#claims of espionage

[utilitymonstermash]

On the Matter of the TikTok Ban

There's a lot of motte-and-bailey stuff going around about the TikTok ban. (And I probably have some out-group homogeneity bias too.) For the record I'm mostly against the ban but am more sympathetic to some arguments than others. I thought I'd break down some of the reasons and why I think they are weak.

Probably the biggest umbrella reason for supporting a TikTok ban is espionage. Senator Cotton called it a "spy app."

The biggest, baddest version of the espionage argument I've heard is the app itself is hacking our phones. "Hacking" in that the app is going outside of its sandbox and collecting data not normally available to it. This would be a huge bombshell if true. However, I've seen no real evidence backing this claim. It seems like criminal law would be a great vector for tackling this. As far as I can tell we haven't seen a warrant served against ByteDance US offices. Even if criminal justice is too slow and we need more immediate relief over such a threat, making some evidence public would bolster that argument.

The weaker form of the espionage act is TikTok engages in surveillance capitalism and sells or gives the results to folks we don't like (Chinese Intelligence). This one feels like a nothing burger. I guess it is possible TikTok lacks the strong moral fiber of folks like Mark Zuckerberg, Sundar Pichai, and Evan Spiegel. It seems like the data is already out there. It transits a wide network of entities via multiple real time market places. I guess it would be marginally better if Chinese Intelligence would have to spend more to place ads and get data that way. It seems like the real solution to data privacy is a combination of technical safeguards to make less data available and strong legal protections (where again one can build a legal case) and not just naming and banning unpopular actors.

After espionage, the next most common justification I hear for TikTok is that it boosts Chinese soft power by spreading anti-American memes and/or social contagions that make American children unwell. I'll deal specifically with mental wellness in the next section and focus on Anti-American memes here.

As far as I can tell, the USG is a big booster of anti-America memes at home via how domestic status games and politics intersect into the arts world and into NEA funding. I suspect that the content NEA has funded over the past 50 years has a net negative valence on American history. I'd suggest the USG stop doing that if they are concerned about Anti-America memes.

I'm sure part of this must be my filter bubble, but very little I've seen on TikTok is overtly Anti-America. NYT's The 1619 Project sends much more of an America is a nation founded on sin and needs to atone message than anything I've ever seen on TikTok.

Beyond content that makes people overtly hate America, TikTok has been accused of promoting content that makes Americans unwell: social contagion, lionizing bad behavior, etc. The classic version of this is anorexia/bulimia content and pro-shoplifting content (looking at you Tumblr). A more modern right-wing take on this is pro-trans content being a social contagion (for the purposes of this post I will assume it is, sorry Trans friends and readers).

It's hard to say TikTok promotes this content any more than Instagram. It's possible that being owned by Evil Chinese Corporation boosts these categories beyond market demand for it, but has anyone actually proved that out. Up until about a week ago (long after the TikTok ban process started), Meta (Instagram) was one of the most pro-LGBTQ (and specifically pro-trans) big businesses on Earth. Or maybe TikTok's sin is being insufficiently pro-queer (a la Red Book).

I saw quite a bit of pro-trans and pro-queer content on TikTok, a tiny bit of pro-shoplifting content, and quite a bit of anti-cop content peaking in 2021 and declining from there. On the flip side, I saw a ton of pro-natalist content (beautiful moms, beautiful babies, heartwarming parenting videos). I also saw a ton of fitness content. I didn't see any eating disorder content but probably am not in the right demos for that.

Outside of a few banned content categories, it doesn't seem like TikTok is putting its thumb on the scale to make Americans unwell by showing them maladaptive strategies.

Aside from the content itself, some argue that the app’s design creates dopamine-driven addiction for both adults and children. It has been called Digital Fentanyl somewhat hyperbolically. (I've never seen someone passed out on the street at midday scrolling TikTok, but maybe their phones get scooped up too quickly). I’m somewhat sympathetic to this concern, but divestment (the USG’s preferred remedy) doesn’t really address it. It also doesn't seem like TikTok is the sole offender here, Instagram is a huge app with similar patterns. I'm not sure why Mark Zuckerberg profiting off this addiction is substantially better than ByteDance. It seems like a better remedy to scrolling addiction are things exclusion lists, age limits, parental controls, and if it really has to come down to it, rules about interfaces and content, rather than rules about ownership.

Outside of any app content, sometimes I see banning TikTok promoted as retaliation for China providing insufficient market access to its country by western companies. I am actually pretty sympathetic to this argument. China puts up big barriers to the access to its markets by outside companies, often requiring the use of joint-ventures with Chinese companies with Chinese staff which act as defacto technology transfer programs.

I think this is a bit ham-fisted towards that approach but ultimately not unreasonable. Instagram has a product not unlike TikTok, that ultimately degrades into a video scroller. YouTube Shorts is also awfully similar to TikTok. These apps seem to struggle with GTM and network access and not technology though. There's hardly any technology TikTok has that they lack. In terms of stealing technology, robbing part of a drone company, or part of Hauwei would give a bigger boon. In terms of local apps vs foreign apps, I think better localization and a sense of Chinese patriotism have given Chinese companies a leg up in their domestic markets, while an off putting censorship regime has caused foreign companies to stumble (only in the past decade have we really been able to begin to catch up on political taboos).

It's pretty clear that China is for the Chinese people. It doesn't reflect this perfectly, but a supermajority of Chinese seem to believe this. But “Who is America for?” is much less clear; it sometimes feels like it’s just for USD holders. I don't think it's really clear to Americans why Instagram winning is in their best interest. In fact Instagram's owners and staff weigh in on a lot of domestic disputes that ByteDance seems disinterested in.

I think in a healthier country, the local good-enough product would win. When was the last time "buy American" was anything but a punchline for rubes? We've dissolved the ties that bind us and are playing too many zero sum games at home.

As Sam Hyde puts it: "Wouldn't that be interesting if China makes it to Mars first. It would be great for Humanity why don't we do it. Let's do it. China makes it to Mars before America does that sound like fun? It's just humans; they're just interchangeable economic units. Why wouldn't we want that? I think we do do."

Lastly, resistance to divestment (choosing to dissolve rather than sell) has been used as a cudgel to "prove" that TikTok is up to something nefarious. I don't really buy it. This is an iterated game and there are a lot of players with their own agendas. If TikTok sells, it's open season to start swallowing-up Chinese foreign subsidiaries left and right. Making the US shut it down, makes US lawmakers pay a heavy price in terms of popularity for killing such a popular app. Meanwhile there are a bunch of staff at ByteDance Corporate (in China) who will likely circulate through a number of Chinese companies, who may be better off being viewed as standing up to America than capitulating. Sometimes it’s better not to pay the Danegeld.

[were-writes]

So, Jonathan's letter that Dracula burnt today, that was the shorthand one, right? Like was Dracula mad because he does know shorthand and now he knows Johnathan is on to him, or was it 'an insult to friendship' because he thinks Jonathan has a secret made up best friend language with Mina like besties do when they're little kids, but not one with him and he's feeling left out?

[arolesbianism]

Hi guys guess who's literally shaking rn from excitement

[belladonna-nyx]

Damian gifted Tim a live duck as a gag gift. That duck was personally trained by Tim and is now a professional espionage agent.

---

Lex Luther was pissed. Someone managed to bypass his security and stole their schematics for their latest weapon. No suspicious activities, only a duck randomly attacking a guard by the side entrance.

---

He tried escaping after failing to take out his target, now he is slowly loosing consciousness on a rooftop. The last thing the assassin saw before blacking out was a duck with a needle in its beak.

---

"RR, where's the report on the recent drug bust?" Batman asked. To which RR replied with "Please refer to my partner."

Cue duck waddling. Batman watches as the duck with a domino mask drops the files in front in front of him.

Batman sighed in defeat "Thank you."

---

Ra's glares down the room. Three of his men down on the floor. Computer infected with a virus. And a few artifacts were taken from his vault.

The duck escaped through the vents.

---

The batfam can't do anything about the duck. Tim claimed the duck as his son. On his will and everything.

[jinjeriffic]

Dan Phantom vs. the Justice League

Most DCxDP fanworks gloss over how Dark Danny/Phantom kills the JL, or argue that TUE wouldn't play out the same way in the DC universe, since there are tons of superheroes and some would have a way of beating Dan. So let us dig into this with a shovel!

I would like to point out that we have seen plenty of apocalyptic/dark futures in DC. Even without Dan, that superhero multiverse is constantly teetering on the knife's edge of catastrophe! It feels like every couple of months someone has to stop the end of the world. Dan is just one more possible future to avert.

Dan is not a mindless monster, he is capable of planning, subterfuge and working with/coercing others to work with him (i.e. Fright Knight). He has both Danny and Vlad's memories, so in a crossover setting there is no way he wouldn't know about the public superheroes and villains at least.

Speaking of, DC is obviously crawling with supervillains and world destroying entities. Nobody said Dan had to conquer the world alone! I can totally see him working with and manipulating other villains to achieve his goals, only to stab them in the back later (ho-ho).

Dan's powers of invisibility, intangibility, duplication, overshadowing etc. make him an ideal candidate for infiltration, espionage and sabotage. Unless a person or location is specifically shielded against ghosts with tech or magic, he can get in and out without anybody noticing. Sure, someone like Batman probably had his home proofed against supernatural attacks, but surely not most of them! I envision him taking down Earth's heroes by extensively spying on them first.

Consider: Dan causes a major disaster that requires superhero intervention (runaway train, high-rise fire, sinking oil tanker etc.) and waits for someone to show up. When they do, Dan uses his duplicates to follow the hero(es) home/to work etc. Learn their identity, their weaknesses, their loved ones etc.

Dan could strategically leak hero identities to villains with a grudge who have no problem going after their civilian lives. This could also act as a smoke screen so the heroes don't immediately realize someone is targeting all of them.

Overshadow a loved one and use them to kill the hero - "Oh, Hero X got in an argument with their SO and their SO shot them in a fit of passion? Their SO claims having blacked out just before they picked up the gun? Trauma will do that."

Use intangibility to plant bombs, nerve gas, radioactive materials, etc. in the homes of various heroes and set them off in a coordinated strike.

Probably the biggest threat to Dan would be magic based heroes or supernatural entities (Captain Marvel, Doctor Fate, the JLD, etc.). They would also be the most likely to have countermeasures in place against ghosts, or a way to detect him. But they're also mostly suited for fighting the supernatural. I admittedly don't know enough about a lot of these characters - would say, Zatanna think to have a shield in place against sudden sniper attacks? Dan could steal some money and hire Deathstroke/Deadshot etc to blow their head off when they're out in the open.

Have I mentioned what a nightmare Dan would be in terms of security? I can totally see him say, breaking into the CDC and unleashing smallpox, ebola and any number of virulent diseases on the world. Cause some nuclear meltdowns. Knock down a dam. Steal some highly radioactive isotopes! Would the magic heroes be protected against something that can give you a lethal dose of radiation within minutes?

What I'm saying is, a clever and ruthless villain like Dan could unleash enough chaos with his OP powerset to overwhelm the heroes and then pick a lot of them off. He's pretty much the definition of someone who just wants to see the world burn!

[essektheylyss]

I do just keep thinking about Essek listening to Ludinus talk.

Essek, who will be on the run for the rest of his life for the deal he made with Ludinus.

Essek, who handed over unfathomable power to Ludinus believing it to be for the greater good and embroiling an entire continent in war as a result.

Essek, who helped orchestrate acts of espionage searching for the priceless artifacts that he had handed to Ludinus which the Empire, under Ludinus's puppeting, used to claim themselves righteous—defended themselves against unlawful invasion—in their war.

Essek, who once believed Ludinus a like-minded peer before discovering that in his eyes he was only something to be used and cast aside once his purpose was served.

Essek, who has seen the scars carved upon his dearest friends by those Ludinus has enabled as a means to his ends.

Listening to Ludinus speak of the damage that the gods have wrought. The wars they have waged at the cost of others. The way they have coerced and manipulated mortals into enabling their ends. The lives they have ruined and left in their wake without a care.

There are no gods walking Exandria, but there are monsters.

[ylangelegy]

Following the death of agent Poktanju, the Korean arm of espionage agency Kingsman must now reassess its ranks. Three Kingsmen— and one aspiring agent— navigate the aftermath to the best of their ability. The work is daunting, yes, but the saying rings true: MANNERS MAKETH MAN.

CODEBOOK ★ manners maketh man is an upcoming collection of four stories starring select members of SEVENTEEN. minors do not interact; these fics will contain explicit content, including but not limited to smut; depictions/mentions of death, violence, and injuries; alcohol consumption, etc. stories will be tagged accordingly once completed and linked back to this masterlist.

proceed with caution, and remember— a gentleman never tells about conquests, private matters, or dealings. this stays between us.

SMOKE SIGNALS ♟️ Minghao Makgeolli.

Your fiancé has never given you any reason to worry about him. He’s always been a little secretive about his job, but you’ve believed there are worse things to worry about. That is, until he comes home one night bruised, battered, and claiming he wants to call your engagement off. Now, you’re left to wonder whether you ever really knew Minghao at all. 

WAITING ROOM ♟️ Jihoon Baekseju.

Intel gatherer. Candidate trainer. Technical expert. Jihoon is a jack of all trades— who feels like he ought to add ‘murderer’ to his list of titles. The only thing he can do for now is focus on keeping the remaining Kingsmen alive. It’s easier said than done, especially when you make his job a living hell. You’re probably the most stubborn agent that the organization has, and Jihoon refuses to let you die.

MOTION SICKNESS ♟️ Soonyoung.

Wonwoo said he had an opening for Soonyoung, but never in the latter’s wildest dreams did he expect it would be this. Kingsman Training is shaping up to be the world’s most dangerous job interview and Soonyoung has half a mind to quit. He just might stick around, though, if it means getting to wipe that smug look off your face.

I KNOW THE END ♟️ Vernon Somaek.

The Kingsman’s newest target is a visionary who, in trying to heal the world, risks breaking it. Vernon is on your case, and he swears he’ll be able to catch you this time. The problem is— when you're two people at the same time, one of them is bound to trip the other. Whether Vernon will manage to stay on his toes is yet to be seen.

The Kingsman is a top-secret, independent intelligence and espionage agency based in South Korea, dedicated to upholding peace and protecting the world from terrorists and other major threats. To the Korean public, Kingsman is nothing more than a popular, multinational drink and brewing company. Its alcoholic beverages are renowned all over the world; its agents are named after the drinks and mixes they sell.

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY ★ all titles are from phoebe bridgers songs. i recently rewatched the kingsman movies because they’re leaving netflix soon, and this idea grabbed me by the neck and wouldn’t let go. massive thanks to the love of my life, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for listening to my psychobabble about this. you make me possible, a. xo

[patriottruth]

This is a reminder that on March 4th, 2024, the Supreme Court of the United States ordered donald j. trump to have 87 Democrats in both houses of Congress remove his insurrectionist disqualification from ever holding any federal office again. He failed to do so prior to November 5, 2024. Should he fail to do so by December 17th, 2024, he will not be the 47th President of the United States of America on January 20th, 2025.

So I've seen some comments suggesting this is misinformation. It's not. Per the Supreme Court of the United States' own Berger Test to disqualify judges, the MAGA SCOTUS majority ruling pertaining to donald j. trump being permanently immune from federal enforcement of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment means nothing; because it lacks standing in precedent, law, constitutionality, and relevance.

The three dissenting justices clarify that the only matter that was actually legally settled and, therefore, legally enforceable, pertained to state actions, not federal law enforcement actions against a disqualified insurrectionist presidential or federal candidate, such as donald j. trump, committing the federal crime of being an insurrectionist attempting to hold office without having their insurrectionist disqualification removed via a two-thirds vote of both houses. And so it is legal fact that the Supreme Court did, in fact, order donald j. trump to have his insurrectionist disqualification removed by a two-thirds vote of both houses on March 4th, 2024; it's just that donald j. trump and his legal team were too illiterate and unintelligent to actually read what was legal and had standing (state enforcement against federal candidates), and what didn't (federal enforcement against federal candidates). And MAGA SCOTUS is now permanently legally barred from ever addressing any matter pertaining to federal enforcement of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment against donald j. trump, so they can't even try to interfere on his behalf again should Democrats in the House of Representatives and the Senate demand and force a vote on the matter of donald j. trump's disqualification for holding federal office.

Berger v. United States, 255 U.S. 22 (1921), is a United States Supreme Court decision overruling a trial court decision by U.S. District Court Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis against Rep. Victor L. Berger, a Congressman for Wisconsin's 5th district and the founder of the Social Democratic Party of America, and several other German-American defendants who were convicted of violating the Espionage Act by publicizing anti-interventionist views during World War I.

The case was argued on December 9, 1920, and decided on January 31, 1921, with an opinion by Justice Joseph McKenna and dissents by Justices William R. Day, James Clark McReynolds, and Mahlon Pitney. The Supreme Court held that Judge Landis was properly disqualified as trial judge based on an affidavit filed by the German defendants asserting that Judge Landis' public anti-German statements should disqualify him from presiding over the trial of the defendants.

The House of Representatives twice denied Berger his seat in the House due to his original conviction for espionage using Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution regarding denying office to those who supported "insurrection or rebellion". The Supreme Court overturned the verdict in 1921 in Berger v. U.S., and Berger won three successive terms in the House in the 1920s.

Per the United States Supreme Court's "Berger test" that states that to disqualify ANY judge in the United States of America: 1) a party files an affidavit claiming personal bias or prejudice demonstrating an "objectionable inclination or disposition of the judge" and 2) claim of bias is based on facts antedating the trial.

All 6 criminal MAGA insurrectionist and trump-loyalist U.S. Supreme Court Justices who've repeatedly and illegally ruled in donald j. trump's favor are as disqualified from issuing any rulings pertaining to donald j. trump (a German immigrant) as the United States Supreme Court ruled U.S. District Court Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis was when he attempted to deny Victor L. Berger (a German immigrant) from holding office for violating the Espionage Act and supporting or engaging in insurrection or rebellion against the United States of America.

The only misinformation that exists surrounding the Anderson vs. trump ruling is the belief that the MAGA SCOTUS ruling on federal enforcement of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment against donald j. trump settled the matter and handed him permanent immunity from prosecution should he ever commit the federal crime of attempting to hold federal office. In legal fact, MAGA SCOTUS' nonsensical ruling attempting to grant donald j. trump permanent immunity from prosecution for insurrection is grounds for immediate and permanent disbarment; as they're clearly attempting to legislate from the bench and prevent Congress from legislating in a way that's unfavorable to their presidential candidate.

This is the only pertinent and legally important part of the Anderson vs. trump ruling with regards to federal enforcement of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment against donald j. trump or any other insurrectionist committing the federal crime of attempting to hold office without first having their insurrectionist disqualification removed by a two-thirds vote of both houses:

Justice Sotomayor, Justice Kagan, and Justice Jackson Opinion on the Majority Ruling:

Yet the majority goes further. Even though “[a]ll nine Members of the Court” agree that this independent and sufficient ratioAnd MAGA SCOTUS is now permanently legally barred from ever addressing any matter pertaining to federal enforcement of Section 3 of the 14th Amendment against donald j. trump.nale resolves this case, five Justices go on. They decide novel constitutional questions to insulate this Court and petitioner from future controversy. Ante, at 13. Although only an individual State’s action is at issue here, the majority opines on which federal actors can enforce Section 3, and how they must do so. The majority announces that a disqualification for insurrection can occur only when Congress enacts a particular kind of legislation pursuant to Section 5 of the Fourteenth Amendment. In doing so, the majority shuts the door on other potential means of federal enforcement. We cannot join an opinion that decides momentous and difficult issues unnecessarily, and we therefore concur only in the judgment.

Yet the Court continues on to resolve questions not before us. In a case involving no federal action whatsoever, the Court opines on how federal enforcement of Section 3 must proceed. Congress, the majority says, must enact legislation under Section 5 prescribing the procedures to “ ‘ “ascertain[ ] what particular individuals” ’ ” should be disqualified. Ante, at 5 (quoting Griffin’s Case, 11 F. Cas. 7, 26 (No. 5,815) (CC Va. 1869) (Chase, Circuit Justice)). These musings are as inadequately supported as they are gratuitous.

To start, nothing in Section 3’s text supports the majority’s view of how federal disqualification efforts must operate. Section 3 states simply that “[n]o person shall” hold certain positions and offices if they are oathbreaking insurrectionists. Amdt. 14. Nothing in that unequivocal bar suggests that implementing legislation enacted under Section 5 is “critical” (or, for that matter, what that word means in this context). Ante, at 5. In fact, the text cuts the opposite way. Section 3 provides that when an oathbreaking insurrectionist is disqualified, “Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.” It is hard to understand why the Constitution would require a congressional supermajority to remove a disqualification if a simple majority could nullify Section 3’s operation by repealing or declining to pass implementing legislation. Even petitioner’s lawyer acknowledged the “tension” in Section 3 that the majority’s view creates. See Tr. of Oral Arg. 31.

Similarly, nothing else in the rest of the Fourteenth Amendment supports the majority’s view. Section 5 gives Congress the “power to enforce [the Amendment] by appropriate legislation.” Remedial legislation of any kind, however, is not required. All the Reconstruction Amendments (including the due process and equal protection guarantees and prohibition of slavery) “are self-executing,” meaning that they do not depend on legislation. City of Boerne v. Flores, 521 U.S. 507, 524 (1997); see Civil Rights Cases, 109 U.S. 3, 20 (1883). Similarly, other constitutional rules of disqualification, like the two-term limit on the Presidency, do not require implementing legislation. See, e.g., Art. II, §1, cl. 5 (Presidential Qualifications); Amdt. 22 (Presidential Term Limits). Nor does the majority suggest otherwise. It simply creates a special rule for the insurrection disability in Section 3.

The majority is left with next to no support for its requirement that a Section 3 disqualification can occur only pursuant to legislation enacted for that purpose. It cites Griffin’s Case, but that is a nonprecedential, lower court opinion by a single Justice in his capacity as a circuit judge. See ante, at 5 (quoting 11 F. Cas., at 26). Once again, even petitioner’s lawyer distanced himself from fully embracing this case as probative of Section 3’s meaning. See Tr. of Oral Arg. 35–36. The majority also cites Senator Trumbull’s statements that Section 3 “ ‘provide[d] no means for enforcing’ ” itself. Ante, at 5 (quoting Cong. Globe, 41st Cong., 1st Sess., 626 (1869)). The majority, however, neglects to mention the Senator’s view that “[i]t is the [F]ourteenth [A]mendment that prevents a person from holding office,” with the proposed legislation simply “affor[ding] a more efficient and speedy remedy” for effecting the disqualification. Cong. Globe, 41st Cong., 1st Sess., at 626–627.

Ultimately, under the guise of providing a more “complete explanation for the judgment,” ante, at 13, the majority resolves many unsettled questions about Section 3. It forecloses judicial enforcement of that provision, such as might occur when a party is prosecuted by an insurrectionist and raises a defense on that score. The majority further holds that any legislation to enforce this provision must prescribe certain procedures “ ‘tailor[ed]’ ” to Section 3, ante, at 10, ruling out enforcement under general federal statutes requiring the government to comply with the law. By resolving these and other questions, the majority attempts to insulate all alleged insurrectionists from future challenges to their holding federal office.

“What it does today, the Court should have left undone.” Bush v. Gore, 531 U.S. 98, 158 (2000) (Breyer, J., dissenting). The Court today needed to resolve only a single question: whether an individual State may keep a Presidential candidate found to have engaged in insurrection off its ballot. The majority resolves much more than the case before us. Although federal enforcement of Section 3 is in no way at issue, the majority announces novel rules for how that enforcement must operate. It reaches out to decide Section 3 questions not before us, and to foreclose future efforts to disqualify a Presidential candidate under that provision. In a sensitive case crying out for judicial restraint, it abandons that course.

Section 3 serves an important, though rarely needed, role in our democracy. The American people have the power to vote for and elect candidates for national office, and that is a great and glorious thing. The men who drafted and ratified the Fourteenth Amendment, however, had witnessed an “insurrection [and] rebellion” to defend slavery. §3. They wanted to ensure that those who had participated in that insurrection, and in possible future insurrections, could not return to prominent roles. Today, the majority goes beyond the necessities of this case to limit how Section 3 can bar an oathbreaking insurrectionist from becoming President. Although we agree that Colorado cannot enforce Section 3, we protest the majority’s effort to use this case to define the limits of federal enforcement of that provision. Because we would decide only the issue before us, we concur only in the judgment.

What all of that means is that between now and December 17th, 2024, donald j. trump has no choice but to go to Congress and have 70 Democrats in the House of Representatives and 17 Democrats in the Senate vote to remove his insurrectionist disqualification, as he was ordered to do by SCOTUS on March 4th, 2024, or he's not legally the President Elect and cannot be inaugurated, sworn in, or hold federal office again on January 20, 2025. The clock is ticking!

Here's why this will work: donald trump's legal tactics are deny, attempt to wiggle out of it on technicalities, and delay, delay, delay. Well, from November 2023 to March 4, 2024, donald trump not only said that he was never an officer of the United States, but that he also never swore an oath to support the United States Constitution. And then he said that Section 3 of the 14th Amendment says nothing about running for office, only holding office, and since he's only running for office, nothing can keep him off the ballot. And that's where this has finally caught up to him.

SCOTUS illegally took the case to begin with. SCOTUS was required to kick the case back to Congress immediately to force a two-thirds of both houses vote to remove donald trump's insurrectionist disqualification. But they illegally denied Congress the ability to vote on it at the time, illegally legislated from the bench to keep donald trump on the ballot by illegally amending Section 3 of the 14th Amendment of the United States Constitution, and dismissed the clear two-thirds vote requirement to replace it with "Congress must pass new legislation and amend Section 3 of the 14th Amendment in order to keep insurrectionists off of the ballot and out of office in the future. All six MAGA SCOTUS injustices can now be immediately and permanently disbarred from ever judging or practicing law anywhere in the United States now and in the future for that illegal legislating from the bench; because the U.S. Constitution clearly says that the Judiciary can never interfere with Congress legislating, or with the President enforcing the laws of the United States.

donald trump and his allies figured that was a win, that SCOTUS couldn't be challenged, that the Democrats could never get legislation passed to keep him off the ballot or from holding office again, and the matter was dropped. But that's where he was wrong; because Section 3 of the 14th Amendment still reads, and only legally reads, that the only way an insurrectionist can hold federal office again is by a two-thirds vote in both the House of Representatives and the Senate; and that means that now that donald trump can't try and use the technicality of "I'm not even trying to hold office, I'm just running for office," and he's actively trying to hold office with no technicality wiggle room, donald trump's only path to the White House is to have 70 Democrats in the House of Representatives and 17 Democrats in the Senate vote to remove his insurrectionist disqualification by December 17th, 2017; and his favorite tactic of delay, delay, delay won't work because delaying means he can't be inaugurated, sworn in, and serve as the 47th President of the United States; and that means Kamala Harris would become 47th President of the United States by default.

If anyone is interested in fighting another trump presidency, contact every Democrat representative in the House of Representatives and the Senate and remind them that donald j. trump cannot be inaugurated, sworn in, and be the 47th President of the United States on January 20, 2025 unless 70 Democrats in the House of Representatives and 17 Democrats in the Senate vote to remove his insurrectionist disqualification before December 17, 2024. Many of them have online contact forms. You may have to enter an address near their local office in their district for the contact form to go through, but I know they're going to want to be reminded of this by as many people as possible in order to save humanity and American democracy from donald trump. Plus, Kamala Harris can be contacted via the White House Vice President contact form; and as a presidential candidate and the President of the Senate, she and President Biden can do a lot to enforce donald trump having to have his insurrectionist disqualification removed by a two-thirds vote of the House of Representatives and the Senate before December 17, 2024.

[highonmarvel]

heyy lov ur fics. saw you wanted some bucky recs so i got one. how about like bucky and reader have been dating for 2-3 months and he's always sweet to her and always making sure she was happy. he even promised to get rid of almost all of his weapons. but then he secretly didnt. he still had them, for "saftey purposes" he couldnt let anything happen to u. so he kept them in a secret room along with some pictures of u he took when he was observing(stalking) you before he entered into ur life -P1

that’s actually such a scary idea, i love it. okay, okay, you had a lot so apologises if it’s a bit different than you were expecting, but i tried, and i had fun! let me know if you like it! and my sweet sister @thehydraethereal, tell me what you think.

The Sun

Bucky Barnes: Bucky’s world revolves around you, The Sun, his sunshine, and he’ll do just about anything to make you happy, but everything to keep you safe.

CONTENT WARNING: This is a dark fic, please read content warnings here! 18+!

You’ve always been more of a glass half-full type of person, but with Bucky, you’ve really turned into a ray of sunshine—he just brings that out in you, treating you as precious as every breath he takes and as vital to life as the Sun itself. He said that to you once, when you asked why he calls you sunshine while laying your head in his lap, smiling in bliss as he stroked your hair. He said, “My world revolves around you.”

Even after three months, he still treats you with the same respect and gentleness and love and patience as that very first day, if not even more. There was only once you two had had a serious disagreement—it wasn’t really an argument, no one was angry, but it certainly could’ve been a massive dealbreaker for you.

Bucky never spoke much of his childhood, his teenage years, or even his adult ones, he only really went three years into the past, max, but you had pieced together he’s been through a lot, and so you never pushed him, but you made sure to make it clear you’d be there for him if and when he was ready to talk about it. There was a lot he did that showed you he was a war vet, and that as reluctant as he may be to admit it, he was suffering from some form of PTSD—he doesn’t like watching espionage films, or even movies with too much violence (which you don’t mind skipping, you don’t care too much for them either way), he’s sensitive to loud noises and a few times he’s jolted you out of your slumber with his nightmares, but he claims they’re much better with you than before. The metal arm also fascinated you—he said it’s made of vibranium, and you frowned at the thought of why he would need such a strong arm, but that you managed to get used to. What you couldn’t get used to, however, was his weaponry.

You had been sitting on the couch together when there was a thud from the next room over, and Bucky jumped up, soldier stance and everything, ready to go check it out. You were about to assure him it was nothing, tell him you forgot to close a window and a breeze probably knocked something over, when he slid a knife out of his boot and your breath caught in your throat. You followed the silver glint with your eyes as he stalked around the corner and then disappeared for a few moments.

“Birdie slammed against the window,” he said, relieved with a small smile, and you could hardly believe the juxtaposition between his use of the term ‘birdie’ while he held a knife securely in his hand. When you didn’t respond, staring at him with wide eyes, his brows turned downward in show of concern, and his voice came sincerely, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? It was nothing.” He incorrectly assumed the noise had scared you, but quickly came to understand when he noticed your gaze fixed on the knife.

“This?” he asked, casually, spinning the knife on his finger, but when you jumped back, he quickly hid it behind his back and cast his head downward in shame. He hadn’t meant to scare you, and though he felt bad, he couldn’t help but feel a little offended you’d think his arsenal was something to be afraid of. He’d never lay a hand on you, let alone a tool, why were you scared? Did you not trust him? He only kept this stuff to keep you safe. And besides, you knew about his slight paranoia with defence, so why did this catch you off guard? Sure, maybe the knife in the boot was a little too much for you to handle, but you seemed to take more issue with its existence rather than his convenient hiding.

“Sorry,” he mumbled an apology, managing to look up at you. “I didn’t mean to scare you, just had to make sure everything was alright.” He offered a weak smile in hopes of setting you at ease, but it faded when you stood up to confront him, shaking slightly.

“Why do you have a knife?” you asked in horror, voice raising in pitch. “What— do you just— do you just always have that on you?”

It’s the knife you’re worried about. Darling, if you knew the half of it.

“Protection,” he answered simply, innocently, not understanding your reaction.

“What— what else do you have? And— and in your house? You have to get rid of it!”

At any other time he would have pushed back on this (gently, of course), but in your frantic state he knew it wouldn’t serve either of you very well. He really hadn’t expected you to start hyperventilating about it. He switched to soothing you, holding you in his arms and promising he would get rid of all that, that you could feel safe… even though in his mind, his weapons were to make you feel safe, to keep you safe.

There’s a cupboard in Bucky’s house that’s always locked, and he tells you it’s just tools and some clutter he needs to clear out. But what you don’t know is he’s still got his shit in there. In any other circumstance, he would do anything you asked of him, but in this case, he got the impression you didn’t understand, that you were a little naïve when it came to this sort of stuff, like you’d always been sheltered and protected in a way that never needed violence. But he knows what the real world is like, and he knows what he’s got to do to keep you safe.

That was a few months ago. Now, trying to watch a film from the 40s—something with Jimmy Stewart, to grant Bucky a little nostalgia and tick another movie off your cinephile list—you both doze off, but you wake up before him. He usually wakes up earlier than you and falls asleep later, so you rarely see him asleep, only once you had to wake him up from the vivid nightmare, but here, now, he’s peaceful—his eyes are shut, his breathing is steady, his muscles aren’t tensed, this is the first time you’ve seen him lose himself to unconsciousness, and your heart swells at the realisation he feels safe enough to be so vulnerable around you.

As much as you would have loved to watch him breathe, after all the snacks you ate during the movie, your hands are sticky and you can’t really fall back asleep without washing them. On the way to the bathroom, you pause just before the door. The cupboard Bucky keeps his tools in is slightly ajar, it’s always been locked. And you’re not sure what compels you to head over to the door, but you carefully open it, wincing when it creaks slightly, before gasping at the scene.

He said he’d get rid of them! Not only are there multiple sharp blades of varying lengths, there’s more ammo that you could ever imagine needing, pistols, and a shotgun on the wall, you’re pretty sure you spot a fucking grenade, but maybe most terrifyingly is a mask. If this really was for safety (you’re really trying to give him the benefit of the doubt here) why the fuck did he have a mask? Like he was hiding behind it. He wouldn’t need to hide his identity from an intruder, he’d only need to if he was trying not to get caught if he was doing something wrong, if he was—

Bucky drops the bat to catch you before you hit the ground, wincing at the sight of your limp body in his arms. Fuck, he had stuck up a few more pictures of you earlier that day, and clearly forgot to lock the closet. The guilt from hurting you is enough to make him sick, but he’s got to figure out how to savage this.

If he just sets you right back on the couch and puts on some kind of thriller movie, you’ll think it was a dream when you wake up again, right? That your subconscious mind was taking in what was playing on the TV and affecting your sleep. That makes sense, that makes perfect sense, and that’s for you to figure out on your own; he won’t need to explain it or answer questions because really all it was was a bad dream, and he knows about those, you know he has experience with them, you’ll believe him when he tells you how real they can feel—you’ve seen it—and trust that everything’s alright, and he’s good to keep you safe.

After an hour, you begin to stir, and he redirects his gaze from being hyper focused on you to watching the film intently, though this far in he doesn’t know anything about the plot and hopes you don’t ask too many questions about it.

When he hears your quiet moans indicating you’re awake now, and feels your stretch beside him, he looks back at you. “Mornin’, Sunshine,” he teases, hoping you’ll giggle and say something about not realising it was dark outside. But you don’t, instead you startle and recoil back slightly, eyeing him suspiciously.

He forces his brows to furrow in confusion as he sets his half empty bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table. He tries to shift towards you but when you shift back, he sighs and stays in place.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks in a low voice, his tone sincere and soothing. But he can tell you don’t buy it.

“You said you’d get rid of them!” you yell, and he winces slightly—you’ve never raised your voice at him, and if you’re this worked up over it it might take him a little more patience than anticipated to do some damage control.

“Get rid of what?” he asks. The best thing to do here is just play dumb.

“Your— your weapons! There’s— there’s so many of them, you said you’d get rid of them!”

“Baby, baby, baby,” he coos when you start breathing heavily, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “You just had a bad dream, okay? It’s alright…”

“No!” you shriek, kicking him away from you. “In the— in the closet!”

“What closet?”

“The— the one with the tools!”

“There’s nothing in there, sweetheart.”

“Then open it.”

He freezes for a second—he hadn’t expected you to ask that. “I don’t— I don’t know where the key is.” Fuck. He’s fucked. He knew it from the moment he hesitated, and his stuttering further solidified his guilt in your mind. His eyes grew just a little wider as he waited for you to respond, hardly breathing. You can read him like an open book, and he knows he can’t backtrack the few small ticks that set you on the scent.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him for a moment, but blink, and then nod, slowing your breaths down and directing your stare to the floor. “Alright,” you say, and Bucky himself can’t help but sigh in relief.

“I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” he coos as he shifts closer to you, and this time, you don’t shift away. He puts his arms around you and comfortingly rubs your shoulder, resting his head on top of yours.

You don’t buy it for a second.

That’s way too specific a dream for you to have months after even thinking about that stuff, and you’re not fucking stupid, you can tell what’s real and what’s not, and that was real. But for the time being, it seems easier to appease him. Maybe you really did imagine it… you doubt it, though, especially when Bucky’s body went rigid in response to your request. Even if you didn’t see what you thought you did, he’s definitely hiding something in that closet.

His phone rings, and he sighs, apologising as he carefully unwraps himself from you, reaching into his pocket to answer the phone as he stands up. “Hello?” There’s a few quick and low words from whoever’s on the other end and the groan he lets out allows you to guess it’s something Avengers-related. Though he isn’t an Avenger anymore (he gave up all violence, even in the name of justice) Sam does occasionally call him up to ask for advice on espionage matters or blueprints or just his thoughts on whatever’s going on.

“I’ve got to run, sweetheart; Sam’s being an asshole and I need to do some damage control,” he chuckles, and looks back down at you hesitantly, waiting for a response of some kind, but you’re quiet, arms crossed over your chest, slouched on the couch and looking at the floor, almost petulant but more… pensive. And that worries him.

“I can— I can stay if you want me to—”

“No,” you answer so casually it’s like something in him shatters. Sure, you’re not always grovelling at his feet when he opens the door but you’ve never been so nonchalant about him leaving to go take care of stuff. Even if it wasn’t all that sincere, you’d still make a little scene out of missing him so much. “I’ll see you later.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it, pressing his lips into a thin line as he nods, and then sighs.

He can’t leave you alone here: you’ll either run the second you can or hurt yourself trying to figure out how to get the cupboard open again. In both cases he won't be able to keep you safe, you’ll get hurt. But you’re also not yourself right now, and he doesn’t want to come on too strong and risk scaring you off for good. Not that he’d ever let you get away.

So he leaves, locks the door, but doesn’t get in his car. Usually he would grant that you’d be able to see the red flag there but you seem hyper focused on getting to his shit and he surmises he can get away with it. Between the tall plants covering his windows, he can just about make you out, sitting completely still on the couch for a few moments, it’s like you’re not even breathing. He subconsciously finds himself holding his breath as well—Are you waiting for him to start the car? Have you noticed he didn’t take his wallet?—narrowing his eyes at you, trying to anticipate your next move.

60 seconds, and you jump up.

***

You take a very quick look around the lounge, just to really make sure he left, and with no sign of him, you start off down the corridor again to his cupboard. It’s locked, and you know better than to even try to look for the key. But you have to do something: how could you live with yourself knowing that either you’d have broken up with your seemingly perfect boyfriend for no reason at all, or ever feel at peace again when there’s this heavy suspicion just hanging there?

You don’t know how you ever learnt it but you pull a pin from your hair and unfold it, closing one eye and sticking your tongue out slightly as you wriggle it around in the key slot, muttering “Please, please, please, please, please” to yourself over and over as you strain to hear for the clicks. One, two, three clicks and it opens! And you have no idea how you did it but it’s done now. You quickly open the door and gasp. You really shouldn’t be surprised—you know it wasn’t a dream—but the double confirmation really takes the wind out of you, and you feel betrayed. He lied to you, why did he lie to you? But there’s something else you didn’t notice before. On the inside of the door, polaroids of you that you know are before you met him are hung up haphazardly with messy tape—and they’re pictures of you doing mundane tasks, your everyday life. With shaking hands, you reach towards one that you’re afraid is of you in the shower, tears collecting on your lashes. As you reach for it, your elbow hits a shotgun and it falls and fires.

You scream as you jump back, and away from the door, you come face to face with Bucky at the end of the hallway, looking horrified as if it’s you who’s doing what you’re not supposed to.

Why the fuck is this thing even loaded if it’s just sitting around? These are assault rifles and deadly tools just at the ready, all the time.

Bucky carefully calls your name, and you turn on your heel and sprint towards the bedroom door at the opposite end of the corridor, but he catches up to you way too easily. He grabs you and slams your head against the doorway, causing you to black out and fall to the floor.

***

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck! How was he so careless not once but twice? What if you’d gotten seriously hurt or even killed? And he’s mad at himself but he can’t help but feel mad at you, too. Why didn’t you just leave it alone? Sure, he fucked up by forgetting to lock it but why on Earth did you push for it? It was locked this time, why were you so obsessed with this!?

He takes a few deep breaths to stop himself from launching into a panic attack. He can fix this, it’s fine, you just need a bit of time to calm down, but he has a feeling if you took a relationship ‘break’ he’d never find you again. So you can’t leave, you just need to be somewhere safe.

Bucky’s basement is hardly even a room—that’s why he keeps his weapons upstairs, and so that they’re always there when he needs them. It’s small, but big enough for a few shelves and a twin-sized mattress, it’s more a very temporary storm shelter—or a panic room, to a weaker person. There aren’t any windows, and so the thought of getting you situated there for an indefinite amount of time isn’t pleasant. He always gets up before you, and, yes, part of that is nature, and part of it is his awe for your peaceful sleeping form, a level of serenity in darkness he’s not sure he’d ever be able to achieve. The sun peaks in through the curtains and lightly bronzes your skin for a few minutes until you stir and wake up to him beside you, pure adoration in his eyes. And every morning, he knows he’d give up the light of day forever if he could only wake up next to you one more time.

***

You grimace as you wake up, feeling uncomfortable—the room feels somehow cold yet stuffy, and the mattress you’re laying on feels scruffy and a little old. You toss and turn a few times before you realise that this is real. When the thought hits, you rip your eyes open, shooting upright to scan your surroundings while your breathing gets heavier and heavier.

Your eyes land on Bucky sitting at the bottom of the stairs with a book in one hand, his metal one mindlessly twirling a thick chain between his fingers, tightening and loosening it. To test, you tug on your leg and he automatically grips tighter to the restraint, even before noticing you’re up.

“Hey, sweetheart…” he coos, setting his book down and letting go of the chain. He crouches down and sits at the bottom of the mattress, coaxing you with soothing rubs on your shin like you’re a mental patient or a wild animal, unpredictable. “How’re you feeling?”

How are you feeling? How are you feeling?

“Are you out of your mind!?” you shriek, and kick at him—it doesn’t hurt him, but he does raise his palm from your leg. Dropping his voice to a sweeter tone, he tries to calm you down. “You’re alright, you’re safe, everything’s okay, baby.”

He reaches out a hand to stroke your face but you slap it away, looking up at him with wild eyes and messy hair, you let your tone drop to a dangerous low as you warn, “Don’t… touch me.”

He gives a disappointed sigh but eventually tuts to himself in agreement. You just need to get this out of your system, it’ll be fine.

But it’s not. It’s not fine, and it’s taking a toll on him. You’ve never been like this before, so angry and irrational and erratic and unpredictable, but that’s not what he minds. He can deal with you throwing insults his way, swinging at him (in vain, of course) or resorting to silence, but what really starts to tick him off is when you refuse to eat. He let it slide the first day, tried to play it cool and just left the tray down for you, but he went upstairs and nervously paced back and forth until the morning. When he came down with breakfast, he discovered you hadn’t so much as touched your meal, not even the tray itself, and though he asked you in an even tone to eat something (and got nothing but silence in return) it was worrying him, he nearly wanted to plead with you, but he knew if he cracked you’d see a weak spot and keep ramming it until you get your way, and he can’t have that.

It’s the third day now, and he finally decides he needs to feed you. He sits down in front of you and pulls the tray towards him, scooping up some rice on a plastic spoon. He holds the food to your lips but you keep them shut tight, even when he gently pokes your mouth a few times. He’s sure you can see the stress you’re causing him: he’s hardly sleeping, as shown by the bags under his eyes, and he can’t even go for a jog to clear his head in case you do something crazy while he’s gone. With a deep breath, he sets the spoon down and leans back, considering his next move. Maybe you’d drink a smoothie. Not ideal but better than nothing.

“Alright,” he huffs as he stands up. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna make you a smoothie.”

He’s only just turned his back when he hears clattering, and when he looks back to you, you’ve got fury etched onto your features and the food he so carefully and lovingly prepared for you is strewn across the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he bellows, and backhands you, sending you to the floor. With your mouth agape, you clutch your cheek and look up at him in shock. He’s never even raised his voice at you, let alone yelled, let alone lay a finger on you. “Just fucking listen to me! Eat!” He kicks the tray further back and you startle, paralysed by pure shock.

He takes a deep breath in, and a long huff out, clenching his fists at his sides. His blue eyes you had once thought of as calm oceans are ablaze, he’s shaking with anger, and his voice quivers as he tries to speak in a level tone to you. “I… am going to make you a smoothie, and you are going to drink it, or you’ll never see the sun again.”

When he slams the door shut behind him, you finally allow tears to fall. You don’t know what that threat means—will he never let you out? Will he kill you? At first you didn’t think so, even when he held you down as you screamed and kicked, but you never thought he’d hit you either, you never thought he was capable of such rage, and though he kept it relatively under control, you saw what that was. It wasn’t just ire, it was like flames licked his entire being, engulfing him and lighting him up. While you thought of him as your Sun, now, that was for a different reason—now, he feels like the actuality of the star: unpredictable and unbearably dangerous, but… necessary for survival, and inescapable.

✪

[my beloved taglist; @cowboysnbugs, @buckys-wintersoldier, @keito-123, @vogueprincess, @cjand10]

[thewriterwithnoplan]

THE HIGHEST TOWER (1/2)

Summary: As a Princess of the Realm the chance to escape political marriage and abscond with your Promised was beyond anything you could wish for. When the time is right, your dragon will lead you to them and your mother will support your union. In return, you must do all you can to protect her claim, even if you must do so from within the very heart of the Greens.

Soulmate AU: Your animal familiar leads you to your soulmate.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader (eventual), Aemond Targaryen x Reader (mentioned)

Word Count: 4296

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, just general character awfulness, some espionage, canon divergence, my first time writing for hotd.

Masterlist

You had lived the better part of eight and ten years in the Red Keep. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen handed off to the Queen like some paltry trinket. The King’s first and final word on the matter of his granddaughter. Thrust carelessly into Alicent’s care at the fresh age of ten, a peace offering and a trade for Lucerys’ life. You scarcely remembered life beyond the borders of the castle. Only that one moment your brother's life had been under threat and the next yours was all but forfeit.

Your mother had clasped the back of your neck, pulled you toward her and begged her father for mercy. You who had not even been in the room when Aemond had lost his eye, lost to your own midnight flight atop dragon back. And then the curtain of Rhaneyra’s hair parted, and from over her shoulder Daemon met your eyes. For a single poignant moment, he stared and then a smirk broke across his face as if he knew.

Knew that you were not the innocent that your mother would have the King believe you to be. Knew that your midnight rendezvous with your dragon at the exact moment of Vhagar’s claiming was not mere coincidence. Your intentions had been innocent at first. A trip to the kitchen for a cup of milk which you would warm on the stove – a feat the late Sir Harwin Strong had taught you. Past your brothers’ room, your mother’s room, the servants' quarters and a balcony overlooking the beach. And then you had seen him. Aemond scaling your cousin’s dragon. And that just wouldn’t do.

Targaryens – true Targaryens who did not cower under the cover of darkness – needed their dragons if they had any hope of finding their Promised. Your cousin, Baela who always shared her sweets and let you borrow her wooden sword, deserved the chance to meet her Promised in the wake of her mother’s death. The man or woman that Vhagar would lead her to when the Old Gods saw fit. In the game of thrones when Targearyens already found so few chances for happiness, how could Aemond strip his cousin of her chance at true love? True, as an eldest daughter Baela’s future husband was most certainly decided – likely one of your brothers. But you were certain that Jacaerys or Lucerys would be understanding and gracious when the time came for Baela to claim her Promised, as she would be when the time came for her Lord-Husband. Such was the way of things. At least for the lucky.

Imagining your dragon, Laesuvion, claimed by another and leaving you with no guide to your Gods-given Promised made you feel ill. And so, you set out on bare, hurried feet to find and mount Laesuvion. You were a Targaryen born of the blood of dragons, of true Valyrian features. Vhagar was your cousin’s dragon by right and it was your duty to protect that claim. She was a formidable, indomitable beast but shackled with a new rider on his first flight. If you had one chance to disrupt the yet fragile bond being formed by dragon and rider, it was to dislodge the green boy and send him toppling toward the sea.

Laesuvion had hatched for you in your cradle. He was much younger and smaller than Vhagar but all the faster. It would be no trouble to fell your traitorous cousin. The difficulty became disguising the shock of white scales along the elongated arch of Laesuvion’s neck whilst searching for Vhagar’s camouflaged breadth.

“Aderī Laesuvion. Dokimarvose.” (Quickly Laesuvion. Focus.) You urged him.

Despite your efforts, you only caught sight of them twice. Once among the clouds, though you were sure Aemond got a greater view of you than you did him. And again, as Vhagar was returning to land Driftmark. Your hunt had been unsuccessful. But you had been sure no one would suspect you of such vengeful intent toward your uncle. Except perhaps Daemon.

“It is a fair price, Rhaenyra,” Daemon’s smirk was cunning, “They will not harm her.”

The betrayal on your mother's face heated your blood. How dare he tell her what to do? Your mother, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne. This man who was no one, husband of no one, Prince of nowhere, heir of nothing. Who was he to command your mother? And now, to step toward you and attempt to pry you away from her. So close you could almost-

Almost hear the two of them whispering. To each other. To you.

“Think.” Daemon hissed, “They will demand her for Aemond sooner or later.”

“She is my only daughter.”

“She will still be your daughter in the Red Keep.” He kept up the pretence of fighting your mother, despite her arms having gone lax around you. “Not a bastard. Not a bargaining chip. Your daughter. At the heart of the greens.”

“She is a child.”

“A Targaryen child.”

“She is my child.”

“Then let her prove it.”

“Mother,” You warbled. “I don’t want to go.”

“Tala.” Daemon shifted, and his eyes met yours again as if you should know this word. You did not. “You will go. Make your mother proud. Learn at court. Find those who support her claim and those who will side with the Hightowers. You are weak and a girl, they will not suspect you. When the time comes you will be our most valuable weapon.”

“But I want to go home, Kepa.” (Father or paternal uncle)

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Rhaenyra held your face and brushed away your tears. “You will.”

“’Nyra.” Daemon warned.

“But not today.” She kissed each of your cheeks. “Today you must be strong for me. You must be strong for your brothers. You must do as Daemon says, we must keep them happy.”

And then your mother pulled you toward her firmly, pressed her lips to your ear and whispered a promise. A reward should you embark on this mission. Beyond sweets and silk dresses and extra time on Laesuvion. Beyond anything you had ever been promised or ever dreamed of asking for. Do this for your mother and she would exempt you from the chains of political marriage that would shackle each of your brothers. There was no guarantee you would be lucky like your brothers, married to one who would understand. But do this and you could have your Promised under the eyes of the Seven, the Old Gods, and the traditions of old Valyria itself. Even at 10, you knew that for a Princess and a second-born, there was no greater boon.

So, you did what you had to do for your one shot to truly be with your Promised. You squared your shoulders, kissed your mother's cheek, and stumbled toward Queen Alicent. She gripped you by the shoulder, tucked you into the folds of her skirt, and stared cruelly down her nose at your mother.

“Now I will have no more fighting.” Said the King and having satisfied his wife for the first time in their long marriage, he ambled off to bed.

As the crowd dispersed, Sir Criston Cole flanked the Queen and as a unit, the three of you marched from the room. Your mother, scarcely held together in Daemon’s embrace, gave one last warbling cry as you passed the threshold and disappeared, not to be seen again for nine long years.

You were kept that night in the Queen’s own quarters to thwart rescue or escape. Behind a bolted door and no less than three kings’ guards. And yet, that morning, upon waking with puffy eyes from silent tears and aching limbs from the harsh sitting room sofa, you found something that had not been there before.

A gift from Daemond, most assuredly, tucked under the pillow you had slept on. The handle was perhaps an inch too long for your small age, but the blade was curved and wicked sharp and would require little finesse to cause harm. Inlaid in the pommel was a single ruby, the size of your thumb and wonderfully smooth. Carved into the cross-guard flowing Valyrian script read valar morghūlis. (All men must die.)

You would call the dagger gaomilaksir, duty. You would carry it as a reminder of the promises you and your mother had made one another. One day, as Daemon had said, you would become her greatest weapon.

There had been few bright spots in your life as the Queen’s ward. So, few in fact, that you could count them on one hand.

One.

You could not fly. Such a thing would only encourage escape back to Dragonstone and your mother. But you could visit Laesuvion and watch him sweep through the clouds. He had grown much in your teenage years. Still lithe in build and elegant in frame, but more angular like an arrow strung tight. He did not take to Kings Landing, not in all your years trapped there. So used to the comfort of Dragonstone and your family’s own dragons, he often abandoned the Dragonpit entirely. Kept tethered to the Keep by your presence alone.

“Where is Laesuvion?” You were just shy of ten and two when you approached the Dragonkeeper Acolyte.

“Hunting, my lady.” He knocked his quarterstaff against the ground. “He flew north not three hours ago.”

“Do you not offer him food?”

The keeper lowered his head, “He refuses it, my lady.”

“Offer him better.”

“We give him our very best, lady. He is a magnificent but stubborn creature.”

“He is a dragon, not a creature.” You conjured up a playful grin. “And I am a princess, not a lady.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” The Acolyte blustered, “Shall I inform you upon his return?”

“That won’t be necessary,” You strode to his side and plunked yourself down to lean against the stone entrance. “I shall wait for his return here.”

And so, you did. Silently, for the better part of twenty minutes as the Acolyte threw furtive glances your way.

Until finally, “Truly, my lady. Your Highness. He could be hours still.”

Wonderful. You thought and cast a dazzling grin up at him. “Perhaps you ought to keep me better company then.”

And so, you began your mission. You charm the Dragonkeepers – Acolyte and Elder, all seventy-seven of them – who knew the princes and their dragons, their strengths and weaknesses. You befriend the maids, the scullery, the wet nurses, and the servants they bunk with. Piece by piece, inch by inch, you win back your mother's share of Kings Landing.

Two.

Strange though she was, your Aunt Heleana always welcomed you into her chambers. In your shared youth, she always had a critter clutched between her hands as if it were the most precious thing she owned. You are four and ten, a year younger than your aunt when she is forced to split her time between her menagerie of insects and the chubby masses of her twin babes.

“The young prince has lungs,” You smiled at Heleana as the wet nurse rocked a wailing Jaehaerys. “He will make glorious speeches when he is grown.”

“Only one.” She examined the creature in her hands. Today she favoured a centipede, passing Jaehaera onto you.

You had long since learned to ignore her ramblings, “The sweet Princess must be the wordsmith, then.”

“The fourth in an age.” Heleana startled as if only just noticing your presence. “Apologies, Hāedar. You wished to speak?” (Younger female sibling or cousin)

“No apologies necessary, Mandia.” (Older female sibling or cousin). The Valyrian word tasted foul. You had your own siblings on Dragonstone, those whom you had been stolen from and those whom you had yet to meet. But Heleana liked it when you pretended that you were not a prisoner, that you were her mother’s daughter and not her forcibly attained ward. And so you swallowed it with a smile, “Might we talk privately?”

Heleana startled again as she turned to the wet nurse. “Take the children to the nursery, Bria.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Bria gave an awkward curtsy, shuffled the still-wailing Jaehaerys to one side and received Jaehaera from your arms. Heleana turned to you expectantly as the trio disappeared through a side door.

“It is a sensitive matter I am afraid,” You eyed the centipede as it escaped her hands and crawled across her skirts. “I do not wish to cause offence.”

Heleana’s eyes pinched at the corners, “It is not such a terrible burden – to be a wife. Mostly he ignores you.”

“You misunderstand me,” You hurried. “I only wished to speak of your grandfather.”

“Not my brother?”

“Do you wish to speak of your husband?”

“No,” Heleana gave you a quizzical look. “I speak of Aemond, who will be your husband.”

“Aemond?” Your uncle who’s selfishness had trapped you here. One of Alicent’s precious children married to her living doll. The thought would have been hysterical were it not so frightening. Surely not.

“It is the natural progression of things. I was given to Aegon and now you to Aemond.” Heleana’s attention returned to the centipede. “One pairing to strengthen our house, another to mend its bonds. So says grandfather.”

“Oh Mandia. I am entrusted to your mother. There need be no marriage to bring me into the fold. We are family.” 

“Yes. So says mother.” Heleana stared. Not so blind as she seemed. “But grandfather always gets what he wants.”

And so, you are four years into your mission, having sat patiently by the Queen's side. Having listened and learned and noted those your mother can count on. Four years in and the time to begin quietly making moves had arrived with a head start from your oblivious Aunt.

But then you see the centipede crawl from her hands again and writhe across her skirt. And you think maybe Heleana’s warnings have more to do with where the critter is trying to lead her than it has to do with you.

Three.

It took you longer than you would like to admit to worm your way into Otto Hightower’s confidences – if there were such a thing.

You had quickly learned in your first year at the Keep that Alicent feared her father, distrustful of his greed and power lust. Not much unlike yourself, she had been sent into the greedy hands of a different house in pursuit of the Iron Throne. Were Otto not so blinded by his ambitions you might have begun to worry that Daemon’s strategy might ring familiar. But Lord Hightower’s strength was also his greatest weakness. So careful in his scheming, gently coaxing his will unto others, moving his pawns about the board, sacrificing all but himself, he could not see his tactics turned against him. Beyond your connection to Rhaenyra, you barely registered as a piece in the game.

Daemon had been right. Weak and a girl and not a threat. Not yet.

So, you worked tirelessly to endear yourself to Alicent. Just as you learned from her, you began to teach in turn. When you are in the room Otto Hightower dares not spin his lies about succession. When you appear around corners in search of your Queen-mother talk of hastening the king's condition ceases. When you are near, Alicent is safe. She begins to wear you like the expensive accessory you are, a decorative shield.

Hours trailing your Queen-mother to and from meetings of the small council, waiting patiently at her side as she sat in place of the King. Serving wine to fat and foolish lords.

And then finally, on the eve of your ten and fifth nameday, the Queen brings you along to the Hand's Tower.

“Father.” She greets.

“Alicent,” Otto brings you to his office, where a tea set for two lays steaming. “I see you have brought your shadow.”

The Queen barely glances your way as you serve her tea and then her father’s, before retreating to stand at her shoulder. She glares across her father’s desk, “This does concern her.”

“She is approaching her fifteenth year, two since her first blood. Time has well arrived for her to marry,” He stares directly at you then, “Have you any fondness for your uncle, Princess?”

“My lord, the Princes and I are often kept busy by our duties.” Your friends among the servants have divulged their schedules. You stay firmly away from drunken Aegon and selfish Aemond, remaining civil only with young Daeron.

“You must see reason.” Alicent implores her father. “They hold no affection for one another. Aegon and Heleana have already wed in the name of strengthening our family. To marry her would serve only to anger Rhaenyra.”

“And to bind her eldest daughter to us.” Interesting that he would say so openly in front of you. Perhaps you have been more effective in playing a Green than you had thought. “Aemond will be a good husband to her.”

“I have no doubt,” Alicent says and as silence stretches you suspect she is losing conviction; you have not saved her this time.

You clear your throat delicately, “If I may?”

“Of course, sweet pet.” Alicent reaches out to fuss with your hair. She likes it long and keeps its length to your hip despite how cumbersome it can be. Short hair is unbecoming, she claims.

You look to Otto in false deference, “My lord?”

“Very well.”

“I think,” You begin carefully. “Aemond and I may be of better use to you.”

“And how might that be?” He is condescending but you have his attention.

“When the time comes that grandsire passes on, I suspect the lords of the realm will need cause to back a claim to the Iron Throne. My Septa says that peace such as we have seen under his rule may bring unrest. I do not doubt that Aemond will make a fine and just husband. All I mean is that mayhaps it would be wise to keep us unwed until we may serve a greater purpose.”

No mention of your mother nor their ill-begotten plan for Aegon. Hightower's methods played against him.

“And when the time comes you will do this?” He demands.

“It is my duty to my house.”

He tilts his head as a predatory bird might. “You must swear it, to myself and to your Queen, upon your young brothers.”

To pause would mislay your ruse. To hesitate would be to sign your life away to Aemond Targaryen.

“I swear it, upon the lives of my brothers.”

He considered you for a moment, and then his daughter.

“You have done well with her, Alicent.” Your Queen-mother sighs as Otto Hightower stands. “Enjoy your tea, I have matters to attend to elsewhere. Perhaps you will be of more use than we originally suspected, Princess.”

Your first true victory. You will not be shackled to the Keep; you will be kept safe until your mother comes for you. Until such a time that you and Laesuvion can seek out your Promised.

Four.

The Queen held a strange fondness for you. Platinum-haired and purple-eyed, the spitting image of the Realm’s delight and perhaps the only trueborn among your siblings. She took pains to brush and braid your hair, dress you in green and flout you at court. Her perfect tamed Targaryen. Who would eat from her hand, take tea by her side, sit prim and silent as her Queen-mother decorated her. You were her walking-talking glimmering triumph over Rhaenyra.

At ten, Alicent’s obsession stole you from your mother. At ten and four, it protected you from a hasty marriage. And now, at ten and eight, it was your path to freedom.

“Mother?”

Oh, how Alicent loved it when you called her that. One more thing ripped from Rhaenyra’s thieving hands. Alicent pushed into your room with a tired facsimile of a smile and took the seat across from you by the roaring hearth.  

“My sweet pet.” She was dressed head to toe in full regalia. “I am so sorry to have missed you today.”

You tucked a piece of scrap paper into the book you had been reading, buying yourself time to school your features into innocent confusion. “As am I. My door has been locked. I am sorry I could not come to you.”

“A precaution – one that I fought.” Alicent reached for your hair, running her fingers through its length. “But we cannot trust you to betray your mother. Regardless of the years you have spent in our care.”

“I do not understand, mother.” But you do.

“Your grandsire is dead.”

You close your eyes, “Aegon is king.”

“Yes.”

“You did not wish for this.”

“I wish Viserys were still a living corpse. That he would outlive us all so that none could claim his cursed throne. Not Aegon. Not Rhaenyra. Not my father.”

“That is not a solution.”

She tugs at your hair harshly, “Foolish pet, there is none.”

You blink harshly. Your eyes scarcely holding back tears. For the first time since you left your mother's embrace, you are truly scared. No longer are you the meek girl who walks in the Queen’s shadow. Given liberties and protection in a twisted echo of her love for Rhaenyra. You are a living embodiment of what House Targaryen will be to House Hightower. A pretty little puppet kept from your dragon, cloistered away like some trophy, scrambling for a scrap of power to delude yourself that you have some control.

“What is to become of our house?” You whisper.

“Your mother and Prince Daemon remain on Dragonstone. No blood has yet been shed.” Alicent brushed your hair softly behind one ear. “We have sent Aemond to Storm’s End to do as you once suggested. To offer himself to one of the Baratheon girls, that Lord Borros might see reason and acknowledge Aegon as rightful King.”

Good, there were those beyond the Keep who remained steadfast and loyal. It was time to return to your mother, then. To tell her all you had learned these last eight years. To name her allies and set Daemon loose upon her foes. Now was the time.

“What of my brothers?”

Alicent leant back, “Scouts have spotted Vermax flying north likely as an envoy to rally support among the lords.”

“How could they have mobilized so quickly? Was Aegon not crowned mere hours ago?”

“He was, indeed.” Alicent’s gazed into the fire. “The Lady Rhaenys was not so welcoming of solitude as you have been.”

“She has gone to Dragonstone?”

“She has.”

“And no one has come for me?”

“They have not.”

For a moment you each stared listlessly into the hearth. When Alicent shifts back to face you, she has a letter clutched in her hand. It is crisp and of fine quality but most strikingly, stamped with the King’s seal.

“I am under no delusions,” Alicent says softly, mournfully. “You can no more contest your mother's claim than I can Aegon’s. We are matching pieces in this game, I think.”

Your fear swells, “Mother.”

“Please, my sweet girl.” She smooths the hair atop your head. “You must do me one last favour as my ward.”

“I don’t understand.”

She presses the letter into your hands. “Jacaerys will fly first to the Vale, to treat with House Arryn and then to Winterfell. You will take this and beat him there. You will do as you swore to do those years ago.”

“I ca–”

“Listen!” She jerked you by your shoulders. “You must listen. You will wed Lord Stark. He is as fine a match as any. The north is loyal to Rhaenyra and will remain steadfast, you will be well treated. You must go, with this missive from the King, his final wish to send you north to snow and safety. In return for your hand, they will take no part in the fighting, they will protect you as their own, until such a time that the victor is crowned. Do you understand me, pet?”

“The King never cared for me.” You said foolishly.

“And yet, with his dying breath, he spoke of you and of Aegon. That you would carry his legacy, that you would see out his dream to the North. That Prince Aegon was Promised to this kingdom. You must believe me. You must do this for your grandsire.”

“I do believe you mother.” She was deluded. “I will do what must be done.”

Alicent has offered you one gilded cage for another. You will not be fool enough to fall into this one. You will find Laesuvion and be gone in the dead of night. You tuck the King’s missive into your book and smile at the Queen.

“Shall we call for tea, mother? You have much to tell me. I hear I have missed a coronation.”

Five.

You shape your fifth and final joy as the Queen Alicent’s Ward whilst escaping her clutches. You take three sharp detours on your path to the Dragonpit. First, to the chamber of the small council where you snatch the King's ball of quartz, you will make a gift of this to your mother. Then to the creche where the Keeper’s turned a blind eye as you pilfered three precious Dragon eggs. Finally, you find yourself ascending the steps of the Lord Hand’s Tower. To take the Dowager Queen from the Greens would be the greatest gift to your mother and her cause. But Alicent, despite her many faults, had been as kind to you as one might be toward a favourite pet. And so you do as a pet would – you do not bite the hand that fed you. Instead, you do both your Queen-mother and the woman that birthed you, a favour. You find Otto Hightower asleep in his study and you pass onto him your final gift from Daemon Targaryen.

You leave gaomilaksir in the heart of Hightower as you flee north, your duty complete.

(Part 2 : The Winter Keep)

[katyaromanoffpetrova]

What if...they met in college? (1)

Instead of being forced into espionage, Kat and Nat grew up in society like normal kids. But fate always forces them together. As roommates in college this time. One popular girl and one nerdy girl.

• Natasha Romanoff x Fem!OC • Wordcount: 4.7k • Warnings: none • A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @nataliasquote !!! This one is for you. The college AU you are so obsessed with. More parts to follow :) Masterlist

Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

Katya

The hallways of the campus' dormitories were chaos. Bags, suitcases, instruments, and people, lots of people, blocked Katya's way as she tried to navigate her way to room 415. They bumped into her left and right, and screamed things in her ear as she parkoured over their stuff, yanking on the handle of her suitcase aggressively whenever it got stuck. 

Move-in day was busy, really busy. She meant to avoid rush hour by arriving early, but she'd gotten stuck in traffic. For two hours. Now her roommate had gotten to their room before she did and undoubtedly claimed the good side, probably leaving her with very little space and very possibly decorating the floor with the world's ugliest rug. 

Katya stopped halfway down the hall to catch her breath, dropping her heavy sports bag to the floor to give her poor, aching shoulder a break. With the back of her hand, she pushed her glasses up her nose and brushed some hair from her forehead. It would have been great to have some help. At the end of the hall, a girl had a whole team to help her move in. Parents, sister or friend, boyfriend or brother. But Katya didn't have anyone, so she had to take three roundtrips to the parking lot by herself.

With a sigh, she hoisted the bag up again and watched the room numbers climb the further she walked down the hall. The girls in room 410 had their door open, a song from fifteen years ago blasting from a portable speaker on their desks. They must know each other, because both their sides of the room were in coordinating colors. One of them caught Katya's nosy eye and gave her an awkward smile.

411, 412, 413, 414…

The door to room 415 was open. Katya stopped and took one last, deep breath before stepping into the doorway. 

She was right. Her roommate had already decorated her part of the room. Her eye immediately fell on the large rug between the beds. A fluffy, really soft looking beige one that looked very tempting for a nap. It suited the rest of the surprisingly calm decorations. 

White bed sheets with various neutral colored pillows on top, the subtle black and white prints on the wall, the beige colored plant pots, the fairylights that emitted a soft yellow glow, and the beige curtains that Katya also wasn't mad about. The only thing that held some color were the pictures on the corkboard above her headboard.

Whoever this girl was, she had good taste.

Katya dumped her suitcase by the unoccupied bed and threw her duffel bag on top, careful to avoid the rug with her shoes. The knot in her stomach unraveled a little bit. Maybe her worries about her roommate had been invalid. She had definitely been overthinking too much. It even smelled nice in here, like her roommate had lit a vanilla scented candle.

''Oh, you're here!'' A cheerful voice came from behind Katya. ''I went to pick up two muffins from downstairs because I was hungry and I figured you would be too.'' 

Katya turned around… and was met with the most stunning woman she'd ever seen in her entire life. 

The same height as her, lean build, fair skin—but that wasn't what Katya's gaze was drawn to. A pair of full, pink lips framed a beautiful wide smile that reached all the way up to her even more beautiful, sparkling green eyes. Her eyelashes were so long they nearly touched her perfectly defined eyebrows, and when she blinked, they brushed over her sharp cheekbones. Her nose wasn't small or pointy, and had a little bump that would make most people self-conscious, but fit her face so well that everyone would be jealous of it anyway.

But somehow, like that wasn't already enough to turn heads, this all paled in comparison to the long, slightly curly hair that fell down her shoulders. It was that kind of bright, deep red that non-redheads tried to achieve but never could. The kind that naturally looked darker in the winter and lit up slightly orange in the summer sun. Everchanging and unique, and part of the reason why Katya's heart was hammering in her chest. 

''I'm Natasha.''

Oh. My. God. 

Katya could not form a single thought. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara desert in the middle of the summer. She could only stare. Stare at her roommate while she tried to fight off the gay panic that reduced her to a completely useless human being. 

This could not be happening. The girl she had to live with for a year could not be this excruciatingly attractive. Freshman year would be her end. 

Awkwardly, she cleared her throat when she saw that Natasha was waiting for a response, an amused eyebrow quirked up on her forehead. God, she was already making a fool of herself. ''Katya Petrova,'' she said shortly, her smile filled with embarrassment as she accepted the blueberry muffin Natasha kindly got her. Get yourself together, or she's gonna get tired of your weirdness quickly.

It wasn't physically possible, but Natasha's perfect eyes lit up even more. ''Russian?''

''Yeah.''

Her smile turned into a mysterious smirk that sent tingles down Katya's spine. ''Then we're gonna get along just fine,'' she said, and Katya couldn't help but feel like there was some sort of double meaning she was missing. Natasha looked at her like she was a meal, and her nerves intensified.

''Uh, thank you for the muffin,'' she blurted out.

''You're welcome,'' Natasha mused, totally cool as she leaned back against her desk. It was unfair, how she turned Katya into a complete mess while she remained confident and calm. But it was so attractive. Katya shivered as Natasha's green eyes slowly looked her up and down. ''I think I picked right. You look like a blueberry muffin girl.''

An awkward chuckle slipped past Katya's lips. She wanted to get away from that piercing gaze desperately, anything to think clearly again, but it wouldn't let her move. ''What does that mean?''

''I don't know.'' With a smirk—and intense eye contact—Natasha brought her ring finger to her lips and sucked the muffin crumbs off. Casually, she repeated the motion with her other fingers, her entire thumb disappearing in her mouth.

Katya felt her eyes widen, more gay panic flushing her veins until her heart thudded loudly in her chest. Images, ones she would never say out loud, filled her mind. Her lower stomach turned into knots while a blush covered her cheeks. She turned away, pretending to be really busy with unpacking. She swore she heard a soft chuckle behind her.

''I hope you don't mind the rug and the curtains. I took the liberty to decorate.''

''That's okay," Katya answered, having trouble remembering what the curtains even looked like. They were the very last thing on her mind as she rummaged aimlessly through her bag, hoping Natasha didn't notice that she wasn't doing anything.

''Is that all your stuff?''

Katya shook her head, risking a glance over her shoulder. She was relieved to see that Natasha's flirty expression had turned into something more puzzled. ''No, the rest is in my car.''

It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Natasha's eyes visibly softened. ''Are you here alone?''

''Yes," Katya answered casually, ignoring the stab in her heart.

It stayed quiet a moment longer than normal, painfully so. These silences were nothing new. She'd started to expect them. On Mother's day, on Father's day, on Christmas, on Thanksgiving, but also moments like these, where she didn't know she would be missing parents until she was in the moment. 

''Does your family live far away?'' Natasha asked carefully.

''Sort of.''

She put her muffin down and uncrossed her arms. ''Let me help you carry the rest up. I can't possibly let you walk back and forth countless times while I take a nap,'' she joked lightheartedly.

''Oh, no, it's okay. Really. You don't have to help me," Katya refused, not in the mood for pity. But Natasha stood up straight and tied her beautiful hair into a perfect messy bun.

''Well, I want to," she said with a tone so definitive that Katya lost all her will to protest. "And I'm not taking no for an answer.'' She looked ready to tackle a big job. Hands on her Lululemon shorts-clad hips, sports shoes on her feet. And those lean arms…they could surely carry a few boxes.

Katya considered it for a moment, and then nodded. It would be nice to have some help. ''Okay then.'' Natasha flashed her a big smile.

Somehow, she faced none of the struggles from before—having to parkour her way through the halls. People seemed to get out of their way for Natasha, driven by some invisible force that must have been her confident aura.

Katya felt entirely unworthy to be walking next to her. They attracted lots of eyes, and the reason they looked at them certainly wasn't her red, sweaty face. Nobody noticed a dull brunette next to a redheaded goddess in gym shorts and a crop top. 

Natasha didn't seem to notice anything. She kept talking to Katya, completely comfortable yapping to someone she'd only met five minutes ago, while Katya tried not to let her gay panic turn into real, uncontrollable panic. She only heard half of what her roommate was saying.

''Hey, Nat!''

They were in the quad, a huge field of grass between the main campus buildings. Today, the main path was lined with stalls full of information and help. If someone couldn't find their dorm or there was another problem, they could visit here. 

A guy, looking older than her, had called Natasha's name from one of the stands, his hand in the air to grab her attention. Katya's first instinct was; football player. He had the build for it.

''Jason!" She smiled, not stopping to talk to him. "How are you?''

He was the fourth guy to greet her like that. Like he knew her. They all looked vastly different—though good-looking—and they all looked older. Some closer to twenty-four than eighteen. It was odd. Where did she know all of them from? Katya was starting to gain suspicions that her roommate may be more well-known around here than she thought.

"So, what's your thing?" Natasha asked suddenly. Katya had been brooding over her roommate's popularity so hard that she didn't realize she'd fallen silent. Or that they were close to the parking lot. 

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"What are you here for?" Natasha clarified, smiling when she still saw the confusion on Katya's face. "Law and dance, that's my thing. Studying law, and I'll be trying out for the dance team."

Katya didn't find this surprising at all. Natasha looked like that kind of person who could do it both. Arts and literature. Body and brains. Someone good at absolutely everything. It also explained her subtle muscles and lean figure. Of course, the gorgeous, popular girl was a dancer. What were the chances she was a cheerleader in high school?

"Of course, you are." Katya paled when she realized the words had escaped her.

Natasha smirked amusedly. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Katya said quickly. Her roommate's need to fluster her all the time was starting to get on her nerves. She fiddled with her car keys, smiling nervously. "I'm not as interesting as you, I'm afraid."

Natasha tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with something flirty. "You interest me."

Heat rose on Katya's cheeks once more. She kept getting caught off guard by Natasha's simple yet effective smooth-talking. Everything she said seemed to have some sort of double meaning. Her body could not keep up with its reactions.

"History is my thing. History and literature. But the literature is just a hobby," she said awkwardly, trying to hide her red cheeks. Her studies and hobbies always sounded boring to begin with, but next to Natasha's they looked even worse. Katya grimaced. "I told you it's boring."

"No, it's not!" Natasha rushed to reassure her. "I've always envied people who could quote Hemmingway off the top of their heads. Are you one of those people?"

"Kind of." Katya smiled shyly when she realized that Natasha was being genuine. 

"That's cool." The redhead smiled. "Everyone has their own interests, don't be embarrassed of yours."

Katya wasn't used to the conversation going this way. It was a breath of fresh air. "Most people think it's lame," she said as she popped the trunk of her terribly plain and old Honda Civic.

Natasha shrugged, picking up the first box she saw. "People will always have opinions, so you are better off just doing what you like."

"Can't disagree." Katya smiled at her. Would things finally be different? Would she finally fit in somewhere? The day started off with lots of frustration but now the future looked very hopeful. Maybe she would finally feel at home somewhere.

It took the both of them three trips to get everything upstairs, after which Katya bought Natasha an iced coffee to thank her. She was drinking that as she scrolled on her phone and absentmindedly talked to Katya while Katya unpacked her stuff. 

Everything she had was in these boxes, her whole life. She had no family to store anything with, so all of it had to fit within the four walls of this room. There was some odd stuff in some of these boxes. But Natasha didn't ask her about anything. Overall, she had been nothing but considerate and an amazing roommate.

"This campus is full of disgusting boys."

Katya jumped. She had her back turned to the door, and with the business in the hallway hadn't heard someone stop in their doorway. It was a small blonde with her hands in her pockets. She looked annoyed, bored and disgusted all at the same time, like a moody teenager. Questionably, Katya looked at Natasha.

The woman sighed and put her phone down. "Kat, meet my little sister, Yelena. Yelena, this is Katya, my roommate."

As if she was only now realizing there was another person in the room, the blonde—Yelena—looked at Katya. Then she let out the loudest gasp. "Oh my god, they put you with a nerd." She laughed.

Katya blushed and looked away. That's not the first time she's heard that. In fact, people all throughout her life had taken the liberty of calling her that. It wasn't her looks per se—she didn't wear braces, outdated clothes, or thick-rimmed glasses. She was a normal kid, in normal clothes, with a delicate, modern-looking pair of glasses balancing on her nose. And, if Katya might say so herself, she wasn't ugly.

No, it was the things she did and liked that put a sticker on her. First of all, her introvertness and her shyness. It had gotten a lot better with age. She didn't stutter or stumble over her words as much anymore, but her shy nature stayed. It made that she never quite fit in with anyone. She didn't have big friend groups or hang around the popular kids. She usually had one good friend who she could sit in peaceful silence with.

Then there were the books, the literature, the movies she watched. Katya realized very young that she was different from the other girls in her class. She preferred the works of writers long gone, liked her movies black and white, and would rather spend her Friday afternoon reading than going to parties. They bullied her for having her lunch break in the library, reading alone, for getting an A on every test. Her interest lay with history, not with the latest Hollywood gossip. 

It shouldn't get to her, but in their cores, everyone wanted to belong, to be liked. She couldn't simply turn off her human instinct.

Natasha's hands curled into fists, and it looked like she was going to explode on her sister, until an older woman stepped into the room. Her hair was so dark brown it nearly looked black, and her face held a stern expression. She was also incredibly gorgeous. "Yelena Belova! That is not how I raised you!"

Yelena cringed. "Sorry, Mama," she muttered.

The woman's scowl disappeared as she turned to Katya, a warm, motherly smile appearing on her face instead. "Hello, my dear. I'm Melina, Natasha's mother. Please excuse my rude daughter. I promise I raised them both better than that."

A warm feeling flushed through Katya's body. "It's okay, ma'am. Natasha helped me carry the rest of my stuff up from my car."

"Good girl." Melina smiled proudly at her daughter. Natasha rolled her eyes, clearly not at ease with her family around a stranger. "If you don't need us anymore, Yelena and I will be leaving."

"Yes, please take her out of here." 

Anger flashed across Yelena's face. "I sacrificed my free day for you, you ungrateful—"

"Girls!" Melina sighed, shaking her head. With pity, she looked at Katya. "I wish you luck with her, my dear—"

"What does that mean?" Natasha exclaimed.

"---and be nice to each other. Natasha, if you need me, I'm just a call away."

"And just a town away." She rolled her green eyes again. "No need for emotional goodbyes."

"Well, I am gonna miss you."

"I'm not," Yelena mumbled under her breath, smiling innocently when her mother glared at her.

Natasha sighed and started to walk them out the door. Like a dog herding sheep. Katya tried not to laugh as Melina and Yelena stumbled over each other into the hallway. "Mhm, goodbye now. Thank you for helping me today." Natasha closed the door in their faces, locking it for good measure. A pleasant silence filled the room. "I'm sorry about her."

"It's alright." Katya shrugged, though her brain was still trying to process what just happened. "I'm used to being called a nerd. It's not an insult."

"She meant it as one. She's a dick." Natasha chewed on her lip, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of her sister's behavior. It meant a lot to Katya that it mattered so much to her.

"It's okay, Natasha, really." 

The redhead smiled carefully. "Melina is probably yelling at her now, though."

Katya laughed. "Their faces as you pushed them out the door..."

"If I hadn't, they would still be standing here, arguing." Natasha returned to her bed, falling back into the same position as before they were rudely interrupted. It already felt so domestic, so comfortable. They could exist together and do their own thing without bothering the other.

"Your sister is completely different from you, isn't she?" Katya asked as she continued her unpacking.

"Yes and no. She's more moody, sassy, rude." Katya chuckled when Natasha rolled her eyes. "But she's driven, hard working, and incredibly loyal to the people she loves. She will fight someone for you... Literally… She loves punching people."

Katya laughed. "She sounds like a good sister to have."

"She'll do." Natasha suddenly perked up, like someone flipped the switch of focus in her brain. Smirking, she studied the boxes on Katya's side of the room. "So, in which one of those is your lingerie?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Orientation had broken Katya's brain. She'd gotten so much information at once that she literally had a headache. A bad one. Add that to a bad night of sleep—only four hours in total because of her new surroundings and anxiety—and she was ready to crash.

She unlocked her door and stumbled into the room, not surprised to see it empty. Natasha's shoes were gone and her bed was made. From what Katya learned yesterday, she seemed to know a lot of people, so she was undoubtedly chatting with every person she ran into. Maybe she wouldn't even return until late. At least Katya had her number.

She took advantage of Natasha's absence to take a long shower. Then she drew the curtains closed and laid down for a nap, her headache already subsiding after chugging two glasses of water. Her eyelids were so heavy, sleep tugged on her brain… 

When her phone rang. 

Katya let out the loudest groan, hurting her head in the process. Who dared to interrupt her nap? Ideally, she would have ignored it, but it could be Natasha or somebody else important. Blindly, she felt around until her fingers wrapped around her phone, her eyes squinting against the bright light to read the name on the screen. 

Tony.

Yep, that made sense. That man always had the worst timing. 

"What?" Katya snapped.

"What a way to greet me. Are you busy?" He gasped dramatically, then lowered his voice. "Wait, are you finally getting laid?"

Katya sighed, the tips of her ears burning. Ever since he stopped seeing her as a kid, he was trying to get her laid. Unsuccessfully. "No."

"Then you got time for me. Did you get settled in?" 

"If you were actually here to help me, you would have known," she said accusingly. "But you're too busy slutting yourself out in Miami."

"Going on holidays is important," Tony said casually. Katya rolled her eyes. He wasn't vacationing, he was partying and drinking. Club music boomed in the background of the call. His classes didn't start for another week. "You know what's also important? If your roommate is hot."

Katya groaned, reaching for the curtain to tug it open. She was so glad this was not a FaceTime call, or he would have seen how red her face was. "I'm not entertaining you with an answer."

"So she is." His stupid grin could be heard in his voice. She wanted to slap him. "What's her name?"

Katya hesitated. Whenever she told him about her crushes, Tony would go and mingle. It wouldn't be the first time he scared one away, but if she didn't tell him now, he would show up next week on her doorstep. Even worse. "Natasha," she answered reluctantly. "You wouldn't like her, she's ginger."

"Wait. A Natasha with red hair? Does she have big tits and a great ass?"

As much as Katya wanted to yell at him for objectifying women, she couldn't help but blush. Of course, her gay ass had not been able to resist taking a look at Natasha's body. Subtly and respectfully, of course. Her thoughts had not been subtle or respectful though, but they were safely inside her head so it was okay. She wasn't that kind of person.

"She looks great, yes."

Exactly at that moment, Natasha freaking Romanoff herself burst through the door, looking incredible as always. Denim shorts, tank top, messy ponytail—Katya's heart skipped a beat. Nobody should look that good after a full day of walking around in the late summer heat. God, she was a mess for her. 

"Who looks great?" Natasha smirked, dropping her bag to the ground. "Some girl at orientation already grabbed your attention?"

"Uh—I…no. There's nobody," Katya stammered, watching wide-eyed as Natasha took the hair tie out her hair and shook all those gorgeous curls loose. Her biceps flexed subtly when she fluffed it up.

"Uhu. Better give me a chance too before you set your sights on someone," Natasha teased.

Katya's breath caught in her throat. Was she dreaming? "Y-You?"

"Yeah. Unless you're not into girls." Natasha smiled smugly when she glanced at Katya's stunned expression. "I thought so. Me too."

If this were a cartoon, Katya's eyeballs would have bulged out of her head. Surely, she was dreaming now. There was no way this was reality. "You're gay?"

Natasha shrugged, grabbing a towel from the cabinet. "I'm a little bit of everything. As long as it's hot and kissable, I'm kissing it." She smirked, and then she closed the bathroom door behind her like she hadn't just turned Katya's whole world upside down.

There was an error in her brain. Her brain had flatlined. Open-mouthed, Katya stared at the door her roommate had disappeared through. She was sweating. Did Natasha seriously just say that she is into girls and she wants a shot with her? Was her headache actually a stroke and was she hallucinating? 

"Shut the fuck up. Your roommate is Natasha Romanoff?" 

Katya jumped. She'd completely forgotten that she was on the phone with Tony, and that he just heard everything. Her heart was racing in her chest. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"

He sighed. "You're hopeless. You need to get out more. She has a reputation for crashing college parties since she was 15. She's basically a legend."

It all made sense now. The guys who knew her, her popularity, why she knew her way around campus so well. She cuddled up with college guys while she was still in high school. 

How in the world did Katya, a nerd, get matched up with someone like what? Some funny forces were at play here. Someone up there must be laughing very hard.

"Okay, bye now." She just caught the start of Tony's protests when she cut off the call. She loved him, but she needed a moment to process these developments, and his endless yapping in her ear did not let her think clearly. 

He came into her life at a time where she needed someone the most. Orphaned since birth, Katya grew up in orphanages across the country. The last one she lived in, from age thirteen to literally last week, she met him. He'd protected her on the first day, when some older guys bullied her, and from there, he'd become her big brother. She saw him as that, too; family. Did he know Natasha personally?

Katya panicked when the shower turned off in the other room. Like, had a full-on silent panic attack. Not enough time had passed to process anything or to calm down. She couldn't face Natasha again. Not yet. What if she continued the conversation where it left off?

Quickly, she dived for her laptop and headphones, and put on the first TV show she could find. When Natasha came out of the bathroom, she didn't even spare her a glance. It was possibly the best performance of her life, pretending she was interested in her show and her heart wasn't pounding in her ears.

But Katya looked at her from the corner of her eye whenever she could, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. Natasha seemed to be getting ready for something. She did her makeup and spent at least ten minutes in front of her closet, trying to figure out what to wear. Katya's eyes widened when she came out of the bathroom in a short, tight party dress later. There were curves and skin everywhere.

Frowning, Katya slid her headphones off. "Are you going somewhere?"

Natasha smiled over her shoulder, slipping her earrings in. Her eyes looked incredibly bright with the dark eyeshadow around it. Mesmerizing. "There's a welcome-back party in the Kappa Delta Psi house." 

"Aren't those for older students?"

Amusement flickered across the redhead's face. "I have a fake ID." She grabbed a pair of heels from under her bed and slipped those on too. They made her toned legs look incredible, miles long. Katya tried not to drool. "You should come."

Katya quickly shook her head, her anxiety surging at the thought of a college party. "Oh, no, thank you. Parties are not really my thing."

Natasha chuckled, a beautiful sound that sent the butterflies in Katya's stomach into a frenzy. "Alright. I'll be back late. Don't wait up." She swung her small purse over her shoulder and set out for the door. Her beautiful hair swung left and right over her exposed back, her pale skin glowing in the light of the setting sun. She looked ethereal. Katya called her name before she decided to.

"Nat?"

With her hand hovering above the doorknob, Natasha looked back. "Yes?"

Katya wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful. That her hair was amazing, that her makeup was flawless, that the dress fit her perfectly. That she was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. But the moment she opened her mouth, she chickened out. "Have fun."

A bright smile curled on her dark red lips. "Thanks."

[redroomreflections]

II HANDS II HEAVEN

Notes: I listened to Beyonce's album and wanted to write something to this song

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Reader reluctantly team up for a couples retreat mission. Despite initial resistance, they find themselves drawn together by unexpected circumstances and shared experiences.

Masterlist | General Masterlist

w/c: 4.5k

It will be like five chapters.

"Any leads on who's joining Natasha for the upcoming couple's retreat mission?" Steve's gaze shifted from the itinerary to the team gathered around him, his tone commanding authority.

"I believe Natasha's our primary agent for this one," Wanda replied, her head tilting in contemplation.

"Indeed, but it's a couples retreat, so we need another partner," Steve clarified, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Someone who can blend in seamlessly."

"Can I offer myself up for sacrifice?" Sam quipped, raising his hand in mock enthusiasm before quickly retracting it under Natasha's icy glare.

As the meeting progressed, you were drifting away, lost in your thoughts. It wasn't your first time excluded from the team's high-profile missions. They always cited your need for further training, claiming you could not work as a cohesive part of the team. But deep down, you knew it was just an excuse—an excuse to keep you sidelined while others got to shine.

You couldn't help but feel frustrated by the situation. You'd worked hard to hone your skills, to prove yourself worthy of being part of the team. Yet repeatedly, you found yourself overlooked, and relegated to the sidelines while others took center stage.

As Steve discussed the details of the upcoming mission, you couldn't shake the feeling of resentment that gnawed at you from within. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that once again, you wouldn't be chosen to join Natasha on the mission.

Not that you particularly want to. You and Natasha aren’t exactly bosom buddies. You found yourself mostly keeping your distance from her. There was an unspoken tension between you, a mutual understanding to maintain a polite distance.

Instead, you gravitated towards Wanda and Vision, joining them for several movie nights. As a third wheel in their relationship, you often found comfort in their company, even if it served as a temporary distraction from your own frustrations.

Occasionally, you'd join Sam and the other guys for some lighthearted banter and training. But even then, you never found yourself alone with Natasha. She remained elusive, keeping her distance and maintaining her mysterious persona.

Despite the distance between you and Natasha, you remained focused on your own goals and aspirations. You refused to let her presence—or lack thereof—determine your worth as a member of the team. You were determined to prove yourself, even if it meant forging your own path separate from hers.

Joining the Avengers has been an exhilarating yet unexpected journey for you. It couldn’t be more different from your wildest dreams. The initiation process felt more like something out of a gangster movie than a superhero team induction. Three months ago, you decided to defect from the government organization you once served. Spectra Intelligence Bureau had built you up to do their bidding. Only to let you down time and time again. You had seen women come and go from the field, only leaving behind shadows of their former selves.  You hadn’t known so soon you would be following the same path. You joined the Avengers for a chance at redemption and freedom. But your defection was far from voluntary, despite what everyone else believes.

You had always been a skilled operative, adept at blending into the shadows and manipulating situations to your advantage. You were a master of espionage, trained from a young age to infiltrate enemy organizations and extract valuable information without leaving a trace.

But beneath the facade of a loyal government agent, you harbored a deep-seated resentment towards the organization you served. 

For years, you played by their rules, carrying out missions that blurred the lines between right and wrong, morality and duty. You became disillusioned with the endless cycle of violence and deceit, longing for a way out of the tangled web of lies you had woven around yourself.

Now, as a member of the Avengers, you keep your head down, wary of drawing too much attention to yourself. You know that the consequences of your past actions could come back to haunt you at any moment, threatening to unravel the fragile semblance of peace you’ve fought so hard to achieve.

“I volunteer y/n,” Tony said with a slight smirk. 

Tony's declaration draws your attention back to the meeting. His smirk doesn't escape your notice as he volunteers you for the mission with Natasha. It's a typical Tony move, laced with a hint of mischief and a touch of amusement.

You felt a surge of mixed emotions at his words. On one hand, you're grateful for the opportunity to finally be included in one of the team's missions. But on the other hand, you can't shake the feeling of apprehension at the prospect of working closely with Natasha, especially given your less-than-amicable relationship.

Still, you know better than to protest. This could be your chance to prove yourself, to show the team—and Natasha—that you're capable of rising to the occasion. With a nod of acceptance, you steel yourself for the challenges ahead, determined to make the most of this unexpected opportunity.

“Y/n and Natasha as a couple?” Bruce spoke aloud. “How would that work out?”

Natasha remained composed, her expression unreadable as she met Bruce's gaze. There's a flicker of something in her eyes—maybe surprise or curiosity—but she quickly masks it behind her usual poker face. She offers no comment, keeping her thoughts on the matter to herself.

Tony chuckled lightly, clearly amused by the idea. "Well, they do say opposites attract," he quips, flashing a grin in your direction. His tone is light-hearted, but there's a glint of mischief in his eyes, hinting at his underlying intentions.

From his side of the table,  Sam raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Well, that should make for some entertaining mission reports," he quips, his tone teasing. 

Natasha's voice cut through the air, her tone firm and unwavering. "I need someone who's going to pull their weight," she stated, her gaze piercing as she addressed the team. There was no room for ambiguity in her words, each syllable laden with expectation and determination.

 "Well, I assure you, Natasha, I'm more than capable of pulling my weight," You replied, your tone cool but tinged with an edge of irritation. 

Natasha's gaze lingered on you for a moment, her expression unreadable. There was a hint of apology in her eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the unintended slight in her earlier statement. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise," she said quietly, her voice softening slightly.

“If we’re going to do this, I want to lead,” You turned away from her understanding gaze. Your competitive and cutthroat attitude had no business here but you were determined to prove a point. 

Natasha's response was measured, her voice carrying a hint of steel beneath its calm exterior. "I understand your desire to take charge, but this isn't about proving a point," she replied evenly, her gaze steady as she met your eyes. There was a silent challenge in her words, a reminder that leadership wasn't about ego or competition—it was about trust and cooperation.

You felt a surge of defiance rise within you, unwilling to back down from the challenge Natasha presented. "Maybe not for you," you countered, your tone edged with stubborn determination. "But I know what I'm capable of, and I'm not going to sit back and play second fiddle."

Natasha's expression softened slightly at your words, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "I respect your confidence," she conceded, her voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "But leadership isn't about proving yourself—it's about putting the team first and making the tough decisions when they need to be made."

“Leadership is also knowing when to let go of the reins,” You shrugged. “Unless you’re wound too tight to do that?” 

Natasha's expression hardened at your words, her jaw tightening imperceptibly as she met your gaze with a steely resolve. "I may be many things, but 'wound too tight' isn't one of them," she replied, her tone cool and controlled despite the undercurrent of irritation that simmered beneath the surface.

There was a palpable tension in the air as the exchange hung between you, the unspoken challenge lingering like a storm cloud on the horizon. Despite your attempts to provoke a reaction from Natasha, she remained composed, refusing to let your barbs get under her skin.

"You may have your way of doing things, but don't mistake confidence for arrogance," Natasha continued, her voice quiet but firm. "True leadership requires humility and the willingness to listen to others, even when it's difficult. I can’t have you out in the field making mistakes."

You felt a surge of frustration at Natasha's response, the sting of her rebuke cutting deeper than you cared to admit. But beneath the surface, there was also a begrudging respect for her unwavering commitment to her principles.

As you exchanged one last tense glance with Natasha, a silent understanding passed between you. 

“I’ll do it,” You said. From the corner of your eye, you could see Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up. You had to admit you liked a challenge. This should be fun. Your declaration hung in the air, a bold assertion of your readiness to take on the mission. You could feel Natasha's gaze on you, sharp and assessing, as you made your decision known.

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you met Natasha's gaze head-on. You liked a challenge, and this mission promised to be anything but easy. 

As the tension between you and Natasha lingered, a familiar voice broke through the silence. "Alright, let's get down to business," Steve's voice rang out, commanding attention as he stepped forward. 

With a glance at Natasha and you, Steve cleared his throat before launching into a rundown of the mission details. "The retreat is called 'Shady Corners,' owned by Ilanka and Maxim Belinsky," he began, his tone businesslike as he relayed the information to the team.

But before Steve could continue, you found yourself interjecting, unable to resist the urge to jump in. "Actually, I've already compiled a dossier on Shady Corners," you stated, your voice cutting through the air with confidence.

Steve paused, a hint of surprise crossing his features as he turned to you. "Oh, you have?" he asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

You nodded, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips. "Yes, I took the liberty of gathering all the pertinent information," you replied, producing a file from your bag and handing it to Steve.

As Steve flipped through the dossier, his surprise was evident. "Well, it looks like you've done your homework," he remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice.

Natasha's gaze flickered between you and Steve, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Looks like we're in good hands," she quipped, a subtle acknowledgment of your preparedness.

“I would kill to be a fly on the wall,” Sam whistled.

Sam's remark drew a few chuckles from the team, his words laden with playful insinuation. 

Natasha's lips quirked into a wry smile, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes as she exchanged a glance with you. 

"I have a feeling it'll be quite the performance," Natasha replied, her tone dry but tinged with a hint of something you can’t quite place. 

Tony's announcement brought a sense of finality to the meeting, his hands clapping together with a decisive clap. "Great, you'll have a flight booked for the morning," he declared, his tone brimming with anticipation. With a nod to the team, he declared, "Meeting adjourned."

The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by an air of excitement and anticipation. 

With a grin, you exchanged a final glance with Natasha, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. 

This should be fun. 

********

So this marriage was turning out to be something you’re not fond of. Natasha had J.A.R.V.I.S. wake you up at the ass crack of dawn which you were able to ignore for a long while. Then came the pounding on the door of your bedroom before you finally awakened from your slumber to open it. You didn’t even bother to wipe the drool from your chin before you ripped the door open with a frown. 

As Natasha stood in front of you, her expression bordering on disapproval, you couldn't help but feel a surge of annoyance bubbling within you. Her disdain for your choice of attire only fueled your defiance, and you squared your shoulders, refusing to back down.

"What?" you retorted, your voice tinged with irritation as you met Natasha's gaze head-on. "Flight is in three hours," she informed you, her tone clipped and businesslike.

You blinked in disbelief, the early hour registering belatedly in your sleep-addled mind. "You're kidding..." you muttered incredulously, turning to glance at the digital alarm clock on your nightstand. "It's three a.m."

Natasha's expression remained impassive, her gaze unwavering as she waited for your response. Despite the early hour and your less-than-ideal state of readiness, there was a steely determination in her eyes that took no argument.

With a resigned sigh, you realized that there was no use arguing with Natasha. 

"Come in, I guess," you grumbled begrudgingly, gesturing for Natasha to enter your less-than-impressive bedroom. It was far from the tidy, organized space you typically preferred, a reflection of your rebellious attitude toward your former living standards.

With a roll of your eyes, you strode over to your closet, rummaging through it to grab a suitcase. Meanwhile, Natasha remained near the door, her posture tense and guarded, as if she were bracing herself for whatever chaos might lie within your room.

You couldn't help but feel a bit of annoyance at Natasha's standoffish demeanor, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. You began to toss clothes into your suitcase and prepared to leave. 

"We should maintain a few basic things between us," Natasha suggested, her tone matter-of-fact as she broached the topic of their fake marriage. "You know, for the sake of appearances."

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Natasha's suggestion, a hint of skepticism creeping into your voice. "Such as?" you prompted, curious to hear her ideas on the matter.

Natasha paused for a moment, considering her response carefully. "Well, for starters, we should probably establish some ground rules," she replied, her gaze ripping from the dropped thongs you’d scraped up from the floor to toss into the hamper to your eyes. "Nothing too elaborate, just enough to sell the illusion of a real marriage."

You nodded in understanding. "Agreed," you replied, a sense of determination settling over you. “So quick to set up rules though. Shouldn’t we know more about each other? I mean, we’re supposed to be a married couple right.”

“I suppose,” Natasha sighed. “Is this going to turn into a 21-question thing?”

“No, not right now,” You shook your head as you zipped up your suitcase before you pushed it to the side. You grabbed another carry-on bag, stuffing your makeup and the rest of your toiletries inside of it. You disappeared into the bathroom where you quickly brushed your teeth and washed your face. 

This left Natasha alone to her vices. Though she never moved from her spot she noticed things only a spy would. Her eyes landed on the books haphazardly stacked on your nightstand, and one in particular caught her attention—the "Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois." The choice of literature spoke volumes about your intellectual depth and cultural interests.

Moving her eyes around the room, Natasha's eyes lingered on the movie posters on the walls. 

In the corner, she noticed a collection of paint easels. 

With each observation, Natasha's respect for you grew. There was more to you than met the eye. 

“Right now, I need coffee,” You mumbled as you dragged yourself out of the room and past her. J.A.R.V.I.S. would lock the door for you. 

“Seriously? “ Natasha asked asked incredulously, her voice cutting through the air as you hurried past. 

“You won’t like who I become when I’m hungry,” You rolled your eyes. If she was going to have you up this early, the least she could do was not judge your choices. 

You made a beeline for the kitchen, groaning as the harsh fluorescent lights automatically flickered on. Tony needed to update these settings for something dimmer and less jarring. Ignoring the discomfort, you forced a K-cup into the Keurig, desperate for the promise of caffeine to wake you up.

As you turned around, you were met with the sight of Natasha sitting at the counter, her gaze fixed on you with a fierce intensity.

"I hope you're going to take all of this seriously," Natasha said, her tone firm and unwavering.

You paused, meeting Natasha's gaze with determination. Despite your initial reservations about the mission, you knew that Natasha was right. This wasn't just a game—it was a high-stakes operation that required your full commitment.

"Of course I am," you replied, your voice steady despite the tiredness that still lingered in your bones. 

Natasha studied you for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, she rose from her seat and joined you at the counter. Together, you prepared your coffees in silence, each lost in your thoughts. 

"You take it black?" You asked, tilting your head inquisitively as you prepared your coffee.

"What? Like my heart?" Natasha replied with a wry smile, her tone laced with a hint of humor.

You couldn't help but chuckle at Natasha's retort. "Fair enough," you remarked, handing her a steaming cup of coffee. "To black coffee and black hearts, then."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "To get the job done," she countered, clinking her cup against yours in a silent toast. “Now can we get to the airport please, before we’re late?” 

“Oh, we won’t be late. I want to enjoy this.” You hummed. 

It was then that Natasha reached up to remove the baseball cap from her head, her movements fluid and practiced. As she fluffed her hair, you expected to see her familiar luscious red locks cascade down her shoulders. However, to your surprise, the vibrant red was replaced by a cascade of blonde hair.

You blinked in astonishment, momentarily taken aback by the sudden transformation. How had she bleached it so quickly? Had she slept at all? Natasha's hair was iconic—her fiery red locks were as much a part of her identity as her skills as a spy. 

As you adjust to the surprise of her sudden hair transformation, you couldn't help but blurt out, "Whoa, blonde? I never would've guessed. You look... different."

Your words hung in the air for a moment, and you immediately regretted them as you noticed a subtle shift in Natasha's demeanor. Her smirk faded, replaced by a stern look that hinted at a simmering annoyance beneath the surface.

Natasha's jaw tightened imperceptibly, her green eyes flashing with a hint of irritation. "Different?" she echoed, her tone cool and clipped. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

You winced, realizing too late that your comment had struck a nerve. "I... I didn't mean it like that," you stammered, scrambling to backpedal. "I just meant, um, it's a change, you know? But you still look great, of course."

Natasha's expression softened slightly at your attempt to smooth things over, but the tension lingered between you. "Thanks," she replied tersely, her tone still tinged with annoyance. “We’re going to be late,” Natasha mumbled as she dumped the rest of her coffee into the sink. 

“We’re not going to be late.” You called after her. 

******************

"So, you're telling me no more flights are heading to Miami today?" You asked the flight attendant, a hint of irritation coloring your voice.

"No, ma'am, unfortunately, we're booked up for the entire week," the flight attendant replied apologetically, her tone sympathetic.

You sighed, frustration mounting as you realized the setback to your plans. "Is there anything you can do? It's urgent," you pressed. 

The flight attendant shook her head regretfully. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but all our flights are fully booked. You might have better luck with another airline," she suggested.

You couldn't believe it. You can't believe it. Because you were late, your seats were given to some other lucky couple.

Frustration bubbled up within you as you stood there, watching helplessly as the plane doors closed without you. 

Natasha's sharp gaze bore into you, a silent reminder of the consequences of your tardiness. You knew you had messed up, and now you were paying the price.

"We need to figure out our next move," Natasha stated firmly, her voice cutting through the chaos of the airport.

"We could rent a car," you suggested, hoping to salvage the situation with a practical solution.

"And drive a car to Florida for twenty-three hours with you?" Natasha replied tersely, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

You bristled at her sharp retort, feeling a pang of offense at her implication. "Of course," you nodded, trying to maintain your composure. "Unless you have any other suggestions. Flying a Quinjet into Miami isn't exactly subtle of us."

Natasha's expression softened slightly at your response, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. "Fair point," she conceded, her tone less biting than before. "I’m choosing the car."

“Anything for you honey,” You shook your head, your voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Natasha shot you a pointed look. Apparently, nicknames were off the table. 

As you and Natasha approached the rental car lot, you expected her to gravitate towards something sleek and inconspicuous. So, when she pointed towards a sporty sedan with ample trunk space, you couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"Really? This one?" You asked, your voice laced with skepticism.

"Trust me," she replied cryptically, her tone giving nothing away.

“Okay, but you’re driving,” You tossed your suitcases in the trunk. 

“Why can’t you drive?” Natasha frowned. “You are the one that made us late.”  

You winced at Natasha's accusation, knowing she had a point. "Fair enough," you conceded, feeling a pang of guilt for your role in the tardiness. "But I'm exhausted from all the stress of the morning. Besides, you're the expert driver, remember?"

Natasha's frown softened slightly at your admission, but she remained skeptical. "Fine," she relented begrudgingly, sliding into the driver's seat. "But don't think this lets you off the hook."

“I wouldn’t dream of it, honey,” You grinned, pushing your sunglasses onto your face. 

Natasha shot you a withering glare at the nickname, her expression bordering on annoyance. "Don't call me that," she muttered shortly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

You raised your hands in mock surrender, unable to suppress a smirk at her reaction. "Got it," you replied, making a mental note to refrain from using any more nicknames in the future. “Can I call you baby?” You asked unable to resist pushing her buttons further. 

Natasha's expression darkened, her icy glare intensifying at the suggestion. "Absolutely not," she retorted firmly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

You chuckled softly, realizing you had crossed a line, but the temptation to tease Natasha was too strong to resist. "Just thought I'd ask," you replied with a shrug, settling back into your seat as Natasha revved the engine, ready to hit the road.

Twenty-three hours until Miami. -------> part 2

[rileyslibrary]

I love your sense of humour and have cracked up at your stories multible times. Maby you can find some inspiration in this:

Price ordering the team to an etiquette training so they know how to behave in case they have to go under cover in a more "fancy" environment (or the upcoming mission may require something like this). I'm thinking about Ghosts "sausage fingers" from the origami bit on a delicate litte cake fork... Or him needing to *converse* with someone.

I think putting these hard soldiers in a situation that's out of their comfort zone is always a fun read!

Thank you for letting us enjoy your fantastic writing! <3

Be gentle, man!

Relationship: TF141 x F!Reader with a potential Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader (platonic?) on the horizon. Also there’s an OC in the story.

Word Count: 1,598 (approx. 7-8 min reading time)

Notes: I began writing this last night as a joke, and couldn’t stop. Thank you SO MUCH for inspiring me to do this, anon. It’s a crackfic btw. (There’s a part 2 now here)

———————————————————————

The training room feels out of place compared to its usual purpose. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the once-busy gym has been transformed into a classroom for an unlikely lesson—manners, of all things. Table manners, to be precise.

“Talk about Fitness Vs. Finesse,” Soap whispers, and you playfully nudge his side. The comment reaches Gaz’s ears, and he lets out a chuckle. Yet, Price’s death stare reclaims your attention and brings you back to focus.

You all sit around a long, polished mahogany table atop the gym’s boxing ring, admiring the delicate china and crystal glassware set before you. It reminds you of Aunt Claire’s preserved collection, which rarely leaves its cabinet. Lady Theodora, your etiquette instructor, assures you that each piece serves a purpose, and you will put them all to use. Every. Single. One of them.

Lady Theodora, the epitome of timeless confidence, moves gracefully around the table. Her silver hair is slicked back, framing a face that exudes years of wisdom and experience. Her Bordeaux-coloured shawl billows behind her as she glides, catching the gentle breeze her steps create. She pauses behind Price’s chair and reveals the reason behind today’s masterclass: an undercover operation.

“In the world of espionage, where appearances can mean the difference between life and death,” she says in a soft voice, “the art of etiquette becomes a weapon, a shield, and,” she concludes, resting her hand on Price’s shoulder, “your ticket to survival.”

“Bollocks.”

All eyes are drawn to the far end of the table, where a shadowy figure prefers to go unnoticed but isn’t afraid to express doubts. The only visible sign of life is a hand fidgeting with the butterknife.

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.” Lady Theodora says, and Ghost leans forward, revealing his unmasked—and visibly annoyed—face.

“We’re soldiers, not knights,” he claims. “Teaching us how to use all these,” he says, motioning to the various utensils before him, “is a waste of time, both yours and mine.”

Lady Theodora regards him gently as if looking at a child throwing a tantrum. She smiles and walks behind him, gripping the back of his chair.

“You seem quite certain of your own competence and doubtful of mine, Mr Riley,” she says, amused.

Ghost tilts his head to the side, partially facing her.

“With all due respect, Lady Theodora,” he replies, “I don’t believe you fully comprehend how such missions operate.”

Lady Theodora lets a light chuckle as she moves closer to Ghost’s face.

“My record of 25 confirmed kills, three of which were accomplished with a butterknife like the one in your hand, might suggest otherwise,” she admits. “Now, would you kindly move your seat forward, Lieutenant? I’ll show you how to act like a proper gentleman.”

Ghost’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows hard. He returns the butterknife to its original position and pushes his chair forward with Lady Theodora’s help.

Gaz clears his throat and looks at Soap.

“Imagine her dinner parties,” he whispers so Price doesn’t hear him, “they must be perfectly executed.”

“Bet she makes a killer soufflé,” Soap whispers back.

You look at them and mutter, “You two are beyond help.” Unfortunately, it’s your own comment that catches Price’s attention this time, and he gives you a stern warning to behave.

“Let’s get started,” Lady Theodora says. “Projecting confidence and grace requires proper posture: sit up straight, shoulders back, and imagine a string pulling you upward from the crown of your head.”

You all adjust your posture, attempting to imitate Lady Theodora. Ghost used to a more relaxed posture, finds it difficult to maintain the required formality. His broad shoulders hunch forward, and he struggles to keep his legs straight.

“Excellent,” Lady Theodora remarks, catching Ghost’s struggle but choosing not to comment further. “Next, we shall delve into the art of dining. Each utensil on the table has a specific purpose, and it is essential to use them correctly.”

She points to the array of utensils laid out before you. Multiple forks, knives, and spoons of various sizes and shapes make the sight overwhelming.

“The outermost utensils are for the earlier courses, while the inner ones are for the later ones.” Lady Theodora says, “It’s like unwrapping a gift, one course at a time.”

You all nod and place the napkin on your lap to begin the process.

Ghost’s ingrained military habits take over when food is served, causing him to devour it quickly. He shovels forkfuls of food into his mouth without looking up and barely pausing to chew.

“Mr Riley,” Lady Theodora addresses Ghost, who shoots his head up to look at her. “I understand the military inclination to eat fast, but we must remember that the food isn’t going anywhere. Take your time, savour each bite, and enjoy your meal, please.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Ghost mumbles with his mouth full.

Lady Theodora raises an eyebrow. “Mr Riley, it is impolite to speak with your mouth full,” she reminds him. “Please, swallow your food before continuing.”

Ghost swallows and clears his throat. “Apologies, Lady Theodora,” he mutters.

Lady Theodora smiles and nods at Ghost’s response. “Very well, Lieutenant Riley,” she says. “Remember, dining is about more than just the food; it’s also about the company and the experience.”

As the training continues, you witness Soap’s attempts to initiate a proper conversation, only to subconsciously bring up military strategies. Gaz, on the other hand, struggles with small talk and, when asked about his hobbies, blurts out his love of explosions.

“Kerosene is one hell of a—”

“No kerosene talk on the table, Sergeant,” Lady Theodora interrupts. “How about we talk about something more appropriate, like, for example, what did you do today?”

“You’re not going to like it.” He replies.

“Did it involve kerosene?” She asks and receives multiple excited nods from Gaz.

Ghost forgets about his napkin while using the finger bowl and instinctively flicks his hands to dry them. Droplets of water scatter across the table, and Lady Theodora steps forward with a calm smile. She retrieves his napkin and hands it to him. “Remember, Lieutenant,” she whispers, “the napkin is your ally.”

Throughout this ordeal, Price seems to be the only one who already has a natural fluidity in his movements. Like he already knows about etiquette.

You compliment his impeccable manners, but Lady Theodora intervenes before Price can respond.

“Oh, that’s because the Captain already received my services a few years ago,” she reveals, winking.

Price, caught off guard, coughs and sputters, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. After regaining his composure, he clears his throat and grins.

“Yes, well, Lady Theodora’s guidance has been, um, invaluable,” he manages to say and lowers his gaze to his plate. Gaz raises an eyebrow, and Soap gives a sly smile.

With the etiquette training completed, Price gracefully positions his utensils on his plate and folds his napkin. Lady Theodora hands him a file stack, which he distributes to you.

“These files contain detailed background information for your assigned roles,” he explains. “Study them carefully; familiarise yourselves with the personas you will embody, and don’t worry; with Lady Theodora’s help, you’ll have plenty of time to learn how to carry yourselves.”

He watches you all as you take hold of your respective files, scanning the pages and absorbing the details that will shape your performances.

“Gaz, within those pages, you’ll uncover the roadmap to shape your tech persona, along with essential contacts and valuable industry insights,” Price declares.

“A startup entrepreneur,” Gaz mutters and nods, “nice.”

“Soap,” Price continues, “your file contains the lineage and history of an alleged oil tycoon family; you’ll assume the identity of their sole son and heir to the business.”

“Why do I get the oil-moneyed spoiled brat?” Soap protests, “Gaz is the one obsessed with fossil fuel!”

Price looks at Lady Theodora, silently begging her to take the lead.

“Focus on embodying the demeanour of an heir, Sergeant MacTavish,” she comforts Soap. “Acquiring in-depth knowledge of the business is not a top priority now.”

Finally, Price shifts his focus to you and Ghost. His voice softens, and a smile appears on his lips.

“As for the two of you,” he says, “your assignment requires a convincing portrayal of a couple.”

You and Ghost exchange a brief look before returning your focus to the files in your hands.

“Laswell will provide you with a forged marriage certificate and photos of your alleged relationship,” Price continues. “The documents will serve as tangible proof if the need to validate your connection arises.”

“Any chance to let us know who or what we’re after?” Gaz asks, and Price shakes his head.

“Baby steps, Sergeant; we’re waiting for Laswell to give us more intel,” he explains, “but as far as we know, we’re dealing with people who can buy their way out of some very sketchy shit.”

“Language, Captain.” Lady Theodora reminds him.

“Please accept my sincere apologies, Theodora,” he says and turns to Gaz. “I meant sketchy things, Sergeant.”

As they continue discussing the mission, your mind wanders on the latest information. Ghost’s partner? How? You look at the file and then back at Ghost. You see Lady Theodora walking behind Ghost’s chair and leaning close to his ear. She looks at you and whispers to him.

“I told you, Lieutenant,” she says, “I’ll mould you into a proper gentleman.”

Ghost turns to face you as well. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lady Theodora,” he replies.

But Lady Theodora smiles and touches his shoulder, “Oh, you’ll see, Mr Riley—you’re my gift to unwrap, one course at a time.”

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->

[glitter-stained]

Things I would love put in a Robin lives series:

> Jason struggling to be taken care of during the physical recovery period (that boy claimed he was "his own man" because he was taking care of his sick mom as a preteen on his own, I can't see him feel great about spending a long time in bed with so many broken bones)

> Jason insisting to have a relationship with Sheila, sneaking away to try and see her and not understanding why Bruce doesn't want him to, and Bruce being torn between projecting on Jason in a "i would give anything to see my mom again" way but also wanting to protect him

> Jason going to meet Eddie irl and then making a friends and getting his own team (Eddie, Rose Mia and Jason as founding members, probably more to join later!)

> physically disabled Robin? Physically disabled Robin :) i'd give him fibrosis but i'm open to suggestions!

> accurate depictions of cptsd in a fifteen years old+ the struggle of going to the therapy when you're a vigilant with so many secrets that DOESN'T end in his dad fucking marrying his therapist

> Jason and Dick being brothers (mostly that's just me loving them together in that era tbh). Love Dick teaching Jason stuff line tasting the blood on the crime scene and equally unhinged shit

> detective plotlines where it's like "oh no the riddler has trapped batman and robin in an espionage themed escape room!"

> christmas specials!

> halloween specials (i do like the idea of scarecrow toxin interacting with ptsd that's awesome). Also I can picture a scene of Jason trying to carve up a pumpkin and it being uneven because his hand his shaking and nabbing his hand and hiding the cut because he's ashamed ^^

> Titan and Jaybin team (name pending) team up!!!

> So many shenanigans

> if I had only little space like in Robin Lives from the Vault, I would end the mini series with Jason meeting the rest of the team (not yet a team), opening it up for later series of adventures with this new team of superheroes in that verse

> if I were dc, I would joint publish that stuff, as in every time mainline!jason eats shit in a particularly brutal manner (right after his death in tfz, Ethiopia 2.0, gotham wars etc.) i would publish a mini of Jaybin having fun adventures in the universe that could have been if he had survived, just to twist the knife

[rinaxtaros]

[08] | RED.

Summary: You and Sebastian are left to scout out the circus.

— undercover (adjective) involving secret work within a community or organization, especially for the purposes of police investigation or espionage.

"Are you ready?" The tall frame of the red and yellow striped tents casts an ominous shadow over both you and Sebastian’s beings. The faint glow from the flickering candle lights scattered throughout the grassy fields provides a dim luminescence. You glance at the taller man, taking in his features. Somehow, the yellow-lighting which would always make a regular person look absolutely dreadful, makes Sebastian look more alluring.

You try not to linger on the thought too long, though.

"Let's not keep them waiting too long.” You grumble, falling into pace with Sebastian. The demon had wasted no time in your arrival, as he had almost immediately switched into his feeble past-butler role. His love for theatrics was the most human thing about his existence.

Ciel had sent you and Sebastian join first as to give the younger boy the upper hand when coming the next day. Ciel wasn’t too good at acting on the spot so in his words, he wanted to be “prepared in a manner that the Queen herself would appreciate.”

“Hurry now, [y/n].” Sebastian calls sensually, shooting you a smug look. You scoff, not realising how you had fell behind. Each step causes the heel of your shoe to melt into the softened soil, causing your journey to be less than satisfactory.

“Stupid shoes…” You murmer, pulling your feet from the ground in a less than elegant manner. Who do you have to impress here? Some foul human involved in the disappearance and probable murder of young children? Even as a demon you know these people are worth less than the disgusting muck coated against your heels.

The performance had put you in a positively sour mood. Sebastian’s love for felines clouded his judgement and he put his head and the tigers mouth. Dwelling over the situation continues to make it feel less and less real and more like you’ve pulled the story out of your ass. You’re sure Ciel would shout at you for telling him lies if you reported this back to him.

However, the little stunt has now landed you in the medical tent and behind the iron privacy bars. You’ve unfortunately come to terms with the fact that Sebastian’s stupid decision has allowed you to gain closer insight to the dynamics behind the scenes.

"You seem quite alright even though your man got bit by a tiger, ye?" The ginger ringleader, Joker, laughs as he observes the sour look on your face. Sebastian had been acting coy with Beast and the medic, claiming he was just too fascinated with big cats.

You look over at the man who was a little too close for your liking and size him up. His face paint was starting to fade, probably from the layer of sweat he produced running around the circus to calm the patrons.

You flick your hair over your shoulder as you look back at your companion for the night, "He likes the attention.”

Sebastian’s eyes remained close, which you’re sure is on purpose because the stupid expression pisses you off to no end. Ciel would be absolutely fuming if Sebastian had pulled that stunt while he was here, so you know he’s aware how stupid it was.

In between conversations, the busty tiger tamer you now know as the stage name Beast had promptly beelined towards the busy doctor. She was complaining about her prosthetic leg and how it was starting to lock up on her. Sebastian was quick to ask a few questions as prosthetics aren’t an openly common practice within your part of England.

You ignore how Joker burns holes into your body. He was unabashedly checking you out, but you paid no mind. You understand his questionable approach to your identity seeing as your clothes aren’t far off from your normal attire. Joker observes how maid-like your dress is but you surprisingly didn't dawn any of the usual frilly material or awfully tacky headband. The rest of the crew recognise how connected you and Sebastian seem to be seeing as you two seem to have silent conversations with each other just by looking at each other. To them, however, you look like a pair.

Sebastian had maneauvered himself beside Beast who perched herself onto the desk in front of the doctor. He was quick and no one within the tent had realised what Sebastian was doing before he lifted the girls leg and subsequently exposed her panties to everyone looking at the two.

A pregnant pause falls over the tent. You watch, eyes darting between every member of the circus.

One beat, two beat, thr—

Swiftly, you’ve placed yourself to the side of the commotion. Before anyone could blink, Beast screams and grasps her whip. Joker and the chirpy blonde one are crying out for the commotion to stop just as quickly as it’s started. However, in the middle of the chaos, Sebastian smiles.

Truthfully, it is quite amusing to watch Sebastian barely break a sweat when avoiding the onslaught attack.

All fun must come to an end, though.

"I'm afraid we must get going now." Your hand grabs the whip as it flies out in front of you. No one had noticed the your quick manoeuvre across the room until you placed yourself in the middle of the chaos. Beast stutters to find the right words as her whip is pulled out of her hands and dropped to the dirt floor with a dulled thud.

Sebastian waves his free hand as a goodbye gesture as you’re currently grabbing the sleeve of his other hand.

Sebastian follows without much of a fight, but he mumbles something as Joker comes running after you both. Surprisingly, he’s able to keep up with your fast-paced walk.

"Hey! Wait a minute, won't ya?" He asks hopefully, extending a hand "Those are some gymnastics you have there lad, and you can move fast lass!”

Sebastian places a gentle hand over your own. You freeze, staring at him. The fist you created on his blazer unclenches and falls to your side.

"I would offer you a place but-"

"Oh, really, you're not having a jest?" Sebastian smiles kindly "I am getting quite sick of my current master...” Sebastian pauses, looking back at you with a devious smile.

You furrow your brows, that good for nothing is up to something!

“My partner too." Sebastian lifts his hand to smooth down your hair. Your words get caught in your mouth as you realise what stunt he is now pulling. You try your best to smile through the irritation as you know Sebastian is enjoying the whole act.

Joker smiles brightly "Great! We'll have auditions tomorrow!"

Sebastian bows "You don't mind if I bring a friend along?" Joker shakes his head "If he's half as good as you I'm sure he'll do well!"

"I'm sure he will.” You add, cutting off the conversation. As much as you could care less about the conversation you just wanted to cut Sebastian’s fun off quicker. Knowing your luck, he was going to start holding your hand.

Ugh.

“Your behaviour was reckless, Sebastian.” You scold Sebastian as you mindlessly walk back to the Phantomhive manor. Your footsteps fall in sync, each crunch, snap and step sounding simultaneously. A pregnant silence falls between both you and Sebastian. The sound of the night surrounds you as the sounds of the wildlife settle in the bushes encasing the pathways.

“Reckless? How so?” Sebastian humours as he continues to walk, unfazed by your annoyance. You clicks your tongue and your roll your eyes as you glance at Sebastian. Of course he has that cocky smile on his face.

”You got your head stuck in the tigers jaw, then you had to go and reveal Beast to her team.” Sebastian muffles a laugh, eyes flicking leisurely to his right to look down at you. You stare back with frustration glazed over your pupils. 

Sebastian laughs as he realises you won’t step down from the petty argument.

“It was just an accident, love.” He smiles, “You aren’t jealous are you, sin of Lust?” He teases as he raises his gloved hand grasp your chin, effectively stopping the two from walking and you from turning away. Automatically, you turn your body to get a better look at the flirtatious demon, hardening your gaze as you grasp at the hand on your chin. You try to push it away but his grips on stronger. His tongue flicks out to wet his lip, lowering his head to close the gap between them. He enjoys watching you struggle.

”Don’t flirt with me, Michaelis.” You spit, “A typical man, aren’t you? Using sexual advances to get out of an argument.” You take the chance to plant your hands against his chest and push. Sebastian falls back a few steps, spluttering.

“I am not jealous.”

With that, you turn on your heel and begin to walk away; leaving Sebastian in the dark of the night.

As Sebastian stands in the dark and watched your figure disappear into the night sky, he decides that he quite likes this dynamic.

[extremely-judgemental]

Long Post

I’m starting to feel people don’t understand what espionage truly means. I recently came across this post that said Tamlin was never a double agent and was only playing the good guy to save himself, and there was a list supporting the claim. So, here we go.

Fair warning: this is needlessly elaborate, includes many tangents and requires thinking from perspectives outside of the explicit narrative.

Before we begin, let’s get one thing clear, just because Night flaunts Azriel as their spymaster, it doesn’t mean that’s how spies operate. Revealing their identity risks compromising future missions and the people close to them. IRL spies lead double lives for decades for this very reason and only a select few are trusted with the knowledge depending on who they report to or who serve as their getaway.

‘Even Lucien was in the dark.’ Dagdan and Brannagh are daemati. Involving more people in the plan means more sources for the twins to exploit and more possible leverage for Hybern. Lucien could be held captive or threatened with death to force Tamlin into furthering the war. Their friendship was taken advantage of by Amarantha twice before. It isn’t a matter of trust but of protection, the way Feyre isn’t involved either. Besides, if Tamlin is compromised and found plotting against Hybern, the first step would be to check Lucien’s mind, leaving with no one in power to protect Spring.

‘Tamlin let Hybern settle in Spring.’ Tamlin grants access to a troop to survey the Wall, which is different from allowing a whole army into his territory. With his defences intact, he still has the upper hand. Managing and controlling the movements of a troop within his borders is much easier than stopping an army, which is exactly what Lucien does—accompanying Jurian and the twins to the Wall. It is after Feyre destroys Spring that they are left vulnerable, allowing the rest of the Hybern’s army camp there. Moreover, denying access to his lands would be suspicious, not letting them inspect the Wall would be suspicious. It is part of the act, playing a willing participant in upholding his end of the deal.

‘Tamlin didn’t warn the other courts.’ After Amarantha’s reign, while the other High Lords are rebuilding their courts and making allies, Tamlin is invested in freeing Feyre from her bargain. Among the six courts, one is Spring’s enemy for harbouring Lucien, one steals Feyre every month, and two are fairly new High Lords Tamlin doesn’t know. And if Night’s visit to Summer is common knowledge, Tarquin ‘allows’ Rhysand to parade Feyre again after witnessing everything Under the Mountain. Clearly, Tamlin doesn’t know who to trust.

Considering he chooses to warn them, a ‘Hey, Hybern is coming for us all’ isn’t useful enough when it’s already expected after Amarantha’s reign. In fact, it would have encouraged Hybern to act before the courts could recuperate or even unleash the Cauldron in whatever capacity. This is evidenced by the attack on Velaris when they attempted to gain the mortal Queens on their side. Hybern has been amassing armies for years, centuries even. In order to win, Prythian needs more than a ‘warning’ which Tamlin manages to obtain.

Moreover, the battle of Adriata occurs right after Feyre returns to Night (iirc a week or two). Since Spring is in tatters, Tamlin isn’t in a position to help anyone, especially as Hybern attacks from the seas and not Spring lands. Also, his emissary, Lucien, and every other powerful player on his side are removed from the board.

Besides, who would believe his words when not long ago he was running around like a depraved lunatic to save the woman he loves, and none of them cared? Who would believe it’s more than his paranoia or even a ploy to get her back without concrete proof?

‘Spring was already broken.’ From the beginning, it is clear that Tamlin has his people’s loyalty. His sentries beg to be sacrificed to free him from the curse. When the lands grow dangerous with not many left to defend it, the people flee. After the curse is broken, they all return—one of them being Alis. Despite the reduced population, with Amarantha’s cronies still at large and creatures roaming wild, Spring is recovering and the people are happy. Feyre herself notes how content they are to be in Tamlin’s presence.

When Feyre is kidnapped, Tamlin kills the sentries on guard, which is meant to turn everyone against him. But it’s not that simple. Feyre would have officially become Lady of Spring if she weren’t ‘stolen’ during the wedding. The sentries are entrusted to protect their Lady—whom they love and respect. They are aware of the bargain. They are aware Feyre was killed once. They are aware Feyre is a target—as an asset or Tamlin’s weakness. It is under their watch that she is taken from their home. When they couldn’t even stop his third-in-command from walking in, disarming everyone, and carrying Feyre away, how are they expected to protect her from the most powerful High Lord of Prythian?

And, Rhysand is not just an enemy of Tamlin. He has been the villain of Prythian for five centuries and possesses powers to twist someone’s mind. One outburst from Tamlin isn’t enough to make him a monster in the eyes of his sentries when Feyre is now Rhysand’s hostage. The people didn’t abandon Spring when Tamlin made a deal with Hybern because they knew there was no one to help them.

Everything that happens after Tamlin, Feyre and Lucien return from Hybern’s castle is a calculated move. Feyre admits that it is her goal to destroy everything Tamlin has, including his court and people. She never opens up about how she’s treated in Night, even during the one-week stays. Later, she accuses Rhysand of raping her over the past months and tricking her with the fake mating bond. She even takes the dramatic route with ‘if you peer into the darkness long enough, the darkness peers back’ (paraphrased) saying this to Lucien. There is no reason for anyone to doubt Tamlin’s actions when Feyre proves every one of their fears true.

Feyre doesn’t stop there. She exploits the people’s faith in her and manipulates them. During the Summer Solstice, she positions herself as more valuable and blessed than the people already claim her to be. With these new beliefs she creates, she becomes a bigger prize for the likes of Rhysand, Beron, and even Hybern. She constantly interrupts the conversations and corners Tamlin into decisions that are less than ideal, which he complies with to put on a united front. She exploits Tamlin’s trauma, abuses him, and pushes him to a breakdown in order to play his victim. She knows of Ianthe’s plans and lets the nagas attack using that to her advantage.

The lashings are pivotal in revealing who Tamlin is to the people, but there is a flaw in the narrative. Feyre was stolen from the mansion more than once. Rhysand and Morrigan proved that the mansion is not safe enough. Now, it is not even guarded against a few nagas and the sentry loses the keys after falling asleep? This is a question of their competence and loyalty. Even then, Tamlin waits till the morning to execute the punishment and Feyre controls the sentry’s memories until the very last minute, ensuring Tamlin has little chance to back out. She twists the scenario as Tamlin’s cruelty, when it is a High Lord’s home breached and their enemies are on their lands. Feyre exploits Tamlin’s fears, pushing him to take drastic measures and playing the saint who expected him to prove his goodness. If she cared so much about the sentry, why didn’t she force Ianthe to confess? Ultimately, she goes as far as manipulating them into believing that Tamlin let the twins hunt her. She breaks their trust in their High Lord. Everything Feyre does or says is a lie until Tamlin cracks (if you want to draw parallels, it’s exactly what Rhysand claims to have done Under the Mountain).

This is often ignored or used as proof of Tamlin’s failings. But, Alis leaves Spring because she knows that Hybern is not the only threat. Though she doesn’t hate or blame Feyre, she understands that soon Spring will fall because of her and Night.

So no, Spring was not broken. It was more put together than Night, where Rhysand has to threaten one half of his army and buy the loyalty of the other with false promises. Spring is loyal to their High Lord and their court until Feyre manipulates them. She admits to ‘priming Spring to fall’ and ‘baiting Tamlin’. She even wants to take over Spring with Night’s army after she destroys it. She is the reason for their downfall, not Tamlin, who is stuck in a no-win situation with everyone working against him—Ianthe, Feyre, Hybern, and even Lucien after a point.

The real question: Why is Night not held accountable for Hybern’s invasion, but Tamlin is?

Rhysand is aware of Hybern’s movements long before Tamlin makes the deal. He doesn’t trust other courts or warn them or ally with them—exactly what Tamlin is condemned for. Rhysand betrays Summer by stealing their most valuable relic and weapon. It’s only after he fails that he reaches out to other courts for support. In fact, his failure fast-tracks the war—Hybern was counting on Inner Circle’s martyr complex which they all played right to the T.

Even forgiving all this as good intentions, they still keep everything under wraps. None of the courts are warned, including Summer and Autumn, who share their borders with Spring, which Hybern is taking over first. For two months, all they do is wait for Feyre. For two months, they don’t attempt to unite other courts to stop Hybern or make Feyre’s escape easy. They don’t even rally their Illyrian and Darkbringer armies until Feyre arrives. They have the best spymaster and the best network of spies, but they also have the habit of always pulling his sources out at crucial times. They have the most powerful daemati who never uses his powers to find who his potential comrades are but has no problem invading minds to assert his dominance. In the two months, Night comes to the tough decision to hold a High Lords meeting after Feyre returns.

Besides, Feyre claims to spy in Spring but finds nothing useful about Hybern’s plans, which is proved in the meeting. Feyre is a High Lady who can’t keep her emotions in check and destroys the one court that shields the mortal lands from the rest of Prythian, leaving both sides vulnerable to Hybern. Tamlin could have stalled the infiltration with his army, exchanged information with the twins or Jurian, or negotiated his people’s safety in exchange for more access to his lands which would have been the strategic move here. But Feyre undermines every single leverage Spring has in this situation.

Tamlin siding with Hybern is similar to Rhysand working for Amarantha. No one knows of his intentions until the very end either. There’s no proof Rhysand was in favour of Prythian. He is the one who told Amarantha about the human girl in Spring only days before they ran out of time to break the curse. He is the reason Tamlin sends Feyre back to the mortal lands. He is the reason Feyre is abused, tortured, and killed Under the Mountain. None of his actions support his words. Then, why is it hard to believe Tamlin who delivers what he promised? He keeps his cover until Feyre is in danger again. He brings Beron’s forces to join the war. If he was merely playing a hero, he didn’t have to do any of this. Tamlin was a double agent and he did a better job than Feyre, who managed to notify her Inner Circle about the twins she killed anyway.

See, the issue is not with the character but the structure of the plot. Did SJM plan it thoroughly? No. Was it executed well? No, there isn’t enough foreshadowing to convince the readers. Despite this, it still works to some extent because Feyre is an unreliable narrator. When she arrives in Spring, she is determined to ruin Tamlin’s life and expose him as a monster. She nitpicks every one of his choices, words, and actions. She glosses over his good deeds and reassures herself that they are his manipulative tactics. Even if Tamlin laid his plans out to her, she wouldn’t believe it—that’s how far she is in her rage and vengeance.

The entire espionage arc doesn’t exist to redeem Tamlin, but it is a device for Rhysand and Feyre to magically have everything they need. Tamlin is not a character SJM cares about. He is a villain and will always remain a villain. Had it been someone she wanted to redeem, there would be a 12-page monologue in the High Lords meeting with tears and a sob story.

None of this is favouring one point of view over the other, but it’s important to consider the mentality of other characters in such situations instead of believing every word from the chosen narrator. This is a major problem in this fandom where readers take Feyre and Rhysand’s views at face value and treat it as absolute truth when the situation is much more complex. SJM doesn’t respect her readers’ intelligence and writes with complete abandon. As long as you lap up whatever she offers and glorify her books, she has no reason to write a better story. Instead of hating on the characters like Tamlin, maybe you should be questioning the writer for such an unconvincing and subpar plot.