicate that Deltarune takes place in the early 2000’s or late 90’s. Maybe ‘1997’ isn’t actually a distant year of the past, but, like, literally just last year??

But while I understand where these theories are coming from, in my opinion there’s one important thing that we’ve got to keep in mine. Deltarune does not take place in our world. It’s a universe with a wildly divergent history where Monsters take up a sizable present of the population and magic, although rare, is real. Their world exist in duality with an alternative reality made of dream and darkness and like, may or may not be part of some sort of a mad science experiment…

Why would they use the same dating system as our world? We measure years from the supposed birth of Jesus, but does Christianity even exist in this universe? The Holidays’ nickname for Kris being ‘Krismas’ (and like, actually the Holidays whole existence) implies there is a Christmas and therefore a Christ. But otherwise the Angel’s Religion seems to fill Christianity slot in this setting. And who knows how they started counting their years!

And hell , there’s no reason to assume this universe’s technological development directly parallel ours. I mean, look at Undertale. That story takes place some unspecified time after the year “201X” (201X was the year Chara fell into the Underground. Since basically no one recognizes a human on-sight, and the only characters who have first-person recollection of the pre-Royal-Siblings-death era are either immortal or incredibly long-lived - we can assume it was at least a generation). And the technology is a combination of, like, fantasy-medieval, slightly-outdated-to-contemporary technology and high-tech science fiction shit. 

Sure, a some of it might be explained with a combination of magic + the fact that a lot of the Underground’s tech is reversed-engineered from Human garbage. But still… Even what little we see of the surface world in the True Pacifist credits seems to be closer to our world than, like, the year 211X or whatever. 

The Light World in Deltarune is intended to feel closer to our ‘real world’, but I still wouldn’t be surprised if a divergence in it’s technological development led to it being the kind of setting where, like, Minecraft and Webrings and TikTok are equally current and popular. Part of the point of Deltarune’s vaguely ‘contemporary’ setting is to evoke a sense of nostalgia - so it won’t surprise me if the very divergent history is used simply to create a world that consist a mish-mash of nostalgic elements for different generations.

(For the record, I do kinda abide by the ‘202X’ date used in Ralsei’s Manual, with the caveat that since it’s technically not in-game and contains some outdated information, I will throw it away if I find a more solidly-sourced date. But I just don’t think the name of the year necessarily indicate anything about the time period this world parallels)

[wildcalendula]

common cold

as I wake up that scratch back in my voice I hope it‘s from long nights spent giving my opinion on that new ice cream place that just moved in while tasting wine that‘s near too heavy for the occasion

sluggish and body full of warmth hope makes me believe in alternate beginnings even the uncommon ones

a summer night spent traversing the city an experience in using many words me and them and strangers all together a coalescence of paths bathed in streetlights clouded by tiny little flies orbiting around (I coughed) the one point of existence I can absolutely feel myself not alone pre-determined, I was supposed to be here

do I believe it, do I believe in stories I dream of or do I accept the actuality of my body here in this state all scratched up in chilling fever

close to the water‘s edge we sit and notice people coming and going the ones that stay gain music a sudden reveal of couples dancing, dress shoes included turning around my neck hurts trying to take it all in

I could have stayed home in bed since what is more common human connection in dreams like these or the cold I have been having for close to 8 years now

[billconrad]

Overrated

     “Overrated” is a technical term applied to mechanical or electrical devices. For example, when a shelf rated for ten pounds breaks when one pound is applied, we would declare this shelf overrated. That usage makes perfect sense, but I dislike it when the word describes something non-technical. For example, I found an article defending Rick and Morty from people calling it overrated.

    I agree with the article, but let’s take a step back. The animation is subpar, and the main character is ultra-arrogant. Perhaps the most arrogant character in television history. Those are two big blows, and it should be permissible for a person to say, “I know you like the show, but you are ignoring these major flaws.” We live in an open society and should be encouraged to point out flaws. Sometimes, we must be vocal to get our point across. That is how we learn, evolve, and change.

    What is the psychology behind this word? It is a word that helps people convince others to agree with them. Another way of stating this is that we wish to soften a disapproval slam. “In the upcoming election, don’t vote for X. They are overrated.” Meaning: I do not like X, and neither should you.

    Am I guilty of using this term? One famous movie that comes to mind is Twilight. I watched it in the theater and was disappointed. What about all the fans who cherish their beloved movie? It is tempting to say, “For each, his own.” Yet, that would be me falsely claiming to be the better person. If I honestly listed the flaws, would my summary not include the word overrated? After all, my tear-down would directly contradict the millions of fans who cherished the movie.

    After thinking about my question and re-writing this article several times, I realized that this word applies to my thoughts. Dang, my admission is upsetting. This article aimed to explain why this word should only be used for technical applications. Reading it is a red flag identifying someone not open to new ideas, fresh perspectives, other people’s feelings, or how difficult it is to create something. I want to say that these people have a pre-determined opinion that overrides their common sense and courtesy.

    Yet… Here I am. The word applies to the movie Twilight. Reading that sentence boils my blood, and I want to delete it. It is like I am going up to every movie fan and insulting them. That is not me! But somehow, it is. Well? What does this all mean? This article was supposed to be a simple lighthearted discussion but it has turned into one of the most difficult ones I have ever written. I cannot convince myself that my altruistic argument is correct, and there can only be one conclusion. I am overrated. In my wildest dreams, I would never have anticipated applying that word to myself.

    You’re the best -Bill

    April 10, 2024

    Hey, book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

    Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in softcover on Amazon and in eBook format everywhere.

[donutloverxo]

A Royal Scandal 2

Modern royalty au

(Image from Pinterest)

Cowritten with @lizzygal

I'm so sorry! I made a mistake while posting this yesterday so I'm reposting it now. Hope y'all enjoy💖

Note - Since y'all liked it so much we've decided to post this fic on both ao3 and my tumblr! There will be no taglists for this however💖 You can subscribe to the ao3 story to receive updates!

Please note that my stories are not to be stolen or reposted on any other site. Reblogs are welcome. This blog and this story is 18+. Do not read, follow or interact if you are not 18+.

Summary - Modern ruler, His Majesty King Steven G Rogers, is on a quest to make his long term secret relationship the real thing. He is a man in love and wants his lover and partner to be his queen.

Warnings - Smut (m/f), dub con/non con, sex tape, scandals, mentions of past domestic abuse, soft dark Steve, possessive Steve, spanking, power imbalance, Mentions of previous domestic abuse.

Pairing - King!Steve x reader

Word count - 8k

To be fair, Steven could understand why his mother was so upset after watching the entire footage from the royal steam rooms. He had a far better understanding after having seen the footage in question. The one that had led to his mother’s reaction that very morning.

Seated beside Carol on the ride back, he slipped in his wireless earbuds and pulled up the first video he found online on his phone.

A separate car had been sent for you for whenever your meeting completed. However, he had a whole series of his own back at the palace before his day could be considered over in the administrative offices. Days were never really over for him. Should anything happen somewhere in his nation, he would be informed. As was expected for a ruler.

Until then, he had fifteen or so minutes to kill till he arrived back at the royal palace, depending on city traffic.

Which was how he found himself watching what was obviously some sort of hidden camera. As the royal banya did not have CCTV cameras. Steve found himself making a mental note to himself to ask Carol about it.

After he watched the video.

He had the feeling that this would not be going away anytime soon. Therefore, he needed to know what was on there if he was going to have to defend his actions, or even speak about it.

It was somewhat surreal watching himself walk into view wearing nothing. Not even a towel. Talking with someone who was obviously you.

Based on where the camera was located, Steve could tell it was somewhere in the hallway that led from the steam rooms into either the showers or locker room. Thank all the saints above your back was to the camera. Half of it anyway. You were standing at a turn in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Half of you hidden. A towel wrapped around your body.

Thanking those saints above still that there was no sound, Steve watched on as a voice narrated the video, some celebrity blogger dissecting the footage as if it were a pivotal moment in some sporting event.

Steve watched himself turn to face you, facing the camera too and exposing his entire self to the world.

Not that he was ashamed. He had nothing to be ashamed about. Steve was built tall and powerful like his father and mother’s father. He kept himself in shape and as for the manhood that hung heavy between his thighs, he refused to be embarrassed by that either. The blogger however did have several opinions about what she referred to as, the royal sword.

She also seemed to be very opinionated when Steve watched himself kneel down in front of you. He’d never watched himself go down on you before and found himself transfixed, easily able to ignore the blogger’s excited rambling.

For once, Steve watched your hands sink into his hair as he sank between your legs. He watched your pleasure grow and grow, he watched you sag back into the wall and reach up, grabbing at it like a cat stretching out in the hot sun.

Seeing it happen like this? Steve felt like a voyeur. He felt like he was doing something wrong. And then, he watched you climax on his face. He watched your hands tighten up against the corner of the walls meeting. He watched himself stand and no longer noticed the commentary as he sheathed himself between your legs and proceeded to pound you into the wall without mercy.

His attention caught on one little inconsequential thing. Watching one of your legs that wound over his thigh bounce wildly each time.

Quickly he exited out of the video and blog. Unwilling to watch more. Pulling a bud from his ear, he glanced over at Carol who was watching the city fly by her window.

“Have you inquired as to if the palace guard has looked into how the video was taken in the royal banya?”

Blonde hair dusted her shoulders as she looked at her king. Carol answered without a second of hesitation. “Already done Your Majesty. The camera was found this morning. A webcam of some type. It’s been sent away for fingerprints and I have the best IT professional I know looking into it, to determine if we can track down who it belongs to. The royal guard has also launched an investigation into all palace employees.”

“Thank you,” he answered her with complete sincerity.

Captain Danvers had been at his side since he assumed the throne and had proven herself hundreds of times over. She was his confidant. She was his bodyguard. She was his closest thing to a friend, if Steve could say he had such a thing. He could tell Carol anything. He had told Carol about you. Carol had told him about her sick mother and in return, Steve have given her a cottage on palace grounds while providing a nurse. So that Carol would be able to spend as much time as possible with her mother in her final days. Carol still lived on the palace grounds in that cottage down by the gardens.

“I’ll let you know when I know something,” she assured him.

***

Your return to the palace felt like it took forever. Mostly because your panties were very obviously damp from leakage and you were greatly concerned about a wet stain. The modern equivalent of a scarlet letter. Letting everyone know what you’d done.

Twice you’d checked in a bathroom along with every mirrored surface you came across.

Alas, it seemed you were in luck.

No one would know that you’d had inappropriate contact on a workday, or think you’d had an accident. Granted if someone would have noticed you planned on blaming your monthlies.

By the grace of the many women who came before you, you managed to get back to the palace without being caught and were about to go change your panties when a familiar face popped into your office.

“Hey! You’re coming! I’m not taking no for an answer!”

Wanda.

Bright red hair and a brighter red dress that was far from office appropriate appeared in your office, leaping in like an acrobat leaping onto a stage. Making you look up from where you stood behind your desk, digging through your handbag.

A bunch of different thoughts buzzed through your head.

What was Wanda talking about? Where did she want you to go? Did Wanda wear that mini-dress to work? Cause it was about five inches too short and did downright sinful things to the girls. Wanda could always pull off anything. She looked amazing in clubwear, sweats and those tea-party dresses that Jackie O was always wearing.

“Coming?” Fell from your lips in a valiant attempt to stall till you could make sense of what was happening. “What are you not taking no for an answer for this time?”

In your roommate swept like a hurricane.

“It’s practically six!” She declared, as if that was supposed to mean something to you. It had you staring at her and waiting for more information. Hands paused in their hunt for clean panties and a pantyliner in your bag’o’stuff. “No more talk of this fake boyfriend. You and me are going to go have dinner. We’re going to hit the bars to pre-game and then to the clubs! Everyone is going so you are too!”

Such news had you freezing in your patent leather pumps.

Pre-gaming? Dinner? Clubs? Everyone?

How?

It was only Thursday and then you remembered.

It was a long weekend. The winning of some great victory over the Germans from the big war that you only kinda remembered hearing about. Mostly because you’d been busy with the border issue and the education overhaul. You’d known that it was coming up and the entire four-day weekend would be spent celebrating.

Wanda saw your face. She saw what you were thinking. She was practically a mind reader. Which led her to pointing at you scoldingly. “No! No no no! No checking emails or messages. No more work. No! We’re going out tonight and we are going to have fun! You remember what fun is? Right?”

But…you really did have emails and messages to check. You actually did have a ton of work to do. Granted you always had emails and messages to check, plus work piling up. It was the nature of your job. Helping in the running of a country was a 24/7 gig.

“Wanda…”

“Nope!” She declared, marching on into your office and behind your desk to chase you out. Shooing you. Literally making you hop away and grab your handbag because you just knew Wanda wasn’t letting you back near your desk. That much was for sure.

Like a sheepdog, she herded you around your messy desk as you attempted to protest, to get her to listen, to inform her that you really really did have a good bit of work to do.

“Wait…hold on…wait, Wanda…just one second…gah!”

“No more protests! I’m not going to hear it anymore! I refuse to let you hide behind work or the fake boyfriend.”

More protests came from you. You tried. You really really did. But Wanda was shoving and pushing and hip bumping you out into a hallway that did not look like an office building, instead, it was very obviously a palace.

Your heels clicked on polished white marble that shone. Walls were cream and had priceless art hung around, gold gilded borders ran up along where the ceiling met the walls. Light fixtures were old, bronze and cut glass. Furniture that belonged in Sotheby’s was sparsely decorated around the halls.

Door were old and creaky up and down the halls, wooden with locks that required big iron keys.

It was unlike any other place you’d ever worked.

You could feel and see and even smell the smokey history oozing from the walls.

A few people were hurrying out of their offices and locking the doors behind them, which Wanda didn’t even let you do as she went on indignantly. “No! Nope! Clint from Tinder will not wait forever! He digs foreigners and he has a job and he loves to dance!”

At mention of Tinder, your gut lurched.

Dear god not this again.

Why had you ever agreed to let Wanda make you a Tinder profile? At the time it seemed so reasonable. Let her make the profile and she’d get off your ass about your alleged imaginary boyfriend. Problem solved! How on earth were you to know she’d be on the damn app making matches for you?

“Why don’t you go out with Clint from Tinder,” you wanted to know, earning yourself a roll of Wanda’s eyes as you were dragged down along the hallway to the massive marble stairs. Looking as if they’d been carved from one piece, smoothly curling down a floor to the ground floor. Large chandeliers hung with cut glass that threw light everywhere. A massive painting hung up on the large wall of a long dead large royal family in the palace of past.

“He’s not my type. But he is absolutely your type.”

Somehow you doubted that.

Sighing deeply and focusing on not snapping your ankle on the stairs and in your heels, you followed Wanda down, mixing in with the few stragglers who were leaving work and making mental notes to text Steve and let him know you’d be late coming back to the palace that night. You were then planning when you could check your work emails and work-phone messages. That had to be done in a quiet place where no one could overhear. Maybe you could go out to the club and feign a tummy ache? Then sneak away from Clint? It’d probably be much easily to sneak away from Clint than Wanda.

Click. Click. Click.

With every step you maneuvered down your heels were noisy. You’d managed to fling your sizable bag over your shoulder and just knew Steve was going to be annoyed with you. But he was an adult. Being adults meant the two of you would have to do things that you didn’t want.

“So help me, if it kills the both of us, you and I will be going out tonight and having a fun time! This is a celebratory weekend! There are festivities going on all over the city!” Wanda went on, yanking you along behind her upon reaching the bottom step and heading in the general direction of the ground floor exits.

Hurrying along behind her, you followed but you weren’t happy about it.

God did you have so much work to do and you really really wanted to spend the night with Steve. And maybe if you gave in to Wanda, she’d get off your ass about your fake boyfriend? Wait, no, your secret boyfriend, because Steve was very real, you just didn’t want to be eviscerated all over the internet and tabloids for dating a king.

You’d seen what happened when a pretty actress had dated then married a prince who didn’t rule his country. The only thing you had going for you was Steve’s country was still looked at with some serious side-eye from the world, due to past events and rulers. Plus, he wasn’t a young prince that had grown up before the eyes of the world. He was a son of a tyrant, a citizen of a sizable nation the world still viewed suspiciously with a questionable human rights record.

“You’re going to love the club! It’s totally new and they open at ten. Meaning we can have plenty of time with the girls!”

Girls?

As in plural?

Because of course this would be a group event. Wanda never half-assed anything.

“Wanda…” you began.

Before Wanda could turn her attention on you, loud shrill lady screams came and you were greeted to the sight of Maria, Okoye and Pepper. All three threw up their arms and grabbed Wanda in a big hug, yanking her away from you and freeing you from her grip.

Loud girl screeches followed.

There was group hopping and hugs and laughter.

It should have made you realize that it’d been so long since you had a fun girls night. It should have reminded you that you were young and your life shouldn’t be all about work and sneaking off with your boyfriend whenever the two of you were able to.

Your heart should have been warmed by the sight of your palace coworkers who were clearly part of the aforementioned Girls.

How long had it been since you had fun?

How long had it been since you’d had a night out on the town?

What were you doing?

Were you jumping and screeching and hugging too?

No.

You were digging into your handbag so you could text Steve real quick. To let him know about your change in plans before he began to think you’d bailed because you were a coward and got cold feet.

Just as your fingers touched the smooth surface of your iPhone…

A noise caught your attention.

Movement.

Peering up to the side at the wall, or what you’d assumed was a hallway wall since you were in another hallway nearly identical to the one upstairs. All while the hugfest continued. You noticed that the wall was at a weird angle. As if it were opening up on a hinge and by the time you realized that the wall was actually an opening to a hidden passageway, a hand grabbed your elbow and yanked you in.

No more than a soft squeak came from you.

In you tumbled.

Into a dimly lit hallway that was actually a passageway you found yourself. With a metal sounding click the wall slid back into place and a big hand fell over your mouth. Making you immediately panic, immediately reach up to grab the hand that was silencing you. Making an arm band around your chest and pull you flush back against a broad muscular body.

“Did you honestly think for one moment that I would allow you to go get drunk with Wanda? Or go to a club with a man that she met for you on Tinder?”

Steve.

It was Steve.

His faint aftershave still burnt your nose but paired with the masculine scent that was him, you relaxed only a little bit, just a smidge.

How the hell did he know all of that? Had he bugged your office? Was he following you?

Deep in your chest your heart pounded wildly. Your skin was on fire. Even though it was dimly lit, you swore you could see each nail and groove in the wooden walls of the hidden passage.

Steve’s shoes were soft on the carpeted floor. Yours however never reached. Your legs dangled. Desperately you stretched out to try and reach your toes down, but alas, Steve was holding you up and was simply that much taller than you. Easily holding you up as he carried you.

His voice an angry snarl, a seething whisp against your ear. “That is so disappointing my love. A failure on both our parts,” came his angry voice. Walking with sure footing and a quick pace through the only barely lit halls.

Turning here and there, quickly and suddenly, until you were very much lost.

A protest came from behind his palm that was crushed against your mouth. Your blood heating with every passing second till it felt as if it were boiling. All that sudden fear was turning into anger at this treatment.

“I’ve clearly failed you if you’re unable to announce with nothing but the utmost certainty that you’re both in a relationship and have no desire to go out clubbing with whomever Clint from Tinder is.” The word clubbing was spat out, as if Steve found it vile on his tongue. “As for you? Yesterday we were discussing where to go for your birthday and today, you refused to answer one of my calls! You have work to do tonight to make up to me your behavior today!”

Further down the hidden passageway you were unceremoniously carried pulled to his front. Your brain racing at warp speed.

You had work to do? You had to make up for your behavior?

Had he lost his damn mind?

Had he not seen the video of his naked nether-regions all over the internet? Or the sex that made the footage a sex tape? The two of you were now amateur porn stars and he was mad that you? Because you were trying to be lowkey until the entire situation blew over? Steve was mad because you were being reasonable?

A most valiant attempt was made to free yourself.

You struggled. You kicked. You flailed and shrilled behind the hand over your mouth. No longer taken by surprise or frightened. Now you were growing angry.

On top of being terrified of being found out in that footage and ridiculed by the world, or worse, chased out of this country by a horde of angry people who didn’t agree with you being the kings choice as not only a foreigner, but one from pretty humble roots. You were upset that the world saw such an intimate moment between the two of you and even if Steve didn’t care that his junk was all over the internet, you cared. You cared a great deal. The royal junk was your junk. It was bad enough you had to know he’d dated women before you who’d seen him nude and were intimate with him, but now the world? It was simply too much for you to comprehend.

Steve slowed and turned, using his elbow he made something pop and a slight crack of light where there was obviously another hidden door in the wall appeared.

Using his broad shoulder, Steve pushed the door open and stepped out into a hallway that led down to the royal chambers and split off.

With his knee, he shoved the hidden panel shut and tightening his grip on you, Steve hurried down that hallway.

A completely different one from where the administrative offices were located.

Rich wooden paneling covered the walls. Making everything appear warmer, lusher. An amber haze hung in the air.

Thick carpet was underfoot. Furniture spoke to its age but had been made with a quality that endured. Like this palace. Built when his land was called something else but had stood through time in proof of his claim to the throne.

Generations before him had ruled, claimed spouses and lovers in these halls, grown old and made history and now it was his turn.

Merely that knowledge had him growing excited in his slacks for a second time that day. All of your thrashing and struggling didn’t help. If anything, it sparked a part of his brain that insisted he ravish and conquer you in his royal bed.

Mouth pressed to your ear, till he felt amber and diamonds press against his lips. “I swear, I will spend the rest of tonight inside of you until things are as they were yesterday. Until you remember that when I speak to you in any manner, you answer. Considering how thoroughly you’ve consumed every last part of me, it is only fair.”

And then, in his slowed pace down the hall ever closer to the door that would lead into Steve’s Royal Apartment, he saw a portrait up on the wall that made him pause.

It was him.

Or his portrait from when he’d turned thirty.

There he stood looking down at you both. Dressed ceremonially in his crown, holding the traditional ruling scepter and wearing the robes from kings of past. Fur, jeweled toned fabric that he’d easily filled out with gold adornments, amber buttons and pipping on his shoulders.

What was most striking about this portrait compared to all the others of Steven throughout the palace, was he was alone in it and unlike all the others, at the time, he’d not been single.

Further making that internal fire burn hotter.

Making him stop and force you to look up at it with him. Framed in a gilded bronze heirloom. Up where he had to look at it to be reminded of what could have been.

“Look! Look!”

You stopped struggling and looked, were well aware of his mouth against your hair.

“See? See it? You could have been there with me. At my side. Wearing my crown. Wearing the robes and jewels of my grandmothers. My queen.”

And indeed you saw.

When you’d seen the finished portrait, you had been blown away at how your body reacted to the sight of your lover in his traditional uniform he only pulled out for big special events. How powerful he looked. How sexy he was wearing a crown, holding a golden scepter with an eagle on the end clutching a piece of amber the size of an egg.

The arm around your chest fell so he could point at the empty space in the picture beside him. “Look. Right there. That is where you would have been. Right there. At my side.”

His hand over your mouth still held you flush against him. Pulled tight against him.

That thought, that entire notion of you painted on a portrait, up there with Steve at his side. It was so surreal to you.

When it was just you and Steve it was fire and gold and everything was amazing. When it was King Steve and his Chief of Staff it was stimulating and exciting. You still weren’t sure about being queen. A queen! That wasn’t like being a princess or a duchess. A queen was different. Even the word felt different.

It made your heart start to pound wildly in your chest again. It made you breathe hard against the back of his hand. It made you have a physiological reaction.

***

This was not how Carol intended to spend her night.

It was not how she wished to start her off-time. Having given Val the update on all things that had transpired for the day as she handed off command of the Royal Guard to her fellow captain.

No sooner had she told Val everything, did one of the messengers from communications come hurrying in. A slip of paper in her hand. A note that changed everything for that night, that week and even that month.

It had left Carol walking through the royal apartments towards the Queen Mother’s rooms.

As she knew exactly what King Steven was doing and quite frankly, she wanted no part in disturbing that unless she absolutely had to.

Besides. The message that had been sent to the palace via royal envoy was meant for Her Majesty. It was best Her Majesty the Queen Mother figured out how best to deal with this coming…situation.

Compared to His Majesty’s Private Rooms, Sarah’s were all light and brightness. White marble and ornate touches. Colorful priceless paintings and large bouquets of fresh flowers in crystal vases. Soft plush furniture held little personal touches. A white chenille throw draped over her couch by a fireplace. Pink slippers sat on the floor. Books both new and ancient with various markers holding her place were scattered about. Fresh flowers. She loved fresh flowers. They were everywhere.

As expected, the door to the Queen Mother’s apartments were open.

Carol still paused outside of it to knock gently.

“Your Majesty?” She called out, looking at her watch to see that it was nearing seven. Around seven was when the queen took her dinner meal privately. Of course she’d leave the door open for kitchen staff to bring up food as usual. It wasn’t one of the nights that was reserved for Steve and his mother to have their dinners together.

After the death of her husband the former king, Sarah had effectively thrown open all the doors that he had imprisoned her with.

Her soft voice drifted out.

Delicate and gentle.

The Queen Mother sat in a large chair by a big window overlooking the city. Her pale hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. A string of pearls tightened and loosened around her fingers as she lowered the book she’d been reading. A pleasant smile came over her soft features.

Upon seeing the stone of Carol’s face, the queen frowned. “What is it? What is wrong?”

Only confirming that something was wrong, Carol shut the door and locked it.

Dinner had been brought up. Smells emanated from the queens private dining room off to the left. It reminded Carol that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. It had been that kind of a day.

Clasping her hands before her, she rocked back on her heels. “A message was sent by Her Highness Janet Van Dyne. She and her daughter will be at the palace tomorrow…”

Janet and Hope Van Dyne?

Steven’s former fiancée and her mother?

Two golden eyebrows rose, making Carol press on. “Her Highness is under the impression that they’ll be staying here? In the palace?”

All of this was new to Sarah.

She had not heard from Janet since Steve’s coronation. When she and her husband had been in attendance. Earlier that particular year, Hope had broken her engagement with Steven to run away with a Maharaja.

It’d been all over the tabloids.

A young princess of the Netherlands had broken her engagement to the crown prince of an incredibly traditional nation to follow her heart. Hope had spent many years splashed across tabloids and blogs with a handsome charismatic Asian Prince. She’d lost her royal title and gave tell-all interviews about how her family had forbade her from running away and how she’d never marry a man from infamous Rogers Royal Line. And then, oddly, she was back home with her family this year.

Sarah had found it unusual. Alas, she was a busy woman with a life of her own to keep her busy.

“Was anything else in the message,” Sarah wanted to know.

Carol shook her head.

It had been a simple message that was very to the point.

Sighing in a most un-Sarah-like sort of way. She set her book down on the arm of her chair and rose. Tall. Willowy. Pursing her lips. Her dress fell around her in a gauzy cloud.

“Do you want me to tell His Majesty?”

Pausing, the older women considered the question. Dare she tell her son? He deserved to know. Nothing good would come from this visit.

If it were Janet alone? Sarah would not be so suspicious. But Janet and Hope? And that they would come so last minute? After the release of this video footage from the royal sauna?

“Is my son with her?”

Silence.

Carol was quiet.

A noise came from the Queen Mother. A clicking of her tongue. Stepping into her slippers, she pulled the hem of her dress up. “I suppose I should not be surprised that you would keep this from me.”

More quiet came.

“I won’t ask. I’ll find out my own way and leave him be for now. Janet and Hope won’t be here tonight. This can be a problem for tomorrow, today has been difficult enough for us all. Let tomorrow be tomorrow.”

Let tomorrow be tomorrow.

On her other hand was her wedding band. A treasure itself. Now on the widow’s finger. It was so symbolic of the cage she’d lived in for the duration of her marriage.

Absentmindedly, she twisted the rings. “Have you eaten yet?” Pulling them up and down her hand. “I had hoped you would come. I had the kitchen bring up extra.” Off slipped the rings that she had to wear in public. In her hand they jingled until she set them down on a smoothly polished table.

With two heavy clicks, they bounced on the wood by a vase full of peonies. Freeing her for the time being.

“I missed you while you were away.”

A blush bloomed over her porcelain complexion at Carol’s words.

As she watched Carol lock the door to her chambers, a warmth bloomed within her chest. Such words were so simple. So honest. They were words she had not heard before in her life. In this new chapter however, in this new time in her life, she had become accustomed to kind words and compassion.

“I missed you as well.” She confessed, stepping closer and still keeping space between them. As some habits died hard. “Stay with me? Tonight?”

“There is nothing I want more, Sarah.”

***

As it turned out, now you were ready to talk.

However.

Unfortunately.

Steve was now past that point and was on a whole other page.

You found yourself protesting when he carried you into his bedroom like some manner of caveman would carry a slab of meat. Shrilling out when he yanked and ripped and tore at your dress, forcing it over your head after ripping fabric and popping buttons, till it was an unsalvageable heap of material and threads.

Which was an absolute tragedy.

You loved that dress.

You even pointed out that fact to him somewhere between the threshold of his bedroom and his massive bed that really was fit for a king.

It was so big!

A headboard wider than Wanda’s itty-bitty car was long. An elaborate collection of regal flourishes and shapes. Dark sheets so soft they were slippery awaited you as you screeched and hollered, letting out an outraged sound when your bra was popped then yanked roughly from you.

“Steven!” You admonished your king, toes digging deep into the thick carpet as you’d lost your shoes back in the hallway leading to his quarters.

This whole evening was going off the rails for you. There was no other way to put it.

Dim sconces on the wall lit the way. Highly effective mood lighting if you ever saw it. Allowing you to see the set in Steve’s face, the firm line of his mouth.

His fingers wrapped around the back of your neck so he could hold you close, ground out for your benefit. “All day long I tried. Calls. Messages. Texts. Did you want to talk? No. You ignored me. Now I do not wish to talk either.”

Pushing you forward, you found yourself stumbling but knew if you didn’t walk on your own, Steve would merely toss you up on his bed. Up on the sea of pillows. Framed by gilded silver and dark curtains that came down from above to allow for privacy.

“All day long you denied me. I’ll remind you what is mine until you’re thinking clearly again. Until we’re back where we were yesterday!”

“I’m ready to talk now! I’m in a place where I can discuss this with you! I am thinking clearly!”

Words were not needed.

Oh no.

Not when the king grabbed your hand, pulled your arm back and pressed your palm against his straining erection. Hot to the touch. Shockingly hard. Painfully so even you were willing to bet.

Your knees hit the bed and you were pushed forward till you fell over, till you wound up on the expanse of bedding in a tangle of hands and knees and that silky smooth material.

A big explosion came from Steve. Feeling like and you were flailing on your stomach, trapped beneath his oppressive weight and the bed. Fighting. Wiggling. Trying to get free from beneath him but bigger stronger arms had your wrists.

Something was being wrapped around your wrists that you couldn’t see, as your vision was impeded by the broad chest in your face. Right there. Blocking your line of sight. Pinning you down to the sea of grey until finally, finally, he was up and you were once more struggling, wiggling, jerking and finding that you were tied to the headboard.

You were tied to the headboard. You were naked and bound to his bed.

Silky fabric that was Steve’s tie bound your wrists snugly together and wove into the headboard, securing you there most soundly.

It was outrageous! It was absurd!

You were tied to his headboard!

It was a first for you.

When your gaze returned to your boyfriend and even that was now a bit questionable, you were greeted to the sight of Steve shedding his suit. Yanking off each garment without pause or care. A few tears were heard and he was far rougher than need be. A button or two may have flown off.

“You cannot be serious! That’s your plan? You’re going to take what’s yours? Are you serious? This is not the dark ages!”

Ignoring you, Steve shoved his slacks down his long legs. Allowing his rigid cock to bob obscenely. Causing an eyeroll to immediately come from you. A hint of something dark on his hip caught your eye. But it was only a flash and as he was moving, yanking off his suit jacket and fiercely ripping open buttons on his shirt, you couldn’t get a good look.

Was it a bruise? A tattoo?

Somehow you doubted kings were even allowed to have tattoos. Or that Steve even had the time to get himself permanently inked. When the hell did he get that bruise?

Momentarily distracted by him climbing up on the bed, you looked up to give your bindings a good hard yank.

No luck.

Steve’s weight was pushing you down. Shoving you into the bed. Pinning you down as you protested, implored and began to plea. Which was exactly what he wanted. After everything you had put him through today? You would beg. You would plead. You would forget all about that video.

“Open your mouth.”

It was an order.

It could be nothing less.

An absolute command that had your lips slowly parting as your eyes widened in surprise at the sudden treatment, this roughness. Steve held his painful erection in hand and pushed his tip to your lips. Pushed the red end of his cock sticky with precum past your lips. Till you were forced to open your mouth wider and wider for him. To take him deeper and deeper into your mouth.

Steve held your gaze and pushed his member in further. Straddling your chest and gripping his headboard in one hand, till it dug into his fingers. While his other hand grabbed your face to hold it tight.

You’d never be able to take all of him. He knew this. You’d never been able to no matter how much you’d tried. But he wanted to see how much he could fit in your mouth tonight.

“Don’t swallow. Don’t let me down again.”

Your mouth was so warm closing around him. Wet. Sacred. It made him want to close his eyes to sink in deep but Steve would not. He would do that soon enough. He would lose himself in your cunt soon enough.

A few small movements from his hips sank his cock deeper into your mouth. Filling your cheeks as you struggled. Until you found a motion of moving up and down his length, running your tongue along his sides. Wetting up his shaft till sloppy noises started to fill his ears and a small little dribble began to moisten the corners of your mouth.

Those blue eyes remained set on your own. Never once showing you mercy.

“Tomorrow. In the future. If I call or text, you will answer.”

There was no follow-up. Nor was it a question.

Long fingers that belonged on an artist or musician sank into your hair tightly.

All you could do was nod as drool rolled down your chin and you suckled his cock like you would a popsicle, without swallowing, sucking on his sensitive flesh as he liked and without the aid of your own hands to steady his member.

It was glorious and Steve could only slightly appreciate it. As the words that fell from his mouth were more important, more vital.

Feeling how wet your mouth was getting was fantastic. Absolutely. Your nimble tongue was a gift. No one had ever sucked his cock like you.

However…he was still frustrated, still angry, still hurt even.

He’d not worked his way through those feelings as of yet.

Perhaps? In your body?

Those feelings teased and taunted him with his unworthiness. Of how you hadn’t been firmer with your roommate. How you had allowed her to drag you down the stairs for a night out with possibly another man? It infuriated him. It sent his hips rocking into your mouth. It had his cock rubbing up along the back of your throat and made your eyes water.

No.

Steve would not lose you. He loved you too much to even entertain such a notion. No. Infact, he would make sure that he ruined you. By the end of the night, he would make certain that you’d never even amused the notion of being set up. He would be completely sure that when you left his chambers come morning, you would never be doubted when you told Wanda or anyone that you had a partner.

“I want to start publicly courting you. I want to be engaged this year. I do not want to hide any longer. When people look at you, I want them to know that you belong to me.”

Noises came around his cock that Steve knew were words and he did not care.

“Look at yourself.” Steve stilled, his words harsh, bitter even. “You have my cock in your mouth and I am completely at your mercy. Tied to the bed of kings because I cannot go one night without dreaming of you, fantasizing about your tight cunt and smooth skin. I would give you the world and all you want is nothing. You are the worst type of infuriating.”

As if to prove his point, he steadily pumped his pelvis up into your mouth. Each slide in pushed saliva and pre-ejaculate out, making it ooze from the seal of your lips around his erection. Against your throat his wet balls bounced. His ass rested on your chest and he could not get enough. More. He wanted more. He needed more. Craved more.

The urge to go harder was strong.

Steve wanted so badly to fuck you. To make you feel how much you drove him mad. How you caused him physical pain from longing alone.

With drool smeared down your chin and neck, never looking more beautiful in his opinion, Steve pulled his dick out. Done with your mouth for now. Needing more. Needing to grab your tits and to be closer to your face, looking closer into your eyes.

In a familiar sort of way, your throat bobbed.

“Did you just swallow when I specifically told you not to?”

A moment of hesitation followed from you that had Steve gripping your face, easing his body down yours but holding your slippery chin tight in his grip. Your eyes were wide. Again, probably without even realizing, you swallowed in nervousness.

“I’m…I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry what,” he demanded, leaning down closer, licking the wetness from your chin and earning from you a most satisfying shiver that wracked your body.

“S-s-sorry, Your Majesty.”

His tongue was hot and wet on your chin. His body was heavy and hot on your own. Skin on skin contact made your brain short circuit. It was a miracle you could string those syllables together. With your hands bound so snugly to the bed. All you could do was take it. Take what he gave you.

Feeling him push your thighs open and position himself between your hips made you gasp. Words failed you.

And then words didn’t even matter because he was pushing into you. Claiming you. Taking what was his because you did belong to him. You belonged to him in every possible way.

A scream exploded out of you when he dove right in. Sank in till his crown was pressed up against the wall of your cervix. Deeper than anyone had ever been before. Hands were grabbing your ankles and spreading you wide. Spearing you on his cock. Stretching your body taut.

“So wet. You were made to take me. Made to take your king.” He whispered more to himself even though you heard. You would have heard a pin drop. You could hear your heart pound and blood rush through your ears, each gasp your lungs took. You could feel every last inch of him deep inside your core. Painfully stretching you open like this. Burning. Tingling. Twisting.

Hands tightened on your ankles till you looked up at Steve. Hovering over you like a pillaging warlord about to ravish his prize.

“You have till Monday to decide how you wish us to become public. I will not wait a day longer.”

Seeing you like this before him. Splayed out. Your pussy curled around his member, plump from being filled with your breasts round puddles up on your chest. It set his hips into a frenzy. Powerful thrusts were sent into your tight walls that made Steve grunt every time from the power behind his motions, from the sight of his cock vanishing up into you. Watching your pussy take him so hungrily as you cried out beneath him each time. Breasts swaying. Skin slapping on skin with the contact. Your hips jiggled, his headboard creaked, his balls slapped soundly against you both.

“Say it. Say the words to me. Say them!” Steve commanded you. Pieces of his hair falling and sticking to his sweaty forehead as he sank in to the very depths of you then pulled out, revealing a glistening shaft before slamming his member right back in where it belonged.

“Yes…yes…yes…yes…” you chanted, over and over, again and again with every thrust in, every withdraw that was like heaven and hell, your body needing him to complete this circuit only the two of you could create. “…yes…yes…my king…yes my king…”

Those words. They were a song to his ears and had your ankles slapped together. Those words had the backs of your thighs slapped wetly against his chest, your feet touching his shoulder as Steve continued to pound into you.

Pumping into your now closed thighs, into your tighter walls at this angle.

“Look!”

Dimly your eyes fluttered, you looked into his burning blue eyes.

“Look. Here.”

You followed his gaze to where he pointed, looking down at his pelvis, where his hip met his abdomen in that hard cut of muscle that was visible above his beltline. The one you loved to lick.

He did have a tattoo.

It took you a second to realize what you were looking at and focus, as his thrusts continued without mercy, pounding away, slamming into you without mercy. Shaking and pushing you into his bed.

Your writing was inked into his skin. Your very own signature.

Your name was forever scrawled into Steve’s skin and then, it hit you. Your climax took you by complete surprise. Your entire body went stiff. A pained noise came from you and you shattered all around his cock. Fingernails dug into your palm and you stared at your name in cruel ecstasy.

Steve fell too. You could tell from his thrusts getting wild, falling out of sync. You could tell because he swore out, clenched his face and held your thighs tight to his chest.

Pumping deeply into you while your body milked him for everything he had to give.

Making him merely a man in that moment with you.

Up on his headboard, you were tightly secured and would soon have bruises from arching up against the silk tie restraining you. Unable to do anything but feel and accept what your king was giving you. On your back. In a bed that past kings had slept in.

None of which was lost on you.

Not as your body felt leaden, filled with molten hot lava. Limp. Your secret garden continued to suck him in, clench around him and spasm, making your eyes roll up in your head, your body dig into his bed and words fall from your mouth.

In a most dignified sort of manner, your king humped into your body like a jack rabbit, chasing the last vestiges of his climax with coral wet lips and dark honey hair now damp with sweat.

A sight for your satiated eyes.

“Let me call my mother in the morning.” You breathed out slowly, as if figuring out how your lungs worked once more after a marathon. Your words making Steve still above you. Though your cunt did not. It twitched around his royal girth and you met his gaze from on his pillows. “Tomorrow you can have Maria release a statement saying whatever you want. Just let me tell my parents myself. They should hear from me that I’m not coming home.”

Whatever wind that may have held up his sails had clearly been withdrawn.

Almost tenderly now, Steve leaned forward to quickly loosen the silk around your wrists and free your hands from his headboard. Stretching out his long powerful body above you. Flushed red now. Glistening. Though he left his tie there. He remained inside of you too. Filling you and stretching you full.

Gently, he pushed your legs down until they wrapped around him and he was able to rest his weight most carefully on top of you. Pressing wet kisses to your nose, your cheeks and chin. Worshipping your face with delicate touches and caresses.

“I’ll fly them out here whenever you want. When we get back from Switzerland, I’ll have them waiting for you.”

Softly you answered, reveling in his softness now that your body had been given her reward, her treat, her pleasure from his roughness. Smelling the musk of his sweat and feeling the wet glide between your bodies.

Leisurely, your hands found their way up his muscular arms to his shoulders. “You know what I mean. I won’t ever be their daughter again. I won’t ever be Wanda’s roommate. I’ll have to quit my job. Nothing will ever be the same.”

Those words, well, they settled uncomfortably in him.

All of them were true.

You would be giving up so much. He would have to make sure to take care of you even more so, keep a closer eye on you. He would need to have a talk with his mother come morning.

“That’s true,” Steve softly conceded, rubbing his nose along your own. Barely grazing his lips over yours. A hint of a tongue touched you before his breath danced over your mouth. “We would be together though. Finally together. You. Me. Not hiding anymore.”

Speaking of hiding.

That word alone had you pulling away from his mouth to lean to the side, to get a look down at his Adonis belt. At the alluring groove that led down to his pubes where your name was now in black.

Nay, your signature.

As if sensing what you were after, your boyfriend tilted up a smidge. Enough for you to see but not enough for him to leave your body. Pray tell that couldn’t happen.

“When did you do this?”

“Do you like it,” Steve asked, as if your opinion mattered. Which was laughable considering how permanent it was.

He’d literally took your signature and had it tattooed on his body.

“Of course I love it. Now you have a part of me on you all the time.” An incredibly modern take on Steve’s royal jewel gift thing, but in reverse you thought. Then grinned as it sank in. “I can’t believe you did it though.”

Why wouldn’t he have done it?

Steve hadn’t thought twice when Maria had gone on about getting her late mother’s writing tattooed on her side, in a lasting forever tribute. Having your writing on him at all times had been an idea that hadn’t left him. Not until he’d had a tattoo artist praised for their work brought to the palace late the other night.

He wasn’t even going to lie, king or not, there was something downright satisfying about having something like this hidden on his body from all. Known only by you and him. A secret only for you two.

Bringing him right back to the thought that the biggest secret the two of you shared would soon be out.

Soon it would be public knowledge and that had Steve brushing his fingertips over your cheeks, kissing the swell of your cheekbone and moving ever just so to make a small moan come from you. “You’ll never regret this. I’ll love you for the rest of my life. I’ll devote myself to making you happy. You’ll never regret becoming my queen.”

[genderdoe-sly]

(Authors note: I know not all nonbinary people use they/them pronouns, it is portrayed that way here for convenience and this version of the character eventually does.) 3/24/24: edit for better grammar.

By the time the three of them first start dating after Troy gets back from his trip around the world, he’s come to terms with his own bisexuality.

Abed is Abed, and his masculinity only makes him more enticing to Troy. He couldn’t imagine it any other way; his lean yet muscular body, the way his face moves subtly, so only those who work hard enough will understand it (those who deserve to, in Troy’s opinion), his patience and eagerness to teach/include Troy in his favorite things, his strong bravery to be himself.

With Annie, he doesn’t need to prove his attraction to her to himself as much. She happens to be a woman, and his attraction to women has never been seriously questioned. So he lets himself fall in love with her. 

Her undying determination to succeed in her career path, the bubbly excitement, soft skin framed by even softer hair, how quick she is to confront any obstacle in her way, her warmth at every moment of togetherness that they have. While he was aware he was falling in love with Abed while he lived in 303, the realization of his love for Annie slaps him in the face out at sea. 

He’s overjoyed when he learns about polyamory from a polycule he meets drinking in London. He doesn’t have to choose. What’s harder is convincing himself to ask his hopeful boyfriend and hopeful girlfriend. 

But they say yes! Annie is reluctant at first, scared that they’ll want more than she can give. She doesn’t know how to open up, and doesn’t know if she would even want to. They shouldn’t have to deal with all her messiness, right? Slowly but surely, Troy and Abed get her to trust them with the parts of herself that she’s hidden away, some even from herself. 

During this time, Troy starts to think more about his sexuality. Why is it that the only woman he feels really attracted to is Annie? But questioning if he actually likes women feels like disrespecting his wonderful girlfriend and her womanhood, so he doesn’t ask more questions. He loves Annie, and Annie is a woman. End of story.

Abed asks him of course. Troy and Annie and some of their friends are getting ready for a pride parade (Abed doesn’t like the noise and crowds), and Abed sees Troy’s hesitance at the pink, purple and blue paint. He tells him his worries, and Abed tells him that some bi people have gender preferences. More often attracted to one gender over another. It’s relieving. But still feels a little wrong. Annie is like the singular exception to the rule, not the rule itself. He continues to ignore the feeling- he would do anything for her. This doesn’t seem like anything to big, and he definitely doesn’t want to hurt her.

Annie has never completely understood why she’s supposed to like pink, quiet smiling, and princesses. That’s not to say she doesn’t, no, no, she does. She just doesn’t understand why she’s supposed to. 

Before she was born, her parents thought they were going to have a baby boy, so they painted the nursery blue and put little car decals on the walls. Annie doesn’t understand this either. They painted it over with pink, but only did one coat.

It came out purple. 

Four year old Anne Edison wants to be a knight when she plays pretend. She likes to play floor hockey with her socks. She wants to spell and say her name with an ‘i’. She loves ducks. She refuses to not wear a skirt or dress. She draws hearts on everything she can. 

Her parents only like some of these things. 

They want her to get into the best preschool in the city. They say that a good life starts with a good education, and a good education starts with getting into a good pre-school. She studies until she just knows her brain will break, but she still doesn’t get in. She gets into their second choice, but they still consider it a failure. 

They throw out her knight costume that night, of course. She hides under their bed as they scream at one another, and vows to herself in the dark that she will do her best to be a good daughter. They hadn’t had a fight in months, she’d been the one to tear them apart again! She has to keep being good, and if that means trying harder and giving all the blue things to the baby coming in a few months, she can do that.

She can be pink if that’s what they need.

She stays pink because that’s what everybody likes. But she aches to let herself be purple, or even yellow. She’s older now, more relistic. She doesn’t have the luxury her four year old self did. She knows to make friends in college, she should be strictly pink or blue. She had partially rebeled for a few months, wearing only black and grey, shunning both pink and blue. But she’s been told she needs friends to stay clean and alive, so she makes herself a bright pink. She knows there isn’t a place for anything other than pink and blue, so she stays the same, as much as it hurts.

A few years pass, and she prides herself in how the pink has allowed her to have a family. They love her. Pink works. Then… she meets someone who is openly yellow. Non-binary, they call it.

If Annie was alone in the world like after rehab again, maybe she would let herself be ‘them’. It feels so, so right when they let themself be ‘them’. But it’s ‘her’ who is loved by Troy and Abed and all their friends, so she stuffs the ‘they’ back under the bed with her four-year-old self, the tiny Annie shrieking in joy when they finally see it.

Confusingly, Troy and Abed care and want to know about tiny Annie. They want the messy parts. They want her to stop hiding her legs under the metaphorical bed, and come fully out. She doesn’t believe them at first. They don’t push (or pull?), but they do let her know it’s safe. Slowly, she crawls out, and when the time is right, she sits them on top of the bed and asks if it would be alright if it was ‘they’ instead of ‘she’.

Troy and Abed let their partner know it’s completely okay, great even, and Troy finally understands why Annie was the exception. 

(it’s because they weren’t.)

[five-rivers]

Cold Case 5

“You’re part of this conspiracy, too?” asked McGee, backing up a few steps. He wasn’t quite ready to confront the whole ‘speaking to a dead person’ thing. Not yet.

“Well. Yeah. As far as a conspiracy exists anyway. You are standing on my grave.” A wisp of mist peeled off the ghost, and the edges of his form flickered.

“Your…” He resisted the urge to glance at the gravestone. All the offerings made more sense if people thought their hero’s body was there.

… Everything about this situation was insane, wasn’t it? He was here, talking to a ghost he’d thought was fictional five minutes ago and standing on his grave. Not that he hadn’t thought all ghosts were fictional up until a couple of hours ago.

“Yep, it’s mine. Which is why I came down here. I can tell when someone is making weird promises to my dead body. It is a school night, you know?”

“People keep saying that. Why does it even matterthat it’s a school night?

“Because I like going to school, and contrary to popular opinion, ghosts do need rest. We sleep when we’re dead and all that.”

“Was that a pun?” demanded McGee, incredulous.

“More like a play on a common figure of speech or a literal metaphor, but, sure, call it a pun. Why are you so focused on my death, anyway?”

“You, I, what, this,” babbled McGee, trying to get a handle on his thoughts. “You’re a pre-teen who was buried in the woods. I’m not heartless.”

“Rude. I’m not a pre-teen. And I was sort of the one to do the burying, so…” The ghost tilted his head, frowning slightly. “You’re not having a heart attack, are you?”

“No,” said McGee.

“It’s just, you’re really holding onto your chest, there. I could fly you to—”

“I am not having a heart attack,” said McGee. “Stop changing the subject! You-! You’re-!” McGee sat down abruptly, careless of the condensation on the grass.

“You know, it’s normal to have an existential crisis when confronted with your own mortality.”

“I’ve already confronted my mortality! I’m a police detective for goodness’ sake!”

“Okay, okay. Jeez.”

“And you- Your death. You said I already knew how you’d died. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Phantom shrugged. “It’s listed as an accident. And it was. I asked them not to put down the details. I like my living family to have privacy.”

“And the whole conspiracy?”

“Be honest,” said Phantom. “It isn’t really all that much of a conspiracy. The town gets most of its revenue from tourism. We’re actually pretty public about it.”

“But that’s not real.”

“Some of it is.” The ghost rubbed the back of his head. “We kind of all know you were sent to spy on us,” he said. “So, you’re probably wondering how to spin this.”

McGee felt his eye twitch. “Collins and Patterson told you?”

“Not really. It’s just obvious. But, like, outside of the GIW, no one is going to believe you that the reason for Amity being so messed up is ghosts. And you’ve seen the GIW.”

“They chased glowsticks around a park,” said McGee, dully. The action made more sense now that he knew about ghosts, but still.

Phantom laughed, a twinkling sound. “Yep. That was a good one. Anyway, I don’t know what your bosses are like, but I guess your options here are to either quit, or, well, if you can’t beat ‘em…”

“Is this a recruitment pitch? Are you, a ghost, trying to give me a recruitment pitch to join your vaguely illegal conspiracy town full of corruption and unsolved murders?”

“First off, to get unsolved murders here you have to go way back. Like I said, my death was an accident. Secondly. Is it working?”

McGee put his head in his hands.

“Welp. It isn’t like you have to decide right away. Your timeline’s determined by whoever your bosses are. No one here hates you, though, if that makes it easier. Collins and Patterson wouldn’t have shown you the Neon District, otherwise. They’d have waited ‘til you ran into a daylight battle, tried to scare you off. That kind of thing.”

“This is them not trying to scare me off?” asked McGee, humorlessly.

“Yeah, I know, it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s true.” Phantom paused. “Ah, that wasn’t exactly the thing to say to put you at ease, was it?”

“What,” said McGee, “is worse than this? What is worse than the dead coming back to like and those alien-looking green blobs coming through and the Fentons, oh my god, what is worse than what they were driving?”

“Oh, gee,” said Phantom, not meeting McGee’s questioning gaze. “Would you look at the time. I’ve got to go. School night and all.”

With that, the ghost disappeared.

Slowly, McGee dragged himself back to his car, turned it on, and just sat there, heater on full blast. This was… a lot to take in. A whole lot.

He rubbed his hand over his face.

Ghosts.

Real ghosts.

Who had opinions about investigations into their deaths.

Had he somehow been sucked into a demented supernatural buddy-cop drama? He was tempted to go searching for cameras.

He was tempted to invest himself fully into whatever this was, because didn’t everyone dream about being in a story like this? Being involved in something fantastic and meaningful? Being the hero of a story, no matter how short?

But this was really to much for someone his age. And he really had to come up with something to say to his bosses, because he really, really doubted that they’d accept him quitting to join the Amity Park Police Department as a non-spy.

He closed his eyes and let himself breathe. He didn’t have to decide how to handle this now. Maybe he’d take Collins and Patterson up on that day off. Think about it for a while.

But.

Ghosts.

Could he live with himself if he just left?

Ice glittered on the ground illuminated by his headlights, as if mocking him for his earlier ambitions about solving cold cases, for all the ignorant thoughts he’d had when first arriving. Could a case really be called cold when the victim was available to give an interview?

Well, yes, assaults went cold all the time, but, still…

Even if McGee didn’t know the details of his eventual decision, he knew, then, that even if he left, he’d never be able to forget Amity Park. It was too good of a mystery. And all other fantasies pushed aside, he’d become a detective to solve mysteries.

In short: he wasn’t leaving.

[antoine-roquentin]

As the virus seized the world last year, a new, epidemiological metaphor for bad information suggested itself. Dis- and misinformation were no longer exogenous toxins but contagious organisms, producing persuasion upon exposure as inevitably as cough or fever. In a perfect inversion of the language of digital-media hype, “going viral” was now a bad thing. In October, Anne Applebaum proclaimed in The Atlantic that Trump was a “super-spreader of disinformation.” A study earlier that month by researchers at Cornell found that 38 percent of the English-language “misinformation conversation” around COVID-19 involved some mention of Trump, making him, per the New York Times, “the largest driver of the ‘infodemic.’”

This finding resonated with earlier research suggesting that disinformation typically needs the support of political and media elites to spread widely. That is to say, the persuasiveness of information on social platforms depends on context. Propaganda doesn’t show up out of nowhere, and it doesn’t all work the same way. Ellul wrote of the necessary role of what he called “pre-propaganda”:

Direct propaganda, aimed at modifying opinions and attitudes, must be preceded by propaganda that is sociological in character, slow, general, seeking to create a climate, an atmosphere of favorable preliminary attitudes. No direct propaganda can be effective without pre-propaganda, which, without direct or noticeable aggression, is limited to creating ambiguities, reducing prejudices, and spreading images, apparently without purpose.

Another way of thinking about pre-propaganda is as the entire social, cultural, political, and historical context. In the United States, that context includes an idiosyncratic electoral process and a two-party system that has asymmetrically polarized toward a nativist, rhetorically anti-elite right wing. It also includes a libertarian social ethic, a “paranoid style,” an “indigenous American berserk,” a deeply irresponsible national broadcast media, disappearing local news, an entertainment industry that glorifies violence, a bloated military, massive income inequality, a history of brutal and intractable racism that has time and again shattered class consciousness, conspiratorial habits of mind, and themes of world-historical declension and redemption. The specific American situation was creating specific kinds of people long before the advent of tech platforms.

To take the whole environment into view, or as much of it as we can, is to see how preposterously insufficient it is to blame these platforms for the sad extremities of our national life, up to and including the riot on January 6. And yet, given the technological determinism of the disinformation discourse, is it any surprise that attorneys for some of the Capitol rioters are planning legal defenses that blame social-media companies?

Only certain types of people respond to certain types of propaganda in certain situations. The best reporting on QAnon, for example, has taken into account the conspiracy movement’s popularity among white evangelicals. The best reporting about vaccine and mask skepticism has taken into account the mosaic of experiences that form the American attitude toward the expertise of public-health authorities. There is nothing magically persuasive about social-media platforms; they are a new and important part of the picture, but far from the whole thing. Facebook, however much Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg might wish us to think so, is not the unmoved mover.

For anyone who has used Facebook recently, that should be obvious. Facebook is full of ugly memes and boring groups, ignorant arguments, sensational clickbait, products no one wants, and vestigial features no one cares about. And yet the people most alarmed about Facebook’s negative influence are those who complain the most about how bad a product Facebook is. The question is: Why do disinformation workers think they are the only ones who have noticed that Facebook stinks? Why should we suppose the rest of the world has been hypnotized by it? Why have we been so eager to accept Silicon Valley’s story about how easy we are to manipulate?

Within the knowledge-making professions there are some sympathetic structural explanations. Social scientists get funding for research projects that might show up in the news. Think tanks want to study quantifiable policy problems. Journalists strive to expose powerful hypocrites and create “impact.” Indeed, the tech platforms are so inept and so easily caught violating their own rules about verboten information that a generation of ambitious reporters has found an inexhaustible vein of hypocrisy through stories about disinformation leading to moderation. As a matter of policy, it’s much easier to focus on an adjustable algorithm than entrenched social conditions.

Yet professional incentives only go so far in explaining why the disinformation frame has become so dominant. Ellul dismissed a “common view of propaganda . . . that it is the work of a few evil men, seducers of the people.” He compared this simplistic story to midcentury studies of advertising “which regard the buyer as victim and prey.” Instead, he wrote, the propagandist and the propagandee make propaganda together.

One reason to grant Silicon Valley’s assumptions about our mechanistic persuadability is that it prevents us from thinking too hard about the role we play in taking up and believing the things we want to believe. It turns a huge question about the nature of democracy in the digital age—what if the people believe crazy things, and now everyone knows it?—into a technocratic negotiation between tech companies, media companies, think tanks, and universities.

But there is a deeper and related reason many critics of Big Tech are so quick to accept the technologist’s story about human persuadability. As the political scientist Yaron Ezrahi has noted, the public relies on scientific and technological demonstrations of political cause and effect because they sustain our belief in the rationality of democratic government.

Indeed, it’s possible that the Establishment needs the theater of social-media persuasion to build a political world that still makes sense, to explain Brexit and Trump and the loss of faith in the decaying institutions of the West. The ruptures that emerged across much of the democratic world five years ago called into question the basic assumptions of so many of the participants in this debate—the social-media executives, the scholars, the journalists, the think tankers, the pollsters. A common account of social media’s persuasive effects provides a convenient explanation for how so many people thought so wrongly at more or less the same time. More than that, it creates a world of persuasion that is legible and useful to capital—to advertisers, political consultants, media companies, and of course, to the tech platforms themselves. It is a model of cause and effect in which the information circulated by a few corporations has the total power to justify the beliefs and behaviors of the demos. In a way, this world is a kind of comfort. Easy to explain, easy to tweak, and easy to sell, it is a worthy successor to the unified vision of American life produced by twentieth-century television. It is not, as Mark Zuckerberg said, “a crazy idea.” Especially if we all believe it.

[mercenarydiavien]

Twisted Incantations (Part 3)

The last three days for Y/N were excruciating. It truly was a test on her abilities to coordinate and execute her show. Between the management meetings, working her two jobs, and maintaining status on her show… it was becoming too much. When at home, she was busy making adjustments and adding to the costume. Not to mention, she was also working on the song for her piece. Most of the time, the club would play upbeat, techno- like music. The green-eyed artist didn’t want to stray too far from the norm… keyword… -too- far. 

It seemed like the only break she could get was when she was working with Team Marvel. Granted, she stayed on her toes. Word was spreading like wildfire about her encounter with the famous gentleman. She didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. Sadly, her nerves and determination were the reasons she was not able to sleep well during those long nights. It was beginning to show how much stress she was under. Still, she continued to smile and did everything she could to make it through these last few days… and tomorrow was the big day.

“Hey…” Noah slowly walked up to Y/N holding onto two large coffees. “You alright?” He asked, holding out one of the coffees. 

“Oh.. Hello Noah.” The female responded gratefully grabbing the cup. “Yeah. Just a bit tired is all. Thank you for the coffee.” 

He nodded. “You’re honestly not looking so good. What’s got you wore out?” He took a sip of his coffee. 

Y/N sighed. “Long story short… I’m struggling balancing both jobs. I’m working on designing a show for my second job.” She took a sip only to slightly cringe since the coffee was completely bitter… not what she was used to.

Noah nearly spat out his second sip of coffee only to quickly swallow and cleared his throat. “You’re kidding…” 

The female shakes her head. “No..”

“What type of show is it? Maybe I can offer some assistance?” He offered, looking at the female. 

“As I’ve mentioned, I work with Twisted Incantations. It's like a dance club. All the performers are usually given a theme and pre-sat costumes and choreography bits. I asked the higher ups if I could make my own. They allowed it because of my credentials. So… whatever I want to do I suppose.”

Noah blinked. “Well… what all do you need?”

Y/N smiled. “I just need someone to help me with the finishing touches with some tech, my dress, and possibly give opinions when I do the dress rehearsal.” 

The dark-complexioned male thought to himself for a second. He didn’t like seeing her so worn out like she has been. “I don’t know about the dress part… but I can certainly help with the other two.” 

The emerald eyed female blinked only to smile, “You really want to help?” 

He nodded. “Why the hell not? It's not like I have anything better to do… plus… someone still owes me a name.” He smirked, crossing his arms. 

A laugh escaped the feminine lips. “You have been rather patient… It’s Y/N”

“Wanna meet up somewhere afterwards and wrap it all up?” Noah smiled. 

She nodded. “The sooner we can finish the better. Twisted Incantations after here?” 

“Sounds good.” 

Before she could say anything else, she caught a glimpse of a familiar blue eyed Englishman. She couldn’t help but take a look. She hasn’t really spoken to him since the phone call. Seeing him speaking with the other main Marvel actors and actresses brought a smile across her face. He looked happy. Then to her surprise, their eyes met. Slowly and shyly, she waved her hand in front of her in greeting. 

To her surprise, he smiled and nodded in return. She desperately wanted to walk over there and thank him for everything he has done. 

“Ya done daydreamin’ fangirl?” Noah teased, smiling only to nudge Y/N. 

Y/N quickly whipped her head towards her friend and gently smacked his elbow. “Rude…” 

“Like dozing off and flirting with `Mr. Perfect` isn’t while discussing your issues?” Noah smiled, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

The young woman sighed, “Sorry… but there’s a lot to the situation I’m in you don’t even know…” 

Noah tilted his head slightly confused. “Uh huh… I’ll leave that to you. I’m just here to help my friend. I don’t want her to work herself to the point she loses both jobs because she’s sleeping on the job…” He shrugged teasingly.

An announcement interrupted their conversation, “EVERYONE TO YOUR STATIONS!”

Y/N turned to look at Noah. “Thank you. I’ll meet you at Twisted Incantations, aka T.I. after here” 

“See you then” he smirked, “partner.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dress Rehearsal ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N gasped in pain feeling a needle poking her left hip. “Easy there Jess… I know there's a lot of layers on the hip but… I can bleed you know.”

“Sorry girl… I’m not acquainted with needles.” Jess mentioned maintaining her concentration on the last bit of the fabric.After a moment of silence, she stood and laid her hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “You did an awesome job Y/N. I can’t wait to see everyone’s responses to the transformation.” She nodded towards the full body mirror. 

“Me too.” The younger woman mentioned lifting several layers of the skirt heading toward the mirror. “Hopefully I can manage.” Even though she did everything possible, there were doubts that everything wasn’t going to happen according to plan. 

“Y/N I’m a hundred percent sure you’re going to stun everyone out there… even Tom.” Jessica reassured the nervous female. “Follow my lead… Deep breath.” 

Following the manager's demands, Y/N slowly took a deep breath. 

After counting to five, “Exhale… Mistress Loki.” Jessica called Y/N in encouragement.

The emerald eyed female looked herself over in the mirror. She had to be mentally ready for her show. “I got this…” She turned to her friend. “Thank you, Jessica.” 

“Are we going full out with the dress rehearsal?” Jessica asked, nodding in response. 

Y/N shook her head. “I just need to learn to adjust to the two dresses. That and the devices. If I can get comfortable with both, then the show will be unforgettable.” 

The brunette manager gently grasped Y/N’s shoulders and smiled. “That’s the Y/N I know. But if you ask me… Just play with the skirt and the device back here. You look exhausted girl. I’ll handle everyone else.”

Y/N looked at Jessica confused and tilted her head. “You’re just now saying this?”

“You normally don’t let the nerves get the better of you… Plus there’s quite a bit at stake here considering you invited -you know who-. I just want what’s best for you girl… please?” Jessica asked, sliding her arms down and gently grasping the younger female’s hands.

A knock disturbed the peace between the two women. They looked only for Jessica to walk over and open the door just slightly. “Yes?” 

The female manager slipped out of the room. Upon seeing her reflection once more, Y/N was finally able to see what Jessica and Noah told her. Under her eyes were slightly darker than normal. She began to reflect on the past week. She managed to get Tom Hiddleston’s attention and find a way to progress at her smaller job… but at what cost? There was a heavy weight on her shoulders. A deep sigh slipped from her lips once more before she managed to take a seat on the dressing room couch. 

The silence was pure bliss. Even though she wasn’t at home, Y/N was comfortable enough to slip off into sleep. 

“Y/N?... Honey? Time to wake up.” A familiar feminine voice cooed

“What?” Y/N called out her eyes struggling to open. She could feel her hands being worked with. 

“I wasn’t even gone for thirty minutes and you fell asleep on me.” Jessica explained with a warm smile. “Here’s the devices Darrel put together for you. Your friend is sitting outside waiting for you.” 

“Oh… you can send him in.” Y/N said carefully wiping her eyes. 

“No need.” Noad said, slowly walking in. “Looks like the light show and music is good to go. How’s the dress and device?” Jessica gently held her arms out for the sleepy girl. Nodding in thanks, Y/N used her assistance to get up. 

Noah blinked in awe. “You’re gorgeous Y/N…” The emerald eyed female sleepily smiled at the male in the room. 

“Thank you… just wait until tomorrow night.” She said gently, pulling away from Jessica’s hold. “Ready Jess?”

“Try it out girl. Once we figure it out, you can go home. You need sleep. Darrel and I will handle the rest of the night.” Jessica said, pacing away from the fully costumed woman. Y/N smiled and nodded. Almost as if it was an instinct, the show girl grasped the bunched part of the dress and pulled. The extra layer came off exposing a more elegant dress with a side cut all the way to the upper thigh. When Y/N released the skirt, a puff of fog came out of the devices illuminating the color of her eyes.

Everyone in the room smiled. Y/N was ready for her biggest performance yet. Now all that was needed… was a good night's rest.

[bluerose5]

The Ghost of Paradise (Exile AU)

Chapter 1: Exiled

Rating: M

Word Count: 3,791

Tags: Mass Effect: Andromeda, Reyder, Exiles AU, Pre-Relationship, Drinking, Mentions of Recreational Drug Use

[Read it here on ao3.]

If there was one thing Scott used to his advantage, it was the fact that people always seemed to underestimate him. They thought him to be that sweet, lovable guy that almost everyone got along with. To them, he was simply a normal, everyday soldier who bought the Initiative's pitch like everyone else and took the leap across galaxies on a hunch.

Granted, most of that was somewhat true, but not entirely.

Like the other exiles, Scott didn't exactly wait around for someone else to come swooping in to save the day when the Initiative went to shit. Given that he was part of the original Pathfinder mission team —sent ahead on the Nexus to help prepare for the ark's arrival— he was supposed to have more say, should worse come to worst.

Yeah, because that turned out so well.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. When it was clear that the arks were delayed, it fell to Scott and the others sent ahead by their Pathfinders to call the shots on that end. That was what they had agreed upon per protocol before departing from the Milky Way.

Of course, Nexus leadership had something to say about that. They backtracked hard, citing inexperience and the lack of SAM as reasons to keep the Pathfinders' Nexus representatives from gaining power.

All Tann seemed to worry about was maintaining control over the populace, even when his choices didn't seem to be in everyone's best interests.

One after another, every attempt to establish an outpost failed. Naturally, hope began to dwindle over time, as would be expected after so many failures. It was brutal to watch, especially since Nexus leadership absolutely refused to send any of the Pathfinders' designated representatives. Scott didn't fully understand that decision. Maybe Tann thought that if he gave them an inch, then they would take a mile. Perhaps he was intimidated by the very thought that they might vie for the Pathfinder position yet again.

In the end, it didn't matter.

Scott didn't leave because they refused him the fancy title and its accompanying throne.

No, Scott left because of the utter incompetence. Kesh could handle her own as superintendent, but Tann and Addison were both a piece of work in their own right, making idiotic decisions yet never owning up to their mistakes. Making decisions that affected everyone yet never listening to the opinions of the public.

It was maddening, and Scott's eventual departure was inevitable.

Joining up with the uprising was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to regret. Scott fought to get innocent people off that station and to safety. Not everyone who left was a criminal, and they deserved better than what they got.

By the time they made it to Kadara, Scott was already tiring of Heleus. He helped take down the kett, didn't really get any credit for doing so, and jumped ship as soon as he could.

After Sloane took control of the port, Scott escaped into the badlands every now and then, only returning on occasion. She might have had good intentions in the beginning, but Scott didn’t like the direction her leadership was taking in regards to their future.

Besides, with trouble brewing between the Collective and the Outcasts, it seemed like he took the right step in venturing out on his own.

At first, he kept to himself, but it was impossible to ignore the people in need of help.

Seeds of corruption were already planted in the Outcasts' organization. Not that the Charlatan and their Collective were much better. Everything about the two factions' activities spelled trouble for all of the "little people" getting caught in the crossfire.

Scott had to do something. Ignoring the problem would only make it worse, leaving it to fester and spread like an unwelcome infection.

The gangs could beat each other up as much as they liked, but Scott was determined to make the planet safe for those who merely sought shelter from the madness. It took weeks of scouting out areas with a decent enough bedrock, weeks of surveying the angaran filtration systems, to even have a blueprint for a working water filter.

Of course, being an engineer had its perks.

Eventually, Scott managed to rig his tactical cloak for prolonged use and infiltrated one of the angaran hubs out in the badlands. He made it out with no collateral damage, taking off in the dead of night with scans of their systems. It gave him enough of an understanding to integrate their design into his own plans.

Did he feel bad for stealing as he did? Yes. Could he afford to linger on the guilt, knowing that those angara were denying the Milky Way species access to their plans? No.

Not when survival was on the line.

It was either keep giving them insane amounts of credits and supplies in exchange for a measly cup of water or take it for himself.

Scott was only glad he got in and out undetected. He would fight if he had to, but he wasn't bloodthirsty to the point that he actively sought out confrontation.

Building and perfecting his own filters took time and resources, even more so than usual since he was careful to keep any transactions out of the port under the radar. It was worth it, though. Before long, Scott had a working filtration system under his control.

And on Kadara, where there was fresh water, people soon followed.

Any exiles without gang affiliation were welcome. Most were wary to move to the area at first, understandably so, but Scott didn't force the matter. After all, it was difficult to verify whether or not this new town was a trap or the real thing. How could the exiles guarantee that it wouldn't turn out like all the other towns trying to get a start in the badlands? There one day, and burned to the ground by the next.

Hell, Scott didn't even attach his name to the place . Taking a page out of the Charlatan's book, Scott preferred a more discreet approach to leadership.

However, even Scott knew that, if he was ever going to get the place functioning properly, he would need to win some people over to his side.

Dr. Nakamoto had been the best person to off start with, and Scott didn't regret choosing him for a second. In exchange for retrieving his formula for Oblivion, Dr. Nakamoto promised his services as Scott's resident physician.

Luckily, his patients were more than happy to follow. Some even stayed, and word soon spread.

The rest, as they say, is history.

The locals started calling the place Paradise. A cheesy enough name, but it came down to a vote so Scott allowed it.

Compared to the surrounding cesspool that was the badlands, Scott figured he could understand why they would call it that. It felt like an oasis in an otherwise desolate wasteland, a place where one could go and catch their breath.

As for Paradise's "elusive leader," there was just as much speculation around their identity as there was around the Charlatan's. Although, unlike the Charlatan, all of the residents under Scott's care have met him, and all remained tight-lipped about who he was.

He was grateful for their loyalty. He never asked for it, but he was grateful nonetheless.

It prevented the gangs from painting a target on any one person's back. There were the occasional attacks on the community, but their people were stronger and smarter than the outlaws gave them credit for.

As stories of Scott's ventures spread, infiltrating and sabotaging both the Collective's and the Outcasts' operations to provide for his own people, Kadara Port started to buzz about this mysterious third party that joined in on Kadara's power play.

Truth was, Scott wasn't looking for power or influence.

He was simply looking to protect and provide, no matter the cost.

The Ghost, they called him, known for sneaking in and out without a trace.

And any time he was detected, there were never any witnesses left to tell the tale.

Those at Paradise always got a kick out of the nickname, refusing to let him live it down.

That was fine, though. Scott would rather be the people's boogeyman than to let their opposition think that Paradise will just roll over on their backs and let everyone else fuck them over without retaliation.

On Kadara, it was a dog-eat-dog kind of world. Any sign of weakness will be quickly taken advantage of.

But Scott played his part well.

Nowadays, he lived in the port more often than not, putting up with Sloane's ridiculous protection fees in order to keep the suspicion off himself and those around him.

At the slightest hint of trouble, Paradise had an emergency beacon equipped that would ping Scott's omni-tool at a moment's notice. He had the utmost faith in their capabilities, but he would be there at the drop of a hat, should he be signaled.

For now, it was time he sat back, kicked up his feet, and listened.

Crazy all the things you could find out just from listening to a conversation here or there.

As soon as Scott sat down at the bar in Kralla’s, he asked Umi for his usual.

“Starting a tab?” she asked as she wiped down the bar.

Scott was almost afraid to ask if that was blood or wine staining the rag that she was using. Then again, ignorance was bliss.

Such was the way of life on Kadara.

Scanning the area, Scott eventually nodded.

“Might as well.” He gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’m meeting with Reyes soon. Cheap bastard never pays for his drinks.”

“Yet you keep letting him get away with it,” Umi noted.

Scott chuckled.

“Best not to burn bridges over a few drinks,” he said, “especially when this bridge in particular filters a large majority of the goods coming in and out Kadara.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Ryder.”

While Umi continued to mix his drink, Scott tuned into the conversations around him. One caught his attention right off the bat, focused on the latest topic of discussion that was making its rounds throughout the Port.

“I’m tellin’ ya!” the human griped, words slightly slurred. “That damn place is a cult. All exclusive-like. I swear, that lot would rather sacrifice their firstborns than give up the name of their precious leader.”

“Hmph, doesn’t matter,” their salarian companion muttered. “If the outlaws in the badlands don’t take care of that group soon, chances are that Sloane or the Charlatan will, leader or no leader.”

Heh, Scott would like to see them try.

Speaking of the devil himself, Scott tensed the second he felt hands upon his shoulders, only to relax once he heard that familiar voice whisper in his ear.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” Reyes breathed, his lips brushing lightly along the shell of his ear.

Without missing a beat, Scott brushed him off with a playful glare.

“You’re late,” he scolded. He tried his best to sound indifferent, unimpressed. His relationship with Reyes has always been complicated at best. “As always.”

Releasing Scott from his hold, Reyes claimed the spot at his side, pretending to look properly chastised.

“I swear, it won’t happen again,” he said. He even made a show of crossing his heart. “I promise.”

“And yet, I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s because I was lying.”

Scott snorted, “At least you’re honest about something.”

That’s not even taking into account the whole Charlatan business, something that Reyes seemed to hold extra close to his chest with Scott around. Scott couldn’t tell if it was because Reyes had his own suspicions about him, or if he withheld that information for some other reason unbeknownst to Scott.

Either way, it took Scott a while to put the pieces together himself. Not too long, considering that the majority of the port was still puzzled over the Charlatan’s identity, but it was long enough for Scott to be as certain as humanly possible without having Reyes spell it out for him.

It was simple, really, once Scott knew what to look for. How Reyes slipped up one time about where the Collective’s base was, only to brush it off as mere rumor. How, on any job they took together, Reyes was the first to volunteer to follow up on any Collective leads. Or, better yet, how he seemed so certain whether or not an incident coincided with the Charlatan’s MO if the Charlatan was the one being implicated.

Safe to say, spend enough time with the man, and it became rather obvious over time.

As Keema was all too eager to point out, Reyes liked to think he was so subtle when, in reality, he’s not. Well, not as much as he assumed, at least.

On the other hand, maybe the Charlatan’s secret identity only became apparent to Scott because Reyes wanted him to figure it out.

If that was the case, then Scott would have to open that can of worms another day.

Right now, he needed to focus on why they were here.

Clearing his throat, Scott waited until Umi passed them their drinks and left, moving on to serve her other customers.

Scott grabbed ahold of Reyes’s sleeve and tugged. He waited until Reyes met his eyes, then jerked his chin in the direction of a nice, secluded table.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Reyes hummed, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Trying to get me alone, Scott?” Resting against the bar, Reyes leaned in close, but Scott refused to move a single muscle, holding his ground. “You need only ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind then,” Scott said. He gave Reyes a blatant once-over, sparing his lips an appreciative glance. “It’s not every day that I get the great Reyes Vidal all to myself.”

“Keep buttering me up, Scott,” Reyes teased, “and I might just give you that discount after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Scott huffed.

Picking up their drinks, they soon settled in at the table that Scott had pointed out. From where they sat, they had a whole view of the bar.

Scott took a swig of his beer, and Reyes instantly followed suit, unable to take their eyes off of each other for even a second.

They sat their glasses back down with a solid thunk.

“Okay,” Scott started, “let’s get down to business.”

“Just like that?” Reyes laughed.

“Just like that.” Shuffling in place, Scott reached into his pocket and removed a small pouch filled with seeds. At Reyes’s curious expression, Scott explained, “My payment. A rather generous one, if I do say so myself.”

After Scott tossed the pouch onto the table, Reyes picked it up. He let its weight rest in the palm of his hand for a moment before loosening the ties to sneak a peek.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Seeds?” he questioned, cocking his head to the side.

“Yep,” Scott said, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Seeds for a ‘medicinal herb.’ My scans confirmed it. It develops antibiotic-like properties as it matures, along with some other, more recreational effects.”

And by scans, Scott meant Nakamoto. Their resident doctor was quick to jump at the chance to study the plant’s effects, especially if it could help fight off future infections in Andromeda.

Scott had started off by “borrowing” a few plants from some of their local cultivators, returning the samples to the greenhouse that they had established in Paradise.

Their latest harvest yielded a surplus, so Scott figured that any leftover seeds would be a profitable bargaining chip for trade.

Turns out, he was right.

Reyes tightened his grip upon the pouch and pocketed it, now that he knew what he was getting out of their exchange.

“A valuable product,” Reyes acknowledged, “if what you say is true.”

Smirking, Scott leaned back in his chair, hand over his heart in mock offense.

“Now, Reyes, would I ever lie to my favorite smuggler?”

“True enough. You do have a soft spot for me.”

“You’re that certain, huh?”

“As a betting man, I would say that I’m confident in my chances of being right.”

He even had the gall to throw in a wink for good measure.

Scott’s face warmed, but he ignored the sensation, trying to calm his racing heart.

Of, if only he knew…

Clearing his throat, Scott returned their focus to the topic at hand.

“Also, with that herb, you don’t have to worry about any of those nasty addictive effects like with Oblivion,” Scott continued. “I guess the high you get from it could be considered slightly addictive in more of a mental sense, but it’s relatively harmless on a physiological level.”

Reyes raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sounds like you know from personal experience.”

“I, uh—” Scott stammered, caught red-handed. “Well, what kind of salesman would I be if I didn’t sample the product for myself?”

“A poor one, indeed,” Reyes agreed. “I’m only offended that you didn’t think to invite me to the party.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I feel the urge to smoke the space weed,” Scott deadpanned.

“Please, do.”

“Okay, okay.” Scott did his best to hide his laughter. His lip quivered at the corner. “Back to business, mister. You’re not taking my goods and leaving me with nothing again.” Reyes had charmed his way out of one too many deals with him in the past, but not anymore. “Where’s the goods?”

“Scott,” Reyes gasped. “I am offended you would think that I would stoop so low as to steal from my favorite exile.”

When it was clear that Scott wasn’t buying it, Reyes surrendered.

“Alright, here. One long-ranged scanner, ready for use.” Taking out a small package, Reyes pushed it pointedly across the table. Scott took it instantly, unable to express his gratitude in that moment. “Sorry that I didn’t have a chance to giftwrap it. My best only deserves the best, after all.”

Scott felt his heart skip a beat.

“Don’t think anything of it.” Scott shook his head, clutching tightly at the package. “This should be enough.”

“Glad to hear it.” Reyes paused, hesitating before coming out with it. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s it for?”

“What else would I use a scanner for?” Scott countered. “I wasn’t on the Pathfinder’s mission team for nothing. We have a whole bunch of unexplored ruins scattered all over the surface of this planet, and I plan on getting some readings.”

To be more specific, he wanted a reading on their turrets if he could examine one at a safe distance. Even the beam technology from the Observer bots would be useful in formulating a defensive matrix for the t—

“You what?”

Uh-oh, someone was upset.

Scott grimaced. He carefully avoided Reyes’s gaze, filled with heat and disapproval.

“Reyes, come on,” Scott sighed. It was weird to see him so fiercely protective, to see him act like he cared about anything other than the next job he had lined up. “I’m a big boy. I’ll be careful.”

“Kadara’s most experienced scientists were careful,” Reyes snapped, “yet that didn’t stop the Remnant from butchering them like animals. Scott, there’s a reason why even the angara avoid those areas like the plague. The security measures alone…”

Could be what kept Scott’s people safe.

Sitting up straight, Scott held his head up high with renewed purpose, meeting Reyes’s eyes with a stubborn glare.

“I’m going,” he stated, “whether you like it or not. The information stored there might be vital to our continued survival. We can’t pass up an opportunity to learn the Remnant’s secrets.”

Reyes pursed his lips, but eventually acquiesced.

“Fine, but I’m accompanying you when you go.”

“That’s not your decision!”

“You’re not changing my mind.”

They stared each other down, caught at an impasse.

After a moment of tense silence between them, Reyes grumbled. Since that argument was obviously far from being over, he was more than willing to change the subject.

“I have another exchange for you.”

Now, that got Scott’s attention. Setting the scanner aside, he would make sure to install the upgrade into his omni-tool later, curious about this second trade-off.

They didn’t have anything else planned for today, and Reyes wasn’t usually the type to drop something like this on a client at the last second.

Whatever he found, it had to be huge.

“What is it?” Scott asked, wondering what the Charlatan himself had up his sleeve.

“A little bit of intel,” he offered, keeping his reply as vague as ever.

Still, if Reyes was offering the information, then it must be important. As shady as he could be at times, information was his forte. When Reyes used it as a bargaining chip, he meant business, and chances were that it was reliable.

Scott simply wondered if he actually wanted the news that Reyes had to offer.

“What’s the catch?” Scott asked, because nothing on Kadara came for free.

Reyes shrugged.

“My shuttle needs some repairs, and I only trust one person to fix her up. Mind coming by tomorrow?”

Scott pretended to consider his offer for a moment, but in the end, he could never say no to working on that old bird.

“Name the time and place.”

“I’ll send you the details later, but don’t make me wait up.”

“And deny you of my presence for even longer? That would just be cruel.”

“Glad we can agree on something.” Reyes’s smile soon twisted into a frown. That solemn expression certainly didn’t do any favors to ease Scott’s nerves. “As for that intel, you’ve heard of Vehn Terev, right?”

“The poor, unfortunate soul whose head is next up on Sloane Kelly’s chopping block?” After all, she couldn’t afford to upset the angara, not after word spread of Vehn's betrayal. That would threaten the balance of power too much, at least in her eyes. “I might have heard a thing or two.”

“Well, you’re about to hear much more in the coming days,” Reyes explained, watching him closely for any sign of change. “I recently received a message from Evfra. Apparently, Vehn has some useful intel of his own, intel that could potentially cripple the kett’s operations in all of Heleus for good. Evfra has arranged for me to meet with one of his contacts about securing Vehn’s release from prison.”

“A difficult feat if Sloane won’t comply,” Scott noted, “but I still don’t see why this information would be of any use to me.”

“Scott—” Reyes hesitated.

For once, he seemed genuinely nervous, which in turn caused Scott to panic a little on the inside.

What he said turned Scott’s entire world upside down.

“The contact is Pathfinder Ryder.”