#fingers crossed the government collapses again

[saint-sebastian-coded]

oh look another uk government member resigning bye gavin go fuck yourself

[artbyblastweave]

So one thing that irks me about discussions of the NCR is the idea that "they're flawed because they're trying to be America again. And Being Too Much America is what caused the War" without differentiating between the vast buildup of Nuclear Weapons and Geopolitical tensions, versus, like, being a republic and having a large-scale central state.

What's your thoughts?

I think the NCR circa New Vegas is textually intended to be repeating the USA's downward spiral. They're in the process of recreating the core dynamics of pre-war America- overconsumption of resources driving imperialist expansion, capture of the government by moneyed interests, and a prolonged conflict with a peer power that's suffering under similar expand-or-die pressures- but they're constrained from a one-to-one recreation mainly by the fact that they're working with a post-apocalyptic resource base, with the scraps left over from the last people who went down this path. Peanuts compared to the Sino-American war, but likely as close to that situation as the post-war-world is logistically capable of producing.

You see bits of this from the NCR perspective all throughout the game. There Stands the Grass is propelled by projections of incipient famine in the NCR due to rapid population growth, and you see the beginnings of this in Flags of Our Foul-Ups- O'Hanaran was sent to the Army by his family to lessen their food burden. Chief Hanlon's very first line is about how the NCR is overtaxing most sources of freshwater within the core territory, and he recounts how tiny groups of settlers backed by NCR logistics were able to take and hold a well in Baja against scores of locals; IIRC there's a cut event at Camp Golf itself where you'd see NCR rangers doing the same thing to Mojave locals encroaching on their water supply. The White Wash demonstrates that the NCR's sharecropping setup in outer Vegas operates at the expense of the locals, who can only get the water they need to support their own crops via subterfuge. If you assume that Heck Gunderson's underhanded Brahmin-farming empire in Beyond the Beef is supposed to parallel the real-world problems with the sustainability of beef farming, you start to get a sense of where all of that water is going and what structural problems (Heck Gunderson) might be in the way of allocating those resources more sustainably. There are likely more examples of this storm on the horizon that I'm forgetting.

As a result of all this, there's a level on which I think introducing the Tunnelers in Lonesome Road as a dangling White-Walker style Looming Apocalyptic Reset Option hanging over the west coast was gratuitous, not because it's Avallone grinding his axe with the idea of society rebuilding, but because it's simply redundant with the political situation already depicted in the base game- If you want the NCR to have collapsed by a future installment, just establish that they weren't able to put the brakes on in time and devolved into a completely dysfunctional oligarchy that collapsed under its own weight!

(Now, as a final note, one thing preventing me from fully committing to this take is that we honestly don't have a fantastic sense of what day-to-day life looks like for the average citizen in the NCR heartland, which I feel is kind of important. Because if the textual situation is supposed to be that the resource crisis is due to misallocation due to interests capturing the government, I like that a lot better than if the situation is genuinely intended to be that there are Just Too Many Goddarn People, because that's like. Lazy and Malthusian and leads to the usual ugly conclusions pretty quickly. More and more it's looking like the upcoming Fallout TV show is leaning into the recent decline of the NCR as a plot point, so, uh, fingers crossed they stick the landing when it comes to fleshing that out?)

[goldenfigtree]

OMG THAT WAS ONLY PART 1 OF THE FIC ????? HELP I NEED MORE I NEED TO SEE MORE OF THIS

Raise A Glass

Summary: Part 2 of 3, After your passionate moment with Leon in the garden, you feel even more conflicted than you were before.

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x FemReader

Warning: Fluff

A/N: Ask and you shall receive! Part one is below if you've yet to read it :)

Part one

Bright and luminous, the moon hangs from its invisible string, blissfully unaware of its glow shining through your windows and onto your face. The sounds of Will’s snores were the only sound throughout your home while you laid in bed without a blink of sleep, fingers intertwined together and thumbs twiddling. 

This was unlike you, especially with the rehearsal dinner coming soon this evening and the wedding another day later. Most days that consisted of wedding planning left you in shambles, collapsing onto your plush mattress with a pitiful whine into your pillows and soon after, sleep swooping you under its wing. This new stressful yet effective routine had helped you gain all the hours of sleep you purposely lost before. But not this time, not when your mind was captivated with guilt, confusion, and stress. Ever since that moment in the garden, your mind has been an utter mess. 

You thought you were in a moment of distress before, hell, now you really knew what distress was after leaving Leon in such a state. 

You let out a sharp exhale through your teeth, brows furrowed as Leon’s face flashed into your mind, your lipstick residue on his lips, over and over again. And those eyes, God, those ocean blue irises watching you run away. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The antique grandfather clock Will refused to throw out, despite your visible distaste for it, mocked you with its consistent clicking. Only reminding you that you needed to decide what road to take, now that there were two. Sliding your hands underneath the pillow lying under your head, you bring the sides to your ears in hopes the ticking and clicking will go away. 

God, you always hated that clock, you didn’t care if it was a family heirloom. It was as hideous as it is noisy, but Will insisted. Just like how he insisted on having yellow as one of the colors of the wedding theme, forgetting how much you despised the color. You really wished time travel was a thing so you could stop yourself from fighting with him about how little effort and input he had put into the wedding. Maybe while you were at it, you could stop yourself from kissing those soft plump lips at the garden fountain. . 

No, you couldn’t even if you tried. 

You wouldn’t admit it to anyone but that man had always been the apple of your eye. One mission with you and him as partners was all that it took for the both of you to hit it off. It was hard to not get along with Leon Kennedy. Someone so humble, kind, and loyal to his comrades. You always knew, if all else fails, Leon Kennedy was there to save the day. Which was also why he was overly worked. Everyone knew the way Leon Kennedy executed missions and pushed himself was on a different level. A level so many competitive and envious agents tried to achieve and so many other smitten agents oggled at. He was practically a celebrity to anyone working with the government. So, you didn’t look twice at the possibility of him perceiving you in any other light that wasn’t friendly, much less romantic. With all the options he had, certainly not. 

And yet, He kissed you.

Subconsciously, your bottom lip traps itself between your teeth. Being so good at everything, you didn’t expect him to be a good kisser too. What couldn’t that man do?

 Jesus Christ. How heartless can I be?

You think to yourself, turning to your soon-to-be husband, snoring away, blissfully unaware of the mess you were at the moment. At this point, sleep was a lost cause and you needed some fresh air. Swinging your legs to the edge of the bed, you slowly get up and walk out of the bedroom. Arms crossed, in your silk nightgown, you walk silently to your kitchen and make a beeline to the coffee maker. Call it self-sabotage, but you desperately need a friend. And since you kissed the only person you could talk to, coffee would have to suffice for now. Making it just the way you like, you walk outside and sit on one of the patio chairs, bathing in twilight as you take a comforting sip. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

There it was again, that blasted ticking of the grandfather clock– or was it just your head? It’s midnight and you’re exhausted from your mental turmoil so with another sip you decide to ignore it. However, one thought loomed over you like a stormy cloud, no matter the effort to fan it away,

You are getting married in two days. 

“What am I going to do?” You murmur to yourself, eyes pressed shut as you run a hand through your hair. Then you remembered, you do have someone you can talk to about this. Pulling your phone out from you pajama pants pocket, you dial the number quickly, “C’mon pick up. I know you’re awake” you whisper urgently to yourself as you hold up your phone to your ear. With two dials, a voice answers, 

“Can’t sleep either huh?” Claire wittedly greets over the line. Your lips curve into a smile of relief, 

“Nope” You perkily reply, earning a chuckle on the other end, “Do you have time to talk? I’m not bothering you, am I?” 

“No, what’s up?” 

There’s a pause between you that’s almost hesitant, hesitant enough for Claire to press, 

“Is everything okay?” With a sheepish chuckle, you shake your head, 

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine. I just need someone to talk to about… Leon” There’s another pause, 

“Oh!” Claire cheerily replies, almost too cheerful you noticed. 

“Yeah, did you see Leon at the engagement party a few days ago at all?” 

“Yeah, I bumped into him on the way to getting your engagement present. But after that, I didn’t see him for the rest of the evening”  

Your heart dropped, he must have left shortly after you ran away. You couldn’t blame him, but the thought of Leon being upset or hurt by you was slowly killing you inside. 

“Did.. something happen?” Claire gingerly asks. Squeezing your eyes shut, you let out a long sigh, 

“Yeah, I.. kissed him. At the engagement party” One hand holding the phone to your ear, you use the other to pinch the bridge of your nose as you continue, “I know Claire, I know” 

“Well, how was it?” You eyes flutter open in shock, 

“Huh?” 

“You heard me, how was it?” With a nervous chuckle, you try to find someway to word it, but your words were utterly failing you at the moment, 

“It was… awesome” Claire’s laughter erupts the phone as you wince at your choice of words, 

“Really?” Claire says teasingly,

“Shut up” 

“Any specific reason why you decided to kiss Leon at your engagement party?” 

“Well you, of all people, you know I’ve always had feelings for Leon. And then I met Will..” 

“Uhuh” Claire beckons you to go on,

“And Will’s just so nice and safe. Not something I’m particularly used to so I jumped into this relationship and now we’re getting married in two days and those feelings I have for Leon, they’re still there.” You ramble, voice trembling, your foot anxiously tapping on the floor as you look out to your freshly cut green lawn. 

“Sounds to me that you’re conflicted” 

“You think?” You mutter under your breath, anxious for some answers, some directions of which road to take,

“You mentioned you like Will because he’s safe right?” 

“Yeah, I mean he’s a teacher, so my work schedule won’t be hard if we start a family. And he makes me laugh. He’s just all around just a nice guy” 

“That’s nice n’ all but people usually get married for love not convenience” Claire bluntly comments, “Look, I know you, you’re not one to take risks, which can be good at times but to marry someone because they don’t challenge you is not safe” 

“So, should I run to Leon then?” 

“I don’t know, that’s for you to decide” Claire responds, earning another dramatic groan from you, “I know I know, but I’m not going to make life choices for you. Need help deciding whether to drink decaf or not, then I’ll have an answer for you” 

The both of you share a laugh as you feel the distress you were feeling a few minutes before slightly lift off. 

–

10 more minutes. 10 more minutes until everyone would arrive for the rehearsal dinner. You couldn’t help but repeat everything Claire had said in your head as you put on your earrings, 

“Safety or love, safety or love” you whispered to yourself, not realizing Will walking right past you, 

“You say something honey?” Avoiding his gaze, you try your best to focus on the application of your makeup as Will approaches you, pressing down the panic in your chest as you feel his presence closing in, 

“No, just focused on my makeup. Want it to be just right for tonight” Resting his hands on your shoulders, he looks at you through the bathroom mirror, his green eyes glowing from the bright bathroom light along with his shimmering golden blonde hair,

“You look great babe” He reassured pressing a kiss on the back of your neck. It took a second to realize that he did because what you felt was nothing, absolutely nothing, “Your family is on their way, Claire is going to be a little late” 

“Is Leon coming?” the green eyes in the reflection that once glowed with their usual uppity, darkened almost immediately, 

“I don’t know, why?” Averting his eyes you resume applying lipstick onto your lips. The air was so thick with tension it could be sliced through with a knife,

“Just wondering babe” you say as nonchalant as possible, earning a scoff from Will,

“You know he showed up late and left early at our engagement party? For someone that’s a close friend of yours, he sure doesn’t seem supportive” Will comments resentfully,

You could feel a coiling in your stomach at his words, your tongue suddenly having a mind of its own, 

“He’s very busy, Will. Him showing up for our engagement party and our rehearsal dinner is supportive enough” 

“That’s right, how could I forget? Leon Brown-Noser Kennedy can do no wrong in anyone’s eyes, especially yours” Will quips viciously, tightening the knot of his tie in the long mirror. The coil in your stomach tightened even more as you looked back at him through the bathroom mirror, pupils shrinking,

“What’s your problem?” You ask, glaring at him as you twist the cap of your mascara back in place. 

Will doesn’t look at you, only scoffs once more as he straightens his blazer, “what’s my problem?” with one last look in the mirror, he doesn’t look at you as he walks out of the room, only muttering one word in passing, “Nothing” 

You flinch at the sudden sound of him slamming the door, the sound alone preparing you, for what you already knew, was going to be a long night. But, you knew that you had to keep on with this search for what you wanted. And tonight, Leon was the one bearing the answers you so desperately needed. You wondered what he was thinking now, did he regret the kiss? Knowing him, you assumed he would want answers, answers you didn’t have yourself. Your rather gaudy engagement ring sparkles in the mirror aggressively, almost like the high beams of a car at night. Bringing it closer to your face, the memories stored in its jagged cuts and silver band dance around your head like a carousel. It was truly a beautiful moment, Will practically in tears as he professes his love to you on one knee, everyone around you at the pier looking at the both of you with awe and joy, the sun setting just for the two of you. It was truly breathtaking, but was it you? You had your wedding planned practically since birth, you knew exactly what type of cut of gemstone you wanted, the color scheme, the venue, the dress, absolutely everything. Was this massive rock on your finger what you admired in the wedding magazines as a kid? Was a public proposal always something you longed for when watching cheesy rom-coms? 

The answer was no and you knew it. But Will loved you, maybe not in the ways you wished he would but he loved you. Leon on the other hand, you had no idea how he felt and that alone was more terrifying than any biohazard monstrosity you’ve seen. One moment of passion wasn’t enough to throw this safety net away. You needed confirmation. You needed reciprocation. With a huff of a breath you look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your snowy white strapless dress. You were ready for this, you had to be for the sake of what lies ahead. 

Walking down the stairs, your can’t help but look around at who arrived, looking for a certain someone. It seemed that everyone noticed you make your entrance and looked up at you as you gazed down at them, gripping the stair railing to make sure you didn’t trip and fall to your death. You receive some greetings, some singing jokingly “here comes the bride”, but the only person you seemed to notice was him. 

He was there, gazing at you, pupils billowing, invading his blue irises. You almost forgot to breathe as you made your way down the stairs, step by step. Making it to the bottom, you make your way to him, eyes fixated at him with such determination that the crowd parted as you neared them. Finally, you meet him where he stands, 

“Can we talk?” You ask quietly, so no one else could hear. You try your hardest not to glance down at his lips but it seemed that Leon didn’t hesitate to look down at yours before nodding. The tension between the two of you dissolving by the clearing of the throat by Will, 

“Better dig in before the food gets cold, you coming sweetheart?” Will asks expectantly, lending a hand for you to take. Your heart drops at the sight of it, you hoped to get your answers before dinner. Before Leon decided to briskly sneak away back to the comfort of his home like last time. But, with one last longing look, you take Will’s hand and let him lead you to the dining room. 

The dining room was centered with a long glossy wood table, golden candleholders held the tall waxy candles in place as they dripped along the rims. Food trays and bowls lined and scattered along the table. The candlelight made the food and atmosphere all the more alluring enough for everyone to quickly sit down and be ready to serve themselves. 

The small talk with in-laws alone was thinning your patience, only the few glances at Leon talking to Claire keeping you sane. Sometimes Leon would make eye contact with you and smile, you couldn’t help but smile back before noticing the squeezing of your hand by Will’s. After a bit of eating and socializing, Will taps his champagne glass with his spoon to quiet down your guests, 

“First of all, I just want to thank all of you for coming to support our union. I hope your full bellies are evident enough of our gratitude” polite laughter briefly rises at his words before he continues on, “It’s an Allen family tradition to have a few people make a toast to the soon-to-be wed couple, care to start us off Leon?” 

Everyone at the table immediately snaps their necks to look at him for his reaction. It was safe to say this wasn’t expected. Your stomach dropped as you looked up at Will, eyebrows turned up in worry as you glanced back at him apologetically. Leon, being Leon, only gives you a reassuring smile before standing up and lifting his glass with him, 

“First, I’d like to say congratulations to the lovely couple” both your family and Will’s nod in approval, 

“Choosing the person you want to spend your life with, is the most important decision in our lives. It should be with someone that knows you, challenges you, sees all the good in you that you don’t see in yourself. And I have to say William, you have found that someone in her.” 

While he says this, his eyes slowly trail to you, giving you a warm feeling in your chest, “The moment I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. Then once I got to meet you, I found out I was right. You carry yourself with so much strength but also with so much love to give. And I’m so grateful to be one of the receptors of it. I think I might have taken it for granted. But I need you to know now and forever, no matter where you are, no matter who you’re married to, I will always love you” 

Your heart skips a beat as your eyes drip with tears, yet never straying away from his, deafening silence fills the dining hall as relatives and friends glance at one another in shock and confusion. This was it, the confirmation you were looking for, brought to your feet.  

“Like a brother to his sister, cheers to the Bride and Groom” He adds to save face before lifting his glass higher, the rest of the table following suit before gulping down their champagne.

[stardustbarbarians]

Too Pretty For War

Chapter 2 (ch. 1 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 | ch. 6 | ch. 7 | ch. 8 | ch. 9)

A Samuel Kiszka / fem!reader fic

Summary: The only way for Prince Sam to end a war is by marrying the enemy.

Tags: Prince!Sam, war, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers

A/N: I bet you weren't expecting this, were ya. I am overwhelmed by the response this is getting! Truly I can't thank you guys enough <3 Your admiration keeps me going! It's finals right now so I imagine this will be updated a lot as I tend to use fics as my outlet for stress, however I can't make any promises. As always, this series is dedicated to @safety-sam. Without any further ado, enjoy! <3

Words: 2.6 k

+++

Nightfall had befallen Athens. The world was sheathed in a dark shroud save for the few specks of starlight fighting the dark. The fire of torches also joined in the star’s rebellion, their soft glow casting dim light in the prince’s room. As the flames danced along to the song of the ocean breeze, they projected shadows that moved along to the beat of the tune. It was a calming scene to behold. It would’ve been, had it not been for the worried royal injecting the air with his anxiety. 

“All you are achieving is creating a trench in your floor.” The prince snapped his gaze over to his advisor, noting how he seemed unaware of the crushing weight Sam felt. 

“Forgive me, Daniel. But the entire fate of thousands of men’s lives rests upon my ability to secure a marriage with this woman! So, pardon me if I seem a little tense!” Sam snapped, only halting his pacing to look the scholar in the eyes. He continued again right after he finished his outburst, feeling as if he could scratch all of his skin off. 

Daniel remained quiet. There was no arguing with Sam on that; he held the fate of his country on his shoulders and that was not an easy weight to bear. 

“I feel like a gift pony,” Samuel lamented, his hands pulling at his silken toga as well as tanging his fingers in his intricately dressed hair. He gazed longingly at the ocean, hearing her call him to her waters.

“Well, you are one, in a way,” Daniel asserted, taking in how his best friend looked. He wore his finest sandals, the straps crossing across his toned calves and stopping below his knee. His mulberry toga kept him modest above the knee, the silk draping from his right shoulder while his left was fitted with an intricate gold piece of shoulder armor that was very clearly decorative rather than practical on his left that coiled down his bicep. His hair, before Sam had ruined it, had been pulled up into an intricate and entrancing coil of skill, but now half of it was hanging down onto the back of his neck. 

“Thank you, Daniel.” If looks could kill, Samuel’s best friend would’ve dropped dead then and there. 

Chuckling to himself, Daniel stood up from his seat and gently guided the prince to take his place. Sam did so without protest, collapsing into the chair as the scholar stood behind him. 

“Let’s see if we can salvage this,” Daniel muttered, carefully removing the golden wreath adorning his best friend’s head. Samuel winced as a few strands of hair were pulled by the crown, but he didn’t get angry. 

“This is doomed. I was not made for this. I will cause Athens’ demise,” the prince groaned, feeling as if he could cry. He was sitting forward resting his elbows on his knees before the scholar placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him so that he was sitting upright. 

“Please, calm your worries. I will be right beside you the whole time,” his best friend soothed, his fingers running through Sam’s hair helping quell some of his anxiety. 

The room went silent once again as Samuel got lost in his thoughts, the gentle brush of Daniel’s fingers calming him by each passing second. This wasn’t supposed to be his job. Samuel was supposed to take on a small area to govern and otherwise just stand there and look pretty. 

“Alright. It is by no means what Ronnie’s maid was able to achieve, but I believe it’s passable,” the scholar declared, a note of pride in his voice as he admired his handiwork. Hearing it brought a tiny smile to the prince’s lips. 

Samuel’s crown was placed back onto his head, the leaves gouging into his skin. There was a moment where it felt as if the scholar was drinking in the prince’s appearance, documenting each detail. Samuel wrote it off as him attempting to see anything he could possibly fix that was askew. However, it was hard for him to explain the hitch in his best friend’s breath as Sam looked over his shoulder at him. 

“Are you ready?” 

“No,” the prince instantly admitted, his head bowing. He was by no means ready for what was to come. 

Now standing in front of his best friend, the scholar held out his hand. Sam regarded it before exhaling a deep sigh and placing his hand in Daniel’s. He was pulled up from his chair rather reluctantly, Daniel patting Sam on the shoulder before dropping his hand slowly. 

“Remember, I’ll be right by your side. You have nothing to fear,” Daniel reassured, opening the door for his prince. 

Staring at the gaping hole of the open door, Sam steeled himself and transformed into the royal he was required to be. Setting his shoulders back, he strode out of the safety of his bedroom and into the uncertainty of the future. 

+++

Just as had been discussed, Samuel was to meet his family in the throne room. The Spartan princess had arrived the night prior but wouldn’t be properly introduced to the prince until the next night. Walking into that symbolic room, he found comfort in the gaze of his mother. She was clothed in black, still mourning the loss of her second son weeks after she had learned of his demise. 

Just as promised, Daniel stuck to his best friend’s side as he made towards the front of the room. He stood front and center, on display for their guests. Daniel was off to the side but would be directly next to the prince within a moment should he need it. 

“You’re a brave boy, swan,” Samuel’s mother whispered to him after wrapping her arms around him. Swan. He hadn’t heard that nickname in some time. 

Before he knew it, horns blared as the arrival of the princess and her court was announced. The sound made the prince freeze up. It was too soon. He was snapped out of his panic by a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t have to look to know it was Daniel’s. 

The door burst open. Samuel’s gaze fell upon the visage of a beautiful, strong woman clad in bronze armor. He was at first taken aback by the sight of a woman in armor, but he then recalled that all Spartans were trained to be warriors regardless of their status or gender. Getting over the initial shock, Sam found himself liking the idea. He knew plenty of women who could fend for themselves and some who could even best him in sparring. 

Sam just wished he knew what she thought of him. 

“Princess, I thank you for making the trip,” Sam’s father greeted, taking her hand in his and placing a kiss on the back. 

“I extend gratitude towards you as well for the invitation,” she responded, her eyes quickly glancing at the prince before flashing a diplomatic smile that Sam could see through. 

“Allow me to introduce my son: Samuel, Prince of Athens.” All attention was shifted onto the young prince. He forced himself not to buckle under their eyes, choosing to smile rather than fidget. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, princess,” he politely greeted, mirroring his father’s action of kissing her hand. He could tell she was not pleased by his touch, her smile straining. 

“I’m sure,” she replied, all but ripping her hand out of his. All of the sudden everything culminated to the surface again. It had only been a few seconds and Sam was already ruining their chance at peace. 

Samuel’s ears began to ring, his heart racing inside his chest. He felt cold, his energy being drained right out of him. The only thing that was keeping him upright was his royal training. He couldn’t show vulnerability he couldn’t show vulnerability he couldn’t show vulnerability-

“Samuel?” 

Ripping him out of his thoughts was the sound of his mother’s voice. He blinked, glancing around the room to see all eyes once again on him. He missed something, but what it was he wasn’t sure. They were expecting something from him. 

“My apologies,” Sam instinctively uttered, his voice sounding weak and catching in his throat. It caused him to clear it, using it as a reprise to compose himself. 

“You were asked if you would wish to take Princess Y/N on a stroll through the grounds,” Daniel whispered into his ear. He had to have noticed the prince’s breakdown, knowing Sam like the back of his hand. 

“Of course. Princess?” He offered his arm, intending for her to loop hers through it. However, she merely glanced down at it before walking past him towards the door. 

Taken off guard once again, Sam quickly glanced at Daniel in confusion before following after her. She was already out of the room, Sam having to pick up his pace in order to follow. 

“Princess, wait!” he called out, finally able to catch up to her after her stride slowed. 

She wore a face that was stern, no readable emotion that Sam could detect. If anything, there was an air of annoyance wafting off her as her lips held the tiniest sneer on them. In the name of diplomacy and peace, Samuel let it go. Perhaps the customs were different in Sparta. 

“You are quite fast,” Sam noted, flashing what he hoped was a charming smile. 

“Or you are just simply slow,” she retorted, refusing to look at him and keep her eyes forward. 

The prince was at an impasse. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him but they needed to make this work in order to achieve peace. Normally, Sam knew when to take the hint and back off, but in this instance he simply couldn’t. 

So, Samuel continued to attempt small talk. Each attempt was met with icy and stunted responses. After so many times, Sam snapped. 

“What is your quarrel, princess?!” he demanded, halting in front of her so that she finally had to look at him. Frustratingly, she looked straight through him and refused to respond. 

She had made moves to walk around him, but he stepped in front of her each time. Finally, that made her look him in the eyes. 

“The whole reason you are here is that we both want peace. The least you could do is try! There are lives that depend on this matrimony; for both of our kingdoms!” His hands balled into fists at his sides. To say he was furious with her behavior was an understatement. 

“You are mistaken, your majesty. You are the one who wishes for peace, not I!” She cried, a fire in her eyes that Sam could only label as hatred. 

The prince stood flabbergasted. Then why was she here?? What was her motive??

“Then pray, tell! What is your business here if you do not wish to end this pointless bloodshed?!” 

At his question, a cruel and bitter smile slithered across her lips. Her eyes darkened, their true nature being exposed in the moon’s light. 

“I can tell why you so desperately wish for peace. A face like yours… it’s far too pretty for war.” 

With that final statement, Sam watched the rival princess disappear into the shadows of his palace. He remained frozen in place, truly taken aback by her words. Sam didn’t know what to do. He was doomed. 

+++

Sam was able to locate Daniel on his favorite balcony, his raven curls floating on the breeze of the ocean. He looked content, staring out at the darkened horizon. He smiled warmly as he turned his gaze onto his best friend approaching him. 

“How did it go?” the scholar asked, his chin resting on his hand as he leaned on the railing of the balcony. Samuel picked out the stars reflecting in Daniel’s dark eyes. 

“The war will continue to rage, I’m afraid,” the prince sighed, ripping his crown from his hair. Some of his strands traveled with the gold leaves, swaying in the wind. 

Daniel moved over to make room for Sam to stand by his side. “Recount what transpired to me.” 

Rubbing his free hand over his face, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose before launching into the events of his stroll with the Spartan princess. He explained how she was nothing but rude and stand-offish towards him despite his efforts. 

“I find that usually people are quite enamored with my charm.” 

Daniel let out a knowing huff of laughter, his head ducking as he smiled. Looking back out at the sea once again, the scholar tucked his curls behind his ear to show off his dangling pearl earring. “You won’t find me denying such a claim.” 

The pair smiled at one another momentarily, silence befalling them companionably. 

“She told me my face was ‘too pretty for war’. I believe she called me a coward,” Sam recounted, his mood turning sour. 

“Pretty, you are. A coward you are not,” Daniel immediately reassured, his gaze sliding to his prince’s face once more. 

The prince remained silent. He didn’t believe his best friend for a moment. There was no way around it, Samuel was a coward. 

“I failed my people before I even had the chance to build confidence in them.” Samuel wasn’t a buffoon. He knew what the peasants thought of him. That’s why they were all so incredibly nervous when Jacob was sent off to the war. 

“None of that, now. The princess has not yet given her answer. There is still time to turn the tides in your favor,” the scholar sagely advised. Samuel often forgot just who his best friend was - a brilliant man. It was easy when this was the man who would help him attempt to tame dangerous beasts and steal for sport. 

Silence fell once again. However, there was a clear tension lacing the air that made it uncomfortable. 

“Sam, hear me,” Daniel began, standing to his full height to look him in the eye, “keep your wits about you when she is near.” 

Samuel absorbed his best friend’s words, turning them over in his mind to pull the meaning out of the statement. 

“You believe her to be a snake?” 

“I believe she has something to hide. I say this only in concern for your safety, but please do not allow my words to sway you away from peace,” the scholar extrapolated, grabbing hold of one of the prince’s hands. 

Sam trusted this man with his life. Anything that made him weary was cause enough for Samuel’s concern. Squeezing his best friend’s hand, he nodded. He would take Daniel’s words to heart. 

“Your majesty,” a servant called, interrupting the moment. Caught by surprise, the men dropped hands. 

“Here,” the prince responded, running a hand over the front of his tunic as a spike of anxiety surged in his body. “State your business.” 

“I send word from the princess. She accepts your proposal,” the servant relayed, keeping his head lowered in the presence of royalty. 

I did not fail.

He couldn’t help it. Sam whipped his head towards Daniel to find that he was looking right back at him. His best friend wore an expression of triumph and pride, his smile mirroring those emotions. However, Samuel could not be fooled. There was a negative emotion buried deep beneath the positive, but he couldn’t place what it was. 

“Alert the king. Request that preparations will begin at sunrise,” the prince ordered, sending away the servant. He bowed before running off to fulfill his task. 

Samuel fell against the railing of the balcony, relief crashing into him like a titanic wave. He hadn’t failed after all. 

+++

Taglist:

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[quietwings-fics]

go looking for ghosts

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Thoschei (11/Simm!Master) Additional Tags: Time Travel, Angst, Post-Episode: s07e05 The Angels Take Manhattan, Pre-Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Drunk Doctor (Doctor Who), Grief/Mourning, Minor Violence, Genderswap, The Master (Doctor Who) Being a Bastard, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Female Master (Doctor Who) Wordcount: 2651 Summary:

The Doctor loses Amy and Rory. She makes a poor decision of who to turn to.

Harriet Saxon is not having a good day.

The Master, who is not Harriet Saxon but wears her smile well enough, is having a worse one.

“Doctor,” she says through gritted teeth. It doesn’t take much guesswork; no one else would break into her office just to be a nuisance. It’s not her Doctor, the skinny one who she left behind at the end of time, but a new one, whose existence manages to be both reassuring (of course she would survive) and infuriating (of course she would survive.) She looks younger, but the Master can almost taste the centuries of separation between them. She’s so disheveled — one suspender missing, buttons undone, hair that’s had her hands dragged through it dozens of times — that the Master would question how she got inside, if getting into places she wasn’t supposed to be wasn’t the Doctor’s main talent. “Get off of my desk.”

The Doctor swings her head up and nearly topples backwards from the motion. The Master realizes that she’s not leaning back on the desk to look smug, or not entirely, but rather, because the minute she moves her hands, her whole balance goes askew and she ends up tipping over again. She saves herself from humiliation at the last moment, catching herself on the Master’s desk again. She does not save the Master’s plastic bonsai tree, the only decoration she bothered to get for her desk, and it hits the ground with a thud. The Master glowers at her for that.

When she’s stable, she squints at the Master. The Master has already shut and locked the door behind her.

“I’m still taller than you,” the Doctor says.

“Congratulations,” the Master responds, dryly. “Here to stop me?” The Doctor blinks at her.

“What? I already did that. Can’t do it twice. No crossing time streams.” She gives a morose little laugh. “Look at me, obeying the rules. Nothing I can do for them. Time says… no.” She pauses for a minute between words as though she was searching for something more grandiose to say, but her voice and flourish fall flat with the simple negative. And then she falls off the desk when she sweeps her arm out too far for emphasis and forgets that she needs it to keep herself balanced.

The Master lets her. She smirks. The Doctor picks herself up off the floor. It’s an ungraceful maneuver, full of limbs that won’t obey her and scrabbling at nearby furniture to haul herself to her feet.

“From where I’m standing, you haven’t stopped anything,” the Master tells her, but if she’s honest, she’s not surprised. Irritated that a year’s worth of plotting won’t end in victory, but not surprised. It’s still worth it, if only to do whatever damage she can and make herself a thorn in the Doctor’s side until she tastes blood. She circles the Doctor. “Are you drunk? How did you manage that?”

“Enthusiastically,” she snaps like the Master is poking a fresh bruise. It only makes her want to jab her finger into the spot harder. “From where I’m st-” Her legs shake, and she collapses back into one of the chairs in the Master’s office. Not the comfy one behind her desk, but the ones she got specifically to make anyone trying to interview or ask her for things squirm in discomfort. She likes to think of it as encouraging efficiency in the government — by making sure no one ever bothers her.

Except the Doctor, who could make herself comfortable on a bed of spikes and would still find time to annoy the Master.

“From where I’m sitting,” she repeats, “you’re…” And then she smiles. There is no kindness behind it. “You helped save Earth.”

The Master feels vaguely nauseous at the idea.

“Well, thank you for warning me. I’ll make sure not to.” The Doctor’s eyes are dangerous in a way the Master usually only gets to see from within a trap she’s about to break. She rolls her head the moment she feels tension forming in her shoulders, forcing it to release and not show the Doctor anything.

“No. Now, I’ve told you you will, and you’ll have to.”

“Do you think I care about causing a paradox?”

“Do you think I care if you try?” The Doctor almost sounds eager for it. For a moment, as she stares the Master down, she’s far too still, like a held breath.

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” the Master decides. She watches the Doctor slump.

The Master refuses to be concerned about her, but it’s disturbing how disappointed she looks.

There’s meant to be a rhythm to this. The Master pushes until something breaks, and the Doctor drags them both back. She doesn’t know where she stands when the Doctor is already broken. All she knows is that she’s jealous of whoever managed it before her.

“What happened to you?” she asks. “Blow up a planet? Find another genocide to commit?” Digging her knife into the wound of Gallifrey should get her some kind of reaction, but all she receives is a tired glare. The Master searches, and when she comes up with the alternative, she spits it, disgusted that it could ever trump their shared loss, “Lose another one of your humans?”

That’s like cracking a whip against the hide of an animal. The Doctor rears up, driven forward by anger, but her refusal to sober betrays her when she ends up falling into the Master. She clings to the Master’s pantsuit, leaving obvious wrinkles behind wherever she grabs at. The Master leans back from her and from the boiling grief under her skin.

“Don’t,” the Doctor warns, as if she didn’t know what coming to the Master would mean. If she wanted someone to be nice to her, she has dozens of companions who look at her like a god and would happily have her in for tea.

She chose to be here, instead.

“Did they die for you?” The Master guesses, and the Doctor’s fingers lock tight but her expression doesn’t waver. Close. “They died for nothing,” she says, certain now, reading every little cue from the Doctor until she knows exactly how to hurt her, “and right in front of you. Why didn’t you stop it, Doctor? I thought you loved your companions.” The Doctor’s whole body stiffens up as she speaks, and when the Master reaches loved, the Doctor yanks on her before her weight bearing down on the Master shoves her right back against the desk. The back of the Master’s thighs ache from the impact. The Doctor is pressed chest to chest with her now, her breath fanning across the Master’s face, and they’re so close that the Master is forced to notice that the Doctor was right. She’s taller, and the Master still has to look up at her.

The Doctor has no right to look surprised at her words. She came here because cruelty was the point. The Master provides, generously.

“We have a winner,” she teases to feel the Doctor’s hands tremble with rage. “Was it painful?”

“They were together! They were happy!” More than one. That does nothing to abate the Master’s jealousy. How dare the Doctor grieve them like this, like they matter?

“Without you, and that’s worse.” The Doctor is practically belly-up. The Master gives her exactly what she wants, claws raked across exposed weakness. “After all, you’re the only one who should get to choose when you’re bored of them.” 

“Shut up!” The Doctor shakes the Master again, though this time, she’s prepared and stops herself from hitting the desk. She could throw the Doctor off of her easily, but this is so much more fun. (So much better than watching her mope around and beg for the Master to destroy her, to destroy everything, for the sake of her pride and the Doctor’s grief.)

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Doctor?” she says, matching the Doctor’s volume gleefully. It’s not like anyone can hear them. The Master took care of soundproofing shortly after she realized that she would be supplied an infinite amount of interns, no matter how many went missing. “You can barely stand. You can barely dress yourself.” She gropes at the dangling cloth around the Doctor’s neck, loosely held in place by her collar.

The Doctor recoils from her so fast that the Master wonders if she’s finally thought better of this whole thing and sobered up. From the way she wavers in place and how hard it is for her to get her eyes to focus on the Master, she has not.

“Don’t touch that!” She reaches up around her own neck to yank the undone cloth completely off. The Master had thought it was a tie at first, (She’s gotten very familiar with wearing one herself. She looks dependable in them, and more importantly, sexy.) but it’s too thin and too short.

“Is that a-” she starts. The Doctor’s terrible fashion statements have always been an open invitation for mockery.

The Doctor slaps her.

What follows is an honest, uncomfortable silence. The Master’s cheek stings. She can taste blood on the inside of her mouth from the impact. She smiles and hopes it shows on her teeth. The Doctor doesn’t lower her hand completely, the other furiously tearing the undone bowtie free and stuffing it away into a pocket where the Master can’t see it.

“Feel better?” the Master finally says. The pain radiates outwards, into her jaw and up the side of her face. She bears it.

“Yes,” the Doctor answers before she can think better of it. If she was going to bother to at all. And then, “Give me one back.” The Master’s hand itches. She grips the edge of the desk.

“No,” the Master answers. They know what will hurt worse.

She lifts her fingers to her cheek and traces the outline of the Doctor’s hand bruising it. The Doctor flinches.

“You deserved it,” she says. She sounds like she believes it, which is fair enough, but like she still regrets doing it, which is so her, it’s sickening.

The Master leans back against her desk. She glances to the side, finds that her plastic bonsai tree has not picked itself up off the ground and put itself back where it should be, and decides that she’ll throw it in the dump later for being so useless.

“Did they have names?” she asks.

The Doctor hesitates for a long time, but she can’t resist forever. “Amy and Rory,” she says. The Master makes a face that she assumes is in the ballpark of sympathetic.

“Last names?” she attempts to tempt out of the Doctor. She gets a hard stare in response.

“Suddenly, I can’t remember.” The Master spreads her hands, a ‘what can you do’ gesture that she’s taken to adopting. It makes the papers say she looks humble, and she doesn’t even have do any real work to win their praises.

“I’ll just have the Toclafane kill all of the Amys and Rorys, then.” The Doctor takes a step towards her again. The Master turns her head so that the Doctor has to stare at her bruised cheek if she wants to approach her. It stops her in her tracks. “Does it matter, Doctor? Aren’t you going to stop me?” That glare tells her everything she could want to know. Not soon enough. Just a taste of that victory is addictive.

She extends a hand. She finds the Doctor’s remaining suspender, pulls it taut until she has no choice but to come close again, and then lets it snap back against the Doctor’s chest to see her wince. “Ask me to spare them,” she says. She traces the Doctor’s open collar to the base of her throat. “And do it right, Doctor.”

“You won’t.” The Doctor wants to hit her again. She wants to scream and rage and hurt. It’s all she came here for, to be goaded and to get some release taking it out on someone she thought she wouldn’t feel as guilty about lashing out at. But she is still the Doctor, and she won’t. Not when the only provocation is words and threats for time she’s already lived through.

“It’s all you can do,” the Master says, “besides killing me right here.” The Doctor’s expression closes off suddenly, and the Master wants her back the moment she’s denied, wants to see her desperate and in pain. “What’s one tiny paradox to save your friends?” she pushes. She taps a beat softly against the hollow of the Doctor’s throat, one-two, three-four.

She imagines taking her hand and squeezing that soft neck. She imagines giving the Doctor the perfect excuse she needs to fight back. She taps her way up to right under the Doctor’s chin and holds her fingers there at the bend, so that the Doctor can’t look down.

“More than I can bear,” the Doctor answers.

Even the light brush of her fingertips against the Doctor’s skin bleeds with emotion. The Master siphons off drops from the flood, savoring them. She’ll have to remember this for later and drug the Doctor until her mental shields are down and the Master can scrape bits of her out of her mind as souvenirs. 

“You’ve always been so selfish,” the Master says, her voice low for an accusation only she could make and know to be true. The rest of the universe would laugh at the idea, but she knows. She knows.

The Doctor can’t defend herself from the truth. She takes the Master’s wrist. Her grip is too tight, betraying her as much as the way she holds on too long. The Master narrows her eyes, and for the first time, wonders why here, why not with the version of her who haunts this Doctor.

“Don’t hurt them,” the Doctor says, resignedly, her attempts to create a kinder past futile and she knows it and she doesn’t have the energy left to try harder. “Master,” she adds after a beat, the name barely breathed.

The Master reaches up to cup the back of her head and draw her down. The Doctor’s eyes go soft at the gentle touch, almost like she has hope. The Master’s lips brush her foolish Doctor’s ear.

”From where you’re standing,” she tells her, “I already have.” The urge rises to bite the Doctor when she’s so close, but before she can take advantage, the Doctor is already wresting herself away from the Master’s hold. She looks disgusted.

She opens her mouth, and the Master waits for her to get the last word, as she always tries to. The Doctor’s mouth twists like a dying animal writhing on the ground. She shuts her eyes, and she turns her head. Her hands uselessly go to her collar and find nothing to straighten, to make herself presentable as she walks out in defeat.

“Visit me again, Doctor?” The Master calls after her as she turns her back and tries to leave. The locked door stops her in her tracks, but never for long until her screwdriver rings out in the Master’s office and sets her free. (She thinks the Doctor has the frequency set too high on purpose, to hurt the Master’s ears, but so long as the Doctor’s forced to suffer through it too, she won’t say anything.) 

She slams the door behind her like a petulant child. The Master snorts and rolls her eyes.

She touches her cheek and hisses as the sensitive skin throbs. 

The Doctor will come back. When and with what face, she can’t guess now, but she will. She couldn’t stay away if she wanted to. 

And now, she has an office to clean up. The Doctor always does leave behind a mess. The Master may enjoy that, but Harriet Saxon has appearances to keep up.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[thegodthief]

Dreamt I was sitting in an abandoned rural one-room church/school having a pleasant chat with an angel about something or another when a priest kicked in what was left of the front door to challenge me.

"You can't be here!"

"Why?"

"You're not Christian!"

"... And?"

"THIS IS A CHRISTIAN PLACE OF WORSHIP! You can't be here!"

"The building is abandoned and ownership of the land has reverted to the government for rewilding. The only reason the building is still here is because it would cost more money to tear it down than to let it rot in place and no church wants to pay the cost of restoration and no museum has marked this place as historical. You have no authority to dictate who can be here and who can't."

"THIS HAS BEEN MADE SACRED THROUGH CHRISTIAN RITES AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DEFILE IT!"

"Dude, before a cross was put on the roof peak, this was a [cunning woman's] hovel. And before she set foot here, it was the core of a sacred grove. And before those trees were ever planted, it was a sacred space for migrant tribes. And before the first person was drawn here, it existed from before time. This place decides who belongs here or not and it has decided that right now, right here, I belong here and here I am."

The priest huffed and puffed and turned red in fury before realizing that I was not alone. The angel remained in place during this entire exchange, watching us quietly. "YOU!" The priest pointed at the angel. "FULFILL THE COMMANDMENT OF GOD AND EVICT THIS WITCH FROM THIS HOLY PLACE!"

The angel looked at me. I looked at the angel and shrugged. The angel looked back at the priest who was doing his best to recite something in Latin. I looked at the priest and shrugged again. The angel looked at me and smiled, covering me with warmth and peace to the point that I forgot to be annoyed at the priest.

"You're right. I don't have to engage with that mess. So, back to our discussion."

When I turned my back to the priest, he became even more furious. I heard him condemn the angel as a false spirit and declare that he was going to evict us both by force if necessary. I heard him suddenly rushing towards us, but before I could react, the angel had placed a wing between me and him.

He bounced off the solidified light and fell flat on his ass behind me.

I turned around to see him covered with the dust and dirt from the litter-covered floor. I finally paid attention to his robes to guess at what denomination he represented, but his frock was so plain and generic, it might as well have been from a costume rental.

"Dude. No one has set foot inside of this building for at least four years. The last map that had this building marked as present is eight years old. The congregation that used to meet here literally died out twenty years ago, and there have been no formal ownership of this land for fifty years. There's nothing here. Nothing valuable. Nothing historical. Nothing that would be of value to modern society. There is no corporate profit to this place other than permitting it to go wild so there is a pollution break between valleys. Just getting here is a high expenditure of resources. Sitting under these rotting beams is a health risk as is breathing in possibly mold-contaminated air. What is here that you feel you have to protect so vigilantly?"

He tried to get up off the floor but the same wing that bounced him onto his ass was now pinning him to the ground by the tip of a feather of light. He struggled to move the glow from his chest but burnt his fingers each time. I questioned if he was really clergy in the first place, but somehow the angel silently confirmed that he was ordained in his order.

He stopped fighting the angel's restraint and told me his reasons. Christian Dominionism 101. Empire. If it could be claimed, then that claim must be enforced regardless of validity or truth. Somehow, he had heard that I was around and sought to challenge me directly.

But his primary intent wasn't to enforce dominion over the collapsing church and the land around it. His primary intent was to bring me "back into grace", at any cost. If he could get me forcibly removed from the building, then it would show that I have no power and no choice but to submit to those forces that were once over me. His biggest weapon: The Confidence of Unchallenged Mediocrity.

But he reminded me of someone, of some thing, and I needed to make sure that I was wrong. "By chance, did we sit in a Georgia bar once upon a summer?"

He entered into a malicious silence after spitting the word, "No."

Of course it's not him. He would never be so incomplete in his preparation nor so cocksure of a desired outcome. But, there is still the matter that this guy came here in the first place. "You came here for me first, and claiming the land was the cherry on the cake. You came for me first, which meant you were sent or there's a bounty on me. Again."

I looked to the angel. "My apologies, but our conversation will have to resume another time. Here I thought I was going to be pulled into a [Wild] Hunt later this year, but I see that I am going to be Hunted instead."

The angel, without moving, looked at me and nodded but kept their wing's feather on the priest's chest. I was granted leave to say some final words and depart from the dream first. I accepted their grace with another bow.

"Not much to be said, really. I knew that when I made the decision to pick up all my pieces off the table that I was going to trip some flags somewhere. I know that what I learned to do and what I can do natively and what I have the potential for is going to piss off a lot of folks because my very existence is a challenge to their power structures. I knew they would come for me. I know I'm not afraid to face them anymore."

I finally stood from the pew, gently patting the wood dust off me as I carefully moved so not to upset the air further. I bowed respectfully to the angel. "Thank you for your companionship and the dialogue. Thank you for keeping the peace in here. May the glory bestowed upon you be a blessing."

At first I was going to slash the fabric of the dream and exit that way, but I had the feeling that the angel was not done with this priest and I needed to leave with as little disturbance as possible. So I walked to the side door at the back of the room. The door itself had rotted away years ago, leaving only the lintel to mark that there was ever an intentional opening here.

Outside the church, a figure was standing in the knee-high grasses and wildflowers. "So. I hear you're going to be having an Experience™ soon. Mind if I walk with you? There's more than one way to come through this, you know."

I stood on the threshold. I looked back at the patient angel still pinning the impatient priest. He had begun squirming under the restraint again and attempting to command myself and the angel into submission by force of his indignation alone.

I looked out at the wilderness beyond the door. In the distance, a storm was approaching. The wind was starting to pick up outside and I could taste ozone in that breeze.

"No, Sir. I don't mind."

I put one foot on the ground outside the doorway. The ground shifted somewhat underfoot. I waited until it was stable before placing the other foot beside it. I held the doorway as the ground wobbled from some great pressure. I released the doorway and began to walk towards the figure.

The ground shuddered and a loud sound made me flinch and cover my head. When I looked up, it was now the middle of the night. The church building behind me had collapsed and rotted and only the stone corners of its foundation remained. Grasses, wildflowers, and low flowering shrubs were everywhere. White blooms glowed with unsourced moonlight.

"So. Just so you know, for me to walk with you is for you to walk with me. Still up for a stroll?"

I looked forward towards the figure. Yup. Just who I thought it was. All I could do was laugh and smile. "I'm game if you are." I made my way through the uneven terrain to stand before him and respectfully bow.

"What was it you were told earlier? The Moon's light will reveal what the Day's light hides? You might learn something about yourself that is distressing."

"But, will I survive the experience?"

"That's up to you."

"Then, I guess I better. Let's go."

And we went.

[l-egionaire]

Fanfic preview: What if....Tony Stark got an even BIGGER head?

“Desperation is a powerful force. It can make people do things they’d never imagined doing before.”

In his homes garage workshop, Tony Stark frantically looked through books, files and tablets all containing medical information and treatments from around the world. When he finished going through one, he tossed them away and quickly searched through the next one.

“No….No…No…no…..

The Watcher watched his desperate search, invisible to the Iron Man.

“Tony Stark, a man dying from the very Arc Reactor that was keeping him alive. In your universe, SHIELD and Nick Fury came to Tony’s aid, giving him both a serum to slow his symptoms and a key to finding a cure. Unfortunately, in this universe, SHIELD was preoccupied with an….early arrival….”

The Watcher waved his hand and found himself in the middle of the desert in New Mexico, where Phil Coulson and Nick Fury had gathered a SHIELD team to examine a crater in the ground. In the epicenter of the crater was a large, grey, rectangular metal hammer.

“What….what is that?” Coulson asked.

“It’s a hammer, Coulson. It’s a obvious what it IS. The real question is…where the hell did it come from?”

The two men look up at the sky.

"And thus, Tony was left, in desperation greater than the one that'd forced him to forge his armor, to find a cure.

Uatu waved his hand again and returned to Tony’s workshop, sadly continuing to see him crack more and more as the pile of information before him came up empty.

“No…..No! AAGH!”

Tony angrily swept everything off his desk and onto the floor, collapsing into his chair, covering his face with both hands and breathing in fast, heavy breathes.

“There’s nothing! Nothing! I….I can't fix it. I'm going to...to....

As he huffed, bent over in his seat, he noticed through the hole of his fingers, a file on the floor he'd missed. He slowly bent over and picked it up, noticing the picture in it.

“Bruce Banner…..”

He began going over the file of Banner's gamma experiments, taking note of important terms like “ACCELERATED REGENERATION” and “IMMUNITY TO TOXINS” but his eyes wavered when he also noticed the area marked “SIDE EFFECTS”

“No….no, it-it’s insane. Too risky…Risky..." he scoffed. "Since when do I care about RISK? I already plugged a damn experimental reactor into my heart, and now it’s killing me! It's not like I can get deader if it doesn't work…..

So, using his funds and company resources, Tony began the process of assembling a Gamma radiation projector n his basement just like Bruce Banner’s. And, with his government connections, he was able to get what he needed make the other piece of the puzzle himself: the formula for Banner's super solider serum.

Once both were done, Tony took a deep breathe, staring at the projector in front of him. He held up the injector of super soldier serum.

“Well…..here goes….everything.”

He stuck it into his neck and shot the serum into his veins. Then he climbed into the projectors chair and turned it on. The chair projected a cross off green light on Tony's for head as he turned it from level one to the the highest setting.

Tony was then hit by a wave of gamma rays and he began to scream in agony. His body felt so rocked with pain that he couldn't move and his head felt as if it was about to split open.

The Watcher could only stand and watch Tony's proceedings, now only a shadow with glowing eyes on the wall of Tony's lab, looking on as the room began to fill with eerie green light from his experiment.

“Sometimes desperation can be used as fuel to do good. To help others and save lives. And other times, it can corrupt us. Turn us…into a monster…..”

[mania-sama]

rule #21 - momento mori

Rule #21 - Momento Mori - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Voltron ❧ Character: Keith ❧ Tags: insomnia, insomniac! keith, character study, no dialogue, angst, bom! keith ❧ Summary: Memento Mori - Thou shalt remember to die. ❧ Word Count: 782 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 2 October 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 2: Insomnia | Exhausted ❧ Previous Day ❧ Next Day ❧ Masterlist

Keith shifts in his sheets. He closes his eyes and twitches everywhere from his fingers to his toes. He shifts again, curling into a ball and shoving his face into his pillow. He tries to keep his posture relaxed but his body burns with the need to change position and his mind slugs through endless repetitions of the same old shit — missions, losses, people, Voltron, the Galra, and more. It doesn’t end. It never does.

Sometimes, he thinks the only time he ever gets sleep is when he passes out after a mission. If he doesn’t have to pilot the cruiser or give an immediate report, he usually collapses cold on the ground until they’ve reached safety. Then it’s the same routine he deals with every “night”, or rather the automated circadian cycle the ship runs on to keep her inhabitants physiologically stable. The permanent void he floats in does not contain a sun that rises and sets every twenty-four hours that his body can naturally respond to.

Not that he’s ever been good at following that rhythm.

Keith guesses he’s sleeping troubles started when his father died. He was a restless kid back then, too, and like any other child, he hated naps and set bedtimes. Now, all he wants is to have that back. He wants to be able to lay his head on his pillow and let his mind process the information and his body release all of its tension.

Frustrated tears prickle at his eyes when he flips over and presses his stomach flat against the bed. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired that he wants to break a bottle over his own neck just to make his brain go quiet. He needs to sleep. He knows that; he always has. When he lived on his own in that little shake just beyond the Garrison, he stayed awake so he could track the strange signals he was receiving. He trained his body to peak condition in order to steal food when needed, sneak around government facilities, and occasionally hunt live prey. Every time something in the shake broke or decayed, he had to fix it himself. Money was tight when all he had was his dead father’s trust fund and no job to speak of.

Even though it sucked and he was always miserable, he had to stay awake for his survival. He’d gotten sleep when he knew he needed it. In the Blade of Marmora, however, the exact opposite is true: losing sleep may cause him to lose his life.

Keith is slowing down. When he’s fighting, he can no longer run and swing his blade at the same time. It feels too heavy in his hands and his feet drag behind him like they can’t be picked up. He has to put his energy into one or the other, not both. His vision swarms with a combination of sweat and exhaustion. He runs into walls and other members, and one time he even stepped into a trap that was so obvious a skittish rabbit could’ve avoided it.

He’s making mistakes more than the average blade does. Mistakes will lead to his death. He knows this. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard to just sleep but despite the deep exhaustion that aches and wares down his body, he can’t find the sweet solace that he’s looking for. His eyes can barely stay open for crying out loud. They cry in relief when he allows them to shut, but the rest of him just won’t comply.

It’s not like the others haven’t noticed. He’s been banned from going outside of his room past what’s meant to be 2000 on Earth. If he’s caught one more time, they threatened to kick him out of the Blade for good. Their look and tone indicated that they were a hundred percent serious. His life as well as the entire organization depended on him not drastically messing up. If he were to get captured before he could escape or end his own life, the Blade of Marmora could crumble apart.

He thinks about all of this instead of sleeping. Because he can’t. He can’t recall the last time he actually slept more than a few minutes at a time. Insomnia forces his tears out of his eyes, and his sobs nearly take more energy than already has. He can’t keep going like this. His “nights” consist of him staring at his ceiling and muffling the sound of his cries through his pillow or arm. He pulls at his hair and silently begs for God to have mercy on him.

Keith can’t help but think death will be the answer to his prayers.

[aboutanancientenquiry]

Travels with Herodotus

“ The Observer  Ryszard Kapuściński

Review

Lessons of the Histories

In Travels with Herodotus, the late, great Polish writer Ryszard Kapuscinski weaves epic stories into his own reportage to stunning effect, says Stephen Smith

Stephen Smith

Sun 17 Jun 2007 00.41 BST

Travels with Herodotus by Ryszard Kapuscinski Allen Lane £20, pp275

With Agatha Christie, you know you're off and running when the first stiff turns up in the library, harbinger of a terrible body count. In the case of Ian McEwan, it's a hint of transgressive how's-your-father. Aficionados of Ryszard Kapuscinski, the late grandmaster of reportage, know to hug themselves in anticipation when the following conditions obtain: our man is the last European left in a sweltering hellhole, a wretched government is on its last legs and about to give way to packs of marauding goons and all contact with the outside world has been lost. This was the scene of the Polish writer and journalist's gripping Another Day of Life (1975). He was the only foreign correspondent in the Angolan capital, Luanda, as the Portuguese colonialists fled and rival militias closed in on the abandoned city. In his suffocating hotel, Kapuscinski sweats and frets, a Kafka of the tropics. If the book had been any more tightly wound, it would have turned back into wood pulp in your trembling fingers.

Open Kapuscinski's Imperium (1994), an account of his travels through the collapsing Soviet Union, and you may well be met with a passage like this one, describing the airport at Yerevan in Armenia as 'hundreds, thousands of people' awake to another day of waiting in vain for a seat on a plane, any plane. 'How long have they been sleeping here? Well, some not so long; this is only their first night. And those over there, the crumpled up, unshaven, unkempt ones? Those - a week. And those others one cannot even get closer to because they stink so terribly? Those - a month.'

Travels with Herodotus, which has been published in English following Kapuscinski's death earlier this year, will not disappoint his admirers. We are with the indefatigable reporter in Congo in 1960. 'There is no functioning radio station, no government. I am trying to get out of here - but how? The closest airport is closed. The roads (now in the rainy season) are swamped, the ship that once plied the River Congo has long ceased to do so.' Bliss! You know that by the time you finish Travels with Herodotus, you'll be shaking your own gnawed fingernails from its pages. Once again we have before us the strangely cheering image of the lonely news agency man from eastern Europe endlessly chastising himself for the gaps in his knowledge rather than giving himself credit for what he has learnt the hard way. As before, the roving reporter is bowed down beneath his own bodyweight in books, including the Histories of Herodotus, the ancient Greek who opened the young Kapuscinski's eyes to the world. The great traveller of antiquity, he says, was 'someone who always had many questions and was ready to wander thousands of kilometres to find an answer to any one of them'. Kapuscinski could be writing about himself, of course.

A much-travelled journeyman who came to book-writing in mid-career, Kapuscinski also invites comparison with fellow Pole Joseph Conrad and mention of the author of The Secret Agent leads us to the ticklish issue of Kapuscinski the spy. He was named as a former communist operative after his death. He had allegedly collaborated with the party in Poland in return for the rare licence he enjoyed to travel to the outside world - 'to cross the border', as he puts it. To which one can only say that if it is true, a 'deal' of this kind is what one would expect the authorities to have insisted on. What matters is how Kapuscinski observed his side of the bargain, and that was to publish The Emperor (1978). Ostensibly an account of Haile Selassie's court in Ethiopia and its hysterical feudalism, it was read in his native Poland as a mordant if samizdat commentary on matters closer to home.

Frankly, anyone who was paying attention will know the reporter's dispatches were the flimsiest cover for his 'product', as the spymasters call it. What was encrypted in them was Kapuscinski's humanity. Somehow, he crosses Ethiopia with a local driver who knows only two English expressions: 'Problem' and 'No problem'. How do the pair communicate? Kapuscinski relies on the 'tradecraft' of his own extraordinary empathy. 'Everything speaks; the expression of the face and eyes, the gestures of the hand and movements of the body ... dozens of other transmitters, amplifiers and mufflers which together make up an individual being.'

It may seem perverse to recommend Travels with Herodotus for the beach. But if you haven't encountered Kapuscinski before, you'll be pleasantly surprised by how much satisfaction, as well as salience, there is to be found in this perfect discomfort read.

· Stephen Smith is the culture correspondent of BBC Newsnight

Three to read

Reportage

Imperium by Ryszard Kapuscinski

The journalist's personal portrait of the life and death of the USSR, 1939 to 1991.

Dispatches by Michael Herr

Frontline reports from the madness and mayhem of the Vietnam War.

All the Wrong Places by James Fenton

Powerful examination of South East Asian politics, from the fall of Saigon to the Philippines under Marcos.”

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2007/jun/17/travel.travelbooks

[ayamturd]

late│technoblade

summary: three times you said i love you, and the one time technoblade says it back

prompt: “I’d do anything for you, whether or not you ask me to”

warnings: fluff and major angst, blood and death descriptions, dsmp spoilers

pairing: in-game romantic!technoblade

a/n: this is my entry for @burntcilantro​‘s 500 writing event!! much love and congratulatory to min, they’re an amazing writer and an even better person (they’re so nice, give them the support they deserve)

also i separated some of the dsmp events and spaced them out (so there’s more time between for plot purposes lol)

wc: (2.0k) - m.list

“Why are you so stupid?”

You were sat on top of a chest, holding one leg with your arms while the other was currently being wrapped by Technoblade. While you giggled at his insult, you winced once he tightened the gauze on your ankle with a glare. 

“It’s not funny, y/n.” He leaned down to bite off the rest of the wrapping, finishing the fold as you huffed at his seriousness.

“I told you to watch the house, not climb onto the roof and play a fun game of risk. What were you thinking?”

His stare was heavy and made you feel little as he looked down at you. The tone of the room changed as you lost the humor in the situation, his concern overpowered by the anger laced in his voice.

“I just wanted to help,” you stated, turning your face away, discouraged, with your arms crossed. “You’ve been getting the all the resources lately and haven’t let me even step off the damn property.”

Looking down, you fiddled with your fingers as to avoid his gaze. “I wanted to try and fix the wood panelings that have been leaking, that’s all.” 

The silence was harsh, and you swallowed deeply at how uncomfortably stiff the air became. Technoblade opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it shut with no words to voice.

With a shaky breath, you gripped the edge of the wood and slowly lowered yourself onto your foot; you didn’t plan on staying here just so he couldn’t say anything more. Technoblade was quick to steady his arms around you in case you fell, but you immediately pushed his hand away aggressively and stood with all your weight on your healthy foot.

Arms out to balance, as you tried to take the first step on your bad foot, you crumpled into your self with a yelp from the pain and collapsed. Ready as always, Techno caught you from behind and guided you to the nearest chair. 

You flinched from the small movement but sighed once sitting again. Techno crouched in front of you to check how you physically were, but your eyes were closed shut as you tried to collect your breathing. 

“Y/n,” Techno call out. Calming yourself down, you opened your eyes to meet his; he was much more sincere before, his face soft as he spoke gently to you. 

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Looking down, Technoblade paused as to gather his thoughts before explaining himself further. 

“I know I’ve been overbearing since the attempted execution,” you reached a hand towards his cheek when he mentioned the recent event, which he leaned into as he continued with closed eyes, “but please know it’s from a place of concern. I just- I don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t let anything happen to you. I-I…”

“I know. Trust me, I know.” You spoke for him as you pulled him into your chest, hugging his large frame as best as you could. He relaxed into your hold with a sigh of relief. 

“I love you, Techno.” You kissed the top of his head, and he only burrowed himself deeper into the hug.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

Technoblade was hunched over on the front lawn, hands on his head while trembling from the overwhelming pain of the voices. He whimpered at your words, indicating he heard you to some extent.

He had come home, alone, and fell to his knees at the sight of you when you opened the door. Immediately, you had rushed over to him and skid to your own knees to comfort him, but he grunted from your attempts to touch him; even when under the influence, he was still conscious enough to fear for your own safety relative to the blind rage of the voices. 

You had tried talking to him, attempted to get him to give you any context to what was causing his anger, which he answered with snarling growls in return. “Tommy… left… betrayed. Chose government.” 

While broken into murmured words, you understood instantly and tried to bring him back in spite needing to quench your own anger from Tommy’s departure. You rested your palms into the snow, lowering your head as much as possible to meet his bowed head. 

You peered up at him despite his own eyes screwed shut from the unbearable chaos that roared within his head, and called out to him as softly as you could. It was a stretch, but you hoped you could soothe him down by talking.

“Hey bubs, just listen to my voice, alright? You hear me now yes? You can understand what I’m saying?” Patiently waiting, you watched him closely until he gave the smallest nod, fists still pushed against his skull and twisting from the ache. 

“That’s good, that’s really good, love. You hear my voice, now listen to my words.” Slowly, you leaned close enough to whisper to him directly. 

“I’m here, okay? I’m so sorry about Tommy, I know how much you cared for him. I still care for him too, and I know it hurts right now, but rest assured I’m still here. I’m here Techno, and I’m never leaving you.”

With clenched teeth, he let out a sob at your declaration and pushed his head against you. You took his permission to touch him promptly, gripping him with as much strength as you could carry so he felt stable and secure. 

You squeezed him, desperate to ground him from slipping further, and rocked the both of you. He released a shuttered breath, and you kissed his skin gently.

“I love you, you know? I will always be here and I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

He clutched you with his entire being, your words and presence more than he could ever ask and want. 

“Why do you have to be too reckless for your own good?”

You grinned widely at his words, smile almost sadistic as you glanced at him with your arms propped on the axe you carried above your shoulders. 

“What ever could you mean?” Despite the roll of his eyes, he did nothing to hide his own amusement to your eagerness to the upcoming destruction you were to bring. He chuckled, his deep laughter making you smile more softly to how genuine he was as you walked besides him. Hand raised to wave his rocket launcher, he focused ahead proud. 

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Turning to look at you again, you stared at him adoringly and smirked slightly while bashful to his confident manner. “We are indeed.”

It became relatively silent as you walked through the layered snow, feet crunching from your steady pace. You continued to take random glances at him, Technoblade doing the same until you both heard a loud groan. 

“My god, you two are insufferable, I can’t deal with this right now.” Dream sneered at you specifically, as if you were the cause for his own discomfort, and walked through you both.

“I’ll meet you guys there instead, but hurry.” Swiftly, he pulled out an ender pearl and threw it a few yards ahead towards the portal, his figure disappearing altogether. 

You stared in disbelief from his actions until a cough interrupted your thoughts once more. “You know what,” Phil avoided looking at you both, his hands tapping together awkwardly as he walked ahead as well but turned to address you while moving backwards. 

“I’ll see you guys there too, just, be sure to be quick?” You both nodded wordlessly, and he took his leave in fast haste. 

Standing there alone, you risked another glance at him and met his eyes, laughing loudly at the circumstances. 

Technoblade held a hand to his face, body shaking from his laughter while you were endlessly giggling, holding your stomach from the pain. Eventually, your fits faded with large smiles, and you faced him with a shake of your head. 

“I didn’t realize we’d be one of those couples.” Technoblade sighed, though you could tell it was for play, and nodded. “A shame really, I never thought this day would come.” 

You giggled again, and chose to move closer, tilting your head upwards at him with a sweet beam while leaning onto your axe. He gave you a small smile in return, however his faded immediately after. 

Lifting his open hand, he cupped your cheek and bent down to kiss your forehead, touching yours together after with his eyes closed. “Promise me you’ll be safe? I trust you to protect yourself, but for me, stay safe when things start to go bad?”

While you knew it was impossible to guarantee you’d stay away from the majority of the danger, you knew better than to leave his concern unanswered and open. 

“I promise,” you murmured, “for you, I promise.”

He pulled you against his chest this time, engulfing you completely and holding the back of your head earnestly to his heart. 

“I love you,” you voiced, your words muffled into his armor and coat. He hummed while looking ahead, his eyes trained on the glowing portal that called towards him. This was a war he refused to leave with mercy, the price of your peaceful lives together on the line. 

“No…”

There was too much blood. The thick liquid stained every surface and soaked through his coat that he pushed against your wound. 

Internally panicking from your tight expressions of discomfort, Technoblade desperately searched through his inventory for something, anything, that could heal or at the very least help you. He was forced to face the reality that he used all his potions during the midst of battle and combat. He couldn’t do anything. 

“Why, why why,” he snarled, his eyes clouding with an outset of tears he couldn’t care for. “Why are you so stupid.” His voice caught in his throat from his conflicted emotions and he tightened his hold on the fabric pushed against your stomach; the pain had faded at this point, and you were numb to the constant pressure he tried to hold. 

“I’m so sorry, love. I lied.” Your voice was light and strained, but Technoblade refused to accept the situation for what it was. He turned to a perched crow, screaming at it to get Phil and scaring it away with a slash of his sword, before tucking his head down in an almost silent plea. 

“Why do you have to be too reckless for your own good?” he whispered. Though he tried to be delicate, he couldn’t help how tight he held your hand. 

“I’d do anything for you, whether or not you ask me to.” You gave a tired grin as your eyes began to droop, hand tightening on his, however incredibly weak in comparison. 

“I asked you to be safe,” he cried, body stricken with grief as he abandoned his hold on your stomach and instead shakily held your face, your own blood smearing against your skin from his callous fingers. “I needed you safe.”

You placed a hand over his, using all your strength to relish in his touch and kissing the inner of his palm. “Yet you needed my love more.” 

He choked out a sob from your admittance, and pulled you into his chest, your body limp, as he rocked you slightly. “I’ll always be there for you, and love you more than I could for my own safety.”

The ruins echoed the wails of a tormented heart on the broken landscape of a haunted battlefield that called for death and devastation. The smoke and clouds of destruction reigned above, and despite the final end to the corrupted nation that was built on nothing but lies and deceit after a helpless man’s death, Technoblade couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“I love you,” he uttered, the words he struggled for oh so long to express finally free from its cage. “I love you, y/n. I love you so much.”

His words fell on deaf ears, and he screamed in agony at the truth that laid before him.

He was too late.

[scuttling]

All I Have To Give

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 5,096 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Daddy kink, Dom/sub, Collar & leash, Oral sex, Deep throating, Restraints, Fingering, Cockwarming, Spanking, Unprotected sex, Come marking, Subspace, Subdrop, Aftercare Summary: A difficult case brings complex emotions, and Aaron is willing to do anything to help the woman he loves process them. *Prompted by @ssamorganhotchner and @angelhotchner and this Link to AO3 or read below! Even after all of his time at the BAU, Aaron knows he hasn’t seen it all, or even close to it—it seems like the atrocities just get worse every year, that humans never fail to find a new way to hurt one another, and that makes him and everyone else on the team constantly question everything they know. He’d like to say it gets easier, but it really doesn’t; you just find new ways to lean on your partners, new ways to cope with the horrors and indecencies the world has to offer.

The case they are currently working on is hitting one profiler especially hard, and because Aaron happens to be in love with her, it’s hitting him hard as well.

“I just can’t imagine waking up one morning and thinking you have your whole life ahead of you, and then some asshole decides he likes the way you look and wants to turn you into his property,” she murmurs that night when they are laying together in the hotel room they share. She had been so strong all day, as always, and then all but collapsed into tears the second the door was closed behind them. “It’s disgusting.”

“I know, baby; cases like these are some of the worst.” He rubs her back with strong hands, pulls her close to his chest. “What can I do for you? I hate to see you like this.” She sniffles, brushes a hand over her eyes, shakes her head.

“I don’t think there’s anything right now. Just being here with me like this, and talking to me, it’s helping. Thank you.” He sighs, because he knows when she gets this upset just talking it out isn’t usually enough, but he has to follow her lead; he just leans in to press his lips to hers, gentle and sweet, and she curls her fingers into his t-shirt and falls asleep with her head against his chest.

The next day, they apprehend the unsub after a standoff; unfortunately, he’d killed the girls when he heard on the police scanner that law enforcement was approaching—all twelve of them. She is the one to find them, and she gets sick, a first in her five years at the BAU. Aaron goes to her side, brings some water for her; her eyes are haunted when she looks up at him.

“Branded,” she croaks, and he doesn’t understand at first, until he looks more closely at the pile of bodies and sees the marks seared into their hips: DM—the unsub’s initials. He exhales deeply, and she turns around and gets sick again.

They take him back to the precinct, try to get a DNA sample, but he won’t agree until his lawyer is present; his story is that his property has been unoccupied for some time, and that he had no idea the girls were being held there, or by whom.

Aaron knows he shouldn’t let her interrogate him. He knows that, but she pleads, and that is something he’s always been unable to resist.

“Branding, huh? Are you that insecure—that worried that the women you called your property wanted nothing to do with you?” she asks, standing with her arms crossed.

“Do you mean my herd? I didn’t just call them my property, honey. They were my property. I owned them. The brands are for everyone else, not for me.” She slams her hands down on the table, sweeps them over the photos she’d laid out in front of him, and they go fluttering to the ground. He can’t see her face, but he knows from her tone that her jaw is clenched, her eyes ablaze.

“You did not own them. Ownership is granted, not taken, you pathetic excuse for a man.” He flexes his hands against the cuffs fixed to the table but says nothing. “You are so powerless that this is the only way you can get it up, isn’t it? By stealing women from their families, their lives, and pretending they’re yours.”

“They are mine!” he shouts, but then he takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “I took… the herd, from their meaningless, mundane lives, I brought them home, I gave them purpose. Being my property gave them value they didn’t have before.”

“And then you killed them, so what’s the value now? How dumb do you look?” She gets right up in his face, and hateful, misogynistic poison glints in his eyes, shows through the calm facade he tries so desperately to project. “It’s like burning your own house down, isn’t it? Only there’s no insurance money to collect here, Darren. All that’s left is your stupid ass and a pile of bodies with your fucking name on them.”

“Don’t call me stupid,” he mutters, and she drums her fingers on the tabletop, almost thoughtfully.

“What would you call it? Risking everything to abduct twelve women only to turn around and kill them so they can’t tell us what a pitiful human being you are?” She leans in closer, and he turns his neck to face away from her, like he’s trying to ignore her. “But the thing is, I don’t need them to tell me,” she whispers. “I know you were a disappointment to your father, a disgrace to your mother. I know the disgusting, depraved things you did to your sister, and now the whole world’s going to know. I’m going to tell everyone.”

Aaron can see the change in him from where he stands on the other side of the glass, and he glances at Morgan, then makes for the door. He’s just gotten it open when the man pulls back and spits on her cheek; she freezes, then reaches up, wipes it off, calm and collected, and grabs his jaw with the hand not covered in saliva.

“Guess what, Darren? You’re my property, now. Your ass belongs to the US Government, and I’m going to personally ensure you never see the light of day again.” She holds her hand up—covered in DNA evidence—and walks past Aaron, out the door. She is unusually quiet on the flight back to DC despite the successful interrogation, pensive and solitary; even on the ride from the airport back home she just leans toward him, silent, hand resting on his thigh, her eyes unfocused.

He knows how hard this case hit her, can only hope that she will open up to him when they get home so he can give her what she needs to get through it. He will do anything, just needs to hear it from her.

“Why don’t we take a bath?” he says softly when they get home, dropping their bags in the laundry room, and he brushes a hand over her cheek. “We can soak the day away, and then maybe if you’re feeling better we can talk about what I can do to help.”

She looks up at him, nods, and they rid each other of their clothes and he draws them a bath, hot and foamy with calming aromatherapy oils she enjoys. She lays along his body, curled up, head on his chest, and he holds her close, massages the back of her neck and her shoulders with gentle fingers.

When they get out and dry off, she heads for her closet, returns with a box as tall as a thick book, a little less wide; she sets it on the bed, perches next to it, and looks up at him with expectant eyes.

“What’s this, baby?” he asks, approaching, and he kneels down, puts his arm around her and sets a hand on the box. “Is it for me?”

“Yes, daddy. It’s for you to put on me. I bought it a few weeks ago, but I… I need it now.” He lifts the lid, pulls out what he thinks at first is a wrist cuff but is actually a thick leather collar, with two metal rings attached to the front, and a… a leash. It’s made of metal chain, not long, with a leather loop to hold, and to say he’s caught off guard by this gift would be an understatement.

“You want me to put this on you? Can I ask why?” She moves toward him, puts her hands on the collar too, looks up at him with wide, wet eyes.

“Because I’m not my own person. You own me.” She tilts her neck, bares it, clearly waiting for him to put it on her, but what she’s saying doesn’t sit right with him, too many parallels to the case that made her so physically and mentally unwell.

“Baby, you are your own person. I love you for exactly who you are, and I would never try to own you, to take who you are away from you.” He presses his palm to her cheek, and she leans into it, kisses it with soft, gentle lips.

“It’s not you taking, daddy, it’s me giving. I need to give this to you—it’s the most important thing I have, and I need you to let me give this to you.” He exhales deeply, still not sold on the idea; she may think she wants this in the moment, feeling low as she is, but, what if she changes her mind? What if she no longer trusts his judgement because he plays into this when she’s not at her most clear-headed?

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking into her eyes, checking them for hesitation, but she only nods; he moves his hand from her cheek, gently pulls the collar out of her grip and brings it to her throat, buckles it at the nape of her neck. She sighs, something like relief when he leans back; she wets her lips, and her eyes are heavy.

“You own me, daddy. I’m yours, see?” She tilts her neck again, but all he sees is that it’s tight against her skin, maybe uncomfortably so. He frowns.

“Is it too tight? It looks too tight. I think we should take it off; maybe we can try again another night, when you didn’t have such a hard day.” He moves his hands to the back of her neck, wants to unbuckle it, but she gets upset almost instantly, looking down at her empty hands like they’re causing her pain. He covers them with his own, shushes her softly. “Oh, what is it, sweet girl? Daddy’s right here, it’s okay.”

“I just wanted to please you, daddy. Your name is on me, and I thought you would like it, but if you don’t want me this way…” That makes him pause, and he brings her hands to his lips, kisses them.

“What do you mean, my name is on you? What does that mean, baby?” She pulls her hand out of his, moves her hair out of the way, and then he sees it: his initials, AH, embossed on the collar in silver script.

God, it’s no wonder she had such a visceral reaction to the branding. And it’s no wonder she is stressing wanting to give this to him, when the other women had their choices taken from them. She has a choice, and she’s making it, and all he has to do is accept the gift she’s trying so hard to give to him.

“Please, daddy. I need to give this to you,” she murmurs, further solidifying what he now knows, and he wraps the chain around his hand, pulls it tight, tugs her close for a kiss.

The easy way the tension leaves her body at the possessive gesture makes him groan, and he kisses her so long and hard that—between the kissing and the collar—she is already in subspace when he pulls back to let them catch their breath.

“You’re mine, baby girl; my name is on you. I own you.” She pants, nods, puts her hands on his shoulders and looks into his eyes, so grateful, beautiful.

“Yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy. I’m yours so tell me what to do and I’ll do it, anything. Please.” He kisses her again, then climbs onto the bed, loosens his grip on the chain a bit and pulls her with him as he lays back against the pillows. Her gaze is warm, brilliant, and he guides her to kneel between his legs, drops the leash and takes the black hair tie off of her wrist to sweep her hair back into a ponytail. It’s by no means perfect, but she likes when he does it, knows what it means; she’s already staring at his cock, and he’s willing to bet her mouth is watering in anticipation.

“I want you to suck for me, sweet girl. Owned girl.” Her eyelashes flutter and she wets her lips, nods enthusiastically. She wraps one hand around his cock, presses the other against his thigh, and he picks up the chain again, tightens it as she drops to cover him with her mouth.

She starts with short, wet, slow strokes, looking up at him through her pretty lashes, and he’s reduced to just his love for her and his need to come, as always when she does this for him. He moans softly, reaches down a hand to squeeze her breast, to give her some contact and pleasure, and she whines, moves a little faster.

He wasn’t planning to come this way, but he can think of plenty of ways to keep her occupied and feeling good while he recovers, so he wraps the chain around his hand one more time, guides her down, so she’ll take him deeper. She can do it, has been trained at her own request, because almost nothing makes her wetter than having her mouth full of his cock.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good for daddy. Can I come down your throat, baby? Can you take it?” She nods, bobs, and he yanks the chain just to see what she will do.

It turns her into a bit of a feral little monster, humping her hips against nothing, digging her nails into his thigh, doubling down on her efforts to make him come, and he just tips his head back and enjoys it, pinches her nipple between his fingers.

“Yes, sweet girl. So close. Keep moving your hips, baby; horny, desperate girl. Daddy will let you come soon, just keep going.” Perfect woman that she is, she hums around him, takes him deeper yet; the chain is wound so far around his hand he thinks absently that he may as well just hold onto her collar, and when he hooks his finger around the metal ring she looks up at him and moans.

He comes holding onto that ring, and when she is finished swallowing for him he pulls her up by it, kisses her passionately, gratefully, and whispers praise against her lips; she is soaking wet, he can feel it where she is sprawled on his stomach, so he guides her to lay back on the bed and leans in for a couple more kisses.

“That was perfect, my sweet, owned girl. Did you like that?” He holds the chain loose and rubs two fingers over her clit, and she bucks up, nods her head.

“Yes, owner daddy. I love when you let me take you that far. It makes me achy,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs apart, very wide, presses a finger inside.

“I know, baby. I can feel how soft and wet you are for daddy. I want you to come on my fingers next, okay?”

“Yes, please, I want to. Want to come on them hard for you.” He leans in for a sweet, soft kiss, slides his finger out of her, then takes her hands and brings them together under her chin, wraps the chain around her wrists so they’re loosely bound, holding the handle in his fist. She moans like he’s destroying her, though he’s barely touched her, but when he slips two fingers inside her she just gasps softly and throws her head back, her stomach tensing.

“Such a pretty girl for me. I’m so lucky you’re all mine.” He is calm—or at least, he’s projecting calm—where she is keyed up, eager, desperate, and he always loves it like this, loves to see how much he can tease her, how long she will hold out until she’s begging for him to fuck her with his hand. “Can you stay still for me? I wonder how long you can stay still for me, sweet girl.”

“Mmm, daddy.” Her chest is heaving as he thrusts his fingers slowly in, then out, then rubs them up her pussy, between her lips, and then thrusts them back in. It’s got to be torture for her, but she just breathes. “I can stay still, daddy. I can do whatever you ask.”

He closes his eyes briefly, collects himself so he doesn’t let all that power go to his head, and pushes his fingers into her a bit faster just to watch her struggle to behave.

“Does that feel good, daddy’s girl?” She bites her lip and nods, offers him a strained god, yes, so he adds another finger; the fact that she can speak at all means she’s far too coherent for his liking. He leans up for a kiss, brushes his nose over her throat, along the edge of the collar, right where his initials are, and she lifts her hips but stops herself, whimpers. “Oh, baby, what is it? Are you needy?” he whispers in her ear.

“Needy, please daddy,” she pleads softly, her eyes focused on him when he pulls back to look at her face, but also a little far away at the same time. “Please, please, I need to come. I need to come, I’m achy.”

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll make you come, sweet girl.” He presses their mouths together a couple times, losing his composure a little as she loses hers, and then he moves down between her open legs and rubs his tongue over her clit while pounding his fingers inside.

She is unable to resist moving her hips as she gets closer to climax, and he pulls away, pausing to look up into her eyes again. They’re very hazy now, and she’s whining high in her throat at the sudden lack of stimulation.

“If you don’t stay still, daddy will have to spank you, baby girl. Do you understand?” She nods lazily, and he taps his hand against her pussy, a couple of light slaps just to get her attention. She blinks, makes eye contact, and he asks again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, daddy.” She flicks her tongue over her lips, closes her eyes, and he leans back in to roll his tongue over her clit, fingers moving quickly in and out of her. She remains still for about thirty seconds and then slams down hard against his hand, and from there she doesn’t stop. “Oh please, please. So close, please daddy,” she begs, pressing into the thrusts, and just when she is starting to come he wraps his hand around the chain around her wrists, tugs her body up so he can reach her mouth, and kisses her deep and wet while he fucks her through her orgasm.

She comes hard as promised, soaking his hand, moaning into the kiss—probably due to the fact that he’s holding her up by the leash, because displays of strength make her feel extremely submissive—and when she is through he lays her gently back, unwinds the chain and kisses her wrists.

“Good girl, you did so well. Daddy is so proud.” He leans up to press easy kisses to her cheeks and mouth, and she wraps her arms around his neck, making soft noises of contentment against his lips. “I love you so much, sweetheart. I love making you feel good. Do you love making me feel good?”

He knows she does, but likes to hear it, even when it’s just a sigh like the one she gives him now—he knows what all of her sounds mean, when she’s so deeply sunken into subspace that she's all begging and soft noises and daddy.

“Yeah, I know you do, sweetheart. Are you ready for me to come inside you? Daddy comes inside because he owns you.”

“Daddy, mmm,” she breathes, and he gets up on his knees, spreads them, and drapes her thighs over his, slides in easily because she is still so open and slick. He wraps one hand around her thigh and brings the other to the chain hooked to her collar, loops it around his forearm, and thrusts quick and smooth, grunting when she grabs his wrists and bucks her hips against him. “Oh, fuck. Oh.” She gasps when he pulls on the chain a little harder, bounces roughly against his thighs and whimpers her pleasure, then drops a hand to her pussy and rubs as he slams into her with equal desperation.

“Yes baby, fuck daddy. Good girl, rubbing your little pussy; if I come before you, you’ll have to wait a while, so I hope you get off first.” She whines unhappily at that, rubs faster, her head tipped back, and when he squeezes her breast with the hand holding the handle of the leash she wraps her legs tightly around his thighs and comes with his name on her lips.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow: he takes his hands off of her completely, since she’s holding on to him with her legs, and fucks her hard, pulling on the chain and muttering praise until he spills deep inside her. She is breathless, still but for the rise and fall of her chest, and he takes a moment before pulling out, unwrapping the chain from around his arm and encouraging her to turn onto her stomach.

She complies easily, looks fucked-out and spent, and he kisses along her spine, between her shoulder blades when he slides back into her.

“Again, daddy?” she asks, barely a whisper, and he runs his hands over her body, soft and soothing, leans in to put his weight against her back, his mouth at her ear.

“Not yet, baby girl, but I want to stay inside you, okay? How are you feeling?” She turns her head for a kiss, hums.

“Fuzzy. Good.” He kisses her again and moves his lips to her jaw, then her neck, right up against the collar.

“Is it uncomfortable? Too tight?” he asks softly. He doesn’t want to upset her by suggesting they take it off, but he’s been rough with it, so he wants to check.

“No, owner daddy. It’s perfect.” She gets her arm out from beneath her, reaches it around his neck and pulls him close, nuzzles against his throat. “I love you and I love being owned by you.”

“I love you, baby girl, and I love owning you. You’ve given me everything.”

This may have started as something to do to get her through the lingering effects of the case, but he would be lying if he said he doesn’t see and feel the value in the voluntary transfer of power, how easily she gave herself to him, willingly, completely. He kisses her again, sweet and slow, and then leans up, puts his hands on her ass, massages it.

“Do you need anything?” She murmurs yes, and he smiles a little to himself, rubs a hand up her back. “Thank you for telling me, baby. What can daddy do for you?”

“I need to be spanked, daddy. I couldn’t hold still.” She slides up to her hands and knees, knees spread wide, and though he’s no longer hard inside her, he doesn’t see that being a problem for long.

“That’s right. Good girl for reminding me.” He squeezes her ass, then lightly taps it, and she whimpers. “You were too horny, you couldn’t stay still. I’m not mad,” he promises with another tap. “I know how you get when I touch your pussy: you become such a messy, needy, desperate baby. You can’t help yourself.” She sighs, presses her ass back against him and tilts her head back a little.

“Can’t help myself, daddy,” is all she says, voice breathy and short, and he picks up the leash, holds it loosely along the length of her spine, and smacks her hard on the ass with an open palm.

She gasps, digs her fingers into the bedding, braces herself for more impact; by the sixth, she is grinding against him, panting and whining, her ass an angry red. She’s drenched in slick, and he’s hard again, so he grabs her ass roughly with both hands and thrusts a few times before spanking her a seventh time.

“Fuck daddy, yes daddy,” she moans, pushing eagerly into his thrusts; she fucks herself on his cock even when he’s still, even when his hands come down hard on her already irritated skin. “Mmh. I’m bad, daddy. I’m bad and I’m not perfect, but you still love me.” He exhales deeply, because he knows his girl well, and he knows this means she will be dropping, hard, as soon as she comes; he mentally prepares for the worst, just in case.

“You’re not bad, sweetheart, you are so good; not just to me, but to everyone.” He moves one hand to her hip, holds her steady, then grabs the chain with the other hand and pulls her closer while he pounds inside her. “And no, you’re not perfect, but you’re perfect for daddy; you’re smart, and sweet, and so beautiful, and I love you.” He drapes himself over her back, tugs on the chain so she will meet him for a gentle kiss, their lips so soft in contrast to the way their bodies meet, eager for release. “I love you, baby. Come and let daddy take care of you. Daddy will make it all better.”

She reaches back for him, covers his hand with hers and takes a deep, shuddering breath; it’s only a matter of time before the tears fall, and he would like to be holding her by then, so he curls his hand around to rub at her clit, murmurs reassurances and repeats that he’s got her, and she comes trembling, gasping beneath him.

He kisses her shoulders, thrusts a few more times and then pulls out to come on her hot, marked ass; breathless, he eases her body down onto the bed, leans up to brush her hair back and unbuckle the collar, sets it aside.

“That’s it, sweet girl. Time to rest and let daddy take care of you. You did so well for me, baby. You gave me everything; I will be so careful with it.” He squeezes his eyes shut, feels so much emotion for the sensitive, thoughtful, incredible woman beneath him it makes his chest ache. He brings a hand to her ass, rubs his come in, knows that it stings—but they both like this, and he knows she will expect it, would feel somehow inadequate if he didn’t. He presses a kiss to her lower back. “I’m going to get you some water, good girl. Amazing, special girl. Be right back.”

He grabs a pillow, brings it to her head and lifts it up so she’s pressed comfortably against it, then gives her a peck on the cheek and heads to the kitchen for water and a snack. When he returns, she’s clutching the pillow, turned to face the door so she can see him enter. He pulls her close, sits her up enough to give her a few sips of water, then sets down the glass and holds her against his chest, soft and shivering slightly in his arms.

“I know we just had a bath earlier, but would you like another? Or a shower?” He tugs the blanket loose and wraps it around them, rocks her a little. Gently removing the ponytail holder from her hair, he shakes it loose with his fingers, rubs her throat where the collar left a slight indentation. “Sweet, owned girl, I will give you anything you need, always. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

She cries, clutching at him, and he soothes her, squeezes her, moves his hands through her hair and brushes the tears off of her face; when the sobbing slows, he reaches carefully for tissues on the bedside table, dries her eyes and helps her blow her nose, then gives her more water. She looks a little better after drinking half the glass, so he convinces her to take a couple bites of food, rubs her sore ass with a soft hand.

“Can we shower? And then more of this?” she asks, just a whisper, and he nods and leans in for some slow, sweet presses of lips. Her fingers card through his hair, and he presses a hand to her cheek. “Thank you, daddy. I’m so grateful for you.”

“I’m grateful for you, too, baby. The world just isn’t right when you’re upset—when I can’t find that brilliant smile.” It’s not quite brilliant, but the corner of her mouth does curve up for him, which he considers a good sign. “Let’s go get cleaned up and then I’ll hold you until you’re sick of me,” he teases. He unwraps them and gets off the bed with her in his arms.

“Could never be sick of you ever. Perfect daddy, perfect man.” He shoots her a look, something like yeah right but not too self-deprecating, and she cuddles closer. “Okay, perfect for me, anyway. Strong, gentle owner daddy I know I can trust with everything.”

They shower—she practically purrs when he scrubs her head with shampoo, when he combs conditioner through her hair with his fingers—and slip into pajamas, and he takes the comforter to the laundry room and grabs the spare, wraps her up tight and pulls her close, hugs and kisses and talks to her about everything and nothing until she’s ready for some dinner and a movie on the couch.

She thanks him for everything he did to help her through it, but it’s really his pleasure; it’s where he finds his value, and he tells her so. Because she can’t wear the collar to work, he makes a stop on his lunch break a week later, sneaks into a jewelry store, and buys her a ring.

There is no room to inscribe his initials, but his intentions are heavily implied.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed

[fics-by-caroline]

Bloodlust

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Magical!Reader

Summary: You and Loki are part of the Avengers, but the pair of you have different ideas of what justice entails than the rest of the group; i.e., more horror, more drama, an eye for an eye. And man, do you two ever look sexy covered in blood.

Category: Smut (18+ only, please!)

Warnings: Smut (blood kink, oral sex -- f receiving), rough sex, porn with some plot), language, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, smoking, alcohol consumption, mention of human trafficking.

A/N: This is my first time writing smut, so please be nice 🥺

   Taking a drag from a cigar in the corner of the dimly-lit speakeasy, your target looked you up and down. Even without tapping into his thoughts, you could tell that he liked what he saw; how the black dress you wore hugged your figure, how you had crossed your legs in a way that allowed him to catch the red bottoms of your heels, red that was reflected in your lipstick and nails. You turned to make eye contact with him, and were immediately hit with hearing him imagine you on your knees sucking him off in one of his fancy cars and afterwards kicking you out onto the street.

   Typical, You thought with disgust, finishing your martini. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back. Feeling him get up and walk towards you, you shot a knowing look at Loki across the bar.

   “Can I buy you a drink?” The man’s voice was dripping in disgusting salaciousness. He sat beside you, reeking of the over-application of cologne, whiskey, and cigar smoke.

   You shot him a demure smile. “A dirty martini, drier than the Sahara.”

   The man waved down the bartender before leaning closer to you. “Michael Ashbourne.”

   You suppressed an eye roll, taking instead to lighting a cigarette. “I know who you are, Mr. Ashbourne.”

   “And what is it that you know of me?” Ashbourne stroked your hair with a drunken finger.

   Uncrossing your legs, you turned to face him. “That you are one of the worst Midgardian men alive today. You cheat people out of their winnings in various casinos around the world, making yourself and your friends — no doubt the ones who surrounded you in that corner over there — some of the richest men in the world, while managing to operate under the radars of your enemy governments. You sell weapons and drugs because you always want even more money on top of the billions you already have, not caring about the damage you cause. You drink the most expensive liquors, sleep with all the women you please, and leave people eating the dust in your wake. But what brings you to the epitome of disgusting actions is your engagement in the trafficking of girls, once again, for even more money.” Even though you kept your voice low, you made sure to lace every word with biting poison.

   Ashbourne pulled back in shock, unmoving and speechless.

   You smirked at his silence. “Your cunningness is almost impressive, especially for a human. You manage to remain one step ahead of the mewling mortals who are left to crawl in your fading footprints. Bravo. Unfortunately for you, however, I am not one of them.” You waved a finger, from which a small ribbon of white magic followed.

   “Who the hell are you?” Ashbourne hissed.

   “A hero in the eyes of the people you have crossed, and the villain in yours.”

   Ashbourne scoffed condescendingly. Stupid bitch, you heard him think. “Speaking in mysterious riddles just makes you look stupid, missy. I don’t know how you know what you know, but it’s a bit too much for my liking.” He raised a hand, beckoning over the large men who had accompanied him.

   You sighed, unimpressed. Before they could so much as reach for their belt, you pulled the pistol from your garter stockings and fired silenced shots in between their eyes, before holding a dagger against Ashbourne’s throat. The speakeasy froze in horrified silence.

   With a small chuckle at the sudden shock and fear in Ashbourne’s muddy eyes, you called to Loki. “Darling, are there others?”

   “No darling, not here … but we can’t have witnesses, can we?” Loki sauntered up to you, kissing you on the head. He looked around at the few bystanders in the bar, terror keeping their feet rooted in place.

   “Loki, is that really necessary —”

   You were cut off by Loki launching towards the horrified bystanders like a cat pouncing on prey, his daggers slicing through their necks gliding ease. He finished off by throwing a knife into the bartender’s skull, silencing his terrorized mind that shrieked in your own so annoyingly. Loki looked back at you with an amused glint in his eyes, blood on every surface of the speakeasy, including Loki’s own body. Gesturing around him, he noted dryly, “They were dead in seconds, no suffering.”

   You rolled your eyes before turning your attention back to Ashbourne, who sat with eyes wide and mouth agape. You smirked and applied a bit more pressure to the blade in your hand, drawing small beads of blood. You snuffed out your cigarette and stood up, toying with his bowtie as your heel dug into his foot. You could taste the fear that drenched his mind. “What’s this?” You cooed. “Feeling scared?”

   “Ah, you’re so right, my love,” Loki smiled, looking around the room at the bloody mess he created. “Not using magic is so much more fun. I missed getting my hands dirty.”

   You chuckled lowly. You couldn’t help but stare at him hungrily; there was something in the way the blood splatter stood out against his pale skin that awoke an arousal in you. Shaking your head, you turned back to the man under your knife and cocked an eyebrow. “How do you think I should do this? Stabbing is too classic, going for the neck is too neat.”

   “Unzip him, dear,” Loki hummed. He shot a bolt of green magic towards the man, binding him in glowing ropes that wrapped around his pitiful body. Noticing your dry look, he shrugged. “I want a proper view of your handiwork, and I can’t have that if I’m holding him.”

   “Fair enough,” You said. After a moment’s thought, you waved your hands, making Ashbourne’s shirt disappear in a white flash of your own magic.

   “Wait, wait, stop. What do you want? Money? I have money. What do you want?” Ashbourne pleaded.

   “I want ...” you said coldly, “to hear you scream.”

   You stepped forward and sunk your dagger into his lower abdomen, slicing upwards smoothy, careful as to not sever any major blood vessels. Ashbourne screamed in agony — music to both yours and Loki’s ears. You grinned at the blood that spurted out to meet you, and tossed the dagger onto the surface of the bar. You looked at the open mess in front of you and sunk your hand into the open cavity, making Ashbourne wail.

   Loki smacked Ashbourne’s face with a deadly glare. “Stay awake, you.”

   You reached farther into Ashbourne’s gut, quickly finding the pulsating aorta. You looked up at Ashbourne’s paling face, cheek now sporting a bloody handprint from where Loki had slapped him, and pulled on the artery, which snapped and spurted hot blood all over you. Loki released his magic binds, leaving the body of the man to collapse like a rag doll onto the floor, very much dead.

   You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you discarded the shred of aorta in your hands onto the lifeless body. You turned to look at Loki, who was smiling back at you with a familiar, blazing fire behind his eyes. He reached over and picked up your discarded dagger from the tabletop. He looked it over once, then swiped his tongue up one side of the blade. You groaned in arousal at the sight.

   “The taste of justice, my dear,” He said, licking his lips.

   He turned his fiery gaze back on you, holding the knife out for your taking. Without breaking eye contact, you licked up the other side, the metallic taste of Ashbourne’s blood spreading through your mouth only adding to the wet ache between your legs.

   “Fucking hell,” Loki breathed, the large bulge in his dress trousers clearly evident.

   You took the dagger, swiping away the rest of the blood that stained it on your finger and licked it clean. A deep rumble escaped from Loki’s lips before he smashed his lips onto yours, your tongues trading the tastes of blood and saliva. With a sharp tug, Loki tore your dress down and pinched your nipples between his bloodied fingers as he backed you up onto the bar. While normally, he would take his time with you, tease you at a torturously slow pace, make you plead and squirm beneath him, he now was fuelled purely by an animalistic flame, his lips and teeth marking your lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, collarbones. You broke apart only for you to render the pair of you naked by way of a flick of the wrist and a flash of white light. You stared at each other, both of you breathless and admiring how the blood that drenched your clothing had stained your bodies in a beautiful pattern of death.

   “I love you so much,” You whispered.

   “I love you too,” Loki said, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip lightly.

   In a flash, the momentary gentleness was gone as Loki pushed two fingers inside of you and curled them. You shouted out in pleasure, then gasped when you felt Loki’s tongue on your clit.

   “Fuck, Loki!” You hissed, throwing your head back and grinding deeper onto Loki’s fingers and tongue.

   The most audacious and obscene sounds filled the speakeasy as Loki twisted his fingers inside your cunt and attacked you with his mouth. You moaned unabashedly and Loki in return groaned against your body. His nips against your clit were anything but gentle, his fingers fucking your cunt so deeply, so gloriously, that your entire body sparked with invisible electricity.

   “You’re going to cum for me,” Loki growled, “you’re going to cum for me and make me drink it as you do.”

   You nodded into the air, gasping, panting, writhing under him. You clenched around his head, locking Loki into place, and came on his face, rolling and thrusting your hips against his mouth. Loki held your hips and drank your release until your orgasm finally finished washing over you.

  Before you could begin to catch your breath, Loki seized your neck in one large hand and pushed himself inside of you in one fluid motion, causing the both of you to moan loudly. He started moving his hips immediately at a quick and relentless pace, splitting you apart in pleasure. You reached up to wrap your arms and legs around him desperately. As he hit that sweet spot that no other could, you brought your nails down his back, no doubt drawing blood. All thoughts had disappeared from your minds, pure animalistic pleasure and arousal clearing everything else out. Your combined energy made the lights spark and flicker, furniture going flying as your grip on your magic became weaker. Loki slammed into you, your walls tight around him, his pelvis grinding in such a way that he moved against your clit. You were only barely registering how you clung onto him for dear life, the most indecent noises pouring from both of your mouths, bodies slick in blood and sweat sliding against one another. Your connection into each other’s minds let you both know that the other was just as close to their climax without speaking. Expletives punctuated your shared groans and screams, Loki’s grip on your body so tight that bruises were sure to follow, your teeth and nails marking his skin.

   “Loki, I — fuck — Loki!” You cried as you felt your body begin to tremble uncontrollably.

   “I know, I — ah! I know —!” Loki groaned, biting your neck.

   You exploded again with a scream and you slammed your hand onto the table, releasing a huge pulse of magic that levelled the room around you. Green explosions set off around you as Loki lost control and spilled into you with a stammering thrust and deep groan. Even though your eyes were both closed, you could see each other in your minds, totally blissful and exhausted, chests heaving. Loki’s lips found yours in a loving kiss.

   “We should ... we should clean up here before the others come by,” You said, still out of breath.

   Loki nodded wordlessly. He pulled out of you, causing you to whimper. We waved his hand, and the speakeasy righted itself in a glow of green light. Tables and chairs fixed themselves, light fixtures hung back up on the ceilings, blood and bodies disappeared, until the only remnant of your activities was the gore that still covered your naked bodies. You stood up and cricked your neck before cleaning yourself and Loki up, and dressing the pair of you in the dress and tuxedo you two were wearing. 

   “What will we say to the others when they ask about the sudden disappearance of everyone here?” You asked slowly.

   “Don’t worry, love,” Loki grinned, “we can tell them the truth. We’re both too valuable for them to kick us out of the group.”

   You laughed and took Loki’s outstretched arm, walking out into the cool night.

[simplyfandomish]

Test Subject 101: BITTEN Chapter 11: Awaken

SUMMARY: Hawkins, Indiana was a quiet town that travelers would use as a pitstop to Disneyland.

There was nothing special about the small community...Unless you're talking about the super-secret government facility at the edge of town that experiments on children and is home to a gateway to another dimension.

Now that's strange.

An (eventual) Steve Harrington x Reader 

(not as much romance this first season as story needs to be set up first. More romance will come with our beloved mother of six within later books)

Trigger Warnings: Blood, lots of blood mainly from nosebleeds, usual Stranger Things gore and spookiness. The demogorgon is an asshole...all my homies hate the demogorgon.     

MAIN MASTERLIST

TEST SUBJECT 101 SERIES MASTERLIST 

Story cross posted on ao3 & Quotev

I couldn't wait for a whole 'nother week!😭 FINAL chapter will be out at the beginning of this week! Mayhaps Tuesday? 👀👀

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

Heart rate monitors chimed. Nurse call buttons tolled. Drops of liquid splashed into an IV tube. 

The smell of disinfectant was unwelcoming to Hopper - having spent so many hours, days, and nights at his dying daughter's side. He was already bundled up to keep warm from the snow and winter wind storming outside, but he was especially grateful the thick coats kept the cold of the hospital at bay. At least the simple Christmas decorations hanging on the doorways and ceilings brought in some holiday cheer to the usually solemn place.  

Hopper batted away an annoying cut-out paper that was hanging on a too-long string like some grumpy old cat. The medium-sized snowflake was inconveniently hanging from an air conditioning vent and constantly moving. He took a step to the left and right numerous times, but the snowflake was determined to poke his eye out. 

“We don’t know when she'll wake up, Chief Hopper.” The air conditioning stopped at this precise moment. Allowing Hopper to turn away from the snowflake and towards the comatose body laying in the room before him. The patient's room was dark with strands of Christmas lights providing a calm low light. Poinsettia and various other flowers were taking space on the raised table at the bed's foot.    

“Okay. Just...please take care of her." Hopper allowed his soft side to flicker through his hard exterior as he stared at your comatose body. His eyes hardened again as he pointed a meaty finger into the doctor's face, "And I want no record of her being here - Understood?” Hopper demanded. 

The doctor nodded hesitantly. “Can I ask why you want no records? I mean, we can label her as a Jane Doe, but you seem to know who-”

“I want no records of her. Do. You. Understood?” The doctor was near wetting himself at the terrifying glare the Chief of Hawkins Police was giving him. The doctor nodded obediently and scurried out of the small room. 

Hopper sighed and collapsed into the chair assigned for visitors. He always hated hospitals. Too sterile, too quiet, too many memories. He couldn’t understand why he kept returning to your hospital room almost every day since the incident with Will and the Demogorgon, almost two weeks prior. Some part of him wished that you had woken from your coma by now. He could recall you mentioning slipping into a day-long coma after over-exerting your powers. But a day had passed...and two...three...now it's 14 days later and there was no sign of you recovering.

The two groups explained your stupidity and bravery to the Chief. They're explanations were rushed and quiet as there was a short moment of peace before the government agents flocked in and took over. They explained how you used your powers to severely injure the Demogorgon at the Byers' house, then how you overexerted yourself to project your astral form to the middle, and then how you blacked out after defeating the disgusting creature. The Party mentioned how El disappeared with the monster during the eradication of the atoms and was nowhere to be found. The Party didn't want to believe the worst about their new friend and did their best to not feed those depressive thoughts. 

The Party visited your hospital room whenever they could get out from their parent's watching eyes. Dustin always brought in simple flower arrangements: a wildflower or two with cuts from a leafy green tree to add detail. 

Hopper looked from Dustin's collection of daisies and evergreen leaves to the rest of the flora on the table. Nancy brought in a Christmas card written in pretty cursive that took up both pages of the card interior. Steve bought a "Get Well" card and a miniature plush Santa Clause from the gift shop downstairs. Jonathan relatively did the same - buying something from the gift shop and writing a small note of neverending gratitude for your help with his brother.

Said brother always brought in pretty drawings. A snowman he and The Party made with a large carrot nose and thick red scarf. A hillside covered in snow with some yellow and purple wildflowers popping through the white blanket. You in a grandiose wizard's garb with the entire Party at your side in their respective DnD clothing and their weapons drawn, ready for the next battle to commence. A rough sketch of your smiling face with graphite smears and eraser markings - Will had attempted portraiture drawing for a while now, but everyone could tell the drawing was you by the crinkle of your eyes and the lines of your smile. There were so many of Will's drawings you could make an art book. 

Speak of the Devil and they shall appear; Hopper turned to the door when a small knock broke the silence. Joyce and Will stood at the door with a modest bundle of white roses, daisies, and ferns wrapped in a Christmas ribbon. Will was holding another drawing to his chest, while his other hand gently cradled a small wrapped present in cute snowman wrapping paper.  

Hopper remembered that it was now December 2nd, 23 days from Christmas...14 days of your coma sleep.

 Joyce waved at Hopper as Will rushed to be by your side. He gingerly placed the drawing onto the growing pile before carefully hopping onto the mattress to sit by your feet.

“Any updates?” Joyce asked quietly. Her cold hands fidgeted with her coat.   

Hopper shook his head and sighed, “Nothing. They still don’t know when she might wake up.” The adults kept their eyes on the youths in the room.

Will licked his lips, “Hi, (Y/n). It’s me again…Will. Will Byers…” It was adorable how he always introduced his full name - as if you could ever forget. “I…I’m doing a lot better now. I’m free to go back to school and hang out with Mike, Lucas, and Dustin. You remember them right? We’re almost done with our newest DND campaign. We think you’d be a great party member - Dustin especially thinks so. But we don't know if you'd be an Enchanter or Transmuter, since...well...your powers can do both of those things. Definitely a Wizard though. 

“We finally got the house all fixed up too after...everything. Jonathan talked about your powers. I-I wish I could have seen them in action. Jonathan always talks about how cool and crazy powerful you were…I really miss you, (Y/n). I-I thought that once I got out that we could hang out together…” Tears built up in his waterline. His small hand grabbed onto your fingers. “Please wake up…so we can hang out and play DnD a-and celebrate Christmas together.” The young boy began to sniffle as tears spilled down his thin cheeks. He laid his head on the side of your hospital bed and tightened his hold on your hand. 

You couldn’t stand hearing the sweet boy cry anymore. You never wanted to hear him cry again. 

When a gentle hand rested on Will’s head and stroked his dark locks he believed it was his mother consoling him. 

“Holy shit…” Hopper breathed. Joyce gasped.

Will’s head shot up from the mattress when your hand squeezed around his small one. You smiled tiredly at the young Byers boy. “There’s a flaw with your master plan, Will." Your voice was quiet and raspy from not using them for two weeks and from the puncture wounds. Your neck was wrapped tightly with gauze and it was a struggle to swallow with the firm pressure. "I don’t know how to play DnD.” Tears of happiness rushed down Will’s face like tiny waterfalls. The boy didn’t hesitate to climb further up your mattress and leap into your arms.

You grunted from the impact but still urged your arms to wrap around the crying boy. Even if you were asleep for two weeks you were still exhausted. Just lifting your arms proved to be a slight challenge; Your arms felt like soaking wet noodles and your neck felt like it was ensnared in a bear trap - which it might as well have been. You didn't dare try and turn your neck to the other occupants of the room so you stared at Hopper and Joyce over the apple of your cheek. 

“Hey, guys…” You smiled lightly.

Joyce let out a sob and flocked to you like a proper mother hen. She was careful of your wounds and her son as she wrapped her thin arm around the crown of your head. The hand curled around your forehead and began to pet your hair out of your face.

Hopper stood from his chair with a relieved smile on his face. 

“Hey, kid.”

JUST CASUALLY CRYING AS I WRITE THIS REUNION😭😭🫂

(Y/N)'S ALIVE YALL🥳

lol of course she has to be alive! She's still got three more seasons to suffer through  experience!😁

NO, MOM, I'M NOT FINE😭😭  JUST CASUALLY CRYING AS I WRITE THIS REUNION😭😭🫂 (Y/N)'S ALIVE YALL🥳 lol of course she has to be alive! She's still got three more seasons to suffer through  experience!😁

Chapter 12: Festive Holiday

[apocalypticgargoyle]

𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙀𝙔𝙀𝙎. ҂ 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢

back by popular demand! xx thank you for supporting my ramblings! this is kind of filler.. sorry...

pairing: dream x fm!reader

warnings: blood, slight angst, using ccs real names, guns

← previous chapter | ao3 | request |

Clay pushed himself to sit away from the wall, dragging you up with him. “How can you not hear that?” He urged mildly. Fear began to pick at your nerves as you noticed the same reactions filling the shelter. Nick stood up, following some of the other guys who heard whatever they were talking about. Clay slipped from your grasp. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered and you grabbed his hand. His eyes flashed a different color as he looked at you.

A few of the women followed the group, attempting to get their companion’s attention before one of them opened the shelter door.

Your eyes grew wide as the crowd moved from the shelter. It seemed that only the women in the bunker were protesting against leaving the shelter, the men focused on shrugging out of their hold. The night sky was lit up by a foreign object you had yet to lay eyes on, Clay’s figure blocking most of your vision as you were sandwiched between him and Nick. You could feel your heart beating in your ears, your grip tightening around Clay’s arm. 

The crowd spread out in the field near the bunker, gaze cast towards the northern sky where a large planet hovered on the horizon line. You covered your mouth in shock, slinking backward as a few of the women screamed. The bright spots on its surface reflected in the eyes of the men across the field from you. You yanked on Clay’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the safety of the bunker with you. 

He turned, an amazed smile flashing to his face as he looked down at you. It was only then that you noticed the crimson lines of blood draining from his ears. “Can you hear that?” He asked, voice raspy and verklempt. You furrowed your brows, your chest rising and falling unevenly as your mind raced to figure out what was happening. Clay’s soft hair moved in the night breeze, his features looking sharper as the light from the planet cast shadows across his face. 

His face dropped suddenly, his brows knitting together as his breathing seemed to slow. You reached out to touch his face but instead, his eyes rolled and he collapsed into your arms. Nick dropped to his knees beside you as well, forcing you to reach an arm out so he didn’t face plant in the dirt under your feet. You swore under your breath as Clay’s weight forced you into a sitting position. As you held him to your chest, keeping a tight grip on Nick’s t-shirt, you hiccuped, hot tears beginning to stream down your face. 

You sat, waiting for them to wake up, for what felt like hours. Various women were wailing, while others smoked stale cigarettes and paced, theorizing what the planet could be doing. You drug your fingers through Clay’s hair, your other hand cramping from its hold on Nick’s shirt. You’d pulled him closer to settle his head on your leg beside Clay. You felt like a mother hen guarding her chicks against the winter. 

You hated it. 

One woman stood with her hands on her lower back, staring up at the planet. Every few minutes, she held her palm out to it, spreading her fingers out wide before biting her cheek and continuing to stare. You inhaled and attempted to soothe yourself by holding the boys closer to you. “They’ll wake up,” she said, her voice breaking into a quietness you hadn’t realized had settled over the field. You looked up at her, rubbing your cheek on your sleeve to rid yourself of salty tear tracks. “The big one, he still has eye movement.” You looked down at Clay, noticing her fact. He looked as if he were dreaming up the plot of a new Lord of the Rings book. 

You sighed in relief, pressing your cheek against his forehead as your hand loosened on Nick, fingers brushing his collarbone softly. It was then that you realized how warm he was. Your brain switched into panic mode as you touched his forehead, his skin burning beneath your hand. You pulled his hat off his head and set about pulling his hoodie off. 

The woman joined you at your side. “He has a fever. We have to-” you bit your lip as more tears threatened to spill. You were so tired of crying, but for some reason, you couldn’t help it. Especially now, as the lives of the man you loved and a dear friend were literally in your hands. “We have to get it down,” you managed, fingers yanking at the material. “He could die.” 

The woman settled a hand on your shoulder, slowing your movements. She removed Nick’s hoodie, balling it up and pushing it beneath his head. “He’s going to be okay. Obviously, his body’s fighting something off,” she assured. “You should move around a bit. So your legs don’t go completely numb.” 

You shook your head, looking back toward the two. “No, I can’t leave them,” you answered softly. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her nod in understanding. “What were you doing over there?” You asked, nodding to where she was previously standing. 

She moved to sit cross-legged, turning her head to look back up at the planet. “I was seeing if it was moving,” she responded. “I swear I’ve seen it before. Like in a book or something.” You nodded at her words slightly. “I think it’s Callisto, one of Jupiter’s moons.” 

You dragged your sleeve across Clay’s cheek, wiping away the dried blood. “Callisto…” you repeated, attempting to jog your memory if you’d heard of it before. “So NASA was wrong, huh?” You joked, attempting to be light-hearted, but your voice reflected a dark sadness from the depths of your chest instead. 

She shrugged with a small grin on her face. “Unless it wiped us out completely as this is your hell for eternity.” You snapped your eyes to her, making her laugh. “I’m joking. Unless this is my hell,” she joshed. “It depends on what you believe is real or not, I guess.” 

You shut your eyes, a shaky breath rippling through you. “Please stop talking.” 

Before she could say something else, Clay’s eyes snapped open. He muttered your name almost as if he didn’t believe it was you. He turned his head towards where Nick was laying. “Nick?” His voice cracked slightly as he sat up. He looked at you as if asking what was happening before he turned to peer up at the planet again, his eyes shifting to a more brilliant green as if it evoked something within him. You watched his irises shift towards a glowing color before he looked at you again. 

Nick stirred in your arms before shivering. You rested your hand against his forehead once again, the heat of his body becoming more alarming. Clay was on his feet, looking quickly around the field as various people woke up, startled just as he was. You gently moved from beneath Nick, letting his head rest on his jacket as you moved to comfort Clay. He pulled you into his arms and you could hear his heart beat against his rib cage. Everything was beginning to happen so quickly as you stood on your toes to peer over Clay’s shoulder, watching as various men began to act strangely. 

You heard Nick mumble Clay’s name, causing you to break away from him to look behind you. As you did so, Nick grabbed your arm gently, his hand searing the flesh of your forearm. You let out a muted scream, yanking your hand from his as his worried eyes burned a bright orange.

THREE YEARS LATER

You tied your hair back, staring back at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It was the Callisto Anniversary, therefore you couldn’t help but think of what you used to look like; practically a child compared to who you were now. You almost glared at the scars on your arms from those nights when you all thought the world was ending. You wet your lips, tugging on your jacket and propping open the door of your bedroom before carrying yourself down the long hallway. Various people greeted you from their rooms as you passed by their opened doors. 

As you trudged down the various flights of stairs, you silently repeated the words of the cultists' propaganda posters covering the walls in the stairwell. You passed them every day; hating them more each time you saw them. You’d only let them hang the posters after they threatened to burn down the hotel, thus eliminating yours and several hundreds of other people’s homes and businesses. 

After the planet, which you now knew for sure was the moon Callisto, settled into the Earth’s night sky, reports of enlightened men popped up everywhere. The male population seemed to be a favorite of Callisto’s as most of them possessed some kind of power, whether useless or beneficial. Conspiracy theorists believed it was because of the creatures in the water beneath its surface attempting to create a new generation of Poseidon's sons. With the moon ruining Earth’s power supply, it was difficult to experiment and prove various theories. 

It’s the radiation, some would say. 

It’s a government conspiracy. 

It’s an alien experiment. 

You’d heard it all. The only thing you were certain of was what Eden told you, the woman you’d met when Callisto appeared. She was convinced of the Poseidon theory; though rather scornfully. “One more thing to strengthen male privilege...” She often accounted. She’d worked as a biology professor before the day of reckoning, therefore she could tell you the chicken came before the egg and you’d believe her. She explained the phenomenon of Callisto as a result of the ocean tides and gravitational pull, yet couldn’t figure out how Callisto could travel 4.3 AUs and why Earth would be its landing place. 

Your feet thumped against the cracked linoleum of the hotel lobby, the various dividers failing to provide sound barriers between the various groups of engineers and their counterparts as they worked and chattered. After finding the hotel, you’d given most of its space to Eden and her team as well as the brutes working for you. 

You grabbed an apple from one of the food stations before following the sound of Eden’s voice as she argued with someone about the patterns of Callisto in the sky. A radio lulled from the table in the middle of her chaos. She tugged her dull blonde/gray hair back into a ponytail before massaging her aging temples with two fingers. 

The front doors opened, ringing the small bell attached to one of the handles and drawing your attention. The group of men shrugged out of their wet jackets or shook out the rain out of their hair. You scanned the group from Clay’s white ski mask, an intimidating feature that signified who he was. Just as you had given up, he pushed through the crowd, pushing his mask on top of his head. You waved at him and he brightened before walking towards you. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, the smell of the Earth hanging against his damp clothing. 

“I saw something while I was out, and I’ve had a rough time keeping it in my head,” he stated with a slight chuckle, mindlessly asking you to follow him to one of the tables with a few workers. You watched him silently as he fished into the barrels of spare gun parts before throwing what he’d found on the table. The people around you paused what they were doing. Clay’s eyes began to glow, the green almost iridescent as the pieces began to morph together before shaping a new kind of gun. 

That’s really what your group was known for: arms manufacturing and dealing. 

Clay built them and you had the connections to sell them. On paper, it was simple. 

Clay held the gun in his hand, turning it over and looking down at you for praise. You furrowed your blows slightly. “Does it work?” You asked, making him shrug and bump a clip into it before firing it at one of the walls. 

You sighed. “How many times do we have to talk about shooting inside?” He giggled sheepishly at your words. You examined the gun in his large hand, trying to place where you had seen it before. It was a souped-up version of whatever you had previously seen. 

“Looks like a cop gun to me, Dream,” a familiar voice stated, making Clay chuckle proudly before looking up to see Nick with his arms crossed. Clay quickly tucked it into the back of his belt and Nick rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I meant to radio in on my way but I got caught in the storm.” 

You swatted off his apology and hugged him. “It’s good to see you, Sapnap,” Clay lightened. The boys had begun using their radio call names as if they got them from their mothers. “Happy Callisto Day,” Clay charmed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as Nick picked up a gun piece. 

Nick’s eyes flashed to the burn scar on your wrist from him. The fever he had was due to his power. Clay always teases him with nicknames like Prince Zuko and Warren Peace for it. “Have you guys seen Karl? I have a friend that figured out how to make something similar to nail polish.” 

You snorted. “He should be hovering around Eden,” you answered, gesturing to the opposite corner of the lobby space. 

After Nick parted, Clay turned back to you. “I think I found a way to get supplies into the East Sector…” he mumbled, just audible enough for you to hear. You perked an eyebrow at him. The East Sector had been closed off to any kind of weaponry, but that didn’t mean the demand wasn’t high. It was a farming community outside of the city where most of the religious zealots lived and based the Cult of Callisto. 

You chewed the inside of your cheek. “How dangerous is this  way  you’ve found?” 

Clay smirked slightly. “They call him Techno. He’s a chlorokinetic. Apparently, he kills people and turns them into plant food too,” he stated, wiggling his eyebrows. “Plus, he’s an enemy of Quackity’s group.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the table behind him. 

“So, pretty dangerous, then?” You simplified. 

He smiled slightly. “In a fun way…” 

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Not a choice pt.2

Pairings | Bucky Barnes x f!reader, John Walker x f!reader

Warnings | swearing

Word count | 680

Summary | you can't help but deeply regret even agreeing the the government's stupid plan.

Masterlist | Part one

"So, John, Captain America," the interviewer joked light-heartedly, over pronouncing the title with a wink that made the audience chuckle, "I see you're not alone tonight." Another wink.

John threw his head back and you let yourself giggle; the sound was forced through near-gritted teeth and an oh-so-fake smile.

"No I'm not." John agreed, glancing your way with a toothy grin and a nudge to your side.

"No, tonight we are joined by the lovely Miss Rogers." The interviewer announced, and the applause was booming. John laughed with the interviewer at the praise, and you forced a smile through it as you chuckled.

"Oh, no need to be so formal. Please, call me y/n." You offered and the interviewer nodded.

"Okay, y/n. And how are you?" She pressed on, smile wide. You chewed your words, biting back the urge to get up and leave with a 'fuck you and everyone here, especially John fucking Walker'. But you resisted and let yet another lie twist about your tongue.

"Well, I'm still processing Steve being mostly gone." You began, and a faint 'aw' of sadness could be heard from the audience. "But," you began, fake smile plastered back over red-painted lips, "having John really does make up for the empty feeling. He's such a great man and a deserving Captain America." Another applause.

John leant in close, too close, and placed a long kiss to your cheek. You tried not to cringe away, instead laughing the gesture off the with interviewer as you let the weight of his arm around you act as an anchor for your guilt. God, you wanted to punch that perfect smile from his perfect teeth.

"How sweet. And John, how lovely is it to have y/n by your side?" He leant forwards a little, a wolfish smirk forming across his lips as he answered.

"I'm honoured, really. I mean y/n Rogers is my fiancée! Who knew my life could get any better after I was given this new privilege?" He stated, with another peck to your temple, this time.

"Fiancée? So it's official?" You flashed your ring to the cameras as John smiled. The interviewer gasped, as well as the audience.

More goddamned applause.

You sniffled, fingers twisting the silver band - which was topped with the most expensive, showy diamond you'd ever seen - that laid over your ring finger.

Bucky was right. What the fuck were you thinking?

You should never have agreed to this. Steve would've never let you agree to this.

But Steve wasn't here to make that call. That thought made you feel sick.

A scream, loud and haunting, ripped through your vocal chords; it tore through your throat and mingled with your tongue before twisting your lips with distress, anger, dread.

What the fuck were you thinking?

The band was bouncing with a metallic chink the sending it left your finger, rolling to a suddenly stop after a moment of teetering around its edges.

But the mark was still there. There was a slight, red strip around your finger from where it had been; a strip that you nearly rubbed raw in an attempt to wipe it off like some pen.

Steve was right for running, for standing up. The government was corrupt; it was merely interested in image, never in its people's best interests.

Never in your best interests.

The tears stung as they cradled your cheeks, sliding over hot skin in a salty trail of regret as you collapsed back against the tiled wall; your hands fisted in your hair as your whole body was racked with sobs.

The door creaked as it opened, a solemn and stoic face in the way of a stream of artificial light.

"We're on again in an hour. Be ready." John's voice was rough, a threat in itself to do what you're told.

What the fuck were you thinking?

taglists

Bucky Barnes One-shots, Drabbles and Headcannons | @buckysgirl101 @quxxnxfhxll @anakinsslag @macylawz @zaphdekota @ihavemajordaddyissues @theoldermanswhore @addriaenne @thegirlwiththeimpala @turkish276 @LilPopizzle @gooseyhouse @ohmy-fandoms @harrysthiccthighss @partiesandblurrypolaroids @prettysbliss @the-surviving-revolutionist @white-wolf1940 @dpaccione @tenaciousperfectionunknown @loveyou5everr @vallerydevora @multihoee @supraveng @cap-n-ce @sebbyxlover @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @veronicapaula @ravenmoore14 @frickin-bats @itstaylorcale

if your name is crossed out, it means I couldn’t tag you!

[bumblesimagines]

Green Thumb

Part 9

Request: Yes or No

Almost at double digits y'all. Can someone be an angel and send me the ages of every one between civil war and endgame? Ik Wanda was 18-19 in Age of Ultron and Civil war and Sam was probs in his mid to late twenties in Civil War.

~

You frowned, touching the collar around your neck. It made you feel like an animal. It was to prevent you from using your powers. Rhodes had mentioned it would shock you if you attempted to use your powers. You weren't sure if it was instantaneous or if someone controlled it but you didn't feel like finding out.

"You like cats?" Sam asked T'Challa, prince of Wakanda.

"Sam." Steve called, glancing over his shoulder like a disapproving parent. You snorted softly, biting your bottom lip.

"What? Dude shows up dressed like a cat and you don't want to know more?" Sam asked, looking at Steve.

"I like cats." You mumbled, looking at Sam with a small smile. Sam turned towards you with a small grin.

"Of course you do, Animal Planet." You rolled your eyes at the new nickname, shifting slightly. You really didn't want to trigger the collar.

"I'm a dog person."

"You look like a dog person."

"And what do dog people look like?"

"Morons." You answered, giving a slight shrug as Steve cracked a smile, trying to bite back a chuckle. Sam huffed lightly, looking away from you. A moment of silence passed before Steve spoke.

"Your suit.. Vibranium?" Steve asked T'Challa. The prince turned his head slightly.

"The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. It's meant to pass from warrior to warrior. Now, because your friend murdered my father, I also wear the mantle of king. So I ask you.. How long do you think you can keep your friend safe from me?" T'Challa asked, finally looking at Steve. Steve stayed silent, looking forward. You sighed through your nose, feeling the tension return. You wondered if Clint had been notified of your arrest yet. The van pulled into a parking garage, officers opening the door once it came to a stop. You got out, following Steve to the man and blonde.

"What's gonna happen to him?" Steve asked. You turned your head, looking over at him. You made eye contact with him again, holding it for a minute before looking away.

"What was that?" Sam asked quietly. You frowned, brows furrowing.

"That- That little staring contest."

"Oh, shut up." You huffed, looking away from him.

"Same thing that's gonna happen to you. Psychological evaluation." The man replied.

"This is Everett Ross, CIA operative and Task Force Commander." The woman, Sharon Carter, introduced him. Her gaze flickered to you.

"The shock collar will be taken off after the evaluation." She said, voice stotic but gaze pitiful.

"What about a lawyer?"

"Lawyer, that's funny. See their weapons are placed in lock up." Ross instructed the officers. Sam scoffed, following the officers. Steve spared one last glance to Bucky before following Ross and the officers. You walked besides Sam, being escorted through the building.

"You'll be placed in offices instead of cells. Do me a favor and stay in them." Ross stared straight forward as he spoke. T'Challa moved to walk beside him.

"I don't intend on going anywhere." T'Challa said. You spotted Natasha, feeling some sense of relief.

"Clint was informed and I assured him I'd keep an eye on you." Natasha told you, giving a small reassuring smile. She looked at Steve, addressing him. The relief went away upon hearing Tonys' voice. He finished his phone call, approaching you and the guys.

"Consequences?" Steve questioned, staring at him. You looked around the large room, noticing the screens and everything going on.

"Secretary Ross wants you three prosecuted." Tony said, motioning to them and you. Your brows furrowed slightly. There were two guys with the last name Ross who looked vaguely alike. That definitely wouldn't be hard to remember.

"I'm not getting that shield back, am I?" Steve asked as Tony and Natasha walked away.

"Technically, it belongs to the government. Wings too." Natasha said, shrugging.

"That's cold." Sam muttered.

"Warmer than jail." Tony called back. You looked at the security cameras, noticing the room Bucky had been moved to.

"You got the hots for him or something?" Sam asked. Steve turned to look at you, blinking a few times. You shot Sam a look, raising your brows.

"No, Samuel. I do not and if I did, why would you ask infront of his longtime bestie?" You asked, almost gritting your teeth. Sam raised his hands in surrender as Tony pulled Steve into a meeting room to talk.

"Why have a meeting in a glass box?" You asked quietly. Sam shrugged, looking it over.

"To prevent fighting." Sam answered. You watched at Steve and Tony seemed to argue. You looked at Sam with an amused smile.

"Physical fights." Sam clarified as Tony stepped out and Sharon had you and Sam enter. You took a seat across from Sam, looking at the security camera footage. Sharon entered, placing a paper infront of Sam.

"I'm sorry about the collar." Sharon apologized softly. You leaned back in the seat, shrugging lightly. She pressed a button, allowing Steve to listen to the footage. Sharon slid over some photos over to Steve.

"Why would the Task Force release this?" Steve asked. Sharon gave a shrug.

"To alert the public, I guess."

"Right.. A good way to force a guy into hiding. Got seven billion people looking for The Winter Solider."

"You're saying someone framed the guy to find him." Sharon mused quietly. Sam seemed confused, looking at Steve. You looked back at the footage on screen.

"Steve, you looked for the guy for two years and found nothing." Sam reminded him.

"We didn't bomb the UN."

"That doesn't guarantee that the person who framed him knew that we'd get him." Sharon looked at Steve. She suddenly frowned, brows furrowing as Steve turned towards the footage. You looked up as the power went out, seeing the staff begin to freak out and try to locate the source. You looked at Sam, slowly standing up. Sharon took out a key, sliding it over to you.

"Level 5 east wing." She said as you unlocked the collar, tossing it to the side as running out of the room with Sam and Steve. Whoever had framed Bucky had found him. You followed the two down the hall and down some stairs. You reached the area, finding guards on the ground. The interviewer lied on the ground, calling for help. Steve approached him with you hesitantly following. You noticed movement out of the corner of your eye, dodging Sam when he was thrown towards you.

"Hey, dude." You breathed out, swallowing. Bucky had a deep frown on his face, blue eyes holding nothing but bloodlust. He looked downright terrifying. You thrusted both hands forward, shooting a fireball that sent him flying back against the wall. Steve quickly stepped between you and him as you turned and rushed to Sam.

"Sam? Sam!" You shook his shoulders, shakey fingers pressing against his neck. You felt his pulse, relieved to feel his heartbeat. You slapped his cheek, waking him up.

"I've always wanted to do that." You muttered, watching him wince. He groaned, turning his head. You followed his gaze, seeing the guy from before looking down where Steve had been thrown. You stood, helping Sam up and following him up a set of stairs. With Steve out of commission temporarily and Bucky in a frenzy, the guy was the only hope of stopping everything.

"Can you try to stop him or trip him up?" Sam asked, rushing up the stairs.

"I can't see him and I'd rather not make this whole building collapse on accident." You replied, almost tripping over your own feet. Sam found an exit, following the crowd of people running.

"He looked like any other guy." You said, taking in deep breaths. Sam shot you a weird look.

"We just ran up like five flights of stairs." You breathed out, hands resting on your knees. At least the chilly weather provided some help. Sam noticed a jacket, jogging over and picking it up. You stumbled after him, looking it over.

"I really need some water." You whispered, lightly fanning yourself. Sam rolled his eyes, following the crowd of people. You sluggishly followed, giving him a small smile when he stopped by a shop to get you a bottle. He took out his phone as you drank half of it.

"Come on." Sam pulled you along, following direction and entering warehouse. Steve had Bucky laying against some machinery, unconscious and metal arm trapped in a wedge.

"You two okay?" Steve asked, looking you and Sam over with a concerned frown.

"Yeah.. Someone over here needs some more training." Sam glanced at you with a teasing smile. You rolled your eyes, licking your lips as you heard the sound of a helicopter.

"Could you ice over his arm?" Steve asked.

"He broke a stone wall. Ice won't hold him but sure, I'll do it." You shrugged, approaching the unconscious man. You licked your lips, splashing the rest of the water on the machinery and touching it after. The ice creeped down, covering over the metal arm. You looked at him, finally getting a proper look. He was handsome. Brown hair that barely reached his shoulders, facial hair just growing in, those icy blue eyes that either swirled with sadness or anger.

"You're giving him bedroom eyes again." Sam called, his voice echoing slightly. You clenched your jaw, looking at him.

"What? I can't admire something that looks nice?" You asked, watching his demeanor change. He looked alert yet amused. You frowned, looking back at Bucky and finding him staring right at you. You rolled your lips into your mouth, clearing your throat.

"God, that's so embarrassing." You whispered, speedwalking towards Sam as he cracked up. You ignored your burning face, arms crossing. Sam calmed down, wiping away a tear. Steve walked over, watching Bucky grunt and sit up. He looked at Steve, calling out his name in a hoarse voice.

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" Steve asked, staring at him intently. Bucky stayed silent for a moment before speaking.

"Your moms' name was Sarah... And you used to wear newspapers in your shoes." Bucky said, smiling softly. Steve relaxed, gaze softening.

"You don't read that in a magazine."

"Just like that we're supposed to be cool?" Sam asked, giving Steve a slightly wide eyed look.

"What did I do?" Bucky asked, looking between you, Steve, and Sam.

"Enough." Steve answered. Bucky shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head as he hung his head.

"I knew this would happen.." He whispered. "Everything HYDRA put inside of me is still there. All he had to do was say the god damn words."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know." Bucky answered, though you weren't sure if it was truthful or not. He didn't seem like the type to lie, at least not to Steve.

"People are dead. The guy did all that just to get ten minutes with you." Steve pointed out, watching his old best friend. Bucky looked defeated and confused. "I need you to do better than 'I don't know'."

"He wanted to know about Siberia. Where I was captain." Bucky said quietly, gaze flickering around as he tried to remember.

"He wanted to know exactly where."

"Why would he need to know that?" Bucky stayed silent, licking his lips as he stared at the ground. He looked at Steve.

"Cause I'm not the only Winter Solider." He revealed. You looked at Sam in confusion and surprise. Bucky was strong and deadly on his own but a whole army could overthrow governments all over the world.

"That's terrifying." You whispered, leaning against the wall and sliding down so you were sitting down. Steve chose to lean against the wall after letting Bucky's arm free.

"Who are they?" Steve asked as Bucky brushed some hair out of his face.

"Their most elite death squad. More kills than anyone in HYDRA history and that was before the serum." Bucky responded.

"They all turn out like you?" Sam asked. Bucky looked at him, swallowing.

"Worse."

"The doctor... Did he control them?" Steve tilted his head. Bucky looked down at his lap.

"Enough."

"Said he wanted to see an empire fall." Steve told you and Sam. Bucky looked up at his words.

"These guys could do it. They speak thirty languages, can hide in plain sight, infiltrate, assassinate. They could take a whole country down over night and you'd never see them coming."

"Color me impressed." You whispered, playing with the strings of the jacket you were given after getting to Berlin. Sam slowly walked towards Steve.

"This would've been a lot easier a week ago." Sam said quietly, arms crossing. You stood up, dusting off your pants and approaching them.

"If we told Tony-"

"He'd have him locked up." You cut off Steve, glancing back at him.

"Plus, he'd never believe us." Sam added.

"But if he did-"

"It wouldn't matter and who knows if the Accords would let us help him." Sam stared at him. Steve let out a defeated sigh, looking away from you and Sam.

"We're on our own."

"Not completely. Dad would help." You pointed out. Sam nodded, glancing at you.

"And, I know a guy." Sam said with a light shrug. You looked at him with a raised brow.

"You have friends?"

"I said I know him, not that we're friends but to answer your question, yes. I have friends that aren't you. Jealous?"

"Imaginary friends don't count."

~~~~~~~~~~

The drive was silent, Steve and Bucky occasionally reminiscing about the old days.

"On a scale of one to ten, how impressed is Clint gonna be when he sees you?" Sam asked. You smiled, letting out a chuckle as you watched the snowflake float inches above your hand.

"Probably an eleven, but he'll give me the typical dad speech infront of mom." You answered, lightly blowing on the snowflake and watching it disappear. Bucky turned his head to look at you. His muscular figure was semi cramped in the backseat. Steve picked the worst possible car to hijack.

"Hawkeye's your father?"

"Adoptive. He has a tendency of taking care of strays who once tried to take down the team." You told him, giving a small smile. Bucky hummed, nodding.

"Speaking of strays, how are you and Wanda?" Sam asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Uhm, good? We're still good friends, even after the kiss." You shrugged lightly.

"Woah, kiss?" Steve repeated, brows raising.

"Yeah, we kissed but it felt.. Weird. There was no spark or overwhelming emotions. The love I have for her is the same love I have for Lila and the boys. She'll always be like a sister to me." You told them, glancing at Bucky. Bucky was still a bit on edge but you could tell he was trying to get adjusted.

"What are your powers?" Bucky asked, attempting to get comfortable in the car.

"I'm like the avatar, I guess."

"Who?" Bucky furrowed his brows. You blinked, lips parting as you stared at him. He was from the 1900s and worked for a criminal organization, obviously he wouldn't know a kids show from the 2000s.

"It's- It's from a show. An avatar is someone who controls all four elements and they basically save the world, I guess." You explained, growing a bit embarrassed at how silly it sounded. Bucky didn't seem to judge, giving a small smile.

"We could watch it together, if you want. It's a nice show." You offered, smiling. Sam raised his brows.

"Wonder what Clint will think about that." He muttered as Steve glanced at you and Bucky through the rearview mirror. You shot Sam a small glare, reaching out and touching the back of his neck with cold fingers. He hissed and leaned forward, pouting as he rubbed his neck.

"Yeah, I'd like that." Bucky said softly, nodding. You looked back at him, a smile appearing on your face. Bucky was incredibly attractive and you couldn't deny having a small growing crush on him but you didn't want to cross a boundary. He was from the 1900s afterall.

"How'd you end up fighting the Avengers?" Bucky asked, focusing all his attention onto you.

"The orphanage I grew up in threatened to kick me out since I had turned 18. I freaked and caused an accidental forest in the orphanage so the team was called." You told him, chuckling softly. Buckys' gaze softened, a hum leaving him.

"You've got some pretty cool powers, doll."

"Doll?" Steve and Sam repeated. A flustered smile appeared on your face, giggling softly. Bucky glanced at the two, wondering if he had crossed a line or said something wrong.

"Thanks." You looked forward, biting back an even bigger smile. You weren't completely sure if he was flirting or not but it was nice to get a compliment from an attractive guy, even if he had almost broken your friends' back an hour before. Steve slowly parked the car, getting out to greet Sharon.

"Could you move the seat up?" Bucky asked Sam, arm moving so it resting ontop of the carseats. His metal fingers lightly brushed against your hair but you weren't bothered by it.

"No." Sam replied. Bucky let out a deep sigh. You bit your bottom lip, looking at him.

"We can switch." You shrugged lightly.

"It's fine-"

"No, you shouldn't be squished back here." You faced him, feeling him gently grab your waist. He was incredibly gentle and cautious, moving you onto his lap briefly before he scooted to the side. You sat behind Sam, lightly kicking the seat. Sam moved it forward ever so slightly. You looked over at Steve and Sharon, blinking when they kissed.

"Oh? When did that happen?" You asked, brows furrowed. You knew there was some attraction between them but you didn't expect them to already be at the kissing stage.

"A while back, I think."

"Huh.." You whispered. Steve returned to the car with Sam's wings and his shield, putting them in the trunk. He drove to an airport parking lot, pulling up beside a van. You smiled widely, quickly getting out when Sam pulled the seat forward.

"Thanks for keeping my kid safe, Cap." Clint said, opening his arms as soon as he spotted you. You happily hugged him, feeling a sense of relief and safety wash over you.

"About time you started causing me trouble." Clint grinned as he pulled back. You noticed Wanda, pulling her into a hug as well.

"Saw it on the news. You okay?" She asked softly. You nodded, pulling back and brushing some of her red hair out of her face.

"Vision let you go easy?" You asked. Wanda shook her head, chuckling softly. Sam approached you, glancing back at Bucky.

"Might want to keep an eye on these two." Sam said, motioning to you and Bucky. Clint stared at him before looking turning to look at you. Wanda tilted her head, looking at you as well.

"You're such a dick." You muttered. You knew Sam was just being protective. He had always seen and treated you like a brother.

"Bad boy and older, huh? God, I hoping you had skipped those phases." Clint sighed heavily. You were partially suprised he hadn't mentioned or pointed out that Bucky was a guy. You hadn't really spoken about sexuality and attraction with him but knowing Clint, he'd be supportive about it.

"Not bad." Wanda said quietly, giggling softly as she smiled. You gave her a playful smile.

"I've got good taste."