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sapphic-coded · 6 months ago

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I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Some gore. Reader is a messed up assassin and loves helping her friend. More fun weapons. Opera music. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 3.4k

Author's Note: This chapter is finally ready! I hope you all enjoy. I apologize for the long wait. I also apologize for the wait for the next chapter. Your love for this fic is why it's longer than one chapter.

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox @fxckmiup @escapereality4music @gbab09

Chapter Nine: You Can Fool Any Friend Who Ever Knew You

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993

The sound of crunching snow caused your head to lift. Your friend knelt down in front of you. The wind swept the stray strands of her blue hair that escaped the confines of her gray knitted hat across her face. As her gloved hand reached up to push her hair away from her face, you tried desperately to understand what you were seeing. The look in your friend’s eyes was not one you were accustomed to. It was too strange. Like something out of a television show or in one of your sister’s books. It was fear and slight traces of panic. But not for herself. She looked scared about…you.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

Your head turned to look in the direction you had come from. In the direction of the frozen pond. Where the cold, dead hare sunk deep into the pitch black water. You had done it. You had done what was asked of you. So why did it feel like your father was standing right next to you? Scolding. Yelling.

A soft gloved hand pressed gently against your cheek and slowly turned your head back towards Nat.

“Y/N?” she asked.

“I got lost,” your voice shook. You felt so cold. The sting of the wind against your cheeks was gone. The chill of the snow was quickly becoming a memory. Every inch of you was just cold. You were pretty sure your bones were turning into icicles. Which meant if you fell, you would shatter.

Nat’s gloved hand dropped away from your face and came to rest on your arm. “Is your brother and sister also out there?”

You shook your head.

“Your father?”

“He is at the convention,” your answer was automatic. It was what you were instructed to say if anyone asked about your father. It was an easy instruction to remember. It was true. Your father was attending his favorite convention. Also, no one ever bothered to ask. Nat was the first.

“C’mon,” Nat said as she helped you to your feet. “We can’t stay out here.”

Your body felt stiff as you stood. You couldn’t really feel your legs as you went to take your first step, but then Nat reached out to take hold of your hand. Despite the layers of the gloves that separated your hand from hers, you felt a sudden warmth. It was as if you had decided to reach out and grab the radiator in your family room. You instinctively tried to pull your arm back, but Nat’s hold on your hand didn’t let go. Instead, she led you back up the path you had been trying to find.

Slowly, the stiffness in your body vanished as Nat led you out of the woods and into your backyard. The windows along the backside of your house were dark. As Nat neared your house’s back door, you stopped walking. She stopped and looked back at you.

“You can’t go in there,” you said. Only your father was allowed to bring visitors over to the house. But even if that rule didn’t exist, you still wouldn’t bring Nat into your home. She was your friend. You couldn’t do that to her. Not when her house was so much better.

“Okay,” she said. Her grip on your hand never wavered. “My house then.”

You followed Nat around your house and across the street. The warmth of her home was almost overwhelming when she led you inside. The whole world was suddenly cast in a soft, yellow light as Nat helped you remove your boots. You shivered when you removed your coat and felt your damp clothes sticking to your skin. Nat led you upstairs and left you standing in the bathroom while she fetched spare clothes from her room.

As you waited in the bathroom, you examined the small room. It was very similar to the one you and your siblings shared. The sink, toilet, and bathtub were all in the same spots. The floor was made of the same small, white, square tiles that covered the floor of your bathroom. But the walls were painted a warm beige. Your bathroom walls weren’t painted at all. Or if your father had painted them, they were just white. But one thing in particular grabbed your attention.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub was a bright yellow rubber duck. You walked over and picked it up. These were real?

The door to the bathroom opened, and Nat returned with dry, fresh clothes in her arms. “These should fit you.”

You set the rubber duck down and took the fresh clothes. “Thanks. Where did you get the duck?”

Nat looked first at the rubber duck and then back at you. “My mom. Why?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t know they were real. I only ever saw them on TV.” You felt stupid for not connecting the two things earlier. You didn’t have a mother so it only made sense that you also didn’t have a rubber duck.

You changed into fresh clothes after Nat left. You felt more yourself when you left the bathroom and returned to your friend’s bedroom. She was busy setting up a game of Clue which was one of your favorite games. You settled down on the floor across from her as she finished setting up the board.

“What were you doing out there?” she asked.

You picked up the tiny revolver game piece. “Chores.”

Richmond, Virginia – 2012

She looks stunning. The black dress compliments every inch of her body from her toned arms that spill from its short sleeves, to the graceful curve of her hips, and the commanding presence of her strong legs that peak out from the slit of her dress. Her short red hair looks softer, and the way her earrings catch the light makes you smile. Your focus is drawn to the red lipstick that coats her lips.

“I know what it’s like to be used by other people.”

Your smile falters, and you already start to feel the urge to move and do something. Preferably kill someone. But you’ll take standard violence if that’s the only option. The noise and thrill of it all always buries the thoughts and memories that try to climb to the surface. But you can’t do any of that. Climbing into the vent had been hard enough. You had just barely fit. You are also in position. Leaving now would jeopardize your friend’s mission. Which would jeopardize your alone time with her.

So your only option is to continue to lay in the vent you crawled into. The picture you have of Nat in her dress remains up on your interior visor screen and you choose to imagine yourself in your finest suit. You miss the clothes you used to have. Instead of wearing one stupid suit, you were anyone you wanted to be. You could have easily been her date. Your smile returns.

Your photo of Nat shrinks slightly as new data appears on the left side of your screen. It’s a message from the phone number you had memorized minutes after receiving it.

Target approaching. You in position?

You have just enough wiggle room in the vent to pull your cherished phone from one of your pockets. Your gloved fingers type out your reply.

Tight fit. Ready.

As you tuck your phone back into your pocket, you hear the crackling noise of your friend’s comms going live. The hum of voices mixed with the occasional clink of glassware echoes within your helmet. You can imagine the scene clearly. You and Nat surrounded by the wealthy and elite. Your friend on your arm as you make small talk with all the important people who you know so well. Because they hire you to kill their rivals. You enjoy watching the life fade from your targets’ eyes and all the important good wealthy people love staying in power. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. And the cherry on top is your friend–

“You look stunning Miss. Rushman.”

The stranger’s voice drowns out all the background noise. You stare up at the dull, metal panel that hangs two inches from your helmet.

“Well, it’s not every day a girl gets invited to watch Tristan und Isolde,” Nat’s voice fills up all the space in your helmet.

“I prefer to treat my business contacts well,” the stranger’s voice replies. “I find that these outings foster stronger connections. Come. Our seats are this way.”

Your message log with Nat vanishes from your visor screen, and your picture of Nat shrinks as a boring map fills up the majority of your screen. You are familiar with this map. It’s a map of the entire building, and you’ve been studying it for the past forty-eight hours. You’re here to help your friend with her mission and nothing could go wrong. There was no way you were going to risk your time with Nat. So you are going to complete the objective per her orders. You smile at that thought as you review your route to your target.

“Does that mean you are moving forward with my offer?” Nat’s voice asks.

The map on your screen vanishes as you press your feet down on one of the vent panels. You feel it drop open and you shift around until you slide out of the vent and land in a hallway. To your left is a stairwell that only goes up. To your right is just a plain concrete wall. You pull your gun from your holster and attach a silencer over the muzzle as you start walking down the hallway.

“Your offer is the most appealing,” the stranger’s voice replies.

“It’s the highest bid you’ll get for it,” Nat’s voice says.

You hear the stranger’s chuckle. “Your offer did take me by surprise, Miss. Rushman. At first, I thought I had appraised it incorrectly. But after reviewing its history, I found that I made no mistake. Every other bid falls in line with what I expected. Except for yours. I’m curious about your story.”

As you near the end of the hallway, it splits off to the right and left. You turn to your right and raise your gun. Roughly five feet away is a guard dressed in a clean black suit. He stands with his back to you, and you take a moment to line up your shot.

“My story is rather boring. I’m a collector, and I choose not to insult other colleagues with bad offers,” Nat’s voice says. Her lie makes you smile. You don’t know what the target is exactly. Your friend did not share those details with you. You didn’t push because it was her mission. Whatever all this was about was probably some secretive SHIELD stuff. Most likely real SHIELD since Nat had only invited you to help her. In the end, you didn’t care. But her lie sparked a small bit of curiosity about this target.

The sound of the orchestra spills through your commlink as you pull the trigger. The guard crumples forward as blood splatters against the walls. Someone grabs you from behind. You jam your elbow into soft flesh and slip free from your assailant’s hold. You turn and bury a bullet in the middle of another guard’s face. The guard’s head jerks back as a large, red hole eats away at the center of his face. No more nose. Most of the upper lip gone. You hear bits of his brain hit the ground less than a second before his body does.

You step over the fallen guards and are careful not to step into the growing puddles of blood. You continue down the hallway and kill two more guards who came rushing at you. You empty out the rest of your clip on one of the down guards who was still moaning. The guard is still and quiet as you reload your gun.

“Oh I simply love this part,” the stranger’s voice says as you near the door that leads into the room containing your target.

You open the door. The room within is large and square. Crates and boxes line the walls of the room. A brief glance into one of the open boxes reveals a random assortment of props. A storage room. You bet that if you could take off your helmet you could probably smell the musty scent that you know is clinging onto every inch of this space. It reminds you of your father’s storage room in your basement. The way the musty scent sucked up all the air.

But unlike your father’s old storage closet, this storage room had clearly been prepared for visitors. All the lights were on and the space in the middle of the room cleared except for a single square card table. Sitting in the middle of the card table is a brown briefcase. Not one of those fancy briefcases. Well, maybe it had been fancy and eye-catching a long time ago. Now it bears the weather beaten stains of many years of use. You can see the scratches in the once perfect, smooth leather. The golden metal that accents the rectangular handles carries smudges.

As you reach the card table, your free hand moves towards the pocket that carries your phone.

Your visor alerts you to the other person’s approach a second after something loud and painful slams into your chest. All the info on your interior visor screen goes blank and the stream of orchestra music filtering into your helmet from your commlink with Nat abruptly stops as the force of whatever hit you lifts you off your feet. You are flying backwards as if yanked back on the end of a line. The crash of breaking crates swallows up your pained shout as your body collapses to the ground. Your suit feels so heavy. As if it was trapped beneath the weight of hundreds of crates. But you’re not trapped. You are lying amongst broken boxes and scattered props. But you can’t move. A flash of pain seizes hold of your limbs, and all you can do is lay there and stare at the dark visor screen while your limbs spasms.

“You certainly take your time.”

It’s a voice you don’t recognize. That seemed to be the theme of the night. Nat gets her stranger, and you get yours. Your hands continue to twitch as you hear approaching footsteps. It takes only seconds for the stranger to reach you. Even with the black mask covering most of the stranger’s face, you don’t recognize him. His brown eyes examine your spasming body. You want to say something. You want to tell this man that his yellow hoodie looks like the color of piss and that his brown vest only cements the image of a foul toilet in your mind. But you can’t get a single word out. Just pained gasps.

“This is what they gave you?” he asks as he gestures to your suit.

Your eyes lock onto the bright bluish-white light that glows out the end of the man’s large metal gauntlets.

“The way they talk about you, I thought they’d give you the better toy,” he says.

You can start to feel your legs again as the man shakes his head and then moves his arm to aim one of the gauntlets at your head. You sweep your legs into the back of the stranger’s. The man falls and the blast meant for your head hits the crates behind you as you roll onto your knees. You quickly find your gun laying near the card table where you dropped it. You get to your feet and run towards it, but quickly change directions when you hear a loud whine. Another blast sends both your gun, the card table, and the briefcase flying.

You turn towards the stranger. Your interior visor screen is still blank. Commlink gone. It’s almost like your old jobs. Minus the stupid suit and whatever kind of weapon this piss and shit themed man was using. You pull one of the black knives strapped to your torso free and rush towards him. The whine of the stranger’s gauntlets grows louder as the squares of bluish-white light where hands should normally be become brighter. You jump out of the way as another blast cuts across the storage room. You close the distance and bring your arm back to drive your knife into any part of him. The stranger raises one of the large gauntlets to block your strike. You drop your knife and catch it in your other hand and go to dig your knife into the man’s chest, but his other arm blocks that as well.

You go to bring your knee up when a much smaller, but still painful, blast sends you flying back again. Your limbs don’t spasm like before as you crash again into more crates. Your knife is gone. Your gun is somewhere in this mess. Your heavy breaths begin to fog up your visor as you roll onto your side to get back up. You see the briefcase laying within arms reach to your right. You can hear the stranger’s rushed, advancing footsteps.

You grab the handle of the briefcase and turn, swinging it out towards the man. The edge of the briefcase slams into the side of the man’s head. He stumbles away and you wish he wasn’t wearing that ski mask so you could see what kind of damage you had done. When he shakes his head and lets out a yell, you look down at your new weapon and frown. Apparently the briefcase is so old that the locks don’t work well. The briefcase is hanging open and the contents within landed at your feet. It’s–

Three gunshots silence the man’s yelling. You look up and watch as the stranger drops with a graceless thud. Three blotches of bright red stains his shit colored vest. His brown eyes are still open but very much dead. You missed your favorite part of any kill, but your thoughts are a jumbled mess. You want to look back down at what is laying at your feet, but instead you look over at the shooter.

Your friend looks as stunning as her picture. Even better with the gun in her hand. You bet the barrel would still be warm if you could get close enough. If you could take off your helmet and just say anything. Anything to erase the last thing you said to her. You watch as she moves towards you. You spot the familiar traces of fear in the way her eyes examine every inch of you. Searching for anything broken.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

She’s so close. Just a couple inches and a stupid suit separates the two of you. It had been so long since she last saw you. Two years had passed. She had become a hero and you thought all connections to your time with her in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, had been severed. You thought she had moved on. You thought playing this stupid game with HYDRA and SHIELD was all you would ever get to spend time with your friend. But you were wrong.

Her hand comes to grip the back of your helmet. “I need you to answer me.”

You nod.

She lets go of the back of your helmet at your answer. You follow her gaze as she looks first at the briefcase you hold hanging open. Her gaze drops lower to the object at your feet. A black 9mm Beretta handgun. Your gun. The one you lost. The only one that ever felt right in your hand.

She’s still playing your game. She’s still trying to find you.

Nat picks up your gun, and your lips part as if to say something. There’s a million things you want to say, but you can’t. One word echoes amongst your jumbling thoughts, and it steals your voice. So instead, all you do is offer your friend the briefcase.

“No,” Nat shakes her head. She steps closer to you to slide her gun into the empty holster at your hip. You see the corner of her lip rise into a smirk. “Don’t lose that.” Then, she slides your gun into the holster strapped to one of her long legs beneath the curtain of her dress.

The briefcase falls from your grip, and Nat takes hold of your hand. You follow her to the exit, and as your thoughts continue to crash into each other and scream, you wonder: does she know it’s you?

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #my fanfic #fic: i swear that i don't have a gun

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adore-laur · 9 months ago

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DEVOTION

— please enjoy harry & sawyer getting freaky in miami (inspired by this ask)💃

——

MIAMI, 1993

People are packed into the arena like sardines. August humidity suffuses the air, a cacophony of chatter overlaps, and infectious energy pulses in the room as everyone waits for Sade to hit the stage in all their sensational glory.

In the general admission area, Harry stands behind Sawyer with his arms protectively draped over her shoulders. Her footing shifts occasionally as she fiddles with his rings. He can sense her anticipation—she's been looking forward to this concert for months. When he gifted her the tickets on her birthday, she wept and kissed him with a hunger he had never experienced from her before. As much as he spoils her, she goes the extra mile to show him her appreciation.

Once the lights go out, Harry can't wait to see her vivacious eyes and dazzling smile.

Sawyer looks ravishing tonight. Her black cropped tank top has a variety of enticing little cutouts—no bra underneath, he might add—and she's wearing low-waisted denim shorts that hug her ass most temptingly. There's a reason he opted to stand behind her—two, actually. One, he doesn't want any dudes getting a sneak peek at his girl. And two, he doesn't need anyone to see his hardness through his leather pants.

She curled her hair with natural-looking spirals and teased it with spray. Her long, wavy mane has always been a hassle to manage in the summertime, so she cut it collarbone-length. Her front bangs are tightly clipped back, and she wears gold hoop earrings. She’s truly a stunner.

Prior to leaving, Harry watched her as she got ready for the concert. They live together in a swanky Orlando penthouse, where simple things like her clothes hanging in the closet and makeup supplies cluttering the bathroom sink make him unbelievably happy. While he gently reminded Sawyer that they needed to leave soon for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Miami, she applied her mascara and teased him by showing her cleavage while bent over the vanity. Despite his provocative urges, he managed to resist giving in.

When Sawyer turns to look at him now, the room reduces to just her. Lucious lips are stained with a pomegranate-red gloss. Skin glowing with moisture. Dark eyes filled with warmth. It’s breathtaking to behold the sheer beauty of her features. Time and time again, she hypnotizes him. He's beginning to think she can cast spells on his lovesick soul.

Sawyer taps his bicep before standing on her tiptoes to reach his ear. In an instinctive move, Harry touches her hip and leans down to better hear her.

Fanning herself, she says, "It's muggy in here. I'm going to buy a water bottle and braid my hair in the bathroom."

"I'll go with you."

"But you have to save our spot," she reminds him.

Though he nearly protests, he reluctantly nods and caresses the slick skin of her bare middle back. "Fine. You have your phone?"

"In my purse. I'll be fast."

Harry kisses the spot between her eyebrows before letting her go, keeping her locked in his gaze until she disappears past the lower seating sections. In crowds, regardless of size, he doesn’t like losing her. During baseball games, it’s less worrying since she always sits in the same section in her reserved seat, but in Miami, he's extra cautious because it's an unfamiliar city. Sawyer can stand up for herself since sass and stubbornness are intertwined in her Aries DNA, but Harry remains fiercely protective of her. She's a certified sweetheart, conspicuously beautiful, and also quite gullible to a fault—if anyone attempts to take advantage of that, they'll have to answer to him.

While she's gone, Harry observes the venue. There are people from all walks of life surrounding him. The staggered seating sections flanking the floor are filling quickly, and it's reminiscent of playing at Tinker Field, where he would watch fans fill the bleachers from the dugout.

In a few weeks, the minor league season will conclude, and Harry is looking forward to taking a much-needed break from pitching and traveling. He's thankful he didn’t have a game scheduled today, which gave him and Sawyer the chance to step out for a date. It aches to know she's missed him a little more after such a long season. Due to her full-time job, she can’t always travel across America with him or attend home games, but they’re able to make it work by cherishing their time together. Next month, they plan to celebrate their second anniversary in Seville, Spain. They'll sunbathe on the scenic beaches, relish a couples massage, and take romantic strolls through the city's idyllic parks.

And, if Harry doesn't chicken out, he'll ask her to marry him.

Fondly smiling at the thought, he watches two girls strut toward him, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. They're wearing variations of the same outfit—metallic miniskirts, frilly halter tops, and chunky heels. Based on their strikingly similar features, they must be twins. Twin One holds a Canon camera, while Twin Two laughs into her hands.

Harry waves politely before shoving his hands in his pockets. The moment a fan recognizes him, he knows it. There’s a strange shift in the atmosphere when he temporarily loses his shield of privacy. It's unavoidable when fifteen thousand people are gathered in a Miami venue. It comes with the territory of being a famous Florida sports figure.

"Are you Harry Styles?"

Here we go.

Feeling abnormal but pushing past it, he says, "In the flesh. How's it going, ladies?"

"Oh my gosh, we love you," Twin One gushes. "You're hella cute. You play for the Sun Rays, right?"

"Sort of. Our team name changed recently. We're now the Orlando Cubs."

"Oh, cool," she says distractedly. "Anyway, we want a picture with you."

With a sharp inhale, Harry nods once. “Sure, no problem."

It doesn't bother him to take pictures or sign autographs. Most people are respectful and genuinely honored to meet him. Rarely, however, do people demand things from him, like right now. Then he feels prickles of discomfort. It makes him feel as though he's being exploited. It makes him feel fictitious.

As the girls swarm around him and touch him like he's a wax figure with no boundaries, Sawyer nudges her way through the crowd, water bottle in hand. As she processes the situation, her movements slow and her shoulders drop slightly. She has her hair in two messy braids, with the shorter layers springing loose. She looks effortless and... annoyed. Yeah, Harry is all too familiar with that look. He has been on the receiving end of those slanted eyebrows, those gritted teeth, and those assessing eyes. How will this play out?

When she sees Sawyer, Twin Two strokes his arm suggestively. Thankfully, they see her as a mere stranger rather than his girlfriend. His mind flashes back to past discussions about keeping their relationship as private as possible, and he decides not to sacrifice that for such a meager moment. No chance.

"Can you take a photo of us?" It was wise of her to ask, rather than demand. Otherwise, Harry's friendly mask would have definitely slipped.

Sawyer purses her lips as she meets Harry's gaze. "Do you mind?" he asks, his expression hinting at a secret message.

By taking Twin One's camera, she recognizes his unspoken signal and cleverly leaps into her role. God, he's thankful for her. He knows it's challenging to deal with these bizarre occurrences that pop their bubble, but she handles them all so gracefully. When they get home, he’ll shower her with affection.

Sawyer raises the camera to her eye and says, "I'll take a few."

Harry straightens his posture and awkwardly places his hands on both girls' upper arms. His muscles tense uncomfortably as their hands slither around his waist and linger near his stomach. Amid three flashes, he’s suffocated by the pungent smell of perfume and spearmint gum.

“There you go,” Sawyer says, giving the camera back and forcing a smile.

They browse the pictures before staring at Harry with a sickening amount of adoration. "It was awesome meeting you," Twin Two says, biting her lip. "We'll see you around at the next Sun Rays game."

"Cubs," Sawyer mumbles around a fake cough. Only Harry catches it, and he restrains himself from grinning proudly and kissing her senselessly.

"Nice to meet you both," he says, briefly touching his heart. "Enjoy the concert, yeah?"

They nod, blush, and giggle simultaneously before walking off, staring back at him a couple of times before fading into the sea of strangers. Harry releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and concentrates on Sawyer drinking from her water bottle. He's about to apologize for the unnatural situation, but the venue goes dark, and the audience erupts with deafening cheers.

The joy he expected to see in Sawyer's eyes isn't there. Silently, she crosses her arms and faces the stage with a blank expression. Harry curses at himself—he knows it isn't his fault and that it's just how Sawyer is. She takes things to heart and lets them stew until her skeptical thoughts overflow without a lid. The fact that she didn’t witness the entire interaction has made her understandably upset. Harry regrets not saying no to the fans.

First on the setlist is "The Sweetest Taboo"—sonically sensual, intoxicatingly groovy, and a fantastic way to open their show. Everybody dances to the exquisite beat and sings along to the lyrics. The energy in the room soars to an unimaginable level. It's contagious.

Harry grips Sawyer's hand so the crowd doesn't swallow her whole. She turns and smiles softly, finally bobbing her head to the music. Slowly, she loosens up, unfurling the passionate girl he knows lives within her. The one who loves to dance.

She looks resplendent as indigo lights glide across her face. Her body begins to move—the shape of her swaying hips and the pinch of her waist are irresistible. Harry settles behind her and follows her smooth movements, grinding against her backside. The warmth of his hands rests on her ribcage, and they dance, getting lost in the ecstasy of experiencing live music.

With each song, they forget about the world outside and fall more in love with each other.

——

Harry and Sawyer leave the arena on a high after being captivated by Sade's sultry voice and entrancing stage presence for over an hour. The parking lots are already congested with people trying to beat traffic, so they decide to wait until it calms down.

As soon as they get into the car, Harry starts the engine and turns on the air conditioning before reclining in the driver's seat. With exhaustion swimming through his bones, he sighs contently. It was a magical concert, but he's not looking forward to driving back to Orlando. He'll need to stop by 7/11 for an energy drink and some snacks. Fortunately, tomorrow is Sunday, so they can both sleep in and laze around the whole day.

Sawyer unbraids her hair and removes the clips, then shakes her head cutely to loosen her wild curls. She looks tired as well. They danced the night away together, not caring who saw them. He told her to climb on his back a few times so she could get a better view of the stage. During the romantic slow-tempo songs, she hugged and kissed him sweetly, and he swears he almost got down on one knee right then and there.

"I love you, baby," Harry says, watching her take off her Doc Martens. "Tonight was divine."

A smile spreads across Sawyer's face. "I love you too. Hey, listen..." She reaches over to caress his cheek and thumb the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry about my buzzkill attitude at the beginning."

Shaking his head, he kisses her palm. “You don't have to apologize. I appreciate how you handled those girls."

He hopes to forget about what happened. Honestly, as soon as the concert started, he forgot all about them. There was only one thing on his mind: Sawyer and the mesmerizing way she moved.

"I just... I got jealous," Sawyer confesses sheepishly.

Harry frowns in astonishment. Jealousy is a rare emotion for Sawyer. They’ve been dating for almost two years, and he can count on one hand the number of times she has been outwardly jealous. Since he only has eyes for her, there's no rhyme or reason for her to feel this way.

What a new and fun development, Harry thinks to himself. He loves how their relationship continues to surprise him.

Harry, however, has been caught having jealous fits many times before. Like that instance when Sawyer was invited to lunch by her so-called "cubicle neighbor." Harry is her forever lunch date, not anyone else. Even when he can't be there in person, he'll call her office fax number and keep her company while she munches her cucumber salad. Harry's jealousy grew when he discovered some guy was trying to steal that from him, so he ordered an impressive bouquet to be delivered to her desk the following day. It didn't take long for everyone to get the hint. Then there was that time when they were watching The Bodyguard, and Sawyer kept squealing girlishly over Kevin Costner's character. Okay, so he literally took a bullet for the woman he loved. Big deal! Harry smothered his jealousy by obnoxiously pretending to be Sawyer's bodyguard while exiting the movie theater and then proceeding to sing "I Have Nothing" off-key the entire way home. She just laughed, which was his goal in the first place.

"Why'd you get jealous?" Harry asks.

Sawyer's brow quirks. "Well, when I'm subjected to taking pictures of two pretty girls who are all over my boyfriend, it doesn't necessarily feel good."

"I know," he says, frustrated with himself. "I should've refused them. They kind of trapped me."

She pouts sympathetically before climbing over the console and straddling his thighs. "My sweet sunray. You're too nice."

Harry pulls her closer by hooking his fingers through her belt loops and tugging. "I'm sorry you were jealous."

"I shouldn't have been. You know why?"

"Tell me." Reaching around her, he turns up the volume of the radio to drown out the sounds of cars honking at each other. The cassette tape they listened to on the drive to Miami is still playing on loop. "Paradise" by Sade sets the mood.

"Because you're mine," Sawyer says with conviction.

Spreading his legs on the seat, he smirks. "Say that again, angel."

"You're mine. No one else's."

"Ditto," he replies, rubbing his palms along her suntanned thighs. "You've got my devotion."

His bodacious girl bites his bottom lip until it stings, then says, "Prove it."

"Good fuckin' lord," Harry murmurs against her mouth before diving in. He kisses her ravenously while fumbling to unbutton her shorts, eventually helping her shimmy out of them. Sawyer shoves her hand down his pants and grasps his bulge, stroking it purposefully. He gasps and slides his pants down halfway, revealing his tented boxers.

"Are you mine?" she asks, sitting right on his cock and sending shockwaves of sex drive down his spine. Her body's heat is addictive.

"Yes," he says breathlessly, kissing her flushed neck. "I'm your man."

"Then act like it. Show me who you belong to."

A shocked laugh escapes as he greedily grabs a handful of her ass. "Sawyer Alejandra, what has Miami done to you? Ay, Dios mío!"

She smiles seductively. "It's Sade's fault."

"Is that right?" Harry cranks the volume up even more before allusively sliding his hand under her top and cupping the swell of her breast. It fits perfectly, and when he teases her peaked nipple with his thumb, Sawyer's palm slaps against the window as she grinds against him. The glass is fogging with the A/C running, sweat drips down his back, and the song's driving bass line pulsates loudly through the speakers. It's filthy what they're doing, considering potential onlookers surround them. It's a good thing the car has tinted windows.

The thrill of their sexual escapade pulses through Harry's body. As he kisses Sawyer's heaving breasts through her top's cutouts, the pleasure becomes borderline intolerable. His lips search for any sliver of skin, and in response, she tugs at his hair and whimpers softly. Her skimpy lace underwear is damp, and he switches his attention to her clit. He rubs it with his knuckle, causing Sawyer's hips to momentarily stutter before she leans into the movement and stamps sloppy kisses all over his face, her cherry-flavored lip gloss transferring to his cheeks, nose, and jaw. They're as sweet as sugar.

"Almost there," Sawyer whispers, running her hand across his broad chest. Her fingers grip the material of his bejeweled sleeveless top to keep herself balanced, and Harry would let her rip it apart if he hadn't spent several hours meticulously hot gluing rhinestones onto it.

After kissing down her stomach and blowing air onto her belly button ring, he teases two fingers past her wet entrance, and it's all she needs to unravel completely. As she orgasms, she leaves love bites on his neck and moans. Her body language is desperate; the arch of her back and the tightening of her thighs against his own help her through her release.

"Nice and easy, baby," Harry murmurs, squeezing her waist. "Take your time."

From the gratifying pain she inflicts on the tender flesh of his neck, Harry comes in his boxers, his pelvis jerking as goosebumps rise over his skin in transient tidal waves. It feels equally divine and unholy to do what they just did. Tiredness kicks in as they both breathe heavily. Gradually, the condensation on the windows disappears. Sawyer's handprint is the last thing to vanish, and the sight will undeniably haunt his memory in the most marvelous way.

Harry opens the glovebox and finds the stash of napkins. After cleaning Sawyer and himself, he pulls his pants back up, shuts the radio off, and says, "I've made up my mind."

"About what?" Sawyer asks, sitting sideways on his lap so she can stretch her legs. In just her cropped top, underwear, and adorable ruffle socks, she's a masterpiece. And all his.

"I'm going to marry you one day," he says. It's something he's known for a long time. He hopes that easing her into the topic will make him more confident about proposing next month.

Sawyer pinches his earlobe. "Don't say dreamy things like that."

"Oh, that’s bogus," he retorts. "You say heart-stopping things to me all the time without even realizing it. Especially after sex."

"Not marriage-related things!"

"Does that mean you don't want to marry me?" he asks, fishing for a reaction.

When she goes quiet and stares contemplatively at him, Harry's stomach swoops. He knows her exceptionally well, which means he knows she tends to shy away from substantial conversations regarding their future when they're sprung upon her by his spontaneous nature. Perhaps it's too early to propose a lifelong commitment, but hasn't she imagined sharing a life with him before? The moment he kissed her for the first time, he fantasized about settling down, buying a house away from the city, tying the knot, and having curly-haired babies.

Eventually, Sawyer says, "I would marry you in this parking lot right now if you asked me to."

Harry feels an internal splash of relief and plays it cool by saying, "Please raise your standards."

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to marry me in a parking lot, lover boy?" She tosses her version of his question back to him with a frisky smile.

"I'd find you and marry you in every lifetime. How's that for an answer?"

She’s speechless for five full seconds before lurching forward to hug him, her heart hammering. "You're crazy. I love you so, so much."

"I adore you," Harry whispers. He reaches for the 'S' pendant hiding under his top's neckline and pulls it out. "I'm forever yours."

Sawyer kisses him repeatedly and says, "Forever."

During the journey home, she falls asleep with her head in his lap, holding his hand while he drives. His thumb absentmindedly strokes her ring finger, and he feels a surge of emotion and excitement knowing he will get to spend the years to come by her side.

Years filled with being deeply devoted to her.

——

#harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x oc #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles #adore-laur #harry and sawyer #southpaw series

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oldmanpeace · 5 months ago

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My favorite movie from each year, 1960+.

1960. Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock) 1961. Breakfast At Tiffany's (Blake Edwards) 1962. Cleo from 5 to 7 (Agnés Varda) 1963. 8½ (Federico Fellini) 1964. Dr. Strangelove (Stanley Kubrick) 1965. Pierrot le Fou (Jean-Luc Godard) 1966. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Sergio Leone) 1967. The Fearless Vampire Killers (Roman Polanski) 1968. Bullitt (Peter Yates) 1969. Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper) 1970. Kelly's Heroes (Brian G. Hutton) 1971. Harold and Maude (Hal Ashby) 1972. The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola) 1973. Badlands (Terrence Malick) 1974. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (Sam Peckinpah) 1975. Jaws (Steven Spielberg) 1976. The Bad News Bears (Michael Ritchie) 1977. Smokey and the Bandit (Hal Needham) 1978. Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick) 1979. Alien (Ridley Scott) 1980. Dressed To Kill (Brian De Palma) 1981. Thief (Michael Mann) 1982. Diner (Barry Levinson) 1983. Scarface (Brian De Palma) 1984. Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders) 1985. To Live and Die in L.A. (William Friedkin) 1986. Hoosiers (David Anspaugh) 1987. Full Metal Jacket (Stanley Kubrick) 1988. Big (Penny Marshall) 1989. Do the Right Thing (Spike Lee) 1990. Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese) 1991. JFK (Oliver Stone) 1992. Scent of a Woman (Martin Brest) 1993. Dazed and Confused (Richard Linklater) 1994. The Shawshank Redemption (Frank Darabont) 1995. Heat (Michael Mann) 1996. A Time to Kill (Joel Schumacher) 1997. Princess Mononoke (Hayao Miyazaki) 1998. Fucking Åmål (Lucas Moodysson) 1999. Fight Club (David Fincher) 2000. High Fidelity (Stephen Frears) 2001. The Royal Tenenbaums (Wes Anderson) 2002. Spider-Man (Sam Raimi) 2003. The Station Agent (Tom McCarthy) 2004. Sideways (Alexander Payne) 2005. Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (Shane Black) 2006. Volver (Pedro Almodóvar) 2007. Into the Wild (Sean Penn) 2008. In Bruges (Martin McDonagh) 2009. Up in the Air (Jason Reitman) 2010. Hesher (Spencer Susser) 2011. Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn) 2012. Zero Dark Thirty (Kathryn Bigelow) 2013. Nebraska (Alexander Payne) 2014. The Grand Budapest Hotel (Wes Anderson) 2015. Sicario (Denis Villeneuve) 2016. Hell or High Water (David Mackenzie) 2017. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Martin McDonagh) 2018. Manbiki kazoku (Hirokazu Koreeda) 2019. Uncut Gems (Benny & Josh Safdie) 2020. Nomadland (Chloé Zhao) 2021. Licorice Pizza (Paul Thomas Anderson) 2022. The Banshees of Inisherin (Martin McDonagh) 2023. The Holdovers (Alexander Payne)

#text #personal

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 7 months ago

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a list of some summer movies/series 🌞

hi hi hi!! it's just me, your friendly neighbourhood little organisation freak of a goblin here to give you yet again a list of some seasonal movies and series. this time, say it with me folks, summer! as always, just close your eyes and point somewhere on this little list, or even put the numbers in a generator and go with whatever the result is ♡

autumn | winter | spring

🐚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ movies ⋅˚₊‧

roman holiday (1953)

jaws (1975)

friday the 13th (1980)

Indiana jones (1981-)

dirty dancing (1987)

the princess bride (1987)

paris is burning (1990)

point break (1991)

jurassic park (1993-)

before sunrise (1995)

a goofy movie (1995)

clueless (1995)

birdcage (1996)

boogie nights (1997)

i know what you did last summer (1997)

my best friend's wedding (1997)

parent trap (1998)

bilboard dad (1998)

tarzan (1999)

the talented mr. ripley (1999)

10 things I hate about you (1999)

the mummy (1999)

cast away (2000)

almost famous (2000)

our lips are sealed (2000)

charlie’s angels (2000 + 2003)

holiday in the sun (2001)

the wedding planner (2001)

the fast and furious franchise (2001-)

princess diaries (2001-2004)

lilo and stitch (2002)

blue crush (2002)

crossroads (2002)

how to lose a guy in 10 days (2003)

under the tuscan sun (2003)

the lizzie mcguire movie (2003)

pirates of the caribbean franchise (2003-2017)

sisterhood of the traveling pants (2005-2008)

monster in law (2005)

aquamarine (2006)

she’s the man (2006)

the cheetah girls 2 (2006)

high school musical 2 (2007)

camp rock (2008)

vicky cristina barcelona (2008)

fool's gold (2008)

mamma mia (2008 + 2018)

adventureland (2009)

bride wars (2009)

hannah montana the movie (2009)

the last song (2010)

letters to juliet (2010)

eat pray love (2010)

one day (2011+2024)

a little bit of heaven (2011)

soul surfer (2011)

the impossible (2012)

magic mike (2012+2025+2023)

the big wedding (2013)

lovelace (2013)

endless love (2014)

chef (2014)

the longest ride (2015)

mad max: fury road (2015)

the shallows (2016)

it (2017)

girls trip (2017)

baywatch (2017)

jumanji: welcome to the jungle (2017)

gifted (2017)

call me by your name (2017)

crazy rich asians (2018)

adrift (2018)

ibiza (2018)

every day (2018)

bad times at the el royale (2018)

tomb raider (2018)

the red sea diving resort (2019)

midsommar (2019)

we summon the darkness (2019)

spider-man: far from home (2019)

the devil all the time (2020)

palm springs (2020)

the last letter from your lover (2021)

raya and the last dragon (2021)

luca (2021)

uncharted (2022)

glass onion (2022)

do revenge (2022)

the lost city (2022)

the gray man (2022)

death on the nile (2022)

barbie (2023)

bottoms (2023)

anyone but you (2023)

la passion de dodin bouffant (2023)

road house (2024)

the challengers (2024)

players (2024)

twisters (2024)

🍦 ‧₊˚ ⋅ series ⋅˚₊‧

the o.c. (2003-2007)

america's next top model (2003-2018)

project runway (2004-)

h2o: just add water (2006-2010)

gossip girl (2007-2012)

private practice (2007-2013)

rupaul’s drag race (2009-)

the walking dead (2010-2022)

new girl (2011-2018)

the fosters (2013-2018)

black-ish (2014-2022)

jane the virgin (2014-2019)

grace and frankie (2015-2022)

critical role (2015-)

stranger things (2016-)

the durrells (2016-2019)

big little lies (2017-2019)

she's gotta have it (2017-2019)

the bold type (2017-2021)

queer eye (2018-)

station 19 (2018-2024)

euphoria (2019-)

roswell, new mexico (2019-2022)

valeria (2020-2023)

911: lone star (2020-)

outer banks (2020-)

bridgerton (2020-)

sex/life (2021-2023)

the white lotus (2021-2025)

daisy jones and the six (2023)

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stvharrngton · 1 year ago

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a lesson in romantics; lesson eight

summary: a multi-part series where reader is the new art teacher at hawkins high and the history teacher, mr. harrington, takes a shine to the new girl. mutual pining ensues on their road to love 🥀

a/n: we are soon coming to end of this series :( i will try to post the next couple of chapters sooner rather than later. there will also be an alternative ending chapter 👀

characters: steve harrington x fem!reader, mentions of background

word count: 1.5k

warnings: angst to reconciliation, mentions of a toxic relationship (no heavy detail), fluffy ending

taglist: @inkluvs @dukesmebby @sweetbabygirlsworld @kennedy-brooke @gvf23 @nix-rose

series taglist: @pbs-theundeadmaggot @alana4610 @onceuponaoneshot

SERIES MASTERLIST

THE AQUARIUM, JANUARY 1993

It was field trip day.

A day that Steve had a love hate relationship with. He loved being able to take his kids off somewhere educational yet fun but hated having to watch them all beyond the comfort of his own classroom.

Steve was particularly nervous for another reason. There were three chaperones on this trip, himself, the older biology teacher who didn’t particularly like him and you. He thought it was karma, the universe's way of telling him he did wrong. Either way, he wasn’t looking forward to today.

It had been a couple weeks, almost a month, since the altercation with Steve. You had been awkward and distant with each other, not really engaging in conversation unless you had to. And don’t get it twisted, it’s not that neither of you wanted to speak to one another, but you just really didn’t know what to say.

The short bus journey was terribly awkward, Steve was last on the bus after making sure all the kids got on fine and sure enough the only free seat left was next to you. He shot you a sheepish smile, fingers coming to rub at the hairs on the nape of his neck as he asked you if the seat was taken.

You engaged in small talk but it was nothing like it used to be. The smooth, easy flow of your conversations all but gone. It was funny really, how one short exchange had cast this dark, gloomy cloud over the both of you. You knew something had to give, one of you had to say something, had to address the situation but who would pluck up the courage first? You had no idea.

Steve found himself feeling distracted all day. His brain swirls with thoughts of you, how he should confront you, what he should say. His eyes constantly wander to where you were with your small group of students just up ahead, the deep blue of the water reflecting onto your face, illuminating your features.

“Mr. H?” A small voice spoke up in the background, snapping Steve out of his trance. He spun around on his heel, eyes wide behind his glasses as he tried to search out the source of the voice.

“Yeah, yes. Sorry,” he stuttered, cheeks heating up at how flustered he was becoming. His usual, calm, cool demeanour faltered because he couldn’t stop thinking about you, “Can you repeat the question?”

It was then that Steve decided enough was enough. The tension between you too became insurmountable, too much to handle. When he imagined having this conversation with you in the past week, he never thought he would be doing it in the middle of the school field trip but he was dealt this hand, and Steve was going to roll with it.

When it came around to lunch, the kids scattered across the cafeteria area, he spotted you in the corner on a table with Mr. Cooper. What you didn’t know was that Steve gave the older teacher five bucks before you all broke off for lunch, begging him to give you two five, ten minutes alone.

Steve’s plastic tray clattered against the table as he sat opposite you. Your eyes flitted up to him as you continued to chew the mouthful of your sandwich. His hair was slightly dishevelled, like he’d been pulling on the strands, his tie was off centre, the usual light in his eyes a little dimmer than usual.

“Can we talk, please?” Steve asked quietly, his voice shy, an octave above the bustling noise of the cafeteria.

“Steve, I–,” you sighed, your gaze falling on him properly now.

“Please?” He begged and you immediately grew sympathetic. He looked so dejected, so down. And you couldn’t bear to see him like that for much longer.

You eventually agreed. The air between you felt thick, the atmosphere heavy. You searched your brain for the right thing to say but you came up with nothing. Your mouth was open but no words came out. Luckily Steve was ready to step up to the plate.

“I just–,” he sighed, taking a second to collect his thoughts into something coherent, something that wasn’t just a beg for forgiveness, “I just wanna say I’m sorry if I over stepped and upset you, really, I didn’t mean to. The last thing I would ever want to do is upset you.”

You nodded as Steve spoke, taking in his words for what they were. He spoke with honesty and sincerity, pleading silently with his eyes that you would understand.

“I care about you and I just want what’s best for you,” Steve continued. He never imagined he’d be having this sort of conversation with you but he did care about you and did want the best for you and you deserved to know that, “but I crossed a line and shouldn’t have said what I said and I’m really sorry for that.”

“Steve,” you sighed, a weary smile on your face, “it’s okay, really. I shouldn’t have snapped, my head was all over the place and I just reacted badly, at that.”

A sense of relief washed over you, a tense weight off your shoulders as Steve made the first move. You were glad he did, the awkward atmosphere beginning to weigh you down. You longed for things to go back to how they used to be. Especially now.

“Anyway,” you continued, your shy smile turning into one of sadness, your gaze floating down towards your lunch, “you were right. About my ex, I mean.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed at your statement, his features painting with concern. He glanced at your hand that was lay flat on the table, your nails clacking against the top of the surface. Fuck, did he badly want to reach out and curl his fingers around your own, taking your hand in his to reassure you.

He wished he never asked you what you meant when that cynical smile appeared on your face, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you refused to look Steve in the eye. The fear of him uttering the sullen phrase of I told you so is too big. Steve would never do that to you, could never do that to you.

“We started speaking regularly again after New Years and he started asking me about here and the school and if I’d made any friends,” you started, fingers messing with the sleeves of your woolly sweater, “so I told him about Robin and Nancy and you and it all just sort of went south. Especially when I mentioned you.”

Steve felt an unfathomable rage overcome him. The kind that made the tips of his ears turn red, the kind that made his blood boil inside. Until he remembered he was sat in the middle of an aquarium cafeteria, surrounded by students.

“He just— he just got so angry ‘cause I said I made friends with a guy. Started saying he couldn’t trust me and all that? I never even agreed to get back together at this point, he was just being so nasty, Steve.”

You shrugged your shoulders in an attempt to shake off the guilt you felt, the regret and betrayal soon following after. You felt stupid, if you had to be truthful. Wondering why you couldn’t just listen to Steve. You wouldn’t have had to put yourself through the beration if you did.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he spoke quietly, so as not to irk any of the students close by, “I’m so sorry, you don’t deserve that. I hope you told him so as well.”

You laughed at that and Steve smiled. It was a sound that he used to know well, a sound that he missed dearly.

“I did give him a piece of my mind,” you giggled, “it was a proud moment.”

The field trip was soon over, your time at the aquarium was up. The teachers ushered the kids back to the bus, taking roll call as the hopped on one by one. You took the seat you had sat in on the way here, this time with Steve looking much happier to be sitting next to you.

The bus ride back to Hawkins High was much more mellow, the kids talking amongst themselves in a quieter fashion than you were used to. Your eyes peered out the window as you smiled to yourself; you were just glad that things would be going back to normal with Steve. The tense air had cleared, the slate wiped clean.

You glanced down to your lap where you noticed Steve’s hand was conveniently placed in the middle of the joined bus seat, fingers drumming against the worn down leather as his gaze was focused on the road in front. You took the opportunity to place your hand over his much larger one, your fingers sliding effortlessly through the gaps between his own. Steve immediately turned to look at you, his eyes flitting between you and your delicate hand placed over his.

You said nothing. Simply letting a small smile tug at your lips, your hand squeezing at Steve’s in the middle of the bus seat and that’s how you remained for the journey home.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #teacher!steve #alir #k.fic

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weepingchoir · 9 months ago

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Imperium Sanctus

(...T)he phrase “Grimdark” may suggest the name of some 2000s era Goth club. It’s a recent coinage for an ongoing craze in “gritty” and dark fantasy settings, epitomised and popularised by George RR Martin, becoming the default tone for a whole range of feted fantasy offerings from Joe Abercrombie’s First Law series featuring a dark, brooding protagonist who kills a lot of people — and occasionally feels bad about it — to Mark Lawrence’s Broken Empire Trilogy featuring a dark, brooding protagonist who kills a lot of people — and occasionally feels bad about it.

Like many fantasists with a bone to pick, mister Milbank doesn't actually know when or where "grimdark" was coined. Knowing fuck all has never stopped a critic (indeed, The Critic): Milbank goes on to blame everything from Breaking Bad to The Sopranos, constructing a spurious history of dark fantasy(?) that ultimately singles out author Michael Moorcock as godfather of grimdark.

While Moorcock’s gory, British sorcery is a major influence on today’s grimdark, the inception point of the trend is in fact googleable: it’s been the tagline of gory, British science-fantasy wargame Warhammer 40,000 since its 1993 second edition.

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

Already this betrays the hopepunk's antimaterialist concerns. It doesn't matter that The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire are nothing alike. Taking the historicist tack, it becomes even less likely that they have a connection to 40K. But morality, as an immaterial concern, is a laser beam: it vaporizes material history. Grimdark is a specter on the pages of anything that irritates gentle sensibilities.

For the sake of avoiding googleable gaffes, Alexandra Rowland, author of books named things like A Taste Of Gold And Iron, and coiner of "hopepunk", in a follow-up essay:

There’s no such thing as winning forever. Evil cannot be vanquished, only beaten back for a day or two, and then it trickles back in, like water seeping through the cracks in a dam. Ask it of hopepunk, then: "What's the point?" And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

In the noble brightness of the far future, there is only (___)?

Unlike Rowland, Milbank is a nothingpunk: The Critic is a conservative Christian rag pontificating everything from trans-exclusionary rhetoric to the dismantling of higher education. Which begs us to consider how Milbank so easily co-opts shades of Rowland's language to peddle a retvrn to Tolkien, on its face the last thing a fantasy author looking to innovate would want.

The Imperium of Man, the central setting of 40K, is an arch-conservative Great Man cult worshipping the once-Emperor of Mankind. This is the gate leading to the inner sanctum where the Emperor's corpse resides. Catholic readers may have noticed similarities to portrayals of the Archangel Michael fighting the Dragon (1400~, 1498, 1860), as narrated in Revelation 12.

Revelation is the tale of darkness enveloping the world, and the noble, virtuous men who persevere despite persecution and are eventually victorious in heavenly war(!). This is not dissimilar to J.R.R. Tolkien's "fundamentally religious and Catholic work", in which ordinary men persevere against darkness enveloping a world. Rowland and Milbank both champion Tolkien as exemplary, the former in the same breath as Jesus. Yes, of Nazareth.

The Lord Of The Rings is unmistakeably about the War of the Ring. Positing Tolkien's apocalypticism as aspirational fails to rebuff the basic conceit that war is a human constant and even a force for good. If this isn't the aim of a genre purported to concern itself with kindness and "giv[ing] a fuck about the people on the other side of the world", what is?

Aesthetics. Rowland doesn't call for a narrative movement with less conflict, but one that appropriately celebrates those that fall on the right side of conflict. Even just those that deigned to imagine, of slaying the Dragon, "probably drunk in a bar somewhere, I bet it can be done, though." (The writer's original temptation: a medal for thinking the right thing.) Millions of people die in Revelation, magnitudes more than in Game of Thrones, but the virtuous go to heaven forever. The Emperor of Mankind sits on the Golden Throne, Frodo bodily assumpted into the Undying Lands, Jesus curled up into a ball and just rolled away. All manner of things shall be well.

The transition from here to open conservatism is again in aesthetics, and thus stepwise. Having established Tolkien as the only fantasy writer he respects, Milbank derides grimdark as immature wish fulfillment. If you write fantasy at all, it ought to have a clear moral message, else you are devaluing reality by infesting Real (not in the Lacanian sense) conflict with magic missiles. But he's also established that realistic fiction with no clear hero is a faux pas. He wants Breaking Good and, like, The Walking Alive.

This is no surprise: if you were around for the Disco Elysium craze, you might remember this tweet (holy shit it's still up) calling for a game that uses Disco's systems to narrate the story of "a young witch" looking for her neighbor's cat. Take another step and this is the logical conclusion of an aesthetic that prizes upright moral posture: a world where the protagonist has to do nearly nothing to be good. The little village in the Alps and the events of Disco Elysium might be unfolding in the same world. But our little German girl with no problems doesn't have to participate in anything as unsightly as a Pinkerton massacre. Milbank disdains C.S. Lewis without knowing that what he wants is the end of Narnia, irrespective of the events that preceded it: the crowning of the king, who once was good. The Emperor protects!

#mine #warhammer 40k #don't argue with me if you're dumber than me

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