#next chapter there will be actual espionage

[gav-san]

Chapter One

A Lineage of Red Masterlist here

One Piece Masterlist

Masterlist here

Word Count: 4,500+

A Well-Mannered Threat

This story is not commendation on slavery, cruelty, sexual assault or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Themes: enemies to lovers, espionage, too many ballrooms, arranged marriage, forced proximity, Celestial Dragon dynamics, fear, manipulation, mutual hatred, uneven power balance, no redemption, literal war crimes, slavery, and slow burn

Next

The Grand Hall of Pangaea Palace glittered with oppressive splendor. Gold filigree climbed the walls like vines, and stained glass murals refracted sunlight into fractured jewels that danced across polished marble. Celestial Dragons glided through the space atop personal platforms, their faces hidden behind ornate masks, voices muffled by entitlement and filtered air. Silks whispered. Perfume clashed. Every breath smelled like old money and new power.

But high above the drifting parade of privilege stood the actual apex of authority.

The God’s Knights. 

Clad in ceremonial armor sharper than any blade, they loomed like living judgments carved from myth. Where the Celestial Dragons floated, the God’s Knights stood. Where the others played at godhood, the Knights enforced it—with elegant cruelty and unblinking conviction. Even the most arrogant nobles bowed their heads as the Knights passed.

And foremost of these sparkling diamonds was the promising and highly admired Saint Garling Figarland, daring of the upper echelons, and junior Commander of the God’s Knights.

His hair, bright as moonlit frost, swept up like the half-moon, a pedigree tempered by centuries of war and courtly games. Not the cold pallor of age, no—this was the gold of divinity. Of a bloodline too proud to bow, too cursed to break. Eyes the color of burned starlight peered through the world as though it were a chessboard—lazy, half-lidded, and sharp enough to pierce armor. Something was devastating in how he looked at people: as if he knew what they would say, how they would falter, how they would fall in love with the wrong idea of him.

There was a cruel grace to him, an aristocratic elegance sharpened by battle and boredom.

He frowned slowly, as if such a thing as smiling was rare and deliberate—something he only offered when amused or intrigued. And though he held no warmth, women whispered of that smile for years, dreaming of being the reason it curled just a little.

On display like a prize stallion for every conniving mother and hopeful heiress in the city of the Gods. And he played his role well enough: aloof, garnet-eyed, polite in short bursts, and always, always unmoved.

When he spoke, it was not with volume but presence. The air seemed to hush. Even the boldest nobles stilled. The world had seen tyrants and saints, but only Saint Garling made words rumble like thunder. 

He sat slightly reclined in his tall-backed chair, polished silver gauntlet supporting his jaw, the picture of nonchalance. But beneath the half-lidded stare and wine-stained lips was a man barely containing his boredom.

His comrades, stiff-necked nobles and fellow warriors, murmured quietly amongst themselves. They would nod approvingly or tilt their heads in examination. 

Garling, however, said nothing. He never had to. His opinion was known by the subtle flick of a finger, a single raised brow, or the curl of his lip as yet another girl curtsied too deeply, too eagerly. Once in a while, his gaze lingered. Not long, but long enough to make a girl stumble in her steps, to make her breath hitch. His eyes were unreadable, ancient, enigmatic, cruel,  reddened like a dying sun. A glance from him could ruin a season’s worth of matches or set a rival’s plans aflame.

He presided from on high like a forgotten god, silently choosing who might live, who might shine, and who would never rise again.

And he was so bored.

The wine had dulled, and the music had looped. The girls on parade had blended into one simpering blur of ivory lace and trembling fanwork. The scent of too much perfume lingered like smoke, cloying and artificial.

The debutante parade dragged on, an endless sea of gowns and powdered nerves. Somewhere between the sixth and seventh presentation, the God’s Knights had started murmuring amongst themselves, low voices thick with wine and contempt.

“Pretty enough,” one knight drawled, swirling his goblet as he watched a trembling girl step forward. “But not much in the way of breeding hips. Might do better as a chamber piece than a wife.”

The others chuckled. The air behind the dais darkened with the scent of old velvet and fresher rot.

“Bit too refined for your tastes,” another said, elbowing his neighbor. “You like them screaming, don’t you?”

“Only the first few times,” the knight replied, smirking into his cup.

A third leaned back, gray-plated armor creaking as he stared at the line of young women. “My steward’s negotiating for three new girls from the South Sea Isles. Fresh skin, unbroken tongues. I told him I wanted at least one with pink hair, but you know how rare that is.”

His comrades chuckled over their goblets, already wagering which noble house had the best dowry hidden behind lace and mascara. Garling ignored them, his expression distant. His fingers idly traced the hilt of his sword. Not out of anticipation, but sheer, clawing impatience.

Garling had withdrawn deeper into his chair, resting his temple against his gloved fingers, half-listening to the meaningless chatter of his comrades. They nudged one another like schoolboys pretending to be men, whispering scores and gossip between ceremonial nods. He didn’t care.

By the time the fifteenth girl curtsied, the chamber behind the dais had begun to rot with boredom and appetite.

The God’s Knights lounged like well-fed lions, their gilded armor polished only to mock the occasion. They were not here to judge bloodlines or marriages. They were here to look. To select. And, if the evening proved dull enough, to claim.

One of them clicked his tongue as a trembling girl stood at attention. Her voice cracked as she stated her name.

“She’d cry too easily,” he muttered, licking wine from the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t even last a week.”

The others snorted. “So gag her.”

“No fun if she can’t beg.”

“I say put a collar on her and let the dogs choose. If she escapes, she’s free. If she doesn’t—well.”

“Then she’s broken already,” came the laugh, sharp and low.

They were men who once ruled armies, now corralled into ceremonial chairs, snapping their teeth at silk-wrapped lambs too naïve to understand they were walking into the lion’s mouth.

Another girl appeared. Pretty. Blonde. Fragile.

“Ten says old Manmayer sends her to the breeding stables within the year,” someone muttered.

“She won’t last a month,” another replied. “I’d pay extra just to see the look on her mother’s face when she’s auctioned.”

The laughter was dry and quiet—dead men wheezing mirth.

Only Garling remained still, his wine untouched.

He barely kept his eyes open, ready to resign himself to another failed venture into society.

The grand ceremonial doors groaned open once more.

A hush fell as a debutante entered. Not the kind that could be ignored, but the kind that cut through the chamber.

He didn’t bother looking. Not at first. Likely another noble family shoving their daughter in at the last minute, thinking late entry meant intrigue. It didn’t. It meant desperation.

“Good Lord, look at that,” muttered the knight to his left, voice suddenly sharp.

A jab to the ribs. “Hair is red as a beet.”

“Figarland Red-“

Garling’s eyes flicked up.

A bonnet shaded her face. Her posture was proper but subdued—almost forgettable. Her gown was modest and dyed a humble gray, the color already fading along the seams. Her gloves were tight in the fingers, worn just enough to betray their age. 

When the girl reached the dais to present herself, a breeze, perhaps from the towering glass doors left ajar, caught the edge of her bonnet.

Red.

Not dyed. Not artificial. That impossible color—fierce copper kissed with gold and burnished rust—like something drawn from myth or moonlit fields.

Garling sat forward, slow and deliberate.

The other knights stopped speaking. His movement alone silenced them.

Not just any red— Garling thought—but the kind of red that devoured the eye. Her hair burned like fresh blood on snow, unpinned and glorious, cascading down her back in defiance of the stiff coils worn by noblewomen.

Figarland Red indeed.

He studied her, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

Nothing else about her was exceptional. Not her gown, her posture, her jewels. Garling couldn’t recall her name, and he didn’t care to. But the hair—that hair—stood out like a flare in a sea of dust.

“Seems like that’s the only notable thing about her,” one of his comrades laughed. “That hair.”

Someone nudged him, half amusement, half invitation. “She’s got the color you like, doesn’t she, Commander? Think she’s for sale?”

That earned a chuckle around the half-circle.

Garling’s answer was slow, calm, and deceptively light:

“If she were prettier,” he murmured, voice barely louder than his breath, “I’d take her just to breed that hair into something useful.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the others laughed—louder this time, wicked amusement echoing off the marble columns like knives clattering to the floor. Their mirth was thick with cruelty, the kind shared only by men so powerful they no longer needed to whisper their depravity.

One clapped a gauntleted hand to his knee. “Gods, you’ll bankrupt the coastline of redheads, Figarland. They’ll be auctioning cousins just to get your bastards in boots.”

Another raised his cup in mock salute. “Red-haired brats with your temper? The Grand Line won’t survive it.”

“That one,” he said quietly. “I want to see its face.”

A knight blinked. “What?”

“Dibs for that one? Surely you're joking, Figarland. We know you have a thing for red-heads-“

Garling didn’t answer.

With one look, a steward appeared, ready for instructions.

The girl with the hair just curtsied and turned away. She didn’t even know who watched her, with a face turned down like a peasant. 

Garling tilted his head, never once taking his eyes off her.

“Her house,” he murmured. “The red-haired fawn.”

The steward leaned slightly forward, squinting as if to confirm. “The Vauntierre girl? Her family hasn’t sent out the …the usual signals indicating a willingness for a brief… well, Saint Figarland, it seems the Vauntierre family already has a match in mind.”

Of course. That explained the modest dress, the gloves a shade too tight, the heirloom jewels worn like an obligation rather than pride. Trying desperately to just pass among old blood. No need to impress potential suitors. Or men like him.

Garling’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but something quieter, more wolf than man.

Every girl here thought her family wouldn’t sell her. They all would, for the right price.

He watched as she curtsied—polite, correct, forgettable. She turned without fanfare, vanishing into the murmuring current of silk and titles.

“Bring her back later,” he said, voice absent, as if the request cost him nothing. “I’d like a closer look.”

The steward hesitated, cautious. “Shall I notify House Vauntierre of your…interest?”

Garling turned his head just slightly. One brow lifted.

“Interest?” he echoed, dry. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just like the color.”

The men around him chuckled—low and leering—accustomed to his pride, detachment, and unnerving habit of admiring beauty like a collector considering how to break it.

“If I had half your cockiness, Figarland,” one of the knights barked, wine-slick and flushed, “I’d be dead by now.”

Garling didn’t pause. He simply rose, a slow and deliberate movement. His cloak slid from his shoulder like a velvet guillotine, shadow trailing behind him.

“If you had half my cock,” he said coolly, “Your blade might actually land where it’s meant to. Shame you’re as sloppy in bed as you are in a spar.”

A beat.

“But I suppose disappointing women and opponents is just your gift.”

The silence that followed cracked open into laughter—crude, howling, unrestrained. Some knights slapped the arms of their thrones. Others wheezed into their goblets. The insult was too precise, too savage to brush off.

Goblets slammed onto tables, armored fists pounded in laughter, and someone nearly choked on their wine. It was savage and joyful—an apex predator throwing scraps to the pack.

The knight who’d spoken coughed, wheezing through his grin. “Bastard.”

Garling didn’t reply. Didn’t smirk.

He just straightened his cuffs with the same causal grace he used to slit reputations open.

The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and music, the floor filled with spinning silks, painted smiles, and hopeful glances. Debutantes, fresh-faced, trembling, and perfumed within an inch of collapse were presented individually to the gilded stage where the elders of the Holy Order sat in judgment. 

The other women overshadowed you, which was good enough for you.

“Just blend in.” Was the sage advice of your handler, Maria.

They, and you, were not among the radiant, pearl-draped daughters of the Old Houses, their gowns custom-cut from royal bolts, their jewels practically screaming pedigree. No. You stood in the quieter corner, where the girls were still noble, technically, but not enough to matter.

Girls from coastal nobles, down the Red Line. Second daughters of third sons. Legitimized heirs with blood too thin to be truly blue.

You all wore the same expressions: polite, practiced. Your dresses were silk, dyed carefully, cut conservatively, but not commissioned. Your gloves were a touch too snug, or a breath too loose. Your jewels were heirlooms, worn carefully, and the shine dulled with age.

They called you debutantes, but everyone knew the truth. You weren’t here to marry a real Celestial Dragon. You were here to fill the space between the real nobility to make them look better. To make the ballroom look full and abundant with fresh flesh.

To satisfy the appetite of the most vicious.

You could feel it the moment their eyes fell on you.

The God’s Knights, seated above like carved statues, wreathed in wine and cruelty. They hadn’t danced. They hadn’t spoken, just watched.

Until one of them laughed. A sharp, mirthless thing.

“I think that one blinked at me,” a knight drawled. “Does that count as consent?”

You didn’t look up. None of you did.

“She’s got the coloring of a sea rat,” another said, swirling his goblet, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing if she squeaks.”

Another girl next to you shifted, her hand twitching. You reached out gently, brushing her wrist. Stay still, the gesture said. Don’t react. That’s what they want.

The teasing would escalate if you did.

And it always did.

Sometimes they sent gifts; Riddles with answers no girl could solve, punishable by mockery. Perfume bottles filled with bitter fluid. Sketches of you bent over the tables where the elder Celestial Dragon sat.

No names. No signatures. Just an implication. Just power.

You’d heard of one girl last season, sent home early with a shattered reputation and a ring she hadn’t asked for. The man who gave it to her swore he never touched her, but he spoke fondly of her “laugh.”

You all knew what that meant.

And it wouldn’t matter because the reality was that you all didn’t matter.

Not bastards. Not commoners. But not the shining daughters of the Founding Houses, either. No one would say it aloud, but the distinction clung to your group like smoke.

You were the daughters of coastal lords, legitimized cousins, and merchant alliances that had clawed their way into the aristocracy with gold instead of divine right. Your silks were proper. Your posture was trained to perfection, but you forced it to bend. Your gloves were as clean as your reputation, but it was no recommendation. But everyone knew: you were not the ones they watched during the opening procession.

You were the second choices. The ones who might be matched to lesser Celestial Dragons, those without land claims, those with rumors behind their names. The kind who needed second wives with quiet mouths and wombs that worked.

In short, you were brides meant to be used, concubines, and the cut above servants.

You and the others stood in a row, smelling faintly of powder and fear. Laughter curled from the dais above, where the God’s Knights sat like crowned hyenas. They didn’t need to lower their voices. Everyone knew their words would carry, and that you wouldn’t protest.

“Those are the ones they keep on standby,” one knight chuckled, swirling a cup of amber wine. “Backup brides, in case the real ones faint.”

“I wouldn’t mind marrying one,” another drawled. “For a week or two. Let the hair tangle, let the hips bruise, then ship her back with a pension and a limp.”

You kept your head bowed.

Someone behind you made a soft sound, whether a gasp or a stifled laugh, you couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. The knights did.

One of them stood. A gauntleted hand drummed on the gilded rail. “Which one of you lot can curtsy without falling over? Don’t all raise your skirts at once.”

Polite laughter followed. The kind that left a film on the teeth.

You didn’t move. Neither did the girl beside you, nor the one beyond her. You all knew better.

You could be wed, if needed, or broken, or bartered.

It made no difference to them.

You had seen one girl harassed for trembling and another praised for “holding eye contact like a courtesan.” The line between shame and reward was a thread of silk, fraying fast.

Maria, your chaperone, had given you a fairly complete purview of who’s who in the room, but you doubt you’d ever forget their faces.

Not that you needed to remember the grandson of the Nerona estate or the step-aunt of the Bellevue family, names that swirled like lace in the air, pretty and forgettable.

The ones that stayed lodged in your mind were the dangerous ones.

The God’s Knights.

And above it all sat one figure all knew. 

Commander Figarland. Saint Garling Figarland.

He was handsome—shockingly so, for a man so feared. Barely into his third decade, with the posture of command and the face of a prince from myth: dark lashes, garnet eyes, a chiseled mouth, the kind that might speak poetry or pronounce a death sentence without blinking. 

His hair was a pale, sun-dusted gold, styled high. His uniform, absurdly ceremonial, was worn like a second skin, tailored with the quiet arrogance of one who never needed to draw his sword to be obeyed. The dark lacquered steel was laced with inlays of gold and Tyrian purple—far too imposing for such a romantic occasion. The bright colors of the God’s Knights uniform made others look garish, but he wore it well

At his hip, a saber that cut down kings now rested like a pet at ease.

“Don’t meet his eyes,” Maria had advised.

You heed that advice like gold.

He looked too young to be feared the way he was. That was the first thing. The second was how wrong that first thought was.

When he stood, the ballroom shifted, not stilled, not quieted, but tightened like the moment before a lightning strike. Even the chandeliers seemed to lean toward him. He seemed to mutter something towards the steward before returning to his seat.

You could feel admiration ripple down the line of debutantes.

A breath caught here. A whisper there.

You watched the knights drink. Laugh. Whistle between their teeth when a pretty girl passed.

But Saint Figarland did none of that.

He just sat, one leg crossed, fingers curled loosely over the stem of his goblet, watching. His eyes moved like a predator choosing when, not whether, to strike. And when he did speak, others listened. Even the older knights. Even the ones who had killed men long before Garling was born.

He was a weapon, sheathed in ceremony, not like the others. But when his gaze passed over the row of debutantes, slow, steady, measured, you felt the sting of it.

He said nothing, letting the others play, but the entire room knew everyone watched when he shifted, uncrossing one leg, leaning just slightly forward. He led the whole ordeal.

Even the other knights noticed.

One laughed, half-heartedly. Too loud and drunk. “You’re not actually picking from them, are you, Commander?”

The room stilled.

Garling’s voice came low, bored, and unmistakably dangerous. The room hushed to hear it.

“Gods, no.” A pause. Then, without even a glance your way. “I just like to see them shake.”

Laughter erupted. But not the same kind as before. This one had teeth. 

It scraped the back of your spine. You didn’t flinch.

By the Gods, what a terrible man.

“Just follow the plan,” Maria says, and you nod. “And avoid those wretched Knights at all costs.”

His gaze didn’t linger long on any of the girls, and he allowed yourself to breathe and continue with the plan.

You walked around the ballroom like a whilted petal, soft, aimless, entirely harmless. Your path wove as far as you could from the God’s Knights.

It was deliberate.

Maria kept her distance, as she always did, pretending not to notice when your posture slipped slightly or your laugh was too loud for decorum. To anyone else, you were simply a debutante of the second tier: red-haired, provincial, perhaps a little too eager to impress, a little too fascinated by the champagne.

You’d perfected the performance over the years.

Your silk gloves were a half-shade off from your gown. Your jewels clashed, just subtly. And your tongue, when loosed, chattered.

“Oh, that is the prettiest sword,” you exclaimed to Saint Pelligran as he approached. “Do you polish it yourself, or do you have a servant just for that?”

The old Celestial Dragon blinked at you, baffled.

You smiled, wide, unblinking, and gave a curtsy that teetered on disaster.

He excused himself shortly after, muttering something about breeding.

Perfect.

Saint Donatius was next, handsome and roguish and thoroughly unimpressed.

“I hear you’re from the coast,” he said, looking you over. “Chilly winds. Cold water. I wonder if the women there are any warmer.”

“Oh, gods, no,” you replied brightly. “We’re frigid and full of opinions. And we eat fish so often we practically smell like it.”

He stared. You fluttered your lashes.

He bowed and left. You sipped your drink and didn’t hide your smirk.

When Saint Balforte approached, you were humming under your breath and spinning your bracelet absently, anything to project frivolity.

He tapped your hand. “I danced with your mother once. She wept when I chose someone else.”

You blinked, sweet and idiotic. “Oh? That’s so romantic. Was she wearing pearls, or did you confuse her with someone else?”

Maria’s fan twitched behind you. She was trying not to sigh as your theatrics picked up.

Balforte chuckled, but not kindly. “Pretty,” he muttered. “But not much else.”

You beamed. “Thank you!”

He moved on.

You exhaled.

Three suitors gone. The men approaching you thinned out, just as you planned.

And then, A familiar voice. Low, casual.

“I expected you to pretend at least to be charming before I swooped in. Now I’ll look like a cad, courting a fool.” A handsome, dark-haired man said, like he was begging for an introduction. “Does the… family business… think you’re old enough to be here?”

Your eyes lifted. Maria stood guard, ensuring other nobles couldn’t hear.

“Sir Fiero Thorne.” You curtsied, feigning a blush. Just as planned. “I’m older than I look.”

Fiero Thorne wasn’t a suitor. Not truly. And not a Saint, at least not in any honest register. But you knew the face. You knew the name he never said aloud. And you knew the sigil on the signet ring he never wore in public.

Because this wasn’t a debutante greeting a stranger.

This was revolutionary, recognizing her assigned partner in the very mouth of the lion’s court.

Thorne. That was not his real name, but it was the one the Revolution used. To the Celestial Dragons, he was Sir Fiero of House Thorne, a handsome noble with newly elevated blood, a sharp jaw, and a need for an easy wife with money. Cleanly dressed, tastefully perfumed, and far too observant for a man supposedly earning his title through a twist of inheritance law.

He bowed smoothly.

And you curtsied, just a little too unsteady.

“I am double your age, and won’t have a girl destroy my hard work.” He said far too pleasantly.

You tittered, like he said something funny.

“I’ve trained half my life for Mariejois, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t question my abilities.” You were risking just as much as he was, perhaps more.

He gave you a look that you may be here, but you were hardly ready to investigate the dungeons of Mariejois.

“Where's Vanessa?” He says, mouth tight. It was your ‘cousins’ code name, someone chosen initially to be Thorne's partner. Someone with whom he had a history with.

“She was… taken unwell by the weather.” A nicer way of saying the Marines had caught her before she could start. “I was selected in her place.”

He sighed.

“A last-minute disaster, playing a fool. Wonderful.”

You smiled lazily, the picture of an air-headed girl halfway into her second glass of bubbly. “I can be charming,” you said sweetly, eyes scanning the room. “Just waiting for the right suitor.”

“Hmm.” He took your hand and brushed a kiss across your glove. “Don’t blow the whole thing before dessert.”

“Oh, please,” you said quietly, through a flutter of lashes. “You think I’d be so sloppy? I’ve offended three men tonight and pretended not to know which fork is for shellfish.”

For a moment, he gave the room a cursory look, as if he had a choice to choose another girl in skirts able to embroider code and institute blackmail. That look was enough to decide him.

“Very foolish, Miss Vauntierre.” He chuckled low in his throat and offered you his arm. “Shall we take a walk and feign flattery?”

You linked your arm with his. Maria stood politely to the side, carefully playing chaperone. And just like that, you became a courting pair. The court saw something blooming. Others noticed you pair off.

Exactly as planned.

You made a slow, deliberate loop around the edge of the ballroom, your footsteps whispering across the marble like secrets dressed in silk.

“Any movement yet?” You asked beneath your breath, lips barely parting.

Thorne didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. “Not yet,” he said, voice low and smooth beneath the music. “But the Nerona boy’s been pulled into three separate conversations in less than an hour. Quiet ones. Same men. Different corners. Word is he’s been passing messages about a certain plan.”

Your heart thudded.

The Chalice Plan.

Your revolutionary group only dared send a young woman into the heart of Mariejois for the debutante because, if rumour was to be believed, there were plans to cement power in Mariejois. 

Your gaze remained forward. “We’re closing in on something.”

“We’re tightening the net,” he murmured. “It’s hard to tell if it’s about money or blood. I fear that there is much about those at the top we can only speculate about, without risking too much.”

“They keep the blood tight,” You muttered, turning your head just enough to offer a tight smile to an approaching steward. “But they must be desperate to let offshoots of coastal houses present debutantes.”

You passed a group of ladies near the columned alcove. They tried not to stare too openly. Thorne gave them a shallow bow, warm enough to be noticed, cold enough to mean nothing.

They waved prettily, if not politely.

“It seems like they want to solidify power and blood. Perhaps that… plan is the way they do it.”

You waved back, fluttering your fingers with just the right touch of awkwardness, letting the practiced airhead façade slip back into place like a second skin.

Thorne looks mildly placated by the interaction.

“I may have been hard on you. I apologize.”

“None required, Sir Thorne.

“Very well. Our next joint appearance begins at the Juniper ball, but I’ll call on you tomorrow,” Thorne said, pitching his voice low again. “We’ll continue the courtship. Visible. Believable. Let them think we’re playing the same game they are.”

“And the invitations?”

“They’ll come. You’ll get access. You’ll start hearing the names they don’t say in daylight.”

“The ones they whisper behind rings and folded fans,” you murmured.

“Exactly.”

You tilted your head, as if he’d just said something clever—something flirtatious. In a way, he had.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice until only he could hear you. “These are the most vile creatures I’ve ever met.”

Thorne’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it. 

The flicker in his eyes. The tension in his jaw was too subtle for the room to notice.

“Welcome,” he said. “To wealth.”

And if revolution can burn its way into the heart of Mariejois, let it begin with a single flame, tucked beneath a bonnet.

[byhuenii]

Romcom 101 w/ Reluctant Super Soldiers

CHAPTER 0 – “For Optics” → The Setup

(Word Count: 4,600)

(Warnings) Bucky, fake marriage, mr tall broody, stupid idiots who like eachother, mentions of romcoms, semi-tower fic but theyre all watching this mission play out, lots and lots of teasing! lmk if i missed anything, ALSO NO MENTION OF NAME

Masterlist | Next Chapter

The mission was supposed to be simple. Pretend to be engaged. Blend in at a diplomatic summit. Make sure no one tried to poison the Latvian prime minister.

But Nick Fury, being Nick Fury, had a flair for chaos. So instead of sending seasoned SHIELD agents with an actual romantic history, he sent Bucky Barnes—the most emotionally constipated man alive—and you.

"You'll be fine," Fury had said with a dismissive wave. "Barnes is broody, you're charming, it's believable."

That was all it took. No planning. No detailed cover story. No psych evaluations or compatibility testing. Just forged marriage paperwork, a diamond ring with a price tag that could fund four years of college and a decent first apartment in Brooklyn, and a room key.

Just you and Bucky, thrown into a luxurious suite in Vienna courtesy of Stark.

When you both stepped into your shared suite for the first time, the tension was high—so high, it might've had its own gravitational pull.

It was awkward. Painfully so. The tension hit harder than a gut punch from a super soldier under Hydra’s control. Bucky dropped his bag wordlessly by the dresser, his eyes scanning the room like it might be booby-trapped.

Of course. One bed.

You glanced at the hyper-aware soldier. "Rock paper scissors for the floor?"

He blinked slowly, face unreadable. "I’ve slept on concrete for seventy years. I’ll be fine."

"You’re willingly taking the floor?"

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up in the closet with the kind of precision that deserved a jazz soundtrack.

"Less complicated."

You sighed and opened your suitcase, filled with gowns tailored perfectly to your measurements. "We can share the bed. I call the left side."

All you got was a grunted acknowledgment.

Great.

Sharing a bed with a man who once assassinated JFK but couldn’t make eye contact while you changed into your pajamas.

Gentleman? Maybe.

You hoped so.

Back at the compound, chaos had already erupted.

Sam Wilson had laughed for a solid five minutes when he saw the fake engagement announcement on the mission board.

"This is gold," he choked out between wheezes. "Barnes? Romance? I give it two days before one of you throws a pillow at the other."

Peter Parker was thrilled. "Oh my God, is this like—Mr. & Mrs. Smith?" he'd asked with way too much excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Do you get spy gadgets? Matching disguises? Oh! You should totally get matching tattoos."

Kate Bishop added with a snort, "If either of them blows up a mansion, I’m calling dibs on the security footage. And the explosion angles. I’ve got a whole highlight reel in my head already."

Steve had been confused. Disbelieving. "Bucky? Seriously? He hates holding hands. He physically recoils when people breathe too close to him."

Natasha had leaned in close to the screen and smirked. "Maybe the threat of poison will loosen him up. Or maybe this'll be the mission where he finally learns how to flirt without looking like he wants to escape through a wall."

Tony had already started taking bets.

"I give it three days before she snaps and murders him. Or vice versa. Either way, entertaining. Friday, start the office pool. Put me down for 'awkward sexual tension implosion' on Day 5."

Clint just whistled. "Guess I gotta move 'Mission Baby Shower' from December to next year."

Yelena cracked her knuckles with glee. "Can I be godmother? Even if it’s a fake baby. Just give me a fake baby. I want to test its espionage potential."

The earpiece teasing started almost immediately.

"Barnes, if you don’t compliment her dress, I swear to god, I will," Sam's voice buzzed in Bucky’s ear as you descended the hotel stairs, shimmering in a sleek navy gown. "Don’t make me call dibs."

Bucky grumbled, "You’re not even on this mission."

"Don’t need to be. I got the livestream."

You smiled faintly, aware of Bucky’s silence. "Is Sam threatening you again?"

"He’s threatening you, technically."

Yelena's voice chimed in, all fake innocence. "James, you look very... tense. Maybe she should give you a massage. For cover. For the mission."

"Not helping," Bucky muttered, ears tinting pink.

"Oh, but I’m excellent at helping," Yelena replied. "I helped Kate dye her eyebrows once. Only burned a little."

Peter added in a whisper-shout, "Guys! He just looked at her like she invented breathing. I’m writing this down."

Tony: "I better get at least a five-act romantic arc or I’m cutting funding."

Bucky was quiet.

Then he looked at you, slow and deliberate, and asked, "You okay with this?"

You nodded. Something in him settled. Maybe.

Day one already felt long, and the gala hadn’t even started.

It was a mess of security walkthroughs, earpiece tests, rehearsed interactions, and learning which fork went with which entree. Bucky didn't speak unless he had to, and when he did, it was clipped and functional. You filled in the silences with charm and diplomacy, making Peter laugh over text, and trying to ignore the way Bucky flinched every time your shoulder brushed his.

The ring was beautiful—sterling silver, classic cut, not too flashy. You slipped it on and felt the weight of it. Too real.

Bucky adjusted his tie and muttered, "You sure this looks okay?"

You stepped closer, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. His eyes dropped to your hands.

"You clean up alright, Barnes."

He looked up. Something unreadable passed between you.

The summit was held in a grand hotel ballroom, chandeliers glittering overhead. You and Bucky were introduced as "James Barnes and fiancée." That word sounded strange in your ears.

"Annnd fiancée," you drawled. "I’m going to start introducing myself as Fiancée Barnes."

Bucky chuckled—light, airy, almost out of character. That was strange too.

Even stranger when he placed a hand on the small of your back, warm and possessive. You thought it would be hard to make him act like he loved you. God, this already felt natural.

You didn’t have to fake the shiver.

You passed diplomats, smiling, nodding, sipping wine you hated. Bucky played his part with quiet grace, moving like a shadow at your side. When someone asked how you met, he surprised you by weaving an elaborate, entirely made-up story about a coffee shop and spilled books and rainy afternoons.

He smirked when he saw your face.

"What?" he murmured. "Figured I’d contribute to the fantasy."

Back in the surveillance van, Tony clutched his chest.

"He’s improvising! Our boy is growing up!"

Clint mimed wiping away a tear. "It’s so beautiful."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Idiots."

Sam: "Wait, did he just adjust her necklace for her? I swear Barnes is going to combust."

Yelena: "Let it happen. Combustion is very romantic."

Peter: "Do you think they’ll kiss by Day 6? I have a theory."

For the first day it was stiff, silent, and filled with the kind of micro-interactions that would make a body language analyst cry from secondhand embarrassment.

You fumbled with your earpiece while Bucky stood in the corner like a brooding gargoyle. When it came time to descend to the gala, you slipped into a sleek navy gown and caught him watching you—not staring, just... noticing.

"Barnes, if you don’t compliment her dress, I swear to God, I will," Sam’s voice buzzed in Bucky’s ear. "You’re not even on this mission," Bucky grumbled.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just... didn’t expect that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect what?”

“That color. Looks good on you.”

You blinked. Was that a compliment? From Bucky Barnes? Sam’s voice crackled in your ear from comms. “He’s evolving. Give the man a sticker.”

"Don’t need to be. I got the livestream."

You smiled faintly. "Is Sam threatening you again?"

"He’s threatening you, technically."

The gala was a blur of forced smiles and champagne. You looped your arm through his. His was solid, warm, unmoving. People asked questions. Where did you meet? How long had you been together?

 "Coffee shop," he said smoothly. "She dropped three books on my foot." You turned, wide-eyed. "It was raining," he continued. "I offered her my umbrella. She told me to get my own."

The man could lie. And worse—he could lie well. He even smirked at your shocked expression. "What?" he murmured. "Figured I’d contribute to the fantasy." Tony, listening from the surveillance van, clutched his chest. "He’s improvising! Our boy is growing up!"

Back in your suite that night, you lay side by side but a safe foot apart, both staring at the ceiling.

"Day one down," you said quietly. "Yeah," Bucky replied. "You snore."

Day Two was a little looser, a little less like you were two strangers playing house. The mission was still the priority, of course—but the details got blurrier.

By morning, something had shifted—imperceptibly, like the temperature rising just one degree. He handed you coffee before you could ask. Black, just the way you liked it.

You blinked. “You remembered?” “You said it yesterday.” You hadn’t realized he was listening.

During your daily romantic walk, meant for optics, Bucky offered you his arm. You blinked.

"It’s for the cover," he said stiffly. "People are watching."

Later, walking the manicured palace grounds for ‘optics,’ Bucky offered you his arm. No warning. Just extended it stiffly like it was procedure. You took it without hesitation, ignoring the way your heart thudded against your ribs.

“People are watching,” he murmured.

“You say that like you’re not enjoying it,” you replied.

He didn’t respond, but his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once. Soft. Unintentional, maybe. But it lingered.

At brunch, you stole bacon from his plate.

“You’re going to start a war,” he muttered.

“You could’ve stabbed me. You didn’t.”

“I’m evolving,” he deadpanned.

Sam: “Ohhh, he’s learning. Next up: eye contact that lasts longer than three seconds.”

Yelena: “Wait until he accidentally brushes her hand. He’ll short-circuit like a toaster.”

Later, you helped him adjust his tie before a security debriefing. You were close—too close. The knot was slightly crooked. Your hands stilled on his chest.

“Hold still,” you said.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly.

Neither of you moved.

That night, in bed, he rolled onto his side, closer than the night before. Not touching, but nearer. Intentional.

“You don’t snore,” he said softly.

“You lied?”

“I wanted you to stop talking.”

You laughed into the dark. “It didn’t work.”

You both laughed—soft and tired. His shoulder brushed yours. Neither of you moved away.

Day three started with a near wardrobe disaster.

You had exactly 12 seconds before your zipper betrayed you, and your communicator crackled with static as you wrestled with it.

"Uh, problem," you muttered.

Bucky, dressed and brooding by the minibar, looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“This damn zipper. It’s stuck, and I’m not showing up to the ambassador’s brunch half-dressed.”

You turned your back to him, exposing the rogue zipper. He hesitated, like you’d just asked him to dismantle a bomb. Slowly, reluctantly, he stepped forward.

His metal hand brushed the small of your back.

And then—

Sam (over the earpiece): “Easy, Romeo. That’s a zipper, not a detonator.”

Nat: “Use the thumb, Barnes. Gently. She’s not a nuclear device.”

Yelena: “If he rips her dress, I get to pick the next one. Leather. Black. Combat-ready.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he zipped you up in stiff silence. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin like sun-warmed steel.

“There,” he mumbled.

“Thanks.” You turned to face him, trying very hard not to notice the proximity.

Clint: “Can we get a little less eye contact and a little more moving toward the door, lovebirds?”

Peter: “I bet they stared at each other for five whole seconds. Classic pre-kiss energy.”

Kate: “Let them build tension, damn. This is peak romcom pacing.”

Later, during a stroll through the ornate gardens for your daily “fake romantic walk,” Bucky offered you his arm.

You blinked.

He cleared his throat. “It’s for the cover. People are watching.”

Right. Sure. The hand he offered was warm and steady. You looped your arm through his, ignoring how your heart stuttered.

Sam: “Ohhh, he’s learning. Next up: eye contact that lasts longer than three seconds.”

Yelena: “Wait until he accidentally brushes her hand. He’ll short-circuit like a toaster.”

You squeezed his arm playfully. “You're getting good at pretending.”

He glanced sideways. “I’m not pretending as much as I probably should be.”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t sure what to say to that.

Luckily—or unluckily—you were interrupted.

Tony: “Heads up, kids. Possible security breach in the south hallway. Eyes sharp.”

Bucky stiffened. His whole demeanor shifted into soldier mode, the warmth fading into stone.

You touched his arm gently. “Hey. You’ve got this.”

He gave a short nod. "Stay close."

The breach turned out to be a glitchy security drone—nothing dangerous, but it had thrown everyone into high alert.

That night, exhausted and a little shaken, you found yourself brushing your teeth beside Bucky in awkward silence.

Your pajamas were mismatched—Stark’s branded t-shirt and plaid pants—and Bucky was in a henley and sweatpants, somehow looking like a sleepwear model anyway.

He spit into the sink and caught your eye in the mirror.

“You drool in your sleep.”

You squinted. “You’ve been watching me sleep?”

“You talk, too. Something about… pancakes and fighting a goose.”

“That sounds accurate.”

You both laughed—soft and tired—and your shoulders brushed as you leaned over the sink.

Nat (deadpan): “If you kiss right now, I swear to God I will make you both run sparring drills in full formalwear.”

Sam: “You think he’s that brave? Barnes would faint.”

Yelena: “I vote, we place bets. If they kiss within the week, Peter owes me churros.”

Peter: “What? I didn’t—fine, but only if it’s on the lips.”

By Day Four, the ease between you and Bucky had settled into something strange and wonderful.

You had inside jokes. Shared routines. A rhythm.

He always poured your coffee first. You always stole the blanket. He grumbled, but didn’t take it back.

At breakfast, you caught him staring—not in the creepy way. In the you-had-no-idea-you-were-doing-it way.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He looked away, ears pink. “Nothing.”

Yelena: “That wasn’t nothing. That was ‘I wonder what she looks like in my hoodie’ eyes.”

Kate: “He’s definitely thought about that. Multiple times.”

Tony: “He’s doomed. She’s doomed. Everyone’s doomed. This mission is a romcom masquerading as a diplomatic op.”

That night, after the gala, you were tipsy from champagne and barefoot in the kitchenette, eating strawberries from the minibar.

Bucky leaned against the doorway, watching you.

"You’re not making this easy,” he said, voice low.

“Easy?”

“This is supposed to be fake.”

You blinked. “And?”

“I’m not doing a great job pretending.”

Your heart stopped.

He stepped forward. One slow, deliberate step at a time until he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—earthy, clean, too expensive for someone who still used flip phones.

You swallowed. “Then don’t.”

He leaned in—and just as your breath caught, he pulled back.

“We’re still on a mission.”

Nat (over the earpiece): “…You absolute coward.”

Yelena: “Throw a chair at him.”

Sam: “He’s gonna regret that for the rest of his unnatural life.”

You turned away, chest tight. “Right. Of course.”

But Bucky didn’t move for a long moment.

Neither did you.

Day 5 was like watching the whiplash movie, its like there was a switch flipped in bucky.

You woke to find Bucky already awake, perched near the window with a book in hand, sunlight cutting across his cheek. His hair was damp from a recent shower, curling just slightly at the ends. He looked peaceful in a way that made your heart ache

A  lazy morning and too many strawberries. You padded barefoot through the suite in one of his T-shirts because yours was in the laundry.

He saw you and just... stared. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“It’s just... you look comfortable.”

You shrugged. “Should I not be?”

“No,” he said. “It’s good.”.

"What are you reading?"

He lifted the cover. "The Hobbit."

You blinked. "You're reading Tolkien?"

Bucky shrugged, almost sheepishly. "I like the world-building. And the maps."

"You're a secret nerd."

"Wasn’t much to do in cryo. I read a lot."

Peter’s voice crackled through your earpiece. "Wait, wait, Barnes reads The Hobbit? I knew he was cool. I knew it."

Sam added, "Bet he's got a Gandalf quote tattooed somewhere."

"One book does not a nerd make," Yelena chimed in. "But if he starts quoting Elvish, we riot."

You rolled your eyes and grinned. "You know what? You should watch Game of Thrones next."

He gave you a long, skeptical look. "That the one with the dragons and... everyone dies?"

"Basically."

He turned a page. "Alright. I’ll give it a shot."

Later that night, while reviewing the security layout, Bucky mumbled, "So what’s a Lannister again?"

You choked on your water. "You're actually watching it?"

He smirked. "I said I’d give it a shot."

That evening, he surprised you even more. You were rambling about a diplomat who couldn’t pronounce ‘Latvian’ when Bucky cut in dryly:

"Maybe he thinks it’s a kind of cheese."

You burst into laughter, nearly dropping your earpiece.

Sam’s voice cracked through. "DID HE JUST—DID BUCKY BARNES MAKE A JOKE?"

Natasha chimed in, amused. "Mark the day."

Bucky looked satisfied. "I like hearing you laugh."

You paused. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his words lingered.

Day six felt like a real fantasy.

It was the final day of the summit. The atmosphere was electric and draining all at once.

Just before the summit dinner, the entire team was monitoring the ballroom through comms. You and Bucky had split up to schmooze the various delegates—at least on paper. In reality, you were sneaking glances at each other across the room like teenagers with a crush.

That’s when Sam’s voice crackled in your ear again.

“Hey, Barnes. If you keep staring at her like that, the Latvian prime minister’s gonna think he’s your type.”

You nearly choked on your champagne.

Yelena hummed. “Honestly, I ship it.”

Bucky covered his mouth to hide the smirk.

Natasha chimed in smoothly, “I give it two more flirtatious remarks before one of you combusts.”

Clint: “My money’s on Barnes.”

Then Steve’s voice, smooth as ever, broke through the static:

“Welcome back, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky visibly froze, one corner of his mouth twitching, like he wanted to grin and groan at the same time. A blush crept over his cheeks, and he instinctively rubbed the back of his neck like a kid caught passing notes in class.

You caught his reaction and grinned. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he muttered quickly.

“Oh no, no. That blush is something. What’d Steve say to you?”

“Nothing important.”

You tilted your head. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He blinked. “Did you just—?”

“Say you’re cute?” You shrugged. “Yeah. What, shocked I find you attractive now that you’re letting your 40s flirt game show?”

He gave a soft chuckle, voice low. “I’m not even at full power yet.”

“Oh no,” Sam said in your ears, “he’s back, and he’s flirting. World, prepare yourself.”

Peter whispered dramatically, “This is better than the ending of descendants 2.”

You wore a dark green gown that hugged your frame, matched with gold accessories. Bucky was already dressed when you stepped out. His eyes flicked up and down once, then stayed on your face.

"You keep dressing like that, and I’ll forget how to speak."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

Your breath caught, because this time he wasn’t flustered. He was smooth. Almost cocky.

"Barnes, are you flirting with me?"

He gave a sly half-smile. "Might be. You gonna report me to HR?"

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re the worst."

"And yet here you are, still holding my hand."

Your fingers were laced together. You hadn’t even noticed.

Throughout the night, Bucky dropped more of those subtle jabs:

"Careful, you keep looking at me like that, I might get ideas."

"I’d offer you a drink, but I already make your head spin."

"We’re married, technically. I’m allowed to be obsessed."

Each time, your face warmed. Each time, your heart thudded a little harder.

During a slow dance, he leaned in close.

"Still fake?"

You swallowed hard. "I don’t know anymore."

Over the earpiece, Yelena whispered, "God, finally."

Sam sighed dramatically. "My ship is sailing."

Nat: "They’re disgustingly cute."

Peter: "Can I be the flower boy? I have glitter cannons."

You both laughed.

Day seven came and went, that also meant it was the end of your play pretend marriage.

The mission wrapped. No explosions. No gunfights. No poisoned desserts. Just a hundred photo ops and a thousand half-smiles.

That morning, you found Bucky asleep beside you. Fully on the bed now, one arm sprawled across the pillow between you. His copy of The Hobbit lay open on his chest, pages crinkled.

You picked it up carefully and bookmarked the spot.

He blinked awake slowly, eyes meeting yours. "Morning."

"Morning. I think Bilbo’s about to meet the dragon."

He smiled. "Good part."

You watched him stretch, muscles flexing, hair a glorious mess.

"You’re not making this easy," you whispered.

He looked over. "Easy to do what?"

"Forget this was fake."

The night before you left Vienna, you and Bucky took one final walk around the quiet city. The summit had wrapped. The threats were neutralized. The diplomats had all gone home, and the cobblestone streets glistened under the glow of old-world lanterns.

Your arms brushed as you walked.

Neither of you spoke.

Eventually, you found yourselves on a small bridge overlooking the river. The air smelled like rain and blooming jasmine. He leaned on the railing beside you, his shoulder just grazing yours.

You turned to him, quietly.

“This whole week…” you started.

He didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

“Feels weird to take the ring off.”

He swallowed hard. “Feels weird to pretend none of it meant anything.”

You stepped closer.

His hand reached out, almost involuntarily, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered on your cheekbone, calloused and gentle. You looked up at him.

His eyes searched yours.

You swore he was leaning in.

You leaned in too.

Then he froze.

He stepped back, jaw tightening.

“We… we can’t. It’s not real,” he said, voice low but tense.

You blinked. “Right.”

The air snapped like a rubber band. The moment dissolved.

You straightened, quietly crushed, nodding even as your throat burned.

Comms exploded.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Tony bellowed. “You didn’t kiss her?! You were right there! That was a million-dollar moment! Do you know how much money I’ve lost on this stupid betting pool?!”

Nat groaned: “They’re both hopeless.”

Yelena: “I am embarrassed for them.”

Sam: “One job, Barnes. You had one job. You just had to lean in.”

Clint’s voice cut in, sharp: “Break her heart and I break both your kneecaps.”

Peter, heartbreak in his tone: “This is just like 10 Things I Hate About You. Kat finds out Patrick was paid to date her... then she cries in English class... I’m not okay.”

And then Wanda’s voice joined, lilting with sarcasm and judgment.

“Oh please, Barnes. Do you want me to bend reality so you did kiss her? Because that’s the only way this is going to feel less tragically awkward.”

Bucky groaned audibly. “Wanda…”

She laughed. “You’re telling me, Mr. Flirty-1943 suddenly forgets how to close a three-inch gap? I have seen you take out Hydra bunkers with more confidence.”

You tried not to laugh but failed—shoulders shaking silently as Bucky rubbed his face in embarrassment.

Wanda: “This is coming from a literal witch, Barnes. There are hexes for this kind of thing. I’m tempted to use them.”

Tony again: “God, even Maximoff’s fed up. Do something, Barnes. Before Clint and Yelena form a vigilante group.”

Fury’s voice returned, a growl now: “I’m going to destroy this comm system myself. With a hammer.”

Click. Silence.

You let out a soft breath and glanced at Bucky. He was still red in the ears, jaw tight, clearly rattled by all of it.

You tried to smile. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Bucky stared at the ground, fists clenched at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I know.”

He muttered, “I liked it better when I was just the guy reading Tolkien.”

You smiled, and despite it all—despite the nearly kiss, the tension, the sudden cold feet—there was a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

The walk back was quiet. Not tense—just full of things unsaid.

When you got to your suite, he held the door for you. His hand hovered at your back but never touched you.

That night, he slept facing the wall.

You stayed awake a while, staring at the ceiling, the ring cold on your finger.

When Fury checked in that afternoon, you and Bucky were side-by-side on the couch, feet tangled beneath a ridiculous fur throw Stark had insisted made the room “romantic enough for Europe.” You’d both been laughing—soft, quiet laughter over nothing important—when Fury’s face appeared on the screen.

He stared at you both for a long beat.

Fury sighed. “You two are too good at this. Almost makes me believe you idiots are in love.”

Sam immediately jumped in. “We told you.”

Yelena: “Kiss already.”

Natasha: “They’re too stubborn. Bet they’ll need another mission to figure it out.”

Clint: “I give it a week.”

Peter: “I HAVE A PLAYLIST. It starts with Can’t Help Falling in Love. I’m emotionally invested.”

There was a loud click as Fury cut the comms with what could only be described as fury.

You and Bucky stared at each other in the silence that followed.

The warmth in your chest dimmed slightly.

“We’re not really in love,” you said softly, barely louder than a breath. There was a hesitation in your voice you didn’t bother hiding.

His fingers brushed yours.

His face was unreadable. He just stared, eyes flicking to your lips and back to your eyes. There was something warring in his gaze—something fierce and afraid all at once.

Then he looked away.

The moment slipped again.

When you returned to New York, everything about the mission felt like it evaporated the second your feet hit Brooklyn pavement. You unpacked in silence. The diamond ring went into a drawer, buried under spare socks and tangled phone chargers. The dresses went back to their Stark Industries garment bags. You didn’t even look at the photos.

But the silence was too quiet. Your bed felt too cold.

And you missed him.

Three days later, there was a knock.

You opened the door to find him there.

Hoodie. Sweats. Hair tousled like he’d slept terribly. A Tolkien bookmark poked out from his pocket—crinkled from being carried around too long.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then he held out the ring.

"You wore it better," he said.

You blinked, heart doing something very unhelpful.

You took it slowly. Your hand lingered on his.

He didn’t leave.

And neither did you.

It was supposed to be fake.

But the warmth of his hand, the way he looked at you—not as a soldier, not as a partner, but as a man who had chosen to be here—felt more real than anything in Vienna.

He sat beside you on the couch.

You sat in silence for a moment before you reached into your drawer and pulled out The Hobbit.

You nudged it toward him.

He smiled. "Read it to me?"

"Start of something real," you murmured.

He leaned his shoulder against yours. And maybe, next time… You’d finish The Hobbit together.

(You've got mail!) Honestly let me know if i made any mistakes but also heyyy i hope you guys liked the first chapter well..introduction chapter. I honestly had to rethink all this and be like uhhhhh i have no clue if this is good since this is my first bucky fanfic. CHAT IM SCAREDDDDDDDDD

(Tags) @bbsbrina @captainnnatheweirdo

[whoipretended2b]

Just posted chapter 19 of The Android and we got our first antagonist POV chapter (but not our last!) and I am loving everyone's theories.

When I first started posting this fic I couldn't have dreamed that people would be so invested in what's happening in this world I've built, but I am loving it.

Here are some of the guesses on this last chapter (some of them have been edited for length):

“Ohhh I have so many theories about Michael. One being that he's actually an android himself, and another being that he was involved in Project LifeSpan in some capacity, and has perhaps taken it over from Chuck. Also, he's giving major Littlefinger "Chaos Is a Ladder" vibes...”

“Michael in this universe could be so many things… but a disgruntled son of Chuck Shurley? Disgusted by the androids made in his father’s image? I mean, as usual, fuck John Winchester, he can die in a hole. But I am loving the layers your world has!”

“Michael intrigues me, and on absolutely no grounds whatsoever I think he knows about/was in some way involved in Project LifeSpan and it's where he developed his anti-android vendetta.”

“YOOOOOOO!!! Just finished reading everything so far. I’ve adored all the twists... I’m also dying to see what happens when Castiel meets John. Also, was Michael mentioned earlier? Gonna have to go back and look.”

“My current wild-ass theory is that Michael is actually Chuck, uploaded into an even fancier stealth cyborg body. (But maybe not. I bet John and Gordon’s terrorist cells have pretty good “prove you’re 100% human” tests…)”

“Michael is making moves to be the Godfather and John is about to be pushed off the board... Especially if his android vendetta is truly just dressed up corporate espionage. I think he's behind the Seraph programme, funding it maybe.”

“I think Michael is an android... and he sees other androids as competition for power.”

“And will Michael want something from Dean? (omg using him as a vessel would be insane.) Does he know about Cas? Are they all connected? (The military where we already got Zachariah and Naomi so Michael fits there?? And he became a part of the movement a year ago?? After Cas escaped??)”

I love seeing how everyone’s brains are working overtime. Some of you are off in the weeds and some of you are honestly scaring me with how close you’re getting. Can’t wait for you all to see what’s next!

New chapter Friday. Bring your pitchforks and tinfoil hats!

[obsessedobsesser]

It's been a while since I put together Part 1 of my GO fanfic recs. Having read a ton more since then, I figured it was time for another list.

In no particular order:

1. 'On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller)' by RockSaltAndRoll (Explicit)

This fic takes place in 1941 with MI5Agent!Crowley and bookseller!Aziraphale. Aziraphale is first recruited by, who he thinks, is an MI5 but turns out not to be. Crowley, an actual MI5 Agent then recruits him to "double cross the double-crosser". Lots of pining and badassery (from both sides) ensue in this one!

2. 'Ricochet' by NaroMoreau (Explicit)

I'm a sucker for anything written by Naro but 'Ricochet' has become one of my favourite fics of theirs. Crowley is missing his angel after S2 and ends up summoning another version of Aziraphale. So, we get 1 Crowley, 2 Aziraphale's. The best mix. The writing in this is *chef kiss*. How Naro writes Crowley's pain and the characterizations of the 2 separate Aziraphale's -- just gorgeous.

3. ‘Terminus’ by BraveLight (Teen & Up Audiences)

I had no idea how much I needed an Astronaut!Aziraphale and MissionController!Crowley AU in my life until I read this fic. They have to team up to get Aziraphale home, but there’s way more to the mission than meets the eye. The twists and turns had me clicking 'next chapter' instantly. And the way Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship is written is so gentle and romantic—it’s perfect.

4. "Villainous" by IneffablePenguin (Explicit)

This is THE fairy tale AU you need to read! Crowley (Crow) is a sorcerer, and Aziraphale (Azra) is a prince—this fic honestly feels like it belongs on a best-seller list. IneffablePenguin has a real gift for painting vivid scenes that are so easy to picture. And those final chapters? They totally got me. I couldn't put this fic down.

5. "Cilice It To Say" by izzyspussy (Explicit)

Ho boy. This will be a fic I'll think about often. It's up there with the one I mention next. It's not as explicit as some of the other I've read but jesus christ. As it says on the tin: Crowley has a kink - The kink is Aziraphale. This is big on divinity kink, if that's not your jam, you may not like this one.

6. "Tether" by Ginger_Cat (Explicit)

It's coming up on a year of reading this fic and I think about Chapter 6 constantly. I don't want to spoil it but let me tell you, it's worth it. Aziraphale, now Supreme Archangel, keeps getting summoned back to Earth by Crowley but they don't know why.

7. "Intermezzo" by FeralTuxedo (Explicit)

Aziraphale is a music critic who, back in the day, tanked Crowley’s classical music career with a harsh review of his debut opera. If my fic recs haven’t given it away yet, I’m all about that bickerflirting, and this fic provides. It's also by FeralTuxedo. Anything written by them is 10/10.

WIP'S

8. “Reclaimed” by gallifreyshawkeye (Mature):

Are you in the mood for some Crowley Whump? If so, this fic DELIVERS. Gallifreyshawkeye knows how to paint a very vivid image of injury, so do mind the tags. This takes place 4 years after S2 and Crowley gets dragged down to hell by Satan in front of Aziraphale. It's honestly one of my favourite WIP's at the moment. I am on the edge of my seat whenever a new chapter comes out.

9. "Wavelengths & Frequencies" by imposterssyndrome, shades_of_eccles_cakes (Explicit)

Who doesn't love an enemies to friends to lovers story? While this fic only has 3 chapters so far, I am hooked. But hey, you give me a fic with Crowley and Aziraphale as radio hosts, I am there! I'm so excited to see how this develops and to see more of our 2 idiots going at each other.

10. "Stroke Play" by moonyinpisces (Explicit)

Moony knows how to write pining and I am here for it. In this AU, Crowley competes in beach volleyball, while Aziraphale takes on the golf course at the 2024 Olympics. They're both so down bad for each other but no one communicates. I love it!

Got any good fic recs? Send them my way :) Sharing is caring.

[leupagus]

but it's all right now, chapter 2

It turns out that Jack expresses affection mainly through 

a) cooking 

b) sex

c) espionage

There’s lessons on encryption, which is cool as hell — Jack’s actually seen an Enigma machine — and how to swallow and “retrieve” messages, which is less cool. “Are you seriously suggesting that I, Terry Doolittle, Vice President of Foreign Exchange Trades at the First National Bank—"

“It’s a very impressive job title, darling,” Jack says, agreeable, holding out what looks like an oversized pill. It’s a good thing he’s cute.

“—that I, your girlfriend of three months—”

“We’ve been together for four months,” he corrects, less agreeable, frowning.

“You called me your girlfriend on March 12,” she reminds him.

“And you only called me your boyfriend on April— this is hardly the point,” he huffs.

“No, the point is that I’m not upchucking that into a bowl or something just because you want me to be the next Pussy Galore.”

“Naturally not,” he says, though there’s the telltale wrinkle of his nose that happens whenever she mentions James Bond. Apparently he’s based on a real guy and Jack hates the son of a bitch. “You simply allow it to pass through, and retrieve it in due course.”

Terry refocuses on their conversation. She wishes she hadn’t. “‘In due course’? Jonathan Beauregard Neville, I am not sifting through my own shit even more than I’m not upchucking into a bowl, and I was already not gonna upchuck into a bowl.”

[tookishcombeferre]

Full disclosure I think this has sat half-edited in my drafts for like a week at least.

But, I'm so happy I took my time on it. I think the beats of the chapter hit nicely. The foreshadowing for 4 chapters down the road is doing what I want it to do. So, I just wanted to make sure things were doing what I needed them to before I posted it.

For tumblr folks, I can write a bit of an extended author note. Which is always fun.

About the plot chasm: In the first iteration of this story, there was going to be an entire espionage sublot that involved Hexley Hall. However, in order to spark that, something really devastatingly sad had to happen. I didn't like that. So, after about five minutes of thinking about it, I scrapped it. However, I REALLY wanted my espionage subplot back because going full Mission Impossible into Hexley Hall just seemed like too fun of an opportunity to pass up. Also, the magic involved in that subplot still existed in the plot I currently was writing, and I suddenly realized I had no plans to resolve that. Therefore, I decided, I'm filling my plot chasm with an appearance from Greylock near the final climax of the story. Not revealing anymore details about that. But, he's well more involved now that I'd initially planned on him being because I had a plot chasm the size of the Grand Canyon that only Greylock could solve. As for the potential one-shot: I've been doing a lot of of work on lore for the Tri-Kindgoms and the Minor Kingdoms for this story and for its prequel. Specifically, I've been developing lore for Corinthia (which is where I hc that Winifred came from based on her design.) I was thinking about writing something set during the ep. Mystic Meadows set from her perspective that has something to do with the lore of that Kingdom and her powers of minor divination. Not sure if I'll do it, but if folks are interested, I'd consider writing it. Some of the stuff I'm thinking about putting in the one-shot are going to come up in the fic, some of it might not? I dunno. (I gave Cedric and Cordelia middle names in my head, and it's my personal opinion first name was Goodwyn's choice second name was Winifred's. So, this would touch on that.) Other notes: I really don't have much other than what I put in the author's note. I often write in "Acts" like a play. I'd say, as it stands, this story has approximately 3. Act 1 was for exposition. Act 2 is about relationships. Act 3 will be about magic and then will also resolve the whole story. This chapter is kind of the transition point that sets up that transition between exposition and the 2 different longer acts that each have their own climaxes and resolutions. That's not to say you won't get details about magic AT ALL in this next part, you will. But, the primary focus in this next section is on relationships, and all the lore tidbits you get are at the service of fostering connections between characters. As for things that are coming in terms of stuff getting "dark," this will probably come up again in a later author's note, but there's a scene I'm writing that might just hit me different because the feelings in the scene keep hitting a nerve based on something that happened to me a little over a year ago. So, like, do *I* think it's dark because it hits in a personal place, or is it actually dark? I always err on the side of caution in those matters. So, like I said, just pay attention to the TW's and you should be fine. So, yeah, that's what I've got. Cheers, Pip 💚💜

[lilac-den]

This is probably terrible but since you posted that ask about Maverick and pet play I’ve been pretty set on his MC having the ability to turn into animals. Like I know everything’s early stages and I wanna try all routes and variables but it just makes me laugh.

For the actual ask part, can that or the material transformation abilities be used in more casual instances in normal life or would you say the downsides are too great?

Y'all really be thirsting for Maverick, I stg XD

To answer your question:

I'm planning to try to implement their usage - like how these powers can aid you in, say, espionage or snooping around? For the time being, however, you can't use these powers in public due to a political reason that you'll learn about once you meet the emperor (hoping it's next chapter but I also don't want it too long for you all, especially given what I'm gonna be writing 💀 ho boy)

[nerdieforpedro]

WIP Tag Game (The XL edition) 🤣

I was tagged by @missredherring and sure I did it earlier this week. Could I have come up with a new WIPs because my mind is never quiet? 🤐

Yes, yes, Yes I did. 😆 I’m also structuring it similar to how she had it because it spoke to me. 🤭

Current foci (because having just one is difficult as I bounce around):

1. Weddings 101 with Dieter and @angelofsmalldeath-codeine - We’re going to finish it one day or at least the next chapter. Also AO3 link.

2. Coasting through the Rainbow �� - I’m half way done with chapter four of this finally. 😆 2 and 1/2 more to go! Also AO3 link.

3. Waters of Lethe - The Qimir one. Maybe 2-5 parts? We’ll see where it goes. So far only one part. AO3 link

4. Honey and Sugarplum - With Jack Daniels and an OFC. Very sweet, smutty kinda and fluffy. ☺️ AO3 link.

Excuse me Ma’am? We’re over here in the back!

1. Unnamed Fae Jack Daniel fic for Monster Smash Challenge. I did write out some Fae facts for this one and I plan to keep it…..an actual one shot?! It’s been 900 years since Nerdie’s done one of those.

2. Fifty-Six Wildflower Lane - this one with Frankie still needs an ending, then I can post it here like. Just need part number four. AO3 link.

3. Tasting Ambrosia - Ezra, ever the scoundrel nagging at the back of my brain has a small WIP. No idea where this one is going. Also trying to do drama and will he make it out sort of deal. 👀

We been waiting for our day to come for so long:

1. Travel to You - A sweet and maybe a little obsessive Javi G? He’s adorable, has golden curls and can shoot those clay bird things down accurately so, totally fine. Have discord and FFXIV references, very nerdy. 🤣 AO3 link.

2. Therapy for the Well-Adjusted - Marcus Pike and Imani are finally going on that date. Or do they? Maybe they go somewhere else? Also AO3 link.

3. A Safe Place for Us - Dieter and Aisha continue to sort their feelings and trying to make a baby. What could go wrong? Also AO3 link.

4. Green Shop of Memories - that Marcus Moreno AU where I made him a wizard/warlock that owns a cafe. 😘 It’s all sad, and cute. Plus it has fairies and a Magic Council. Also fake dating? AO3 link.

5. Kissed by the Sun - I had an idea that Oberyn Martell was a son or descendant of Apollo and he pissed off Venus (Aphrodite if ya nasty) and was barred from his soulmate being able to interact with him other than his voice. Because…..I read too many Marcus A fics that kept referencing Roman gods. 🫡 AO3 link

6. Din’s in the Neighborhood- Modern Din AU that has him meet on OFC DV survivor post divorce. Also Grogu is a human boy and we have Finn/Poe. There’s also Johnnie Mae and Luke that are just together? No one’s asking and I don’t think either of them would given an answer. 😆 So many cameos and randomness, so little time. Side notes: I gave Din tattoos, Obi-Wan is a children’s author and there’s a Jedi Law & Order show. Also AO3 link.

7. Fire and Fury - Pero and Calista’s story likely has two more parts. Complete with smut, more fighting, a bathtub (I promised @avastrasposts that one) and they’ll get their revenge! But what happens after? Also AO3 link.

8. Hands of God - This could be a long one shot or I might have to split it up. The Marcus Acacius fic that @soft-persephone and @megamindsecretlair “gently suggested” that I write. I did start it. 👀 There will be some infidelity, plots, murder and a coup. Also a dash of smut just for seasoning. And maybe a subby Marcus A? Can I do it? Only time and Marcus’ sash will tell.

9. Front Office Adjunct - One of two Dave York fics. ☺️ Dave blackmails on OFC into working for him. Things appear to be stacked in his favor, but are they? This one is a slow burn one, enemies to lovers maybe? Also espionage, murder, violence, smutty and bad behavior. Just bad. 👀🤫 AO3 link

She hasn’t touched us in so long:

Pleasure Principle - The first series I ever started anywhere. Has Dave York in a toxic working on making it better relationship with an OFC. I’ll finish this one someday. 😭😭 Also AO3 link.

Uncomplicated Mi Amor - The fic where I swore I was going to have something sweet for Javier Peña. Which it is, I just haven’t finished it. 👀 Also I will finish someday. Also AO3 link.

Roc & Doc - A Tim Rockford crime series with an OFC ME that is my love letter to the likely thousands of hours I’ve spent watching crime procedurals or listening to true crime podcasts. Also AO3 link.

Some have just AO3 links, I haven’t gotten around to putting them on Tumblr yet and some are in both places. A few just exist in notes. 🗒️ I should also never look through my WIP this in depth again. This thing is very long. 🤣🤣🤣

NPT because you may have already done it but I described things this time around. 🙌🏽

@schnarfer @maggiemayhemnj @lotusbxtch @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @604to647

@inept-the-magnificent @connectioneverywhere @for-a-longlongtime @lady-bess @tinytinymenace

@perotovar @julesonrecord @yourcoolauntie @clawdee @magpiepills

@trulybetty @rhoorl @grogusmum @syd-djarin @sin-djarin

@harriedandharassed @missladym1981 @jolapeno @pedrospurplerain @alltheglitterandtheroar

@movievillainess721 @notapradagurl7 @bishtrouille @fhatbhabiee @secretelephanttattoo

@gasolinerainbowpuddles @din-cognito @djarins-cyare

[vanill-tea]

WIP Wednesday

as always I am a gigantic slow-poke when it comes to anything but I was tagged by both @lady-iizsil and @theoneandonlysemla for a WIP Wednesday one or two weeks back.

I have been feeling more creative lately so I actually have something I would like to show, it’s a deleted scene from the next chapter of my fan fiction “In the eye of the beholder” on AO3.

The chapter got to long so I had to cut it (also I think it wouldn’t have fit the pacing) but I still liked the premise of it so I decided to post it here.

Enjoy! :)

The group of students stumbled out of the Inn, their nervous yelps and shrieks could be heard throughout the empty streets of the small town. The cold winter air was whistling in between the buildings, hitting their drunken minds like a brick. They were urging Onmund to hold it in just a little longer until the poor man finally emptied his stomach behind a nearby tree stump.

“Oh gross,” Morwen mumbled under her breath as she turned away, trying to keep the contents of her own stomach on the inside.

“Told you we shouldn’t- hicks- shouldn’t have stayed that long, we obviously had too much,” Breyla slurred, the cold air slowly clearing her senses a little bit.

“This one thinks it’s perhaps too late for regret, but he agrees now that it is time to return to the College… after our Companion is done,” he purred, ignoring the hurling sounds behind him.

In the meantime, Ancano had paid for his tab as well, getting ready to leave and follow them. So much for an evening of peace and quiet… but his work came first, and if they kept talking as they had been earlier in the tavern, then perhaps this could turn into a fruitful pursuit for his next report and possibly save him weeks’ worth of espionage.

The Mer fasted his cloak around his person as he left and quickly cast a spell of prolonged invisibility; even in their drunken state they could still notice him.

At the moment, they were seemingly still talking, discussing their next steps while the Nord was throwing up behind a tree stump.

Listening in on the conversation, it quickly dawned on him that those cretins still hoped to return to the dorms, despite their current drunkenness and the not so current disrepair of the icy stone bridge that led over a harrowing chasm with nothing but rock, even more ice and a few puddles at the bottom.

At this hour, there wouldn’t be anyone to guard the bridge either, so no one could help them cross safely… and Ancano himself would not dare intervene. First, they did not trust him and would thus not heed his command and second, if one of them happened to fall, would that be so bad for him? It would certainly decrease the number of migraines he would suffer over the semester.

After the Nord had finally stopped and regained control over his stomach, they decided to head back, with the Thalmor following several meters behind. It seems they have not yet realized that they were about to trap themselves in quite the dangerous predicament.

The group stumbled along the frozen road leading up to the bridging, hanging onto each other and laughing. They passed a lone Cityguard who only shook his head as the group stepped onto the bridge without care, stumbling along until they reached the first section with broken down rails and crumbling tiles.

They almost tripped over themselves struggling to even stand without holding onto the railing as they simply starred. One moment they looked at the section ahead and then the next back the way they came from.

“I- I don’t wanna cross that,” Onmund whined, seemingly close to hurling once more.

“Going back also seems a little steep for J’Zargo’s taste,” the Khajiit replied as he glared at the section behind them that seemed closer to a slide to him than an actual bridge.

“We could try and form a living chain,” Marianna mumbled while Breyla looked at the woman as if she had just seen the peak of stupidity.

Ancano observed quietly as they kept discussing over possible solutions. Going back seemed out of the question, they had no coin left to pay for a room and the previous section of the bridge that seemed in minor disrepair seemed too dangerous to them as well.

After a few minutes they had it down to just sleeping on the bridge, a suggestion that was quickly thrown out the window due to the temperature. Which only left them with Marianna’s brilliantly daft idea to form a chain and try to cross the section.

The mer watched in mild amusement as they took each other’s hands, leaving J’Zargo to go first, followed by Marianna and Breyla. Onmund stayed on the other side, holding onto the railing. At first, their stupid plan actually seemed to work as the students carefully shuffled over the icy tiles, trying their best not to look down.

As the cat was about to arrive at the other side, he reached for the pillar, hoping to grab onto the railing, but instead he lost his footing and slipped.

A sharp yelp escaped his throat as he started flaying his arms, breaking free from Marianna.

The Altmer tried to hold off J’zargo from falling, grabbing the Khajiit by his tail to pull him back, but as he landed back on the bridge, she herself stumbled back, arms waving through the air as she herself started slipping. With the Dunmer having stumbled back to the save section and the cat clinging to the floor, there was no one left to save her from falling.

She starred down into the ravine beneath her, eyes wide in fear with a scream stuck in her throat that couldn’t escape. Ancano didn’t know what foul spirits possessed him that moment, he should have let her perish. As a potential threat that would have been much easier. Still, he was beside her before even he had fully comprehended the situation and grabbed her by her wrist, his cloak of invisibility dissipating as he starred down at the woman clinging onto her arm.

Big green eyes pierced through the night, meeting his gaze as the other apprentices screamed. Ancano tried to remain stone faced, giving the woman a hearty thug to pull her from the edge and into his chest. He could only hope this lapse in judgement would not lead to him being hounded by them in the near future.

The woman looked up at him, her mind seemingly trying to comprehend her current situation as she clung to the mer like a lifeline.

“I… thank you…” she mumbled while Ancano’s scowl deepened, he did not enjoy anything about this situation.

Instead of answering he merely picked her up and sat her down at the other side where the railing before finally addressing her: “You should thank me. For your sheer foolishness alone, I should have not intervened.”

A huff escaped him as he stepped back, “And you four better do not assume that it will happen again, I have very important business to attend too, and your problems are not among them.”

With that he walked off, leaving them to fend for themselves, there was nothing of value to be gained after all.

Just another waste of time.

[figaroswilson]

𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙚𝙙 ⇒ 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘹 𝘦𝘹𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳!𝘰𝘧𝘤

Chapter 1

masterlist

story summary: Kira Barnes, the younger adopted sister of Bucky Barnes, is forced out of the dark underworld of espionage and into the light of the new world of superheroes when her brother abandons her with the Avengers to go on the run. She is set in her ways and determined to find her brother until she meets Pietro Maximoff, someone who challenges her black-and-white view of the world.

story warnings: violence, swearing, blood, descriptions of abuse

chapter word count: 2000

< previous chapter // next chapter >

read on wattpad

~ ✺ ~

When SHIELD collapsed, Kira convinced Sam to move to New York to be closer to the Avengers.

DC just wasn't quite the same for him anymore. Not after meeting Captain America and then promptly taking out the city's secret HYDRA cell.

Steve had originally suggested the move. Sam wouldn't have to be an Avenger in any official sense, but he could be around people he knew and trusted, which would be reassuring after that whole mess. It was Kira who eventually managed to persuade him, though. After he'd helped rescue her from HYDRA, they had quickly become close friends. Her insistence made the prospect of moving to a new city easier. Less daunting. It also didn't hurt he'd managed to find a place near the Avengers' Tower with rent that was actually reasonable.

Kira was, to say the least, glad for the company.

She often seemed to find herself alone in the Tower, whilst the rest of the team was out on a mission. It was for her benefit. Apparently. Her therapist insisted her mind just couldn't handle high levels of stress so soon after everything, so it was best to take a step back occasionally. Kira wasn't a fan of those sessions. Frankly, she would've dropped the whole thing if Tony hadn't insisted. And because it was nice to have someone who finally seemed to make sense of her fucked up head. Not that she would ever admit it.

Over time, she realised she didn't mind too much. She was always looking for an excuse to be at Sam's apartment anyways. The tiny, slightly messy, studio was her favourite place to be, helped mostly by the fact one of her closest friends lived there. Every time she would show up, the two would fall into an easy routine of buying greasy takeout and watching cheesy romances, no matter the time of day or the reason for Kira's appearance.

Like usual, they were sitting in what Kira called 'Sam's extended bedroom'. He insisted it was his living area. She wasn't convinced.

She had been staying over that weekend, whilst the rest of the team was on a mission somewhere in Eastern Europe. This time, she had been eager to miss out, urging the others to go on without her. She used the weekend-long visit as an excuse to get takeaway for nearly every meal, on Tony's card, despite Sam's protests that it could not be good for them at all. He quickly let it go when she threatened to eat his food.

"I don't get it." Sam pointed to the characters on-screen, confused at the newest movie Kira had put on. As it turned out, it was a family drama with multiple romantic storylines and it was starting to hurt Sam's head. "Is that supposed to be his little brother, grown-up?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And he doesn't recognise him? Like, at all?"

"Yeah..." she said, realising the absurdity of it now Sam had pointed it out. "But can you blame him? I mean, look at the actor playing him as an adult. He doesn't look like his younger self at all. Even his eye colour's different."

"Well, it is a movie," Sam reasoned. "It's fictional. Like, they 'struggled', but live in a mansion in central London. You're supposed to suspend your disbelief or whatever."

"Yeah, or whatever. It'd be easier to do if I wasn't so stressed about this stupid thing," Kira sighed. She poked at the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of her, with the back of her fork, as if that would hurry it up.

As much as she loved Sam, she hadn't bailed on the mission just to spend the entire weekend with him, though it was a perk. The actual reason, that had been slowly decrypting for the last two days, sat in front of her. The laptop she was doing it on, which she had found in a dumpster behind a pawn shop, was so run down it had to be kept permanently on charge, and its fan whirred so loudly, she was sure it was going to break. All to watch some stupid CCTV files so she and Sam could try and find her runaway brother.

Just like she'd promised Nat, she hadn't told anyone else about it. Which was why they were doing everything, in secret, in Sam's apartment, whilst the rest of the Avengers were away.

Kira had mainly taken over Nat's involvement in the search, as her memories returned, and Sam took over for Steve, to avoid suspicion from the rest of the team. The other Avengers only knew a couple of things about Jamie. First, he used to be Steve's best friend and was Kira's adoptive brother. Second, whilst his legal name was James Buchanan Barnes, Steve had given him the nickname Bucky and Kira the nickname Jamie. He was also a former Winter Soldier, currently on the run from the authorities and a topic that was completely off-limits.

But that was all they knew. They weren't aware of the extent of what Jamie had done. They hardly knew what Kira had done. The information in the files that, first, Tony, and then the rest of the team, had received, only touched on what Department X, and later HYDRA, had done to them. Not what Department X and HYDRA had made them do. Sam, Steve and Nat were the only ones that knew exactly who the Winter Soldiers had hurt. And, apart from Nat, no one knew anything else.

To Kira, that was fine. That was all they needed to know. The depth of what had happened in Department X, what had happened outside of Department X, and what Nat and Jamie were, wasn't their business. And what Kira was planning, dependent on finding Jamie, wasn't their business either. Not even Nat's. It didn't bother her much no one knew the whole truth. It wasn't like she was hurting them by not telling them. She didn't think they'd care much anyways.

Sam and Kira had spent nearly the whole of the last year trying to find Jamie. He, however, didn't seem to want to be found. It was clear he was hiding. After Nat had found the tape of him at the Captain America exhibition, only small signs of Jamie had shown up. First, they came from across North America, but later they started up in Europe. Mentions in police reports of someone sketchy near a crime scene with long brown hair, wearing a baseball cap, covering his face. Weird acts of kindness from a quiet man with a metal prosthetic arm. A mysterious stranger, walking to compensate for some heavy weight on his left, moving into an apartment, ignoring everyone and then quickly moving out again. It was still promising. Even if his movements never made sense.

There had been a tip-off, recently, to the police in Rome. A man with shoulder-length brown hair had reportedly stopped a bullet with his left hand. Of course, no one had taken it seriously. It was 'impossible'. Which was precisely why they had managed to hear about it. After some digging around, Kira found someone willing to sell her, through less than legal means, CCTV footage of the alley the day it took place. She had to decrypt it herself, though.

The laptop somehow whirred even louder now but didn't seem to be working any faster. It was so bad even Sam was starting to worry, glancing over at it one too many times. She was just glad it was badly encrypted. If the encryption was advanced, it would've needed a much more powerful device, the type only Tony had access to and that was a no-go. Plus, the laptop was old. No one would miss it once it finally croaked.

Still, the laptop was battered enough that the decryption might finish in anywhere from the next few minutes or the next few days. She sighed and looked up at the TV screen, instead. Bad idea. The younger brother was getting all teary-eyed at the older one, who still hadn't recognised him, whilst vaguely talking about their family. Maybe a movie about long-lost siblings wasn't a great idea right now.

The doorbell interrupted them then. Sam looked over at Kira, panicked. "It's okay," she reassured him. "My danger sense isn't going off, it's probably just Steve or Nat." She checked her phone, sighed and then held it up, showing the hour-old text from Tony that they must've missed. "See? It has to be them. They got back a while ago."

"You sure?" he asked.

"No, Sam. I've been lying about my powers this whole time. I'm not even a Super Soldier," she deadpanned.

"Hilarious," he said, sarcastically, getting up to open the door to Steve and letting him in.

"Aren't you guys supposed to be working?" he asked almost as soon as he entered, looking pointedly at the TV, before dumping his bag next to Sam's bed.

"What happened to 'hello'?" Kira muttered into her noodles.

"We are, don't worry," Sam answered, sitting back down. "It's just taking forever to work."

Steve walked over and squished into the small space between his two friends. He stared at the laptop for a while like his glare alone could fix it.

"Hey, Steve?" Kira asked.

"Yeah," he replied, turning to her with his usual kind smile.

"You know the mission?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"...What happened?"

He stared at her blankly for a second. Then, "Oh, right. Shit, sorry." He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "Yeah, it went well. You can read the mission report later if you want. Everything happened basically as planned," he told them. "Got Strucker and put him in jail, shut the base down, found Loki's sceptre— actually, there was something off." They looked at him curiously. "We found two enhanced. Twins. About your age." He turned to Kira.

"My age?" she asked sceptically. As Sam always loved to remind her, she was old enough to be his grandma. Great, more sad sibling stories, the voice in the back of her head added, unhelpfully.

"Biologically," he amended. "Think Strucker kidnapped and experimented on them, actually." Kira could almost see him lose his train of thought at the horrible realisation. More kids taken and hurt by Nazis for their own benefit. It was officially the world's shittiest never-ending cycle she would've been naive to think had miraculously stopped with her.

"Well, where are they now?" Sam asked, concerned.

"Not sure. They ran off almost immediately. Can't blame them. We're trying to keep tabs on them for the meantime, though."

"Why? You gonna invite them into the Avengers too? Get a little formerly kidnapped-by-HYDRA boyband going? A bit too specific, don't you think?" Kira joked, darkly. It was a bad habit.

"I mean, maybe. You might make some friends then, Ki." Steve was clearly very proud of himself with that. Kira was not.

"Hey!"

"Ouch."

"Or... you could come to the party Tony's hosting."

"Ugh, I already told you I'm not going," she turned away from them, defensive. "What the fuck am I going to do there? Smile as the richest and most boring people in the city tell me their life stories?"

"Sure. If you have to. At least you'll get in some practice socialising."

"You'll have fun, I promise," Sam tried.

"That's easy for you to say. Everyone loves you. Not many people like casual conversation with a Winter Soldier," she sulked. Kira paused. "Wait." She turned to Steve again. "Did you just say 'practice socialising'? What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, suddenly very offended. I know how to socialise... right? "Sam?"

He was silent for a second, clearly weighing up his options, before blurting out, with a pained look on his face, "Girl, you have no friends."

Kira scoffed. "What are you then?"

"Apart from me."

"And Nat?"

"You've known her forever. She doesn't count."

"Steve?"

"You work together. He doesn't count either."

She scowled at him.

"You've run out of people, haven't you?" Sam asked, a smile creeping up on his face.

"Oh, fuck you." Kira threw a pillow at his head as he burst out laughing.

~ ✺ ~

[uraniumwriting]

flowers smell sweet until they wither

Another prompt fill for @flashfictionfridayofficial , this time for the prompt "Gifted Violets"

Today, we go to Halli Reed once again, with a lesson about plants and taking breaks.

~~~~

Halli walked into the AE Lounge with a stack of books in her arms and deep bags under her eyes.

Before she had left her old life, she believed that the busiest she would ever be was when she took Advanced Placement Chemistry and Biology at the same time as a high school sophomore. Just a year later, though, she realized that she was dead wrong.

Two tests on etiquette, three quizzes on intergalactic history, and memorization checks on a million different things, all in the next week. And that was if Jason didn’t decide to spring something else on the group “to keep their senses sharp.”

How was she supposed to sleep ever again if this was now her life?

“You like the flowers?” Zac’s voice shocked Halli out of her thinking.

He sat at the large table in the center of the room, the one with actual chairs instead of the beanbags that were piled in the corners.

On that table was a vase of purple flowers.

“Where did those come from?” Halli slowly walked past the table. She preferred to sit in the corners, where she could more easily ignore the blankness of the walls that should’ve been filled with posters and other signs of teenage life.

“I joined in with the Gardening Club here for the day and brought them to share.” He gestured for her to come over. “They smell really sweet, you know.”

She squinted at him. The flowers were certainly too dark to be lavender, so all Halli could imagine them smelling like was pollen.

“I think I’m fine,” she finally said. “I’m behind on studying already, and Jason’s going to burn me alive if I don’t get back on schedule.”

“You nearly die, and he’s worried about you taking quizzes?” Zac scoffed and ran his fingers through his still-shaggy brown hair. “Just a few days ago you were in the infirmary, Halli.”

“I know, but this school isn’t afraid to throw people out on the street and you know it.” Halli frowned and flopped down on one of the bean bag chairs. “I can’t be weak if I want to survive here, and that means I have to focus on studying as much as possible before curfew.”

“They’re violets, by the way.”

“What?”

Zac gestured to the flowers. “These. Violets. You remember what flowers are, right?”

“You’re acting like I don’t go outside anymore.” Halli opened one of her textbooks to the chapter “Honeypots and Sleeper Agents.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you don’t forget who you are.” Slowly, Zac stood and walked over to the corner Halli had settled herself in. “That gas leak must’ve been terrifying for you, and I’m here for you.”

“The gas leak was nothing. There’s no permanent damage, and I’m not going to randomly drop dead.”

“And what about your mind?” To Halli’s annoyance, Zac sat on the beanbag next to her. “Aren’t you scared? I mean, if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust this place to protect me.”

“Well, good thing you aren’t in my shoes, then.” Halli did everything she could to focus on the words on the page. At the very least, the memorization checks would be informal, but Jason had already lectured the importance of knowing how to spot espionage around your own espionage.

“You know, why don’t the two of us go to the parkour course tomorrow night?” Zac asked. “Being in the books all of the time can’t be good for you. Moving around a bit always makes me feel better, and we could do some of that team bonding everyone waxes poetically about.”

“I’ve already promised someone else for tomorrow.” Halli shook her head. “Maybe I shouldn’t even do that, anyway. I know the older kids always study later on Saturday nights. I need their help.”

“No.” He grabbed her wrist a bit too quickly for her liking. “You don’t need their help. You need rest. Other than you being in the infirmary, how much have you really rested since you’ve been here?”

“Leave me alone, Zac.” She ripped her wrist away from him. “It must be great that you sleep well even with the idea of flunking out hanging over your head, but I have nothing to go to if I lose this. I’ll rest when I’m not in danger of becoming homeless, okay?”

“But—”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Halli turned her back to Zac and curled up into a ball. Her face was probably as red as her hair, and tears pricked her eyes, but she couldn’t let her emotions get the best of her. It was difficult to tell just how close she was to flunking out at any given moment, which meant she would just have to work herself to the bone until she was safe.

Was it fun? No. But was it better than being thrown on the streets with nothing to her name but disgrace, or worse? Definitely.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Zac muttered before he stood.

“Burning out is better than them shooting me,” Halli called back, not bothering to disguise the disgust in her voice.

Thankfully, Zac didn’t start an argument, but instead he grabbed his things and stormed out of the room. Only the violets remained on the table, though Halli eventually noticed the fuzz floating in the vase’s water.

They won’t last very long, she thought.

Halli studied until the curfew bell, but that still wasn’t enough. So, the next evening, she once again opened the door to the AE Lounge with a thicker stack of books in her arms and deeper bags under her eyes.

Instead of violets in the vase, though, something unlike anything she’d ever seen before entangled the whole table and reached out toward everything in sight.

The creature was purple and white, with slimy tentacles that seemed to grow with each passing second. Its body popped and creaked, and though Halli couldn’t see any eyes, the creature shifted as if it noticed her.

On its tentacles were razor-sharp claws, and all of them were flexed toward her.

Halli dropped everything she had been carrying. Honeypot.

Before she could open her mouth to scream, someone grabbed her from behind.

[silurisanguine]

Sunday Snippet

Tagging all the Coemancer Crew. and anyone who wants to share a snippet of their writing. It's Still Sunday somewhere ;) Another sippet from my Deus Ex fic as I have a new chapter of the Starfield fic almost ready to publish!

”Right….I’m expected to believe all this. Next you’re gonna tell me Atlantis existed.” Zofie chuckled as she sipped her coffee. At least he hadn't run for the door yet, that was a good sign. He may be a cynic but as his file suggested he was also a curious soul. ”Actually that was one of their biggest cities. Adam, you perfectly accepted that a small cabal of uber rich people secretly work to control the world. That is possibly one of the most famous conspiracy theories out there. yet you know it’s real- because you’ve seen it first hand. This is just another conspiracy that just happens to be true, though luckily there are no aliens involved in this, no little grey men…I hope. “ Zofie grinned at the way Adam scrunched his nose in derision. She put her mug down on the table and watched him war with himself over what to believe. Adam remembered back to when David had first mentioned the Illuminati, and he'd scoffed at him, not believing a man like him would believe in such rubbish. But he’d been so sure in his conviction, that Adam had gone along with it, thinking in his investigations he’d find it was just a big corporate espionage gig and not some world shattering ego trip by a bunch of billionaires out for total domination of humanity. ”Okay, say I believe you that this ISU once existed and their tech still does. What makes it so dangerous?” Zofie stood up, gesturing towards her bedroom, a glint in her eye. ”Best way I think for a man like you to believe me, is to show you. “

[ceiling-karasu]

Final Chapter of Lily Bell in the Thorn Thicket!

I've finally managed to finish my first AU story at 145,867 words!

I would like to thank everyone who read the AU and enjoyed it! In a few months, I will be starting the next AU, featuring Geumsaegi, so I hope everyone will enjoy that as well!

That one is going to be more of the regular espionage, humor, and action more like the actual show. Much more of the Commanders and the young Scout Trio as well. Going to have to do much more research into the communication between spies and their handlers.

[felixcloud6288]

Higurashi: Festival Accompanying Chapter 27

This is a Shion chapter.

I genuinely don't like how Shion was kept completely in the dark about what's been going on. I know I like to joke about how she isn't one of the main characters, but this is too much. Every other major character who's been involved across the story knows what's going on so why is Shion left out.

That shot of Tomitake is the same one from last chapter.

The comedic timing of Shion bragging about not being followed only for half a dozen vans to arrive at the Sonozaki residence.

This was probably a fun panel to draw. It looks like Suzuragi drew a template of one of the sisters and her speech bubble, copied and flipped the image, then drew the distinguishing features of both of them.

I had to stop and think for a moment when I realized that Keiichi, Rena, and Mion were the only ones who came out to greet Shion, Kasai, and Irie. I was wondering where Rika, Satoko, and Hanyu were.

Then it clicked: Rika is supposed to be dead, so they're not going to let her casually walk outside. And since Satoko and Hanyu were living with her, letting them be spotted would potentially clue Rika's enemies to where she is.

It makes perfect sense that the Sonozakis would have a surveillance system on their property, but it still feels surprising to find that out.

I like this panel.

One of the things that's annoyed me throughout this series is there's no sense of relative space in Hinamizawa. We know of various locations like Furude Shrine is up a long stairway and by a cliff overlooking the village. But there's not enough information to figure out how anyone would get from one location to another.

This panel doesn't really define where everything in the Sonozaki residence actually is, but it gives us a proper sense of scale about how big their property is.

Okonogi's ears grow longer and pointier the more sinister he gets.

As I said last chapter, the Wild Dogs are specialized in espionage, sabotage, and assassination. They are scarily competent during this chapter because they're doing what they're good at.

They leave no chances that anyone will find out what they're doing. First they cut the phone lines and then the power, and then they waited for the festival fireworks to go off so they could use the sounds to camouflage their blowing open the gates.

And now I need to take an aside for something. In the timelines where the Hinamizawa Disaster happens, the village is closed off for twenty years. This closure goes as far as preventing planes from flying over the village.

Some aspects of Operation Apocalypse aren't exactly neat and clean. Phone lines were cut, people tried to escape and were gunned down, etc.

If Operation Apocalyse were to happen in this timeline, there would be some incidental things such as Irie's wrecked car having gunshots on it and the destroyed bomb shelter gates at the Sonozaki residence that some intrepid reporter might discover and question.

So I think the reason Hinamizawa gets closed off for twenty years is to ensure all potential evidence to some form of sabotage becomes indistinguishable from the rot and decay that would happen after several decades.

Back to the story. Shion gets her moment to shine and gets to have her conclusion to her story as one of the Rule X targets. Keiichi and Rena already had theirs during Atonement, but now Shion and Mion finally make peace over their childhood mixup.

In Eye Opening, the sisters' mixup was a source of anger and jealousy for Shion because she believed the Sonozakis were behind Satoshi's disappearance and if it hadn't happened, Shion could have saved him.

But in this world, Shion knows that's not the case. Instead, the mixup is a source of guilt. Here they are, facing off against a secret organization planning to destroy the village. Mion is caught in the middle and made to take command not just because she's Rika's friend, but also because she's the next head of the Sonozaki Estate.

Meanwhile, Shion wasn't involved at all and is only here by happenstance. If that childhood mixup had never happened, Shion would be the one taking charge and handling the responsibility while Mion would be able to live a peaceful life instead.

That ladder terrifies me. It's not even really a ladder. It's two metal pipes embedded in the wall with footgrips embedded into the wall.

Cute girl with a gun. Shion stonks go up!

I wanna guess Suzuragi drew the gun by tracing much of it from pictures of the actual gun model and then saved it as a separate object that she would paste onto a panel and then draw around. The amount of detail on the gun always seems to be one level higher than everything else in each panel it shows up in.

I know this arc existed first and Beyond Midnight was made later, but I really love this callback to the arc. In Beyond Midnight, Mion fought and "died" to give Shion the life she should have had: The life of the leader of the Sonozakis. And now Shion is about to fight and die to ensure Mion has the life she should have had: A peaceful life with those she loves.

And when both of them are about to face their deaths, they had the same message they wanted to pass onto their sister:

Admittedly, Shion also doesn't feel like she has anything to lose. She thinks Satoshi is dead. And rather than being jealous of Mion's relation with Keichii, Shion wants to ensure they can be together.

It's a big dramatic moment and all, but Shion's actions kind of get squandered because Rika refuses to let her and Kasai stay behind. So when the Wild Dogs get past the two of them, Rika and her friends are found immediately. And now they're caught in a dilemma. Shion and Kasai have been taken hostage and everyone has to decide between protecting Rika and Irie or saving Shion and Kasai.

back

[tobiasdrake]

We aren't quite done here yet, despite everything. One last push.

Yakou hiding the photo doesn't necessarily mean that he didn't want it found. It could mean he didn't want it easily found. As in, by anyone but the crack team of pro investigators he works with.

Oh. Oh, shit. At the last possible second we've looped back around to, "Okay, but how does Huesca's vengeful espionage bro relate to all of this?"

The timing was pretty suspect but it got lost in all the shuffle. The extensive knowledge of the lab's inner workings required to make this all happening is similarly suspicious.

I figured Yakou maybe used to work here or Photo Lady worked here or something, but that's all speculation. There may be real answers to be found here.

If the Labyrinth doesn't want us probing deeper then that means there is deeper to probe.

I figured we were setting something up for next chapter but sure, we can do this now! The mysterious Photo Lady, Huesca's co-conspirator, all of it.

The mastermind would be Huesca's old espionage pal. They were selling company secrets together for five years. Then, six months ago, Huesca said he wanted out, infuriating his partner. He had to shut himself in for his own safety.

We don't know many people at the company so the list of suspects is not vast. Yomi seems unlikely on account of his ultra-righteous personality. Doesn't seem like the type of guy to be selling company secrets. But that doesn't necessarily prove he didn't.

Makoto's only been here for three years so he's out.

Robot Researcher is the most suspicious of the bunch, simply because of his visceral hatred of Huesca and gleeful grave-dancing. But it could as easily be someone we've never met. Maybe even Photo Lady, who knows.

He could only get it from a binder in the storage closet. That closet was locked with a key only Yomi could access. In theory. It also looks like an old office so there's a possibility that whoever used to work in there might have had the key. But that's speculation.

So far as we know for sure, Yomi is the only person who can go in and out of that office. If Huesca's co-conspirator mailed that map to Yakou or something, then it can only be Yomi.

...and if Yomi was selling company secrets alongside Huesca, then that explains why Huesca didn't feel safe having Peacekeepers escort him around. Choosing instead for his own deathtrap tunnel, and to have other scientists bring him food and supplies. He even made them check the boxes to ensure nobody was hiding inside, waiting to jump out and kill him.

Weird request. Seems paranoid. But not if there was a real possibility that Yomi might hide Peacekeepers inside while the boxes were being loaded.

Makoto suggested the traps were a deterrent, but I thought that was weird. How would they deter people who don't know they're there? But the Peacekeepers knew about the traps. If Huesca was beefing with Yomi then... a lot of things make sense, actually.

Yeah. This makes an alarming amount of sense.

Yomi is Anonymous. Yomi's been selling company secrets with Huesca for five years. When Huesca cut things off and secluded himself in his lab, he was hiding from Yomi.

This. Does sound like something Yomi would write. Fuck.

Yomi isn't Stopped Clock right. Yomi sent Yakou the floor plan and let him in. This is his checkmate. Use Yakou to kill Huesca and then swoop in for retaliation and eliminate Nocturnal Detective Agency. Game over.

I knew we were going to have to throw down with Yomi eventually but I wasn't expecting it so soon. I guess in a roundabout way, Yakou did what I asked. He went out and got himself killed so we can chain-kill our way to Yomi.

I don't think we'll be able to reap Yomi's soul here, though. The Labyrinth is already collapsing because we got the guy. If Yomi didn't participate in the murder itself then he's off the hook. That's how it worked with Servan.

I know, right!? Fuck this guy. I want to Halara him so bad right now. Drown him in the river where he blew up our first sub.

He's right. He's not the target of our Mystery so he's off the hook. Even if we stabbed him, he's just a projection of Yomi, not the real one. So it wouldn't matter. Only Yakou's soul was drawn into this place.

So it doesn't matter to the case. It only matters to us, because we can take this knowledge back with us to the real world.

The answer to my combo-chain hypothesis from way early on is no, the Labyrinth doesn't work like that.

I mean. That's what I hear every time you speak but I didn't expect you to say it out loud like that.

Okay but how tho. I didn't get the impression that Yakou was acting reluctantly, under duress. This felt personal for him. What was his stake in all of this?

IT SURE IS CONVENIENT THAT WE HAVE THE ONE PERSON WHO CAN KEEP THEIR MEMORIES THIS TIME AROUND, ISN'T IT!?!? @_@

Okay. Well. Once we get back to the real world we can--

Die. Once we get back we can DIE. Fuck, I forgot that this was happening.

[darchildre]

Because I don't know what to do with myself if at least one of the books I'm reading isn't a weird old book that people mostly don't read anymore, I picked up The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers today. Which is a British spy/invasion literature novel from 1903 about espionage adventures on a yacht, written by a dude who later spent time smuggling guns to Ireland on his yacht during the Irish Civil War and was eventually executed by firing squad. So, y'know, the introduction was already pretty wild.

I have only read the first chapter proper so far but you guys, the first chapter is so funny. The narrator, Carruthers, works for the Foreign Office in a very junior position and the whole first chapter is about how he had nobly decided to stay at work in London during the dead season when all his friends had gone to house parties in the country. He had fantasized about how all his friends would miss him so much and feel so bad for him but be so impressed by his dedication to his work. But instead it turns out they are all very busy having fun at house parties, and maybe the girl he liked has gotten engaged to someone else (this is addressed very obliquely), and no one seems to miss him at all! London in September is terrible and boring, and his clubs are closed, and he went to a terrible music hall performance and had to sit next to a depressed drunk woman with a baby - everything is awful. And nothing the least bit interesting is happening at his job! It's so awful that when Carruthers gets a letter from a guy he vaguely knew in college (and always thought was boring) asking him to come on a frankly terrible-sounding boat trip, he agrees. Not because he actually wants to go but because he's so bored, and he can convince himself that he's being noble again because Boring Guy is all alone on the boat trip and therefore needs him, and also maybe now people will miss him.

He is completely ridiculous and I love him. I can't wait for this weird goober to get mixed up in spy shenanigans.