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#besides bricking an empire officer
drivinmeinsane · 2 months
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{ Eyes Always Seeking }
1/3 ※ Officer K (BR 2049) x Sierra Six (The Gray Man) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }
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※ Summary: Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Canon-typical violence, Descriptions of a Crime Scene, Eye Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Frottage, Handjobs, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, References to Greek Mythology, Hand Holding ※ Word count: 4,789 ※ Status: Chapter 1 / Complete ※ Author's note: I would have had this chapter up and ready to go sooner but the Saw franchise came into my life like a brick through a window. 😔 K and Six are close to being my Roman empire alongside Driver and Ken. I hope ya'll enjoy this pairing as much as I do. ※ Song inspiration: Like Real People Do - Hozier
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Rice today. Not steaming, just cold and forming a congealing lump in the corner. There had been some sort of sad attempt at vegetables to go with it, but those had long since been further pulverized between K’s teeth and swallowed down. Currently on his fork is the last chunk of grub protein. It had been textured and flavored to look and taste like chicken. The replicant can’t vouch for the authenticity of it. Real poultry was something only the wealthy could dream of.
The tines of the metal fork are barely between his parted lips when Joi glitches to a halt, frozen mid sentence. She is “sitting” on window ledge, in the midst of prattling on about the breeds of chickens she might like to keep if they had the space. Privately, K thinks he might like to keep bees in another life.
A telltale chime of an incoming call seems to come from Joi’s open mouth, eking out past her teeth. It’s his madam. He knows it before the popup flashes to life to the left of his pretend wife’s face. There’s no one that would call him other than Lieutenant Joshi. He lets his fork clatter into the container, bite untaken.
“Accept call,” he addresses the projection.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your night. I’m sure you have plans.” Joshi’s voice sounds wrong, insincere, coming from Joi’s frozen figure. He averts his eyes, stares at the table so he doesn’t have to look at the mockery.
“Of course not, Madam.” K shoves down the ball of emotions that want to burst out of his chest like a living, breathing creature and keeps his tone free of anything resembling bitterness. She knows that she’s not interrupting anything. Even if she were, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’s always at her disposal for any whim. She owns his time. Owns him.
“I’m having you meet up with another officer. I’ll send over the coordinates. An informant tipped us off to a possible meeting place for some of the skinjobs we’ve been searching for. I need you to go sniffing around out there. See what you find. Might be nothing, might be a whole lot of something.
“Yes, Madam,” he agrees, getting to his feet. His body is thoughtlessly obeying.
“And, K? The officer.” He reflexively looks up at the sound of his name. “He’s one of your kind,” his madam says, ending the call. K stands beside his vacated chair, stunned. He accidentally ignores his pretend wife when she tries to resume their playacting like she hadn’t been stalled. Joi is talking, flitting around him with buzzing touches of her slender hands, but it feels as though he’s under water.
He tells himself that the details don’t matter, that who, or rather what, he works with is of no consequence. A job is a job. The officer forces his mind to compartmentalize as he goes through the motions of readying himself for night ahead. He is proficient at digging in the earth of his mind and laying thoughts in shallow graves. It keeps him out of retirement.
Mind carefully blank, he sets the remnants of his dinner inside the small refrigeration unit. His stomach needs to be as empty as it can be for this. If K had had more warning, he simply would not have eaten yet.
Once in the main room again, he “kisses” Joi goodbye before turning off the console responsible for her. The hard line unit that crosses the ceiling shrinks back into a neutral position like a kenneled animal. There’s no emulator to take her with him. Not yet. Soon. He’s only a few more payouts away.
K moves further down the hall that makes up the entryway. With slightly unsteady fingers, he pulls his long coat off of the peg and shrugs the reassuring weight of it over his shoulders. He checks the firearm in his holster. It’s firmly tucked into the synthetic leather, nothing amiss. He hadn’t bothered to take his equipment off before dinner, having had an uneasy feeling. Intuition had evidently been working behind the scenes. He’s already wearing his boots, usually is unless he’s in bed or in a rare state of undress. K prefers to avoid the feeling of cold tile against the bottoms of his feet. Satisfied that he is as prepared as as he is going to get, the replicant slides the door open and exits his apartment unit.
The stairs are as treacherous as always. They are perpetually overcrowded and K is resigned to knowing that the milling throng is on the cusp of a riot every time they are reminded that yes, he does exist and, yes he lives in this building alongside them. Conditions are not much better once he steps out in the neon lit glow of the night. He flips his collar up and fastens it shut against the smog and the near constant freezing rain. It’s a short walk to the parking garage where he keeps his spinner. It, like the apartment and his firearm, had been provided as a courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.
He presses his fingertip to onto the door lock for the spinner. It beeps in acknowledgment, releasing the latch and letting the door swing upwards. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before shoving himself into the pilot’s seat and slamming it closed. The replicant’s tumultuous emotions are not so suppressed that they don’t bleed out into his actions. He’s never been paired with another of his kind before. He was made to go solo. Organics don’t trust groups of them, not since the rebellion, the riots. Pack hunters would be too dangerous even with the compulsion for obedience woven into their assembled DNA. There’s a part of him that’s almost excited, being on the same side for once.
The spinner’s systems light up with the touch of a button. As soon as the computer screen comes online, K checks his messages to find that his madam did send over the coordinates as promised. It only takes a few taps of his fingers to get the GPS running. He straps himself in, harness material digging uncomfortably across his chest, and manually steers the vehicle out of the garage and off of the pavement. Once he reaches cruising altitude, he sets it on autopilot. The spinner can handle itself until he reaches his destination.
During the flight, Officer K studies the provided aerial photos of the location. Nothing of note to see, he memorizes the layout all the same. It never works out to be surprised. He makes notes of where the other officer parked, and unable to help himself, he looks for details on the replicant. His efforts only muster up a number, no photo. A Nexus 9, but so is K and most other police controlled replicants these days. They needed to be stronger, faster; more capable than the older models. Bred for compliance. No mistakes. No abnormalities. Never a state of life too late to cull.
A beeping sound draws him from his contemplation, the spinner has delivered him. He flips off the autopilot and puts his hands on the wheel. He puts the machine down next to the other officer’s on a patch of broken up concrete. It was an old parking lot for what his implicit tells him was a store. It’s nothing but a shell now, roof blown off and the walls crumbling in the acidic elements. Despite the ruin, it still serves to hide them from the more intact warehouse behind it. He ducks out of the spinner into the open air the moment the door lock releases. He pauses for a moment to lean back into the vehicle to deploy his parrotfish. Having it in the air provides a sense of relief. It ensures less work and more security if things go sideways outdoors.
He straightens up and casts a critical look at his surroundings. There is no one else around that he can see. The other spinner is unoccupied, but something catches his attention. There is something written in the growing flakes on top of the other officer’s vehicle. Closer examination reveals that it’s a crudely done map, clearly traced out with a fingertip. It depicts two rectangles and a triangle. There are dashed lined leading from the triangle to the closer of the two rectangles. At the end of the line is an X. Presumably, the map is saying that the other replicant left the spinner and looped around the side of the defunct store and will be waiting at the corner of that building to have a line of sight to the warehouse they are charged with investigating. K feels thankful. This will save him hassle in locating his assigned companion.
A faint shadow passes over K and the map he’s still staring at. He looks up to see that the parrotfish from the spinner is doing lazy circles. His has joined in on the motion. The effect is of two vultures circling a carcass. It would be a bad omen for someone superstitious. Good thing he wasn't made to be.
K follows the barely visible trail in the slush. Deep boot tracks, likely from a male judging from the size of the footwear and the length of the stride. They match his own in a way that makes his stomach roll. Before long, he registers a figure leaning against the wall right where the map had indicated. The other replicant’s head is turned in the direction of the warehouse. Snow has settled over the shoulders of the jacket in a similar thickness to the spinner’s dusting.
There is no reaction from the replicant, even though K knows that the other officer has to be aware of his prescience. He had not been making any effort to mask the sucking sounds of his boots in the slush.
“KS6-2.8.” K’s tone is neutral. It’s not a polite greeting. There is no need for one. They’re here on business and neither is superior to the other. Both came from an artificially constructed womb.
The other replicant turns.
Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. His mirror image has neatly trimmed facial hair where K has nothing but thick stubble. There are faint crow’s feet by his eyes that K hasn’t aged into yet. If he even gets the opportunity. More startling is a glaring similarity, one that he never would’ve expected. They have the same misalignment of their eyes, the same sagging eyelid. Their genetic source must have had the same flaw.
“KD6-3.7. You’ve been briefed?” The other '9 asks. Nothing is given away on his face. If he’s surprised to see himself looking back into his eyes, he doesn’t show it.
“Yes.” K feels his lips twist up in a smile that seems friendly enough if you don’t look too close. The other officer raises an eyebrow. He’s not fooled. K drops the smile, his eyes harden. His companion’s jaw is working, he’s chewing on something. Tobacco? Gum? Seems like he’s not without his own vices. K supposes that they all must do something to feel a little more human, a little more real.
“You ready? The lead’s not going to get any fresher,” K says as a follow-up when the silence drags on longer than he would like.
KS6-2.8 only nods. The other replicant pushes off the wall and trudges through the ankle deep snow, leading the way. It’s disconcerting watching him. K gets the uneasy sensation he’s watching his own body walk away from him. The hair is longer and the muscles are bulkier, but all the same…
The only sounds to accompany them are the sloppy crunch of their footfalls and the crackling flapping of plastic sheeting somewhere in the distance. They reach the front of the warehouse only to realize that it’s completely blocked off with layers upon layers of chain link. It must have been taken from the building’s product cages. There are no windows.
A low grumble gets K’s attention drawn back to his fellow officer. The other replicant signals him to follow with a crook of his gloved fingers. He’s taking the lead and K knows he should probably find issue with that, but he doesn’t. He is willing to be obedient, for now. It must be the novelty of working alongside someone who doesn’t have the room to maintain a moral high ground.
Once around the corner and at the back of the warehouse, the replicants split up. K briskly angles himself at the loading docks while his assigned partner checks the back door to see if it can be pried open from the outside. He spots a slightly raised loading door. It’s likely wedged fast, but there should be enough clearance for at least him to slide under. With any luck, the additional bulk of his fellow Nexus 9 shouldn’t prohibit him from getting through as well.
No ladder. K quietly whistles to get KS6-2.8’s notice. The response is immediate.
“Got something?” The other replicant asks, moving to stand alongside him. There is a yawning cavern of space between them. It doesn’t feel right.
“Open door.” K responds, a jerk of his head at the sheet metal in question.
With nothing more than a quiet grunt, KS6-2.8 drops into a crouch and offers his cupped hands to him. K accepts the boost, as foreign as the assistance is. Once on the platform, he offers his hand and hauls the other replicant up. There is something comforting about their interlocked hands. K drops it as soon as the other officer is settled and scrambles under the door. The rubber seal catches on the back of his coat. His partner joins him shortly.
The loading area is unlit. Dark. Without the moon’s light bouncing off the snow, K can make out the faint, golden glow of KS6-2.8’s pupils. There are still are still traces of the older generations in them both. If K were sentimental, he would say that his predecessors were something like family. Good thing he wasn't made for that either.
K’s boot catches on something and he stumbles. The concrete floor is littered with old, torn scraps of nylon rope and shreds of plastic wrap. The wood pallets that would have filled this place are long gone. Used for firewood most likely. There’s nothing of apparent value left.
They push their way through into the main part of the warehouse. The shelving has been moved to form corridors. It’s a maze, one with a high possibility of some entity stalking them in these enclosed paths. There is a faint glow accompanied by an odor that makes the hair on the back of K’s neck stand up. Without saying anything, both replicants work their way in that direction. It's slow going. They have to inch sideways in some areas, their shoulders too broad otherwise. K irrationally imagines unraveling a ball of yarn to mark their way out.
The smell is getting worse the closer they get to the light. Bile threatens to rise in his throat alongside the bites of dinner he had swallowed down not even a handful of hours ago. No amount of jobs will ever desensitize him to this. K does not have the stomach for this career. Not that it matters. He was made not to protest.
It’s as though they hit a wall of heat and rot when they breach the center of the maze. Both officers can only stand shoulder to shoulder and take it all in. Bodies circle a gasoline heater, tucked into makeshift beds on the floor. They’ve all been dead for a while. The decomposition appears to be consistent among them all. Mass killing? Suicide? They are all naked.
There is a lit lantern sitting on top of the heater. K can’t believe that the place hasn’t blown. Realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.
“CO2 poisoning, you think?” asks the replicant at his side, echoing his silent epiphany.
“Probably.”
As one, they spread out into the room. While K turns off the heater, cutting the supply of carbon monoxide being pumped into the warehouse, KS6-2.8 checks each decomposing face. K watches as he holds open the right eyelids of each body to make sure they all still have the eye necessary for their investigation. For each replicant he checks, the other officer reads off numbers taken from one of the files that had been provided to them. There’s no data pad in sight, he might have memorized each face’s corresponding numerical designation.
K knows that they will still have to take the eyes in order for Joshi to be satisfied. Anyone can change their face with enough money and the decomposition is too advanced for their field scanners to read the slowly deflating eyeballs here at the scene. K is mostly just thankful they have eyes left at all. It makes things easier. Replicants rarely receive dental care. The chances of identifying them by their teeth are slim to none.
While he is in the midst of pulling out a roll of evidence bags from an inside pocket, he catches a glimpse of his partner suddenly going stiff and standing up from his crouch beside one of the bodies. He doesn't have the time to question the other replicant. There is a sudden, crushing pain in his side and the edges of his vision go dark. He crumples to the grimy floor and tries to struggle to his feet as his assailant is knocked away by KS6-2.8. His head is ringing. The image of a glowing, white fountain materializes in his scrambled vision. Bile clouds his throat before he realizes that it's only the lantern.
K stands, shakier than he would like, and gets his breathing under control. The scene unfolding before him is disconcerting. KS6-2.8 is wrestling with their attacker, clearly another replicant judging by the way he’s managing to hold out even slightly against K’s fellow officer. K reckons that he must be an older generation given that he’s gradually losing ground. He’s missing the final edge to make it a truly even fight. Despite the disadvantage, the replicant manages to shove KS6-2.8 hard enough that the officer’s foot goes straight through the chest cavity of one of the rotting replicants. Their would-be killer lets out a howl that drowns out any protest from K’s partner, as violent and earsplitting as if it had been his chest that was caved in. K’s fellow ‘9 is forced to let himself fall backwards into the soupy embrace of another corpse as the assailant takes wild swings at his face with a sharp piece of metal produced from a pocket of his ragged jacket. A rudimentary knife.
Still disoriented, K doesn’t think before he pulls his gun out of his shoulder holster and shoots. A red mist signals that the bullet found its mark. The attacking replicant is still alive, even as he falls to his knees and slumps over KS6-2.8. K didn’t shoot to kill. He has questions.
A few strides has him standing over the two replicants. He fists his hand in the back of the assailant's jacket and pulls him off of his companion. His gun is re-holstered and he’s not gentle when he hauls the replicant to his feet. Blood pulses hotly from the wound that K inflicted, soaking through a scarf that is tightly wrapped around his neck. He’s bleeding out. Rapidly. The bullet had nicked a carotid.
KS6-2.8 gets to his own feet with a groan, the back of his jacket soaked through with whatever liquids the dead replicant still had pooling in their body. He hooks his hand under the older gen.’s arm and together he and K shove him up against one of the shelving units forming the room. K holds their attacker steady as his partner slams the hand holding the scrap metal over and over into a shelf post until the replicant is forced to let it fall from his grasp with a clatter onto the concrete.
As soon as the makeshift weapon is out of the equation, K starts his questioning. “What are you doing here?”
Nothing, just a rasping breath. The replicant is wild eyed and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal K had heard described in a decades old report. It had been from a time when there were still enough real, organic animals around to carry and spread the disease.
“What happened to the others?” He tries again.
That gets a response. “I saved them.”
“Saved them how?” K questions.
“I could have saved you too. But you wouldn’t let me. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet… dreams…” The pinned replicant laughs and laughs and laughs, eyes wide and gleaming with a feverish shine.
Suddenly, he lunges at K, tearing out of his and KS6-2.8’s shared grip. The open maw reaches to snap closed on his nose, strings of saliva shining obscenely in the lantern light. His contact is stopped short by a bullet blazing through his left eye, blowing the back of his head open in a nightmarish spread. It’s over. Done. KS6-2.8 saw to that. K can taste the blood in his mouth. His hair is plastered flat with another one of his kind’s brain matter. They had encountered the beast in the maze, their very own Minotaur, and they had slaughtered it.
KS6-2.8 holsters his gun, trading it for a small knife taken from his pocket. He pries the eye out with steady fingers, severs the optic nerve. They let the dead replicant slump down against the shelf. He’s a warden over the eternally slumbering bodies. K retrieves the roll of bags he had dropped in the scuffle. He opens one and lets KS6-2.8 drop the severed eye inside before sealing it. He fills out information panel printed on the thin plastic with a pen that had been stashed inside his pants pocket.
Together, silently, they approach the nearest body in the circle. It is the one with the caved in chest cavity. They both crouch. K steadies the head while the other officer removes the leathery eye. He offers another bag. His partner drops it in. They repeat this same procedure three times before the silence is broken.
“Six.”
K looks up from the face he’s holding. The other replicant is looking at him, blue eyes unflinching. Blood is pooling in the hollow of the collarbone K can just barely see. A question is forming on his lips, but before K can bring it to life, the officer speaks again.
“KS6-2.8. Six.”
Oh. Warmth floods him. They are the same. Interlinked.
“K,” he responds. Something forbidden is clawing at him.
The other replicant, no, Six smiles. His teeth are a dazzling white in the gloom. Predatory. His canines are noticeably sharp compared to the rest of his teeth. They are like his. Would they feel the same as K’s own underneath his tongue? He shakes the thought off, buries it with hundreds of others, and they finish collecting the eyes.
While Six is occupied with a final survey of the rotting scene, K approaches the recently retired replicant. He kneels beside him for a moment, as though he’s paying graveside respects, before he reaches out and unwinds the blood soaked scarf from around his neck. If he still had his eyes instead of one taken and one shot out… well, K isn’t sure how he’d be looking at him. The fabric of the scarf is wet and gritty underneath his fingers, packed with old, infertile soil. He rolls it up and slips it into an inside pocket of his coat. It won’t be missed. He legitimizes his presence at the replicant’s side by picking up the makeshift knife off the floor and depositing it into an evidence bag.
Nothing else comes out of the darkness. There’s old trash strewn on the floors. They don’t find any more bodies, only the drag marks of old blood. It looks as though not all of them had gone peacefully in their sleep from the high concentration of carbon monoxide. Their attacker had gone mad in the dark. They find his ramblings on the walls. Some of it is carved into the material, some of it is painted on with substances they don’t want to address. It’s a manifesto of sorts. It seems like this might have been a splinter of a larger movement.
A team will have to be called in to photograph the scene. K will pour over the evidence later, put the pieces together. He’s going to be spending more time in the bullpen than anyone wants.
They leave the way they came, following an imaginary string. Their pockets are laden down with bags of stolen eyes. The weight of what they had experienced together is a heavier burden.
K slides under first the door first again. He doesn’t need to assist the other officer into standing but he does. Six’s hand is a comfort after what they had just done. The other officer holds on long enough to assist with K’s journey off the loading dock before letting go to drop down beside him.
They walk side by side, close enough that their bloody knuckles brush. K wants to take the other replicant’s hand, feel him finger to finger. He doesn’t dare, not under the open night sky.
“You okay?” Six asks.
“He cared about them.”
His partner’s stride doesn’t falter. He merely makes a noise. Agreement? Placation? K can’t tell. Neither of them can say anything more without tipping their hand and potentially revealing more than is safe.
“Are you?” K asks, biting down the rising tide of things he wants to say instead.
“It’s just another Thursday.”
K nods. He can relate to the sentiment.
They reach the spinners, K unlocks his and drops into the driver’s seat. Six leans against of the side of the vehicle while K powers it on. The LAPD logo appears on the screen. “Madam, please.” he tells the unit. It dials her. She picks up on the second ring.
“You’re a mess.” her tone is curt. Her eyes flick to where she can barely see the other replicant in the frame. Her severe expression deepens to a frown. “Report?”
“There was one survivor. He took the others to the retirement home. Weeks ago from the look of things.”
“Those his brains?” She asks.
“Yes, Madam.”
She makes a considering noise, “You or him?” she asks with a jerk of her head to the other officer.
“Both,” Six cuts in before K can answer. It gets a sigh from Lieutenant Joshi. She is going to have to make sure they both get a bonus. One that, by rights, should be solely Six’s since he was the one who put the final bullet in the old gen. K feels appreciation curl in his gut.
“We have all the eyes, Madam. Should we turn them into evidence or bring them to you directly?” K asks politely, seeking to soothe Joshi’s ire. He does not want a correctional visit from her. He vaguely wonders if the gore spattered vision of him will linger in the back of her mind and keep her at bay for a while. Will she imagine the squish of brain matter between her fingers when thinking about pushing his head down?
“Drop them off. I’ll send a team out for the rest. Come on back for your baselines.”
“Yes, Madam.”
Joshi ends the call, forehead creased with agitation. K recalls his parrotfish. A quick rap of the knuckles on the hood of the spinner and a nod is all the goodbye he gets from Six before the other replicant gets settled in his own spinner and goes through the necessary motions.
They take off, roughly in sync with one another. They are both going back to the LAPD headquarters.
His mind races with the passing city, alight with more curiosity than he should be feeling. Six is not what he expected. He knows that it nearly unheard of to come across another law enforcement owned Nexus with a shared face. The police departments don’t like their skinners to have matches. It complicates things. Their genetic code is engineered to result in different features, even from the same source DNA. They are meant to feel alone, to feel dreadfully distinct.
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fizzycherrycola · 1 year
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UK Brothers, 1900s
Summary: The UK brothers attend Queen Victoria's funeral. Ireland is upset. Scotland is bored. Wales is eating biscuits. And England is being a royal pain in the ass.
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Biscuits and Black Parades
Windsor, UK; 2 February 1901
Long fingernails of ice cling to brick, matte and colourless in the overcast daylight. A thin mist of snow alights upon dark, frozen umbrellas and silky top hats. Cold and damp, the air nips insistently at Wales’ ears and he shivers. He shakes his arms, making the frost fall from his greatcoat, impervious to the aura of death and solemnity that, like the shrouds of the snivelling women who today line cobblestone streets, does drape over Windsor’s train station.  
Slipping his hand into one of many pockets, his fingers wiggle about, then clasp around paper wrap. He smiles. Pulling the small bundle out, he tears open the package without so much as glancing at the label.
Scotland raises one of his great, shaggy brows. “A biscuit?” he asks. “Where’d you get that?”
“From a bakery in London,” Wales says, gazing at the confection’s fancy crucifix design. “Shop windows were piled with them; you should’ve seen it! Loads of different flavours, too.”
With a crunch, he bites into it, rolling his tongue along the golden-brown edge to avoid spilling crumbs on his ceremonial outfit. It’s a lovely flavour, pungent ginger with a dash of cinnamon, causing his toes to curl. The treat is almost enough to help him forget today’s awful weather.
Ireland nudges him. “Is that a mourning biscuit?”
“Mmm!” Wales nods, mumbling around his mouthful of food. “It is! Would you like one? I’ve got more.” He taps his weighty pocket, which rustles. Naturally, he has several treats stashed in preparation for the long day.
Ireland frowns. “I'm not sin-eating for a Famine Queen.”
Wales deflates. “That’s not fair. It’s only sin-eating if you eat it over her open coffin.”
“No, it’s.... Isn’t it if she’s within spitting distance?”
“But she’s not even that,” Scotland mumbles, nodding at Queen Victoria’s casket.  
Slowly, the dark box comes off the train’s platform, obscured by wrought iron fencing and a multitude of onlookers. Ghostly clouds of engine steam linger among the pallbearers – who are equerries, rather than dukes – and they utter not a word while performing their task. All eyes are affixed to the casket, all hands treating it with reverence as it is readied for the final cortege to Windsor castle.
Ireland hums. “Not spitting distance for you, maybe, but if that wind picks up again, I'd probably be able-”
“Shh!!” England hisses, pivoting to glare at his siblings, but making no move to abandon his spot in the procession. “For God’s sakes, will you lot be quiet?”
The trio grumbles. With his soles throbbing in protest, Wales shuffles and is reminded of how relentlessly rigid his dress boots are.
“Feck off,” Ireland moans. “We’ve been on our feet all day in this damn cold.”
England sputters. “All day? It’s only been a few hours!” His eyes flick to Wales, and then narrow. “...Are you eating?”
As if it would help, Wales hides the biscuit behind his back. “Well, it’s already afternoon and I haven’t had luncheon. Figured we were allowed a bite to eat in-between processions. Besides, Her Late Majesty’s not attached to the carriage yet.”
Ireland grins, a picture of mischief. “Aye, that’s military code. Procession can’t begin until the deceased is on the gun carriage.”
“And I’m starving,” Wales pleads.
“You wouldn’t want him collapsing on route to the chapel.”
“Yes, and... well, I don’t think I’d collapse, but-”
“It’d embarrass the whole empire,” Ireland continues. “Just imagine what they’d write in the papers. ‘Great scandal befalls Queen’s funeral! Starving senior officer faints in the parade. Inquiry launched into military’s unprofessional conduct.’ Come on, England, you need to be serious about this sort of thing.”
England pinches the bridge of his nose and curses under his breath.  
Weighed down, with the horsehair plume of his helmet shielding his face, he looks strained; and not unexpectedly so. Wales nibbles his lip. The effort his youngest brother put towards this funerary affair was nothing short of extraordinary, as from the hour of Victoria’s passing, the monarchy was frantic. A military funeral for a sovereign was simply not the thing to do, and yet, it was Her Late Majesty’s final request. England ran meetings with army officers, city representatives, and heaven-knows who else, funnelling crucial resources in a matter of days.  
It was a race against time to get everything in order before the body... decayed.
With a deep inhale, England draws himself up. “Could you at least try to show some bloody respect? Christ, look at Australia – even he’s being civil. We’re almost at the chapel, and after the ceremony, you can bugger off and do whatever you’d like. But until then, keep quiet!”  
He turns away with a huff, back as straight as the Royal Standard flagpole over Buckingham itself.
When Wales is sure that a quarrel is not about to begin in the middle of the street, he risks a glance at his other two siblings. To his right, Scotland yawns. Thankfully.
But, to his left, Ireland is quiet. Rooted within his matching uniform, a defiant lock of carrot hair pokes out the front of his Albert helmet. The metal chin strap looks too tight.  
Wales gnaws the inside of his cheek. “...Ireland?” he whispers.
“What?” Ireland asks.
Wales fiddles with the last bite of his snack. “I meant what I said about the biscuits. I’m not helping the Queen get to heaven; I was just hungry.”
Emerald eyes study him for a moment, before Ireland sighs and the ice water tension trickles out of his shoulders. Small wrinkles trace the corners of his lips – the sort that only appear on stressful days.  
“Never mind,” he murmurs. “What flavours have you got?”
Wales blinks. “Oh. I think I’ve got shortbread, buttermilk, almond....”
“Pass the buttermilk one.”
Riffling through his pocket, Wales finds the treat and gives it to his brother, and the moment it leaves his hand, his heart is already lighter. Taking it, Ireland opens the paper to reveal an eerie skull imprinted on the biscuit and a card, no larger than a finger, that is tucked in amongst the wrapping. His mouth twists into a wry smile.  
“This one has a poem slip,” he remarks.
“What does it say?” Wales whispers.
Ireland clears his throat.
“Thee we adore, eternal Name, And humbly own to thee, How feeble is our mortal frame. What dying worms we be.
Our wasting lives grow shorter still As days and months increase; And every beating pulse we tell, Leaves but the number to be leased.
The year rolls round and steals away, The breath that first it gave; Whate’er we do, whate’er we be, We’re travelling to the grave.”
With an audible gulp, Wales finishes his own biscuit. “Oh, that’s an omen.”
Scotland snorts. “It’s not an omen. They print that poetry shite on half the wrappers; it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“He’s right,” Ireland mutters. “It’s just a reminder, warning humans that everything ends eventually. Lives, families....” He drifts off, eyes glazing for a second or two – and Wales nearly ejects something stupid, like ‘What’s the matter?’ but catches himself – before the whole biscuit is popped in Ireland’s mouth and vanishes.
In the awkward silence, Wales scratches his chin. “It could still be an omen....”
“Don’t start,” Scotland nags.
“Psst!” comes a voice behind them. Turning, Wales sees Australia standing about two metres back with the other colonies. With his wild hair and bright smile, the stuffy, high-necked uniform wholly mismatches his energy. “Can I have a bikkie?”
Wales squints. “A... what?”
“He means a biscuit,” Ireland adds.
“Oh, of course!” Fumbling for the first package he can grab, Wales attempts to pass it to Australia, careful not to move from his place in the unmoving procession.
Beaming, Australia stretches quite awkwardly, as he also refrains from stepping out of position. Wobbling like high-rope gymnasts in a circus, they reach, and Australia’s gloved fingertips are so close, grazing the paper wrap, but then his eyes go wide, and he immediately snaps away, straightening with both arms at his sides. Wales balks. Until goosebumps rise on his neck, and he turns, and England is glaring hot daggers at Australia.  
He sniffs. Then, returns to face the front.
Sighing, Wales buries the confection in his pocket and browses the somber scenery for a distraction. It’s the only apt way to fritter time, between the marching and waiting that has swallowed his day.
On their parade through London, they were surrounded by an endless stream of black-clad civilians, much as they are now. Some wept, but most seemed there to merely gawk at the pomp of the whole thing. And who could blame them? The public showing, the decorated horses, the military marching, the trumpets, the gun carriage – all of it is spectacular, designed for spectacle. Past royal funerals were performed quietly. With this display, one may think a monarch had never died before.
The ceremony is not so terrible, though. In fact, when Wales saw the bakeries yesterday, overflowing with gloomy gifts, he chuckled. The occult and superstition are as close as he can get to the old days, when magic beautifully intertwined with history and science. Faint memories of ancient kings who went to their barrow tombs covered in gold and ensured the doorways aligned with the equinox and the stars. Truly, this funeral is a big, macabre celebration of death, as much as it was long ago.
But, for the sake of his family... Perhaps a quiet funeral would have been better after all.
“Why pick white horses?” Scotland mutters. “And bad-tempered ones at that.”  
Wales snaps out of his daydreaming. “Horses?”
Scotland points ahead of them. “The ones pulling the gun carriage.”  
Eight pale horses are adorned with elaborate gear; fine ostrich feathers, polished collars, and embroidered capes. Their heads hang low, their ears lie flat, and their heavy hooves stomp the frigid earth. “If they wanted cream ponies, they could have got some with better tempers.”
“You’re right,” Wales whispers. “What do you think has them so upset?”
Scotland crosses his arms. “It must be this fucking dreich weather. That, and I’m guessing they’re a luxury type; picked for their prettiness and not much for hard labour.”
Muttering under his breath, Ireland leans closer. “Almost as cunty as the Sassenach himself.”
Scotland grins. “You’re going to catch it.”
“Can’t help myself; not today.”
“...I know.”
“...Where we going after this?”
“Hmm. There’s a pub down Park Street that’s only half-shite....”
Their muted conversation goes on, but melts into the background as a familiar sensation directs Wales’ focus to the animals. The air crackles, ominous and still, as it does before lightening, and a shiver runs up his spine. Something is wrong.
Draped in its white pall, the coffin is at last on the carriage, and all guardsmen, dozens in front and behind, stand ready. An officer calls out for the procession to start, voice booming in the station square, but the horses don’t budge. They resist, as men tap the reigns, insisting they move.
A clink, a clatter. Then, a soldier produces a whip, raising it in the air. Wales’ stomach drops.  
Leather strikes with a smack.  
The horse squeals. Rearing, its front legs kick wildly. Wood snaps and splinters. And the leading horses bolt, knocking their masters to the ground. Chaos erupts.  
Men are shouting. The other horses thrash, whinnying and bucking. Metal clangs to the ground and restraints slip loose. Guardsmen surround them, a mass of outstretched hands grasping at harnesses and horsehair. The carriage jostles. The coffin slips.  
“Look out!”
It falls...  
...slamming into a gaggle of noblemen, who catch it and buckle under its weight.
The animals dash, dodging infantry. Free beasts, they skirt the edges of the crowd. Two or three trip, collapsing, entangled by their reigns. Twisting, wide eyes fearful, lips snarling. Onlookers scream and the procession scatters. Officers rush to form a barrier. Others try to wrangle the crazed animals.
One creature darts backwards. Galloping hooves crash against stone. It barrels toward Wales, and he jumps aside. The horse blows past, an ivory blur. He slips, shoulder hitting the wet road and it bursts with pain. Cursing, he folds over, helmet scraping cold rock. He grabs his scorching arm, eyes squeezing shut, and takes a few deep breaths, willing his blood to slow, his mind to settle.  
Then, flexing, he tests it.  
And it moves. Painfully.  
His sigh comes out like a bark. At least, his stupid limb isn’t dislocated.
Dragging himself up, gravel sticking to damp wool and skin, he shakes off the dizziness. Small mobs surround each horse; tidal human whirlpools that curve and drive the animals back into submission. Guardsmen are gaining the upper hand, bellowing orders while civilians boo and berate them.  
“There are children here, you idiots,” one of them yells.
“What, in God’s name, were you thinking?” roars another.
From the back, Australia brings a horse. It jerks its head back, but he keeps a firm grip on its bridle, hushing it and stroking its neck.
“I saw you topple over,” Australia calls. “Everything all right?”
“Definitely not,” Wales moans, rubbing his throbbing limb. “I smacked my shoulder so hard; I thought I was back at Waterloo!”
Australia laughs. “Do you need any help?”
“...Have you got any whiskey?”
“I don’t.”
Wales releases a long-suffering sigh. “Never mind, I’ll manage. It’ll heal in a minute anyway.”
“In that case, could you wish me good luck?”
“What for? ...Oh.”
Plodding, his smile slightly tighter, Australia leads the horse to England.  
Australia coughs. “England? This mare has ice on her hoof walls. It’s just a thin layer, but it’d be enough to put her in a sour mood. Erm... do you know how long these animals have been outside in this weather?”  
But England is silent and as pale as the mare before him. Statue-stiff, he gapes at the disaster that’s become of the cortege. “England?” Australia repeats.
England startles. “Right, yes. Well done. Just, um... t-take her over to the lieutenant.” He clears his throat and points to a man. “That’s Goldie. He’ll have the answers and find somewhere to house her for now.”
Australia's jaw hangs for a moment. “...That’s it?”
“Yes, that’ll be all.”
“...Right.” Hesitantly, Australia departs on his assigned errand, horse clopping along beside him.
When he’s gone, England buries his face in his hands, fingers split open around haunted eyes, wilting impossibly further. Then, he trudges away, dragging his feet as he lumbers half-dead toward a cluster of Royal Navy officers that seem to know what they’re doing.
Wales gawks.  
“This,” he exclaims, “was definitely an omen.”
There’s a tug on his collar. “Stop havering,” Scotland says, gesturing at the angry crowd. “We need to calm these idiots, or we’ll be stuck here ‘til sunset.”
Wales shoos him off with his good arm, and out of the corner of his vision, spots Ireland. “Oi, Ireland! Can you help us a bit?”  
Ireland shuffles closer in a strange manner; crouched as though trying to hide in broad daylight. His wide eyes are sparkling with awe.  
“Lads,” he whispers. “I think I did this.”  
There is a dead pause.
Heat rises to Wales’ ears, but he keeps his tone even. “...You what?”
Scotland groans. “You unscrewed the fucking bolts on the carriage. Aye?”
Ireland blinks. “What?”
“That was it.”
Wales slaps his idiot brother. “Coc oen!!”  
Ireland flinches. “Ow!”
“I was almost trampled!”
“No, that’s not what happened!”
“It is; you just said it.”
“No, listen!” Ireland leans in, arms wrapping around his brother’s necks as he pulls them near, and Wales fights the urge to toss him off. “When Vicky died, I visited the church on Croagh Patrick; the old one, on the mountain. And when I went, I said the rosary – a dozen times at least – and prayed to Saint Patrick and Saint Michael. And I asked them for a miracle, any kind, I didn’t care, but some type of divine misfortune that could happen at this funeral.” He whispers excitedly, quick bursts in hushed breaths, but his face is aghast. “And then... then, I did the same for the fae outside my cottage last Tuesday.”
Scotland squints. “You said the rosary for the fae?”
“What- no. No! I made them an offering and asked for their help, too! I wasn’t sure it would work, but... I mean, look at this. It seems like my prayers were answered!”
Scotland and Wales exchange a glance.
“Actually,” Wales mentions, “I did hear some sort of clatter before the animals dashed off; right before that oaf raised his whip.”
Scotland frowns. “I heard that, too. It could be coincidence... but maybe not.”
“There, see?” Ireland says, a delighted smile creeping up his cheeks.
Wales huffs. “Fine, but you shouldn’t have asked the fae folk. What if someone died? What if you summoned a vengeful spirit and now, we’re all cursed? And I was still nearly trampled!”
“Nearly trampled,” Ireland says. “Not actually trampled.”  
“I am going to slap you again.”
“Calm down! Nobody died, right? I gave a massive offering when I went to the fae, so everything should be fine.”
“What did you give?”
“Uh... Potato bread, some shiny crystals, a few rings... bottles of ale and whiskey?”
Scotland interjects. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to ask both the fae and the saints?”
Wales ignores him. “What if you summoned a demon, then?”
“Can’t be a demon,” Ireland says.
“Why not?”
“Because when I was praying in the oratory, I made a promise not to drink for a year if the saints came through for me. And demons don’t like that. They want you pissed, not sober.”
Wales narrows his eyes and considers this. Really considers this. Scotland and Ireland watch him, waiting with bated breath.
“Supposing it was the saints,” Wales chances, “and not the fae, that did this... how’re you planning to keep your promise to them?”  
Ireland slumps, gaze falling to the ground. “Ah, well,” he mutters. “I might struggle with that part.”
Scotland pats his shoulder. Wales sighs, in sympathy and pity.
~~~
As order is restored, improvised drag ropes are brought in, lashed to the gun carriage, and the march finally begins.  
Left, right, left, right; leather boots pound cobblestone, as if in defiance of the debacle which just occurred. Her Late Majesty’s gun carriage is towed by hand, by the unluckiest men of the Royal Navy. They drag their heavy load, breath fogging the air, and the general melancholy that earlier befell Windsor station, is eclipsed with wonton embarrassment.  
Trumpets sound with a whimper as the parade passes under the grand frontage and onto the main road. New parade onlookers, who were shielded from the commotion by distance, are gossiping.   “What took them so bloody long?”
“Mummy, where are the ponies? I thought there were ponies.”  
“Why’ve they got sailors pulling the coffin?”
Rolling his healed shoulder, Wales commits today’s scenes to memory. His pockets rustle and he makes note of that, too. He’ll allow Ireland the privilege of scarfing down his half-dozen biscuits, since the poor bastard won’t be able to partake in drinks tonight.  
And at the upcoming service, rather than pray for Victoria’s soul, which he wasn’t planning to do anyway, he’ll instead ask for protection against every fae and demon he can name. Because one can never be too cautious when it comes to old magic.
...Goodness, what a spectacle death can be.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Please note, for dramatic effect, I may have played up the danger of the horse-emergency. One source I found described the scene as a well-managed “contretemps”, while another claimed the horses bolted. So, I went with the most thrilling and possibly embellished account, as a treat.
A gun carriage is a wagon that typically transports cannons and artillery. In military funerals, it instead carries the coffin.
Mourning biscuits, common in the Victorian Era, were given out at funerals. Family members of the deceased would make or buy them in a shop before the funeral, then give them out to guests on the day of. The way Wales is eating them isn’t how they’re meant to be used.
Sin-eating is a Welsh custom where someone eats food over the deceased’s coffin to “take on their sins,” thus allowing the deceased to enter heaven.  
The Irish Potato Famine occurred from 1845 – 1849, while Victoria was on the throne. For this, she was labelled as the Famine Queen.  
Saint Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland. Meanwhile, in Catholic teachings, Saint Michael has multiple purposes. Firstly, he’s the leader of God’s army tasked with triumphing over Hell. He’s also the Angel of Death, carrying souls to heaven and weighing their merit. The Prayer to Saint Michael asks for the faithful to be “defended” by the saint.
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goddesstrolls · 3 months
Text
One hell of a terrible joke, to ask him to come out here.
Once in a while Arjenn would receive some guidance from Deadsong, a pull towards some troll fated for death. This was one of those times- He couldn't just ignore it.
It was his hometown still, he knew these streets well from the two sweeps he'd spent running messages through them. The buildings were hollow and bomb-shelled, left to rot as grim reminders of the Empire's power.
There were a few shops hanging on in this district, though their doors were closed and their lights off, signs in some windows saying 'CLOSED FOR THE HOLINIGHT' or something to that effect.
Right, it was 12th Perigee's eve. Damned that he'd be on the hunt, tonight of all nights.
He'd gotten a lay of the land. Now he just had to find his mark. Finding one troll in an entire city wasn't as hard as it sounded, not with his eyes-
"Arjenn! Is that you?"
Arjenn turned to see a large rustblood limping towards him.
"Marikk! Good to see you." Arjenn smiled, and as Marikk reached him the man pulled him into a warm hug.
"Good to see you as well, Arjenn. You look different, I hardly recognized you, boy. What happened to your hair?" Marikk held him at arm's length, tilting his head to look again at Arjenn. He was a tall man, built with work-stained hands.
"I couldn't tell you," Arjenn tugged at a few strands of his hair. "Stress, I suppose?"
Marikk gave a huff of laughter. "If that's the cause I should be all grey myself. You left town, didn't you? What brings you back?" Marikk took his hand from Arjenn's shoulder to stand at a more conversational distance, brow furrowing in concern.
"Just passing through, really. Thought I'd check on the farm...See who all was still around." Arjenn threw a sorrowful glance at a shelled husk of a building nearby. That had been some apartments where more than a few friends of his lived.
Marikk pat his shoulder. "Well, come on then. Let's get you out of the cold."
The two went slowly, with Arjenn's forced hobble and Marikk's limp. Arjenn remembered when Marikk had taken the bullet which destroyed his shin.
"You didn't hurt your legs, did you?" Marikk asked, noticing this quickly.
"No, it's just how I have to hide my paws." Arjenn replied, and Marikk nodded, humming as it clicked.
"Good. Wouldn't want to see you like me." Marikk grumbled, and then continued. "What have you been up to, out there?"
"Just traveling. Surviving. Not much else I can do." Arjenn said.
"Much the same here." Sighed Marikk. "Surviving. Not much else."
The two fell silent as two Fleet officers rounded the corner. A lump formed in Arjenn's throat and Marikk tensed beside him.
Thank god, both trolls passed with only a glance in their direction.
"Things have been rough, with those bastards about." Muttered Marikk, once they were well out of earshot. "The bosses can do whatever they want. No repercussions, no answers. Half the trolls who survived, left. The Empire brought in all these young workers who don't give a damn about anything except the pennies they're tossed."
Marikk heaved a sigh. "I wouldn't advise you to stick around, as glad as I am to see you."
"I wish that I could stay longer." Arjenn lied. It brought up too many bad memories to be here, glad as he was to see a few trolls still kicking.
"Well. Let's celebrate while you're here." Marikk clapped a hand on Arjenn's shoulder. "It's 12th Perigee's! We should try to have a smile on."
Marikk lead him to one of their old haunts. Arjenn recognized the path before they got there.
"Is it safe, to use these places still?"
"Fleet knows about all of them." Marikk replied, his tone sober. "They come knocking whenever they're looking for someone. There's nowhere else to go. It's safe enough, for tonight."
Marikk let him into the old brick building- It was a bar, but the rest of the building had been repurposed into rooms for rent, making it into a sort of tavern. It was warm inside, some 12th Perigee's lights and other decorations along the counter. A fire crackled in the hearth, and it looked like many trolls were exchanging gifts, playing cards, or just catching up.
It was busy and Arjenn saw a few familiar faces. Marikk clapped a hand on Arjenn's shoulder as several trolls looked up. "I brought a gift!" He crowed, to scattered but hearty laughter. Arjenn grinned himself, a bit sheepish.
A hot drink was passed into his hands and Dotera, the bartender, fussed over how thin he was, scurrying off to the back to get him something to eat.
Trolls came and went, some Arjenn knew, some Arjenn didn't. Bottles were passed around and drinks poured, someone brought out a harmonica and a guitar, and someone else squeezed behind a table to play the old piano.
They were all more scarred and beaten, more worn down than they were once, but things felt just the same. They protested or fought all night back then, but their best dawns were spent just like this.
Someone entered and Arjenn lifted his head- Recognizing the troll as one of his old comrades, his heart sank into his stomach
One, this troll was dead. Arjenn had seen her broken body. She'd been burned like the rest. Yet here she was, alive- Not undead, but fully alive.
Two, this was the mark Deadsong had sent him after. He saw the cold grasp of Death's hand on her soul.
Arjenn dropped his head, setting his jaw to hide his scowl.
Damn it all. Of course it would be someone he'd known. They all narrowly escaped Death's jaws; It made sense that one might be ripped from them.
His mark, Rekani, was tailed by her matesprit, Jeraia. He wiped the bitter look from his face and put on a calm, pleasant smile, greeting them with a wave from across the bar. Fortunately the place was too crowded now for them to make their way to him.
The bitter taste in his mouth was too strong to ignore now, though.
He'd been offered a bed by Dotera, so Arjenn quietly excused himself and slipped off to his room.
Part Two
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sinner-as-saint · 3 years
Text
My Salvation.
Police Chief!Bucky x Mob!Reader AU (one-shot)
Requested. 
Run-through: You run from home, escaping an arranged marriage to a terrible mob family forced upon you by your father. In doing so, you find yourself turning to James Barnes for help, the police Chief. You two have had history and ever since, he’s been trying to put an end to the dark empire your family runs in his city. Still, he agrees to help you after you make him an irresistible offer. Everything goes rather smoothly, until the two of you find it hard to ignore the electric attraction constantly pulling the two of you towards each other. In time you find it difficult to keep your hands to yourselves so you eventually give in to the carnal temptations, forgetting that there is a high chance this may never work out because at the end of the day, you’re from the dark side and he’s one of the good ones. 
Themes: mild daddy kink, smut, fluff, angst, age gap, soft!dom!Bucky
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“You’re not supposed to be here right now.” 
Those were the words he greeted you with as you stood in front of him; soaking wet from the heavy rain and shivering from the cold, dressed in just a thin, low cut, satin red dress and heels. The fabric clinged to you like a wet second skin and that was the least of your problems right now. 
“I need your help.” You managed to say through chattering teeth as you felt the cold seep into your bones. “Please.” 
He sighed loudly, looking down at his dark shoes. Holding up his dark umbrella, hand in the pocket of his coat, when he looked up at you with his piercing blue eyes and powerful stance; you almost felt warm under the freezing, pouring rain. 
Damn him for being so fucking beautiful. James Barnes was roughly ten years your senior and he was still more handsome than half the young men closer to your age. 
“My help?” He mocked. “Did your father send you to finish what you started that day?” He asked as embarrassment made your face feel all hot - not in a good way. “Are you here to try and lure me to the dark side again? Or get rid of me if you can’t buy me?” 
Right. Of course he is still pissed about what happened last year... 
Last year, when Bucky first got transferred to your city he, unlike all the other police officers who lived in fear of your family’s name, was hell bent on uncovering and putting a stop to all of your father’s illegal businesses. So your father sent you to corrupt this new and awfully good officer, to ‘lure’ him to the dark side so he could - like the others - pretend nothing illegal was happening in the city. 
You did as you were asked. Besides, you were pretty good at what you did. Since Bucky had no idea who you were yet, it was fairly easy to pretend to bump into him at a club one night. It was almost too easy to get him to buy you a drink. It was yet again, too easy to get him to get loose and blurt out all he knew about your father’s dark transactions with drugs, money and arms and all about his plans to uncover and possibly imprison your entire family. 
But you couldn’t let that happen. Your plan was simple; give him the idea that you were down for a fun night, get him into your car and then your father could have him. When making out on the dance floor turned into something more steamy, you suggested that he comes back to your place. He agreed and when you made it to the alleyway behind the club, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss again. 
Normally while you were on a mission, you’d stick to your plan. But Bucky was hard to resist. With his mean and muscular body, his pretty face and irresistible eyes; and his pink pouty lips - you couldn’t not kiss him again. So he had you pinned against the brick wall in no time, his hands all over you; in your hair and under your dress while yours roamed all over his toned abs under his shirt. 
“Could take you right here.” He mumbled into your mouth, kissing you so deeply you almost forgot about your initial, devious plan. 
You giggled against his lips as you gently pushed him off you so you could give him your best bedroom eyes. But before you could say anything, you noticed he was staring at your wrists which he had pinned above your head. 
You soon realized what it was that he saw which sobered him instantly - the discreet, matching tattoo which all of your family members shared with one another; as a symbol for loyalty and blood. 
And so, in just a few moments he figured it all out. All he said to you was, “Get out of here.” In a voice so rough and gravelly that it both scared you and turned you on. So you took off running and that was one of the very few times you failed at your missions...   
Come to think of it, if someone had done all that to you and was now asking you for your help, you’d be pretty pissed too. Also, you knew that coming here was not the most rational thing to do. You were from the most influential mob family and were standing right outside a police station for goodness sake, asking the Chief to help you out. So you understood his annoyance. 
“Please, trust me if I had someone else I could turn to I would. But there’s nowhere I can go where my family won’t find me. Please, Mr. Barnes,” You pleaded again, “I need your help.” You spoke, the heavy rain falling over you like you were standing under a huge showerhead. “Just hear me out, please.” 
You sounded distraught. Weird for a young woman as confident and fiery as you. Bucky remembered that night he first met you so clearly it felt like yesterday. Little black dress and deep red lipstick, such a pretty thing he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Then he bumped into you and saw you from up close, and he was done for. 
But then he found out what you had been doing the whole time and he was pissed. Pissed off, but not any less enchanted by you. He had, rather rudely, asked you to get out of there when all he wanted was to keep you there between his body and the wall and kiss the hell out of you until you begged him to make you come. 
A year had gone by and not much had changed really. You were still pretty enough to make a man lose his mind and follow you home like a lost puppy. He had been there once. 
“Fine.” He said, willing to take his chances but also because he couldn’t bear to look at you standing in the heavy rain, shivering like that. Without saying much he took out his keys and unlocked his car which was parked not too far from where you stood but due to it’s sleek black color, it blended in too well with the night. 
You rushed to it and didn’t even hesitate to get into the passenger seat. You even took the liberty to push the start button and crank up the heater while Bucky was still getting in his seat after placing the umbrella in the backseat. When he saw you shivering despite the heater, he shrugged his coat off and held it up to you. 
You took it and slipped it on without a second thought, regardless of how good it smelt, how warm it felt or how you were ruining it with all that rain water clinging to your skin. The remnants of his warmth in the coat made you feel things you chose to ignore in that moment. Now wasn’t the time to bask in the beauty and hotness of the drop dead gorgeous officer. 
Once your teeth stopped chattering from the cold, Bucky turned to you and said, “Alright, I’m listening.” 
You took a deep breath and tried not to stare at him for too long but it was hard not to. Once he took the coat off, he was left in a white shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up till his elbow and of course, signature suspenders. He leaned over the console and inched closer to you and one look into his blue eyes and you almost stuttered. 
“When you’re done eyeing me, I would be very much interested in knowing what brought you to me asking for help.” He taunted. 
You recovered from his beauty and said, “You know Rogers?” 
He furrowed his eyebrows at you, looked out of the windshield and then back at you, “Yes. I’ve been after him and his people for a while now. If I can’t bring down your family, the Rogers are the ones I can settle for. Why do you ask?” 
You looked down at your lap. “My dad wants to marry me into that family. And I believe everyone in this city knows that they’re just a bunch of monsters so I… I ran from home. I’ve been wanting to get away from all of them for a while but it’s not easy.” You said as you lazily rubbed the tattoo on your wrist, “When you’re born in a family like mine, you can never just walk away.” It was sad, really. “And now that I finally ran, I have nowhere else to go.” 
Bucky thought about it. Then said, “So you want a police officer to help keep you safe and out of reach for your mob family who think they own this city, who also happen to have arranged your marriage to an idiotic criminal against your will? And you ran from home in a tiny little red dress and what, your unlimited credit card?” 
His words did sting and you let them. You were acting foolish just by being here and you knew that but something told you that if Bucky just agreed to help you, everything would be okay. If only he would… 
You didn’t even realize you had tears running down your face until Bucky reached out to catch one right before it fell off your face, his warm hand felt great against your cold skin. 
“I’m sorry.” You whispered. You knew he could tell that you were apologizing for what happened about a year ago, when you tried to ‘kidnap’ him from the club that night. 
He said nothing. 
“I didn’t know where else to go.” You spoke again. 
He said nothing. 
You turned to look at him with teary eyes. “Say something.” 
He leaned his head back and smirked. “What would have happened that day? If I hadn’t seen your tattoo in time?” 
What a weird time to ask that question! You gave him the truth. “Our guys would’ve asked you to stop trying to bring us down. And knowing you, you’d say no. So they’d probably beat you up and blackmail you until your answer changed.” 
“And what if it still didn’t?” He questioned. 
You sighed. “Then they would’ve made your life a living hell. Worse than hell. Mess with the people you love, pester you until you either give in or run away forever. Even then they’d find you. They always do.” 
“And yet, you were willing to let all that happen to me. Why? Because I was the enemy, correct? So let’s play this how you people do.” He sat up straight in his seat. “If I help you, what’s in it for me?” He asked, surprising you with the seriousness of his voice. 
But you were always ready for these situations, you were raised in a mob family after all. “I’ll take you to Rogers. You drag him and his behind bars and I won’t have to marry any of them.” You stated. 
The smirk on Bucky’s face took your shaky breath away. “I don’t hate that plan. But how do I know this isn’t a trap by you people?” 
You attempted to get a faint smirk on your face. “I wouldn’t be here in just my tiny little red dress with nothing but my unlimited credit card if it were, would I?” 
Bucky chuckled. “Alright. What do you need me to do? Get you a room somewhere? Help you get out of the country?” 
You shook your head. “My father would know if I do either of those. I have to go somewhere he wouldn’t expect.” You gave him a look which made him frown. “Can I be your paying guest or something for a little while please? You won’t even know I’m there.” 
The last part made him chuckle. How could he not? Even now he could barely stop himself from thinking about inappropriate things. All he could think about was that night, and how perfect you felt against him, and how deeply he kissed you. But staying under the same roof? In his house? He wasn’t sure he’d survive it. 
But if he did, he’d have Rogers behind bars. And that was all he wanted. 
“Fine.” 
---
That was not the best decision he ever made. 
It had been 2 weeks since that little arrangement and although he didn’t mind having a beautiful woman around the house, he did mind the bratty behaviour he wasn’t used to. That, and the fact that you walked around like you owned the place, always testing his patience. 
He came home one night and was not best pleased. You were in the living room, eating from a tub of ice cream when you heard him call out from the kitchen. 
“Can you at least clean after you cook in my kitchen, please?” He yelled from down the corridor. 
You yelled back. “We had a deal, I cook and you clean. I made you dinner, now do your part. What are you complaining about?”
You smirked as you heard his loud footsteps walking down the hall. Moments later he was standing in front of you with the biggest pot ever. 
“I’m complaining about how you use all the pots and pans I own just to make dinner for two people. What did you even use this big of a pot for?” He pointed to the large pot in his hand. 
You answered, looking at the TV screen behind him, “Tried making spaghetti, wasn’t feeling it half-way through so I made chicken and corn pies instead. They’re in the oven all toasty warm, you’re welcome.” 
He opened his mouth to say something but then he closed it. He couldn’t even chastise you because you looked so good in nothing but his large t-shirt. Yeah, somewhere between the third or fourth day of your stay in his house, he found you wearing his t-shirts around the house like it was the most normal thing ever, Bucky chose not to say anything about it. 
So it went unsaid that each time you did laundry, you stole his soft, cotton t-shirts because they were great to sleep in. 
“You need to stop using all the pots. Or at least do the dishes after you’re done so that-,” 
You frowned and cut him off, raising your voice. “I made you dinner!” 
He replied back, “I never asked you to make me dinner!” 
You just stared at him after that little argument. The nerve this man had. Okay maybe you used a lot of stuff to cook just a little but at least you made him dinner. A simple thank you would suffice. 
“Fine, make your own dinner from now on.” You hissed at him and walked away. 
He groaned and called out, “Where are you going?” Clearly, he was annoyed at you but also at how you two handled this situation. 
“To the kitchen, to clean the mess I made while trying to be nice and make dinner for you. You don’t deserve my cooking anyways.” You yelled as you walked down the corridor towards the kitchen. You expected him to follow you but he didn’t. 
Instead once you were in bed for the night, reading you heard knocks on the door. Bucky called out from the other side, “Are you sleeping?” 
You rolled your eyes, “Yes.” You replied, getting back to your book. 
The door opened regardless, and in walked Bucky with silk PJ pants and a white t-shirt. He looked just as devilishly handsome as he always did. Even in PJs. 
“What is it?” You asked, not taking your eyes off your book as you sat up to lean against the headboard. 
Bucky stood there, a few steps away from the bed in the guest room which you currently occupied as his temporary housemate. Bucky’s house was spacious and warm; much more homely than any of the mansions you lived in. You loved it here. Except for when he acted like he couldn’t stand the mere sight of you or anything you did. 
“Just came to tell you that those pies were the best things I’ve ever eaten. Your cooking is exceptional. And thank you,” he added quickly, “For always making me dinner.” 
You closed your book and placed it on your lap. You kept staring at him until it got awkward and only then you asked, “Why do you hate me so much? I mean I get our history, but now that we have a fair deal, why do you still hate me? Is it because of my family?” 
He didn’t say anything right away. You could see the way his jaw tensed and how he went absolutely still like he was made of stone. Then much to your disappointment he ignored your question and said, “It’s late. Good night.” 
As he turned around to leave, you jumped out of the covers and managed to reach him before he opened the door to let himself out. You grabbed his muscular arm and tugged on it. “Look, I know I’m the last person you want to share your space with. And I had no business to drag you into this mess with me but…” 
As per usual, you caught yourself before you broke down completely. But when he looked you in the eyes, you couldn’t help the tears of frustration. Before you knew it, you stepped closer and pressed your forehead to the side of his neck and cried on his shoulder, letting the tears fall down your face silently. 
He instinctively wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer to his warm body. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe here, I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.” He whispered against your hair. “Wanna talk about it?” He asked, part of him wished to understand you better. He knew he had been wrong for making assumptions about you this whole time; you were more than just a spoilt child. You were lonely, and sad. 
You sniffled against his skin and it tickled him just a little. He cracked a little smile and hugged you closer. 
When you started talking, Bucky went absolutely quiet as he gave you his undivided attention. “We were at a dinner party that night, the night I ran. And,” you paused to take a deep breath, “Something was off, I could feel it. I couldn’t find my father or Rogers or his men. So I walked upstairs and found them having a discussion of some sort in the library. I listened and it appeared to be yet another business deal, only this time Rogers wanted not just money but me as well. And my father, he…” You paused again and only the way he gently rubbed your back was what kept you going. “He didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.” 
You let out a quiet sob which broke Bucky. “I’m sorry, but that father of yours is terrible.” He said. “Should’ve let me deal with him like I planned on doing last year itself.” He added. 
That somehow made you chuckle through your tears. You pulled away to look up at him. “I’m sorry for this whole… mess.” 
He shook his head, still holding you close and said, “Don’t be. He doesn’t realize how amazing his daughter is. No one in their right mind would give you up just like that.” He watched two big teardrops fall down your face as you blinked. “And no, I don’t hate you. I just…” 
You blinked again, almost completely lost in his deep blue eyes. “You what?” 
He moved one of his hands from your waist and reached out to tuck your hair behind your ear. He started into your eyes the whole time he spoke and said, “I hate how out of my reach you are. I hate how you fit so perfectly in my arms. I hate how every time I look at you all I can think about is the way your lips felt against mine that night. I hate how bratty you can get but I can’t do anything about it because you’re not mine.” 
The air around you got dense and hotter than earlier. You became suddenly too aware of his hand which rested at your waist and the other which lazily stroked your cheek. “I… what?” You asked, breathless after his confession. 
He had the nerve to smirk at your flushed self. “You heard me. That mess you made today was quite something. Know what I would do to you if you were mine?” He asked, and when you shook your head shyly he continued after pulling you closer and leaning in to whisper into your ear, keeping his voice soft and gentle, “I’d bend you over the breakfast counter and I’d spank your sweet little butt until you screamed in pleasure. Then I’d spread your legs apart and I’d lick your wet little cunt until you came all over my tongue.” He paused and you felt him smirk against your skin. “Then I’d make you cum again, with my cock. And maybe one more time, because I know I’d love the sight of my cock disappearing into your tight hole.” He chuckled like the cocky little shit he was at the dreamy look in your eyes, “Then I’d make you sit on your sore butt and keep me company as I clean up the mess you made.” 
You shivered at the sound of his voice. Sure, you had been with people who talked dirty before but none quite like this man. You let out a little gasp when he reached down and nipped at your throat. You couldn’t form proper thoughts so you kept quiet as he continued. 
“Maybe that’s what it’d take for you to behave, huh?” He teased, pulling away to look into your eyes. 
And then he had the audacity to leave you hanging like that. He said good night, and left the room. You remained standing there, frozen in place and a second heartbeat in between your legs. 
---
For the next few days, you felt like you were in a haze whenever Bucky was around. You caught yourself sniffing the air for any remnants of his cologne each time he walked by. You shivered each time your fingers touched briefly, like when he passed you your cup of coffee in the morning. 
You kept on making dinner for the two of you, and you were suddenly so nervous around him that you barely made small talk. You made sure to clean up after the mess you made each time. And when you slept at night, you often wondered if what he said was true. Would he? But most importantly, did you want him to? 
The answer; yes. Yes you did. Very much. 
-
Friday evening, Bucky came home to a pleasant surprise. He smirked when he walked into the fairly large kitchen he owned and leaned against the doorframe as he watched you. Oh the kitchen was a true mess; overflowing dishes in the sink, heaps of unnecessary pots all over the counters, the oven was on so you must have been busy cooking all evening and amidst all that mess, there you were. Sat on a stool at the breakfast counter, scrolling through your phone mindlessly. 
He cleared his throat before speaking, “What’d you make?” He asked, smirking and not moving from his spot. 
You sat up straight once you heard his voice. You turned to the side to face him and gave him your best smile. “Homemade lasagna. It’ll be done in about half an hour.” You did your best to seem nonchalant while on the inside, your heart was racing. But you’d always been good at faking confidence. 
He finally moved away from the doorframe and walked towards you. Dressed as he usually did, crisp white shirt, suspenders, dark slacks and that dangerous look in his blue eyes. “Good, that leaves us with plenty of time.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper as he stood in between your legs, casually placing both his hands on your exposed thighs. 
You were wearing another t-shirt today, one which was much larger and reached your mid thighs. And that was it, just that t-shirt and nothing else. And it appears he could see your nipples hardening underneath the soft material. 
You played along, simply because you wanted to. You wanted him badly and you were done pretending you didn’t. “Time for what?” You asked. 
Bucky smirked. “Look at you, pretending to be innocent all while tempting me.” He inched his hands higher up your legs. “Bet you’re not wearing anything underneath the shirt, are you?” He chuckled at his own words, “I bet if I just do this, I’ll…” He slipped one of his hands in between your legs and lazily ran his knuckles up and down your bare folds, “Feel how wet you are for me.” He completed his sentence and said, “You’re dripping, babygirl.” 
You looked up into his eyes, your hands holding on to his forearms to steady yourself because him and his words made you feel all hazy and floaty. You decided to play along just a little longer because you couldn’t get enough of the way his shameless words made you feel. “I...I didn’t know you’d be home so early. I didn’t mean to make a mess, I promise.” 
He smirked again. “Oh shut up, babygirl.” His other hand reached up to your face where he lazily traced the shape of your mouth with his thumb. “I know you did all this on purpose. Messed up the kitchen, been roaming around half-naked just waiting for me to get home. Know why? Because you’ve been wanting to get punished ever since I told you about my plans the other night.” 
Damn right. 
He must’ve noticed the way your entire face lit up at the sound of that because he let out a sexy laugh and said, “Look at you, you’re not even trying to hide it.” 
Your face felt really hot at that comment. 
“Well then, what are you waiting for? Bend over the counter and lift your shirt up. Let me see that dripping wet cunt.” He ordered, taking a step back to give you more room to move around. He watched you as you did just as he asked rather quickly. In no time, you were bent over the counter with your shirt lifted up so your entire ass and legs were exposed to him. 
You waited for his touch but instead heard his voice saying, “How okay are you with handcuffs?” 
Just the sound of that had you almost whimpering as you clenched your thighs together. “I don’t mind them.” You replied. And moments later, you heard the soft clanking of metals and a few seconds later, you felt the cold metal surrounding your wrists - securing your hands at the small of your back. 
“What’s your safeword?” Bucky asked. 
You replied with your cheek pressed against the cold marble surface of the counter, “Cherry.” 
His hands were on you the moment you finished talking. You felt his warm hands massaging your butt cheeks. Then one of his hands moved to hold you gently at the back of your neck, and he whispered, “Count for me, babygirl.” 
He lifted his hand up in the air and brought it down to spank your ass. You yelped, “One.” 
“Two.”
“Three.” 
“Four.” 
The next few ones came so quickly you barely even had time to count them out loud. But then he gave you a second to catch your breath, allowing you to feel the sting of it all before continuing. The handcuffs tugged at your wrists in opposite directions but that was nothing you couldn’t handle. 
“Come on, be a good girl and count for me,” He said as he gently smacked your dripping core instead of your butt, making your whole body tingled before he focused on your ass again. 
You were breathless by the time he was done. You counted till fifteen and your butt was on fire when he was done. You waited intently, wondering if he’d spank you one last time. But instead, you felt his soft lips and his rough stubble; his face pressed up against your dripping core. Your face felt hot as he left open mouth kisses from your butt down till your throbbing clit. 
“You taste better than I ever imagined, babygirl.” He mumbled, then added, “And trust me, I’ve thought about this pretty cunt a lot in the past year.” He said, shamelessly as he kissed your clit and sucked on it, making you whimper and wiggle your butt against him. He chuckled and latched his mouth onto your core better. His fingers lightly rubbed your clit as his tongue poked your tight entrance. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his mouth pleasured you. 
Quiet moans escaped your lips as you listened to the wet sounds which erupted from him eating you out like he was a starving man. He licked and sucked as you whined in pleasure under him; hands cuffed behind your back. His warm mouth pressed against you so intimately and easily as though he had been doing this his whole life. Bucky growled when you thrust your hips back against his mouth. You whined loudly as the sounds he made reverberated through your entire body, causing goosebumps to erupt all over your body. 
“Come for me, babygirl. Come all over my tongue.” He whispered, thrusting his tongue deeper into you. You moaned and whimpered even louder. 
As soon as he said so, you felt your walls tighten around nothing, and you knew you were close. You could only moan and whimper as he kept licking deeper into you; your back arching even more as you pushed back against him. You felt him quicken his pace and you felt the pressure building up in between your hips until you couldn’t handle it anymore, and you came undone all over his lips. 
Bucky kissed his way up your body again, pushing his face into your neck as he pulled you up to stand. He pressed his torso to your back, and then your front to the counter as he nibbled along your neck. 
“Want my cock, now? You need it, don’t you babygirl?” He teased, whispering against your skin. And he let out a dark chuckle when you nodded rapidly. “No, not so easily. I wanna hear you beg for it. Go on.” 
You let out a loud sigh, begging him to fuck you, “Bucky please. Please, I need you, please make me cum.” 
His chest rumbled with dark laughter again. “No.” He sounded like he was chastising you. “What do you call me when you’re touching yourself at night, just down the corridor when you think I can’t hear you?” 
You froze. And he bit down on your skin to get your attention again. Discreetly, his hand slipped down to reach in between your legs and he lazily teased your swollen clit, making you almost stutter as you confessed, “Daddy…” 
He hummed in satisfaction once he got his desired answer. “That’s right, babygirl. Beg for daddy’s cock.” 
“Please… please daddy, I need you to make me cum. Please…” You whined breathily. 
He pressed his hard on against your sore ass as he pulled your t-shirt over your head and tossed it aside. You gripped the counter as he quickly undid his belt and unzipped his pants. His hands were on either side of your waist as you bent slightly to press the palms of your hands against the cold counter to steady yourself. You waited for a moment. Then you felt the tip of his cock press against your folds, slowly rubbing up and down; parting the lips at your entrance.
Bucky filled you up nicely, stretching you all the way as he pushed himself inside of you. “This is what you wanted, huh?” He murmured, pushing his face into the crook of your neck. Your mind was foggy as he started rocking into you. Slowly at first, then gradually building up his pace. “Just needed daddy to punish you for being such a messy girl, didn’t you?”  
Each time he filled you up entirely, the tip of his cock brushed against your most sensitive spot, and you moaned out loud each time; your walls clenching around him. “Please…” you whispered. Your mind was hazy, by him slamming into you. His thrust was animalistic, and rough. Each time he slammed into you, your front bumped gently against the counter. 
“Beg.” He growled. “Beg louder for daddy.” His hand flew to your hair and he grabbed a fistful of it, and tugged on it; tipping your head back. “I want to hear you beg for me, and you better mean it, you little brat.” His voice sounded menacing. 
You whimpered as he pounded into your core. His pelvic bone smacking against your ass each time he thrust into you. “I… please daddy, please fuck me harder.” You said, louder like he wanted. He sped up and the sounds of your skin slapping against one another echoed obscenely around the messy kitchen, as did the sounds of you both moaning. 
“This better serve as a lesson, babygirl, that you can’t keep making a mess in daddy’s house.” He growled into your ear. “You hear me?” 
You nodded, moaning as he reached every single sensitive spot inside you. You felt a familiar warmth taking over you, and a pressure building in your lower region. You knew you couldn’t hold it any longer. 
When your walls clenched violently around him, Bucky knew you were close as well. “Are you gonna come for me, babygirl?” he cooed, his voice laced with lust and desire. Seeing you didn’t reply, he tugged on your hair and tilted your head back a little more. He leaned in to kiss your parted lips before pulling away a few inches to spit into your mouth, then leaned in to kiss your swollen lips again. You moaned wantonly as he did. “Answer me.” He growled. 
“Yes… please daddy, can I please come?” You whined again. 
He chuckled, enjoying this as much as you were. “Go on babygirl, come for me.” He slammed his cock harder into you, and your eyes crossed. He felt awfully good. It didn’t take much for you to come undone after that. Gushing out around his cock, walls pulsating around him, you came hard.
With a few strokes against your tight, well walls, he came right after you too. “So fucking good.” He came deep inside you, leaving behind his presence in your body. Then he carefully pulled out and smiled as he watched how his cum trickled out of you and past your folds. He adjusted his pants and zipped it up.
He ran his hands up and down your shaking body and he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “You’ve been so good, babygirl. So perfect.” He murmured into your hair as he wrapped his arms around you from behind so gently like he hadn’t been pounding into you just a few seconds ago.
He pulled away when you shivered from the slight cold. “Here,” He took off his white shirt and wrapped it around your shoulders. “You always look so pretty when you’re wearing my clothes.” He mumbled, pulling you closer by gripping the shirt and tugging on it before leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Come on, let’s shower and then we can eat, yeah?” 
---
So much changed after that night. You no longer had to hide how desperately you wanted each other all the time. You always had a thing for older, authoritative men and Bucky was just perfect. You two didn’t sleep in the same bed yet, but he was always under the covers with you until the first hours of each morning. And you had gotten so used to his body heat in just a few days that each time he tried to leave the bed without waking you up, you’d know. 
The deal you made with each other was always there in the back of your mind. And you knew that once everything was sorted, you’d have to leave. And each time the more you looked into his eyes while he was deep inside you, the more you didn’t want to leave. 
But you also knew that you didn’t have much time left. During the fourth week of living together and living all your wildest fantasies with the beautiful man, he came home one night looking rather defeated. 
He came bearing what was supposed to be good news. 
“You were right,” He told you, “We found them both exactly where you said they would be. And I found enough evidence and illegal shit to have Rogers stay behind bars for decades.” He announced, referring to how you had fed him all the intel you knew about your father and his frequent ‘business’ transactions with Rogers and his men. You had helped him with a plan of action earlier and he was to arrest Rogers. The plan was successful, except that meant that you had to leave his home now. And him. But you didn’t want to have that conversation just yet. 
“And my father?” You asked. 
Bucky looked you in the eyes while answering, “Could’ve put him behind bars as well, for years. But I let him go.” 
That surprised you a little. Bucky had been after your father and other members of your family for the past year now. And he just let him go? “Why? You could’ve had them both.” Not that it wouldn’t hurt you to see your father behind bars for years but seeing he was willingly giving you away as if you were nothing at all, it served him right. 
“That would mean putting you in danger. Your father knows you went rogue, he’s been looking for you all over the city for weeks now. And if I put him in, then we both know that his loyal men wouldn’t hesitate to hunt you down. I made him a deal, that I’d let him go and in exchange he’d grant you your freedom.” He explained and the more he spoke, the more your eyes widened. 
You couldn’t believe it. “You didn’t…” You sounded breathless. 
Bucky gave you a weak smile. “I did. You’re free to do as you wish now. Go wherever you want to go.” Or stay with me, he wanted to add but he didn’t say it. 
Go wherever you want to go... You simply nodded, “Thank you, Bucky. This means a lot.” 
He simply nodded in acknowledgement and stood there quietly. There was so much you wanted to say to each other. The air around felt heavy with tension and the pull was there, tugging both of you towards each other. 
You looked up at Bucky and he was already staring at you. You were quiet, still processing everything when Bucky spoke up, asking you, “So where are you gonna go?” 
You shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.” 
Bucky nodded again before saying, “You know, there are still some of Rogers' men roaming around. You might want to lay low for a while until we catch them all, ‘cause they might… you know, because I just arrested him so they would be mad and… and you know how it is.” He sounded like he was stalling. 
You nodded. “I know how it is. I was raised in a mob family, remember?” You let out a little, nervous laugh as you realized that this was coming to an end. This lovely bubble which you had lived inside with Bucky and his loving touches wasn’t going to last forever; this had to come to an end. 
“I know. I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head again like a terrible idea just crossed his mind. 
You asked softly, not trusting your voice, “You what?” 
He looked deep into your eyes as he walked over to you, trapping you between his body and the wall behind you. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to ever leave. I’m selfish like that, I want you all to myself.” 
Your eyes watered as you looked into the eyes of the beautiful man who had not just removed the bad guys from your life, but he had also earned you a way out. He had brought you your freedom. “Bucky…” 
He leaned closer. “I know you don’t want to leave either.” He pressed his forehead to yours and sighed, “Just stay, we’ll figure it out. Together.” 
You closed your eyes, unable to handle the intensity of all that you were feeling in that moment, unable to look at him without wanting to break down into tears; thankful that he fought the monsters and saved you. 
“Okay.” 
His lips were on yours once you mumbled out your answer. He leaned in closer, picked you up and slammed your back against the wall; all while kissing you hungrily like his life depended on it. You couldn’t even form a proper thought as his tongue slipped into your mouth, making you moan into the kiss. 
Your hands slid into his hair and he held you tightly against him. Your throbbing core pressed against his firm body as his mouth moved perfectly against yours; driving you crazy.
He moaned quietly into the kiss as your hand gently tugged on his hair. He smirked against your lips and spread your legs apart just a little so he could be closer to you. His hands held you up, securely against him. He had a very firm grip on your thigh, his other hand placed right under your ass, holding you up while he kissed you with ardor, like there was no tomorrow.
His lips left yours momentarily to kiss along your jaw, and down your neck, nibbling on your skin. He pulled away from you for a moment, and stared into your eyes again. 
“Tell me you want this.” He said, looking you deep in the eyes. His pink lips were slightly swollen and his hair was messy.
You smiled, looking him dead in the eyes and biting your lip mindlessly at the feral and passionate look in his eyes. He gently set you down and brought his hand up to your face, his thumb gently pulled your lip back. 
“Say it, babygirl.” 
You whispered, “I want this, Bucky. I want you.” 
He smirked and leaned in again to kiss you and bite your lower lip, tugging on it gently. “Wanted you since the day I saw you, babygirl,” he whispered against your parted lips, barely touching them with his own.  
His voice sent chills down your back and you couldn’t wait any longer, so you reached out and started unbuckling his pants and he helped you by lowering down the waistband of your underwear and slipped his hand in between your legs. He ran his knuckles along your wet folds, smearing your arousal around your clit in the process. He chuckled right in your ear as you gently pulled his cock out and stroked it gently.
“Eager now, are we?” he mumbled into your ear. 
Bucky slipped his two fingers through your entrance with ease and hummed in your ear as he felt your walls instantly welcoming him in. He curled his fingers inside of you, hitting all the spots you wanted him too.
“Bucky…” you whimpered and closed your eyes when he leaned down and nibbled on your skin around your collar bones. You moved your hips against his hand instinctively, and he chuckled as you moaned out loud while he touched you. 
He pulled down your underwear, letting it all fall and pool around your ankles. He waited for you to step out of it before he picked you up again and kissed you deeply while holding you between him and the wall securely, your legs immediately wrapped around his waist. His cock briefly brushed against your wet folds in the process and you moaned wantonly through the kiss.
He kissed down your neck, peppering it with kisses as he aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance. Slowly, he pushed himself into you. Stretching you out as he went. His fingers digging into your skin as he held you by your hips, and yours clawing at his shoulders as he filled you up. You were panting in need and desperation by the time he filled you up entirely.
“You’re always gonna be safe with me, babygirl…” he whispered against your cheek, rocking into you. You felt all of him, all the veins and the velvety skin of his member. He was perfect, as always. 
Both his hands supported you up by grabbing you at the curve of your ass, holding you against him, as he sped up into you like he always did. He dipped his head into the crook of your neck and gently bit down on your skin as he slammed into you relentlessly.
His mouth soon found yours and he nibbled on your bottom lip and you let out ragged breaths. A thin layer of sweat formed on his face, as he fucked you relentlessly, earning more and more moans out of you each time his cock stroked your walls. 
You felt the pressure forming; fiery and pressing inside you. Bucky nibbled at the skin under your ear and you lost all control you had left. Your thoughts became cloudy and all you could focus on was how his body brought you immense pleasure.
“Daddy’s always gonna keep you safe, okay?” he mumbled softly against your skin while he fucked you like an animal, occasionally growling at how good you felt around him. “No one’s gonna hurt you ever again. No one will ever make you cry again.” He whispered, then chuckled before adding, “Except for daddy when he’s spanking you sweet little butt.”  
You heard him but you were in no position to say anything back to him. You were a mess. Your throbbing clit rubbed against his pelvic bone each time he buried himself completely in you. He growled in your ear as he pounded into you as fast as he could, your back slamming into the cold wall with each thrust. 
You could hear the wet sounds that he caused each time he pushed himself into you as well as the sounds of your skin slapping against each other. He moaned into your ear and the sound sent shivers down your back. Your legs started to shake around him as he quickened his pace, pounding into you mercilessly.
You felt like you were losing your mind. The pleasure was too much and you couldn’t hold back anymore. So, you came undone around his cock, screaming his name in the process. Walls clenching around him, nails scratching down his back and a loud moan erupting from your mouth, he made you come hard like he always did. His thrusts became irregular as he came right after you did, cock throbbing against your pulsating walls. He groaned out loud when he felt your walls pulsating violently around him. 
He didn’t pull out even after the two of you came. He just kept his throbbing cock carefully buried in you. “Did you hear what I said?” He asked and you nodded pathetically, still recovering from your mind-shattering orgasm. He chuckled again as he relished your warmth and leaned in to kiss you again, passionately, much more gentle than previously. “You’re safe with me, you’ll always be safe with me.” He mumbled against your mouth when he pulled away from your lips. 
You gave him a weak but genuine smile as your fingers tangled in his hair and he gripped your waist, holding you carefully lowering you back on your feet. He noticed you were still shaking so he held you firmly against him. You wrapped your arms around him and he did the same to you, wrapping his strong arms around your frame.
You placed your cheek against his chest and felt his heart racing, just like yours was. His arms brought you the kind of solace and safety you knew you would never find anywhere else. You felt him kiss the top of your head. And you lifted your head up to look at him.
“Thank you.” You whispered again. “You made my life so much better in just a few weeks. Thank you, Bucky.” You pressed a kiss to his clothed chest. 
He caressed your cheek, whispering softly, “Knew it since the day I first saw you in that club baby, you were meant to be mine.” 
Your face felt really hot at his words. You knew it was only a matter of time before you fell completely for this man. But even then, when it does happen he’d always be more than just a lover. Bucky would always be your salvation first. 
---
a/n: I’ve missed you!!
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desdemonafictional · 3 years
Text
TFA Fantasy WIP
Sentinel Prime, His Imperial Benevolence, The Auspicious and Holy Oneself, Emperor in Perpetua, entered the little farming villa like a spoiled brat waltzing into a tent of freaks. He cast his smugly disinterested eye over every dusty window and dinged up bit of furniture alike, observing the lack of bustling servants or fine hangings brought out for his arrival.
Optimus ground his jaw quietly.
“We apologize for the austerity,” he said, still standing stiffly at the door where Sentinel had shoulder-shoved past him to get inside. “The Orion House doesn’t have… much staff. I’m afraid we can’t receive you with all the honors due to a Prime.”
“Oh please,” Sentinel said, “don’t trouble yourself with a formal reception. I’ll just consider this a hunting party, how about that? Like old times, eh, Optimus?”
Bumblebee inched sidelong along the wall, leant sideways, and out the side of his mouth he said, “Y’all two know each other?”
The high ceilings of the Orion were indeed not dissimilar from the hunting lodges they had stayed in together from time to time, as junior officers in the Primal Guard. The air conditioning out here in the countryside was rudimentary, and the summers burned hot under the watchful stare of Hadeen, especially with so many bodies crowded into a single house putting off their own mechanical heat. It was, however, a manor house and not a hunting lodge. It was Optimus’ manor now, in fact, ever since he had been relegated here seven vorn earlier.
“Shall we make a room ready for you, your Benevolence?” Optimus said, ignoring the yellow car prodding at his side.
Sentinel gave the place a judgemental once over and said, “Just the one night, I think. We mustn’t trespass on your… hospitality.”
And with that, the rest of his retinue came sweeping in. Chamber attendants with berth dressings, a chef and cooks, secretaries—the Orion filled up immediately, bursting to its seams with activity. Optimus glanced through the window, and noted that out in the front of the house Sentinel’s guard was already setting up silk tents and laying camp with military efficiency.
“Bumblebee,” Optimus said, “why don’t you show the Prime’s bots where they can set his fixings for the night?”
“Uh,” Bumblebee said, “um, right—just this way, gentlemechs! You’re in good hands with me, I know everything there is to know about the Orion! Hey, stripes, you single—?”
Sentinel fell back to stand beside Optimus, not looking at him, in a parody of casual camaraderie.
“So I guess the pipsqueak isn’t your sweetspark,” Sentinel smirked. “That or you’ve developed a thing for being cuckolded?”
“I’m still single,” Optimus said. “I don’t have any sweetsparks.”
“What, not even that bulky hulk I saw out back?” Sentinel asked, grinning unpleasantly. “I bet he’s easy, rubes like that always are.”
Optimus squeezed his fist open and closed at his side, bruisingly tight, but discreetly. Sentinel was the Prime, and the Prime could say whatever nasty, petty thing he liked.
“Bulkhead is a brilliant engineer,” Optimus said, in an only slightly repressive tone. “He single-handedly designed the new extractors for the crystal fields, and the harvest is coming at 21% increased efficiency this vorn.”
“Whatever, farmer stuff,” Sentinel said. “I don’t give a scrap about that. You’re really still single? Seven vorns that you’ve been out here, and you haven’t even picked up some knobkneed crop duster for a tumble? Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for a conjunx.”
Optimus didn’t bother to point out that he’d been in mourning for most of that time, like Sentinel would have been, if he hadn’t been selected by the Matrix not one vorn after the hunting accident that took Elita from them both. Primes weren’t encouraged to mourn the loved ones from their previous lives. Just the angry edge to Sentinel’s bitter humor proved that he was still mourning, in his own way, and probably the empire would have been better off if he’d been allowed to deal with it on his own terms before being thrust into the mantle of Imperial Personage.
Optimus missed the friends they had been, before the bitterness.
“You know no decent court mech will have anything to do with a relegated bumpkin Count,” Sentinel pointed out. “Conjunxing is not in your future, Optimus. You’d be lucky to take an amica, like the peasants do.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking an amica,” Optimus replied.
“Yeah, not for peasants and destitute washouts,” Sentinel said. “Hey, maybe you could be somebody’s subordinate conjunx, how about that? Not that you’d have any luck tempting a courtier away from Iacon with this…” he grimaced at the high ceilings and bare walls, “cabin in the mud.”
“Are you done?” Optimus asked, a little too forwardly for good manners.
“Watch it,” Sentinel said, narrowing his eyes. “If you’re not properly gracious, I’ll reconsider calling you back to court.”
“Re-?” Optimus skipped a pump beat. “Reconsider?”
Sentinel smirked again, this time with less humor and more coldness, and patted Optimus on the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I could use more allies in the capitol. And you would be an ally for me, wouldn’t you, Optimus?”
The fragile shoot of hope withered all at once. Whatever Sentinel wanted him back at court for, it wouldn’t be out of the goodness of his spark. He still hated Optimus too much; any gratitude would be a yolk around Optimus’ neck for the rest of their lives.
“Yes, of course,” said Optimus. “I am at the service of the Primacy, as ever.”
“I thought you would be,” Sentinel said, and his smirk turned keen, and then he said: “Alright, show us where we can do some freshening up around here. You have body servants around this slaghole? I need a deep polish before dinner.”
--
His Imperial Benevolence came out of the shower quite a long time later, which was fortunate for his cooks, who had hastily taken over Optimus’ kitchen and were rushing to fill it with servable fuel. Optimus had quietly pulled his own kitchen staff—all two of them—away to help clean the place up a little more for guests. Sentinel’s cooks had ransacked the house’s pantry, pulling long spools of brass and bricks of gold onto every counter, vials of soluble compounds, crystals, seasonings. The cooks kept clicking their tongues at the spread. Optimus had the feeling that he was being Disapproved of.
In the house there were two cooks, one body servant, a housekeeper, Optimus, and the engineer (Bulkhead) who was out overseeing an upgrade to the manor rain pumps this month. The house had been on the empty side, before Sentinel, and now it was crammed full in every room with someone doing something. The change was a little bit dizzying. Bumblebee seemed to be loving it, though.
“Don’t make me clean,” he was whining, a squeegee dripping unhelpfully in his hand. “I want to go out and see the soldiers, let me go out and see if the soldiers need anything.”
Optimus pressed his lips together. “If you go out there now, I won’t see you again until tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay, so? Sentinel’s cooks got it covered, you don’t need me.”
Optimus wondered if there was a polite way to say “I’m more worried one of them will lean you over his saddle bag without waiting for permission.” Bulkhead might or might not be easy, it wasn’t Optimus’s place to guess, but he had a distinct feeling Bumblebee would be.
“Just go get the place settings out,” Optimus told him, “when that’s done you can gossip with anybody in the house, but don’t go outside. I might need you.”
Bumblebee thwapped his cleaning cloth against his thigh and grumbled all the way out of the room. Optimus gave it depressingly low odds that he’d be obeyed the whole night, but, well, he’d done his best. He didn’t have time to be monitoring his staff all night, not when Sentinel was lurking about the place.
Besides, what were the chances Bumblebee could even bud new sparks? Less than thirty percent of the population could do it, under the best circumstances.
There was a shout from the direction of the baths, and Optimus whirled in time to see servants roiling away from the exclamation like insecticons in a disturbed hive. He pushed his way through the aimless anxiety and then—with a deep vent to pre-emptively cool himself—let himself into the washroom, where solvent was splattered all over the floor and Sentinel was splattered across the chest with globs of polish.
“My Prime,” Optimus said, leaning his hip against the wall. He didn’t smirk. He thought about it though.
Sentinel whirled, steam all but blowing out his vents. “One of your bumbling idiots broke my washkit!” He jabbed his finger at a very complicated looking fold-out case, enameled with blue and white and utterly smashed across the floor between himself and the body servant.
“I—” the servant said, “Optimus—your Courtesy—I was setting it out for the Prime, but one of the containers was—”
“Your idiot threw it at me!”
“One of the containers—there was a springloaded compartment and—”
“And it bit you like a needle-mouthed pit beast?” Sentinel mocked, furiously. “That case was one of a kind! My concubine made that for me!”
Optimus glazed at the poor smashed object. It certainly did look one of a kind, with that complicated enameling out the outside, the nested compartments all conjoined in different ways, like a puzzle box.
“Ugh,” Sentinel said, and glared down at his abdomen. “And you got them mixed up too, look at this, my paint is peeling, everyone knows you’re not supposed to mix cosmetic chemicals.”
Actually, it was peeling. Kind of bubbling too. That was alarming enough that Optimus pushed off the wall and went to fetch a dry cloth and a jar of water from the cabinet. Plain water was usually safe to mix with chemicals, whereas solvent was… not.
“Now I need to fix my paint too,” Sentinel seethed. “I wanted to go hunting tonight! I won’t have time to go hunting once we reach the border, it’ll be nothing but handshaking and touring the facilities!”
“I’m sure we can get your paint patched with plenty of time for dinner,” Optimus said, and sat Sentinel down at the edge of the great sunken oil pit (empty, as it usually was, the budget for hot oil being very slim at Orion House). He knelt down and dragged the broken kit back towards himself, fishing through the wreckage until he came up with the little jar of touch up paint in Sentinel’s classic blue.
“Um, my lord count,” the servant said, from somewhere behind Optimus.
“Don’t worry about it,” Optimus said, without looking back, “I’ll take it from here. You go help the others with dinner.”
“And get my hunting kit out more carefully this time!” Sentinel shouted after him, leaning so far forward that Optimus had to tilt his head out of the way to avoid bonking his Prime’s chassis.
Gently, Optimus pressed a palm to Sentinel’s chest and pushed him back into his seat. Sentinel slouched back into the bench seat, letting his elbows hang over the empty tub behind him. He eyed Optimus, his face tilted away at an angle that seemed half suspicious, half uncomfortable.
“You know you’re a Count now, not a cadet,” Sentinel said. “Below your station to be scrubbing and polishing anybody, even the Prime.”
Optimus’s half smile was more irony than humor. He wasn’t about to leave poor Screwshine alone with Sentinel, after that fit of temper. He focused on lathering up the powder paint and paint-thinner into something he could work with.
Sentinel let Optimus push his leg out of the way to get a better angle at the stripped plating, but his sidelong gaze didn’t ease up. “Not angling for a spot in the Primal Harem, are you?”
Optimus nearly shuddered at the thought. What a nightmare, locked up in the harem with a mech who hated him for the rest of his functioning. No amount of luxury or status was worth that. “No, my Prime. Definitely not. I just wasn’t going to let you keep terrorizing my servant all night.”
Sentinel scowled, but he also relaxed. “I wouldn’t have to yell at your staff if they weren’t a bunch of incompetent ninnies.”
“You’re the Prime,” Optimus said, fixing his frown firmly on the paint, and not on Sentinel’s face. “You’re meant to comport yourself with more grace than that.”
“Hah,” Sentinel said, and his face twisted into an even darker configuration, “what would a washout coward like you know about any of it, anyway.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the smooth soft sound of paint applique. Eventually, Sentinel snapped, “Hand me that pill case, the pink one, it’s down in the slag pile.”
Optimus was reluctant to pause, thinking of the quick drying paint, but obeyed after only a second’s hesitation. He dug it out and handed it up, considering the esoteric pink inscriptions in the white enamel. White was the color of philosophy. Pink was the color of life. When Sentinel shook out a couple of the little capsules, in the moment before clapping them to his mouth and swallowing, their insides sloshed with a viscous magenta sludge.
“What… are those?” Optimus asked, feeling a little sick just from looking at the things.
“Mm?” Sentinel knocked back a quick swig of something from his subspace pocket and then coughed, wiping his mouth absently with the back of his hand. “Oh. Prima Materia. Divine Oneness philosophy is all the rage in Iacon right now. Guess you wouldn’t know about that out here in the boonies.”
Optimus frowned and wracked his memory storage. “An alchemical elixir?”
“Yeah,” Sentinel said, and tucked the little pill case back into his subspace pocket. “Couple a day, supposed to make you live forever. When the old chancellor came down with Zero Point Crytosis last orn, the court was hysterical. I don’t say this very often, but every once in a while, I miss soldiers.”
Optimus made a face at the idea of taking those goop capsules twice a day. “You sure that stuff is safe?”
“Please,” Sentinel said, “I’m the Prime. My alchemists aren’t grabbing any old dirt off the back of a truck and calling it gold. Anyway, one of my concubines is a chemist, and a damn good one for all she needs the smart mouth knocked off of her. She mixed the slag herself.”
Optimus continued to regard it doubtfully.
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povvertaken · 3 years
Text
plotted starter for @wemultitudinous​
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Inspector Elfriede Tanith looks up at her hotel building from the cab window and sighs. At several hundred pound a night, it wasn’t cheap. She hadn’t checked the particulars, merely supplied her name and told the front desk to forward any bills to her offices in London. She already misses the sleek chrome and glass office with its Nespresso machine, Pret just around the corner, and the familiar rumble of London traffic. The quiet of Cumbria creeps her out, the wails of siren notable for their absence. She’s slept so long under the orange glow of street lamps peering into her flat that the hoots of owls in the silence up here sends a shiver down her spine.
But it’s morning time, and she has a new station to report to. Cookam Street Station, under the rule of one DCI Uhtred Ragnarsson. She wrinkles her nose. She ought to be going for the rank of DCI, back in London, back in the Metropolitan Police. Instead, she’s been seconded out to the middle of rural nowhere, to work with Cumbria Police on a spate of murders. The files are tucked away in her bag, along with her wallet, a newly minted ID card, sunglasses, and everything else she might conceivably need.
The cab driver mumbles something as they pull in to the station car park, but she pretends not to hear as she hands over a crisp ten pound note. The station itself looks dilapidated, some kind of prefab 1960s block that more closely resembles a pile of Lego bricks. As the cab reverses away, she smooths down her skirt. Her work wardrobe has been the same since her days at River House, all leather pencil skirts and silk shirts, tailored blazers and trousers, muted but expensive neutral colours. The wind whips up, pulling a few strands of dark hair loose from her expertly style chignon. She pulls her coat closer around her body, taking the first step into this new world.
Every station functions as its own empire. In her old station, she was all but empress in name. Her track record spoke for itself, not to mention her two degrees and her experience in Intelligence. But on secondment, there’s no time to establish your own credibility. Besides, local coppers get uppity whenever Met officers are invited to join cases. She’s been on the end of pointed comments about the Metropolitan elite enough times to understand the game. She’s been seconded to Belfast before. Her stay with Cookam Street Station will be brief, and she’ll be back in London before they’ve re-opened the Christmas market on the South Bank.
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dokoni-mo · 4 years
Text
Far Away, Together || Darth Vader x Reader (Chapter 6)
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(A/N: I had originally planned to do post this friday, but I was just on such a roll last night that this bad boy practically wrote itself! Im very happy with the turnout as well :)) I hope y’all like it too!!! I also realized while writing this that the series will have to be one chapter longer than I had originally intended, but that’s just good news in my book!! As always, please feel free to ask to be put on the taglist for anything or send me asks about anything!! I love interacting with yall and making content for yall!! enjoy more time with our favorite sith ;) ))) 
WARNINGS: cursing, old man kinda creeping, breif mentions of violence, otherwise none!!! 
Key: (F/N) = first name 
Word Count: ~5600
Chapter One: [x]
Chapter Two: [x]
Chapter Three: [x]
Chapter Four: [x]
Chapter Five: [x]
Chapter Five and a Half: [x]
~~
You hadn’t meant to be late that morning, but nonetheless, you were. Unquestionably so. 
Waking up in the silk sheets that morning had been one of the most difficult things that you had ever had to do. For one, the bed was quite comfortable compared to the cot that you normally slept upon in your quarters back on the Super Star Destroyer. The cot that the Empire provided you was almost exactly like the Empire itself. Cold, hard, and not comfortable at all. The bed there on that planet, however, was the opposite. It was warm, inviting, and very comfortable. You would have simply cocooned yourself back in the covers and fallen back asleep were it not for you remembering your duty. 
Alongside leaving the comfort, waking up that morning meant that the time you had spent with Lord Vader the night prior was officially over. For a brief moment in your groggy, freshly woken-up state, you had thought that the dance you shared with Lord Vader must have been a dream. A wonderful, yet cruel dream of what you knew could never be. However, contemplating it a moment longer, you knew that it was, in fact, very much real. Sitting up to look sleepily at your surroundings, you felt the phantom touch of Lord Vader’s arm around your waist, his hand within yours. Going back further, you replayed the conversation you had had with him in your mind, cementing the thought within your memory. 
You smiled to yourself then. You knew that you would cherish that moment forever.
After picking up your uniform and pulling it's cloth upon your body, you decided that it would be best to simply just cut to the chase and go downstairs instead of stalling in your room for an indefinite amount of time. As you opened the door and clacked your boots down the hallway, a yawn escaped from behind your lips, making you raise your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound. As you drew closer to the stairs, you started to hear muffled voices from below you, your ears unable to decipher what exactly the voices were saying. 
Your curiosity taking over you, you slowed your steps so that you could concentrate on the voices, your ears perking as you honed in on what they were picking up. After a moment of investigation, your mind was able to process the tone of the voice you heard, but not necessarily the words of which it was speaking. Your brow furrowed as you searched your mind for where exactly you had heard that voice before. The memory seemed so distant from your conscious, yet so very close. 
The face that matched the voice hit you like a ton of bricks. 
That face was old and nasty. 
That face had blue eyes. 
Shit. 
You were late. Very, very late. 
Adrenaline pumping through you, you bounded down the stairs faster than you had ever before on any set of stairs. You cursed how loud the sound of your boots stomping quickly on top of the surface of each step sounded, eliminating your chances of joining the meeting quietly and undetectably. Drawing quickly down the stairs, you were greeted with a sight of confirmation of exactly how late you were. About 50 feet away from you stood a handful of palace guards, another handful of stromtroopers and officers, one king, and, of course, one extremely tall sith lord, looming above the rest as he always did.
Walking quickly over to the group to assume your position at Lord Vader’s side, it was extremely difficult to not notice the stares you got from the officers and, more-so, the king. Meeting his blue gaze for a moment, you felt your cheeks rush with embarrassment. It was only then that you had allowed your mind to go back further into the events of the past night. 
The king’s hands on you. 
The conversation you had. 
The broken glass. 
You should have been ashamed to show your face. But, you weren’t. You were proud that you had put that old man in his damn place. 
You were ashamed, however, of exactly how much you suspected you would be chewed-out by Lord Vader for being late two days in a row. 
Oh well. 
Standing with your arms crossed over your chest, you found your position by Lord Vader’s side, shooting up a small, quick smile at the sith Lord. He turned briefly to acknowledge your presence before returning to his original position of staring down at the old king. This made you puff your cheeks slightly, disappointed that he didn’t do anything else. Thinking it over a moment longer, you decided that you shouldn’t be too upset. This was technically a meeting, to be fair. 
Returning your gaze to face forward, you were met by the sight of the king’s gaze trained upon you. The look he gave to you was one of an odd flurry of amusement and daggers, his lips in a slight smirk. Your eyes hardened in return, refusing to let you submit to the old asshole’s gaze. 
“Well,” the king said, a breathy chuckle in his voice, “Look who has decided to join us! Good morning, Miss (F/N).” 
You put on the best half-friendly smile that you could before formulating your response, “Good morning, your majesty.” 
If you had simply trained on his words, you would have convinced yourself that perhaps the king had decided to continue on like the previous night’s actions had never occurred. However, you knew that his eyes had told a different story. Yet, you were confused. It was hard to tell what exact game he was trying to play
 Furthermore, it was hard to tell if you really wanted to play. 
“Well,” the king said, clapping his gloved hands together, “Now that everyone is here, allow me to guide the way.” 
Turning on his heel and walking the other direction, you figured that you must have missed the details of the day while you were getting ready that morning. Sighing silently to yourself, you picked up your boots to follow the king, as well as the barrage of guards, stormtroopers, and officers that tailed him. 
This had been your original plan, until it was sharply and swifty interrupted by a large weight throwing itself upon your shoulder, simultaneously pulling you back and keeping you in place. Your mouth opened to let out a yelp, but your lungs prevented this with a moment's more worth of constipation. 
You recognized this weight. 
“You are late again.” You heard the weight’s owner say from behind you, your cheeks turning pink.
Turning your body to face the sith lord behind you, you crossed your arms again as you looked up at him, a small smile on your features. 
“I like to think that I’m just fashionably late again, my Lord.” You quipped back at him, “What do we have to do today?” 
He gave you a strong pat on the shoulder before walking past you, slow enough for you to keep up, “Our host will be showing us what his planet has to offer the Empire, along with its natural resources.” 
 You walked to catch up with Lord Vader, letting your arms fall to your sides. 
“How exciting…” you mumbled out. 
You continued to walk in silence for a long moment beside the sith lord, unsure of what to say. You desperately wanted to say something, anything, but the words just would and could not come to you. Every now and again, you would open your mouth to say something, but would quickly second guess what it was, causing you to shut it again. You began to grow somewhat frustrated that you couldn’t find the words. You hoped that you didn’t look as dumb as you felt. 
Lord Vader must have sensed the frustration growing inside of you as he looked down at your small frame, noticing how your brow was furrowed as you stared at your feet in compilation. He would never admit it to anyone, but he found it to be… 
Amusing. 
Returning his gaze to it's original position, you heard the sound of his respirator pick up in rhythm before he spoke. 
“(F/N),” Lord Vader said, “I sense that you are frustrated.” 
You felt your gut sink as you processed the words, shooting a look up at him. Damn, you thought to yourself, is it that obvious?
“I… I don’t know what you mean.” you responded. This was a half lie. You had known exactly what he meant by the words, but not what exactly he was trying to say. So what if you were frustrated? Every time he came to visit you while you were working on his TIE you were frustrated. What made now so special? 
Lord Vader paused again before rumbling out his response, the metal of his armor gleaming in the light of the day. 
“I enjoyed our night together as well.” 
Oh. 
That’s what made now special.
Your heart had skipped multiple beats at his words. Your nerves were firing off a mile a minute as waves of joy rippled through you. You had not realized that you were nervous about whether or not he actually wanted to be with you last night, or if he was simply doing it to get away from the mingling he had to do. Your doubt quieted, you looked up at Lord Vader’s mask, a big smile painted on your features. Sensing your gaze, Lord Vader pointed his mask to look down upon you. 
“I’m… glad. Really glad.” you said up at him, your eyes crinkling in delight, “I… hope that it wasn’t the last one.” 
You shot your gaze down back to your feet after you finished talking, your smile fading into a soft, faint stretch of your lips. You were surprised how bold you had been just then, admitting your true feelings to the sith. Where you should have felt embarrassed, you felt instead… content. You didn’t regret your actions at all. You felt comfortable even. If you had been anyone else, you knew that you would have been sliced in half or choked to death right then and right there. Yet, by some grace that was far bigger than you, you knew deep down, you were lucky enough to be excluded from that fate.
You thanked your maker above silently and unconsciously. 
Lingering his gaze upon you a moment longer, Lord Vader drank in the sight of your flushed face before turning his armor-clad head to face forward again, as if he were looking something very, very far away. His words came a moment filled with nothing but the sound of birds, the breeze, and his respirator allowing him to inhale and exhale later. 
“As do I.” 
~~~
The places that the King had taken you, Lord Vader, and the posse of troopers and officers were pretty, but not all that interesting. A tour of the city, a look at the forest, a look at the sea, and a look at the sports colosseum. Again, all very beautiful to look at, but not too interesting to talk about. 
You had been able to avoid any sort of contact with the king as you trudged through the sights of the city, keeping your mouth shut and your eyes trained on the view around you. Every now and again, your group would begin to walk without you even realizing. You were always broken from your trance by Lord Vader, either by him calling out your name or leading you on by the small of your back for a brief moment, his giant hand nearly taking up the entire expanse. Both would always make you smile up at him, and the latter would make you blush. 
You were currently atop of a platform that looked over a medium-sized waterfall, the sound of the water falling off the edge filling your ears. The air was thick with the smell of salt, and the dew that emanated off of the falls making the atmosphere humid, but pleasantly so with the breeze that fluttered your hair. Across the stretch of rock that you stood upon was the entrance to one of the largest mines on the planet, the cave so large you had to crane your neck to look atop it. The few stalactites and stalagmites that stuck out of the entrance gleamed and littered in the sunlight, emanating many hues of the rainbow. If you weren’t here representing the Empire, you would have almost thoroughly enjoyed the setting. 
“I will give you a few moments to look around, my Lord. I have to discuss something with my advisors for a brief moment.” The king had said to your boss after blubbering on for a long while about the history of the mine and the resources that were found inside. With a nod of approval from Lord Vader, the king gave one last snake-like smirk and walked off, giving you some sort of look. You felt a sour taste on your tongue as you rolled your eyes, making sure that the king’s gaze was turned away before you did so. 
You had hoped to take a short walk with Lord Vader while the two of you were on break from mingling, but you were disappointed to see his attention be taken away by an officer who demanded his attention. You would have been saddened, were it not for you remembering that the visit to that damn planet wasn’t just a get away for you and Lord Vader to hold hands all day and walk into the sunset together. There was work to be done and deals to be made, and that always seemed to involve him in some way.
Awesome. 
Deciding to not try and make friends with the guards or strike up a conversation with the stormtroopers, you placed a hand on your hip as you started to slowly walk around the stone platform. You had eyed some of the members of the posse as you walked by, quietly wondering what their daily lives were like or what their thoughts on Lord Vader’s visit. Sighing to yourself, you realized that they must be just as boring as your own. 
As you continued to stroll about the platform and gaze absentmindedly at the people that littered it, a certain sight had caught your attention. You didn’t mean specifically to look at the king, but your eyes had somehow fallen upon him. Just as he said he would, he was currently talking to a few guardsmen who seemed to have a few more matches and medals than the rest. Captains and generals, you took it. 
Lingering your gaze a moment longer, you felt a jolt rush through your spine as your lips parted. While the king was whispering to his guards, he had taken a moment to look over his shoulder at you, a glint of venom in his eyes. This glint quickly dissipated, however, once he realized that his blue eyes had made sudden contact with yours. With this, he quickly let his gaze fall as he continued to talk quietly with his advisors, as if he had hoped you did not notice this action. 
However, quite the contrary, you had noticed as plain as day. Processing what had just happened, you allowed your brow to furrow.
What was that for? You wondered to yourself. The obvious answer, the one you wanted so desperately to believe, was that the look you had exchanged was by pure accident, the tone of his look being from the king’s residual loathing from the night prior. However, as much as you wanted to believe that, you gut told a different story. You felt… odd. 
You decided to do something about it. 
Marching past all the other people dispersed in the crowd, you only stopped when you were within conversation distance between the king and his huddle of guards. You had noticed that their voices had grown quieter and quieter as you had approached. 
“Did you want to speak with me, your majesty?” you asked, raising your voice so that you could be heard over the bodies of the guardsmen as you placed a hand on your hip. 
A moment of awkward hesitation loomed over the air as the king exchanged a few glances with the guards, causing you to raise a brow. Smirking and stepping forward, the king placed his hands behind his back as he looked down at you. 
“Now where would you get that idea, my dear?” the king asked you, his tone so sickeningly sweet it made you wince. 
We made eye contact, dumbass. 
“I saw that you were looking my way, your majesty,” you responded, “and I just figured-” 
“What? That I would ever want to speak with the likes of you again?” 
Your mouth opened slightly in shock at his sudden change of tone, your legs moving to shift your weight. Excuse me?
“W-What?” you stammered out, the shock still in your veins, “no, I just-” 
“Don’t get smart again with me, missy.” the king hissed out, stepping forward and glaring down at you, his finger in your face, “Don’t think that I have forgotten how you embarrassed me in front of my entire entourage last night.” 
Oh. 
This was what this is about. 
Not letting yourself back down, you placed both hands on your hips, your brow furrowing again as you shot up a glare right back at the blue-eyed old man. 
“Embarrassed you? How about when you embarrassed me?! Looking at me like that, talking to me like that, are you out of your-” 
“Shut up,” the king spat, cutting you off. Suddenly and without warning, he reached out and grabbed you by the collar, making your eyes widen. You wrapped your hands around his wrist and tried to pull away, only for him to pull you closer to his glare. 
“Do you really think that you could pull that sort of stunt and get away with it? I swear, I will-” 
“Is there something wrong, your majesty?” 
The voice that came from behind you was comforting to you, but only sparked fear within he eyes of the king. Letting you go almost instantly, you stumbled backwards, your back bumping against the hard, firm surface of a panel of buttons. Before you could look up at the owner of a panel, a pair of hands wrapped themselves around your shoulders, grounding you and making you feel safe. Looking at the king again, you had noticed that his face had morphed from one of anger and hate to one of fear, only masked by a forced friendly smile. You smirked softly to yourself as you noticed the beads of sweat starting to form upon on his old, wrinkly brow. 
“O-Of course not, Lord Vader!” the king said, a waver in his voice, “Miss (F/N) and I were just having a, erm, little… chat.” 
“Is that so…” Lord Vader rumbled out. You opened your mouth to object, but you were quickly cut off by the old man before you. 
“Y-yes! Yes of course!” the king chuckled nervously in response. 
“Good,” rumbled Lord Vader, taking his hands off your shoulder and stepping closer to the king ever so slowly, his head tilting to the side, “It would be quite the shame if my prised mechanic were to be harmed.” 
Gulping silently and taking a few steps back, the king responded, “Yes… quite the shame indeed.” 
Clearing his throat, the king placed his hands on his hips, assuming a new look of attempted friendliness. 
“Well, I assume that we are all done here, yes? Excellent! Let us head back to my palace now, my Lord. There we can talk more about our entrance into the Empire.” 
Before Lord Vader could do anything in approval, the King pushed past both  you and the sith lord, the cape on his shoulders fluttering at his pace. As the troopers and officers began to follow suit, you began to mimic their actions, only to be stopped by a familiar hand upon your shoulder. 
“(F/N),” Lord Vader spoke to you, making the pair of you linger behind the group, “Are you… alright?” 
You didn’t know how to respond instantly.
Were you alright?
You frowned slightly as you thought about what your response should be. You didn’t know whether or not to tell him about your interaction with the king, or how you had seen him look at you and whisper with his guards. The feeling in your gut had not dissipated, and it plagued the back of your mind. You wondered if that was worth telling Lord Vader, however, since he already had so much to worry about. Was that just normal behavior? Lord Vader did do similar things with the officers on the Super Star Destroyer… 
“Yeah, I’m fine… thanks.” you decided to respond. Shooting up a small smile at his mask, you lifted up your own hand to rest upon his own briefly in order to cement your gratitude. 
He looked at you in silence for a long moment after you responded. You wondered if your answer had satisfied his curiosity. His pause said no, even the aura around him said no, but he did not poke the subject any further as he removed his hand from your shoulder. 
Deep down, you really wanted him to question you further. 
~~~
The walk back to the palace was excruciatingly long. 
You didn’t realize just how far you and the little posse had gone until you passed by literally everything that the king had taken you to see. By this point, the sun was starting to set, and your feet were starting to ache in your boots. You were somewhat grateful for this, however, since it meant that the second day on this planet was finally drawing to an end. 
Just one more day of having to deal with this shit, you thought to yourself, then I can go back to my station. Funny… I never thought I would miss that place. 
But there I can be by myself, and not worry about having to deal with creeps. 
There I can be with…
You shook your head to dislodge your thoughts. Now was not the time nor the place for you to indulge in such things. 
Staring to grow bored with your walk alongside Lord Vader, you began to let your eyes wander once again for some people-watching. You watched as the stormtroopers marched along with their guns held tightly to their chests, and how the officers walked with their heads held high. There was no doubt that this was an empirical entourage. 
Looking deeper into the crowd, you allowed your gaze to fall upon the king’s guardsmen. Their uniforms were somewhat silly to you, but you figured that you must be biased in that regard. Training your eyes on them a moment longer, you started to notice small things that the guards would do. 
Every so often, one guard would whisper to another, then another, then another. Sometimes, the guards would even steal glances of you and Lord Vader as you were fixated by his side. Your brow furrowed again at this, making your mind try and piece together what you were seeing. 
He must have sensed your shift in mood since he looked down at you without warning, his respirator as loud as ever. He took note of your facial expression before he spoke. 
“You seem on edge, (F/N).” Lord Vader said, making you look up at him a brief moment. 
“Yeah,” you said back quietly, your fingers twitching in a faint sense of nervousness, “It's just… Do you see them looking at us? It’s… weird.” 
Lord Vader looked at you a moment before responding. 
“Yes, I am aware.” 
“Should we… do something about it? Or is this normal?” 
“It happens periodically upon my visit to certain systems. Besides,” he continued, “Any attempt to conspire against the Empire shall result in failure.” 
You would have smiled at that if it weren’t for the pang of nervousness that still resided in your gut. Instead, you looked down at your feet and frowned to yourself, your lips stretching into a brief line. 
“If you say so, my Lord…” 
You desperately wanted to believe him. But, a pit of doubt and anxiety in your stomach kept you from doing as such fully. You hated the feeling. 
It’s just me wanting to get off this damn rock… you tried to tell yourself. 
You didn’t fully believe yourself, either. 
You didn’t know which feeling to hate more. 
~~~
Upon your arrival back to the palace, you were allowed 30 minutes to yourself to freshen-up before the day’s closing meeting. Relieved to get a moment to yourself, you headed up the stairs almost too quickly as you were relieved to go by Lord Vader. 
‘Do try not to be, how do you put it… ‘fashionably late,’ again this evening, (F/N)’ he said to you. 
‘No promises, my Lord.’ you had giggled back to him. 
Locking the door and kicking off your boots in your room, you sat down gingerly upon the freshly made bed, a wave of relief washing over you, so strong that it made you lie back upon the plush surface. Reaching your arms above your head, you arched your back as you let yourself have a big stretch, your muscles turning cold from the rush of blood-flow. Letting out a big breath, you closed your eyes as you let relaxation flow over you. You figured that since you needed energy to continue on with the night, now was as good a time as any to get in a quick cat-nap. 
Just as you had settled into your quick nap, a startling yet soft sound made you snap your eyes open, because of course something had to take your relaxation away from you. Laying there silently for a moment, you tried your best to hone in on the sound. Your ears prickling, you heard the noise again, only this time it made you sit up in your bed at attention. Finally able to decipher where the noise had been coming from, you snapped your head over to the knob on your door. 
Sure enough, it was twisting and turning at a feverish pace. 
Someone was trying to come in. 
Oh hell no. 
A sense of anger and frustration washing over you, you quickly marched over to the door, throwing it open as quickly as you could. 
“WHAT THE HELL-” 
Nothing. And no one. That’s what meat your gaze as you looked out in the hallway. 
Your face fell from one of anger to one of sad confusion as you stood there a moment, your hand sliding down the surface of the door. Sighing to yourself, you slowly went back into your room and closed the door behind you. You closed your eyes and pointed your head at the ceiling as you leaned your back against the door, allowing yourself to slide down into a kneeling position. 
Great, you thought, now I’m going crazy. 
I just want to go home. 
I hate it here. 
~~~
Deciding to humor Lord Vader a little, you had arrived at the night’s closing meeting on time. This had proven to be the correct choice, since you didn’t get any stares from anyone upon your arrival. The gut feeling from that morning still inside you, and this did little to appease it. However, it made you wonder if the king had given up on whatever he was trying to pull with you from earlier. 
But, of course, you had no way of knowing. 
The meeting was just as boring as all the other ones you had been to. Again, you were sit speechless by Lord Vader as he discussed the topics at hand with the king or one of his advisors. As he did so, you would try and find anything you could do to entertain yourself. This often involved counting tiles or trying to play back a holovid you had seen long ago back in your mind. 
This meeting, however, had a big surprise in store for you. 
“Miss (F/N),” you heard the king’s voice call out to you, sending a shock of get your head out of your ass down your spine, “You look dreadfully bored over there, my dear.” 
Looking over to the king, you hid your scowl as best you could as you tried to ease your sense of deja-vu. 
“Well, there isn’t much I have to add to the conversation, your majesty…” you responded back. You hadn’t meant to sound snarky, yet you couldn’t help yourself. 
The king laughed, an odd glint in his eye, “Yes, of course, my dear. I understand perfectly. Yet, I feel so bad just watching you sitting there. Here, how about we have my guards here escort you to the mechanical department for the time being? You can get a good look at the place whilst me and Lord Vader discuss, hm?” 
Your lips parted in confusion as you looked into the king’s blue eyes. What the hell? Did he suddenly feel bad for being such a dick to you? Or did he simply just feel bad? Or could he just not stand the sight of you anymore?
Deep down, you didn’t care. Enticed by an opportunity to leave the boring meeting behind, your mind was fuzzed from any thoughts of doubt that plagued your conscience. That offer did sound… appealing. 
However… 
“I… I would love to, your majesty, but…” you began to say, turning your gaze to fall upon Lord Vader for a moment, “I wouldn’t want to go against my Lord’s wishes if he required me to stay.” 
This was a silent plea, but you wouldn’t know it yet. 
“Oh, I’m sure that our dear Lord wouldn’t mind at all! Am I right, Lord Vader? Won’t you allow our dear Miss (F/N) to be relieved of our boring conversation?” the king asked, propping his boots on the table. 
You shot your gaze over to Lord Vader, unable to tell what emotion your eyes emanated to him. The sith looked right back at you, the sound of his respirator allowing him to inhale and exhale filling the room. 
Deep down, you wanted him to say no. 
Deep down,you prayed he would say no. 
He spoke after one of his trademark pauses. 
“I will allow it.” 
Why did that sting so bad? You should be relieved… 
“Excellent!” the king exclaimed, “Guards, please take Miss (F/N) to the mechanical department for the time being. I will comm you when she is to return.” 
The guards grasped their blasters tightly in response, standing at attention. Slowly but surely, you stood up from your chair and pushed it in. As you turned, mumbled out a quiet thanks, and began to walk past the dark lord you knew too well, you felt something large and leathery wrap around your fingers. Sure enough, when you looked down, he saw his hand wrapped there, making you look up at his mask. 
“(F/N),” he said slowly, just enough for you to hear, “be… careful.” 
You smiled and nodded at him like you didn’t need his caution.
Why did it feel so wrong? 
With Lord Vader eventually letting you out of his grasp, you walked over to your guard escorts and gave them a nod to signal to them that you were ready. Nodding in return, they turned on their heels and escorted you out of the room. 
You gave one last glance over your shoulder at Lord Vader before you exited. 
Deep down, you prayed that this wouldn’t be the last time you saw him.
~~
The palace was eerily quiet with no one else but you and two guards walking the halls. Even though you had never been to a palace before, something inside you told you that this was wrong. 
You ignored it. 
The sound of footsteps echoing off of the walls made the goosebumps raise on your arms. It was so eerily quiet. And so eerily cold. You thought about striking up conversation with the guards, but you took them as not the type for conversation. 
Looking past all the doors that you saw on your walk, you took brief moments with each to see the contents inside all of them. You felt a lump in your throat as you saw a door with half-broken ships and blasters in the doorway. A feeling of unease washed over you. 
You ignored it. 
There must be some other way into that room. 
You held your biceps as the guards led you down a long hallway, only for it to end with two long, dull, menacing doors. A pit bore itself into your stomach. 
You ignored it. 
“Is this… it?” you asked. 
“Yes.” One of the guards responded. 
“But…” you said, “I-I saw some ships back there and-” 
You were swiftly and rudely cut off by an action you barely had any time to process. 
The guard had lifted his blaster, pointed to butt-end at you, and slammed it against the side of your forehead. 
Instantly, your vision blurred, your brain just barely able to process what was happening as your sight started to fade to black. 
You heard the doors to the room in front of you open. 
You felt your weak body being dragged inside. 
Your body weak, you felt yourself roll onto your side to face the fall without you even telling your body to do it. 
You were met with one final sight before everything went black. 
There was no mistaking it. 
You had seen it countless times before. 
From news briefings.
From posters. 
From propaganda. 
That brilliant crimson.
The symbol of the rebellion. 
~~~
TAGS: @spaghetti-666 , @soullesstaco , @arsonistvoyager , @robin-obsessed , @glitter-rian , @captainrexstan , @easterncryptid , @deviatedwinter , @roseangel013bf , @danicalifxrnia , @dartheldur , @finest-trashbag​ , @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii​ , @elongatedmusk-rat​ , @shads121​ , @muffinbeliever​ , @sakuramadae​ , @padme-parker​ , @missmannequin​ 
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tres-spades-hotel · 4 years
Text
Becoming the Perfect Father, Part II
Hey everyone! So @lin-ful @leoamber66 and @flatsuke inspired me to start writing again! Have fun reading this and prepare yourself for the angst and action across the story... enjoy!
Part II - Kiki’s Heirship, a Backstory of Memories
Hi, my name is Kiki.
I used to be an orphan on the streets of Japan. I had to fend for myself, always dipping in and out of society for a while when I realised my family were no good to me. The scar they left me with on my eye made the famous billionaire, Eisuke Ichinomiya, the man leading Japan’s economy, curious. I saw him one day and believed in my heart I could be safe. I was only 7 years old when I followed him into his hotel one evening.
He crouched down to ask where my parents were but upon hearing the word, I was both crying and hitting him on his chest.
I hated the world for thinking that parents and family were what kept you safe because I didn’t believe it was true.
He didn’t know what to do with me.
I didn’t know what to do with me.
So he took my hand and led me to the penthouse elevator, thinking that Uncle Baba and Uncle Ota could calm me down. And they did. Throughout my time with them for the first few weeks, I was happy. Everyone played with me, they were patient with me, they were curious about me.
Dad looked after me, mostly because he was concerned about Uncle Baba’s antics. Blackmail was all it took to make his brick walls faulter. That day, talk of sending me to an orphanage arose and, apparently, Uncle Baba did not like it.
So Dad kept me, almost like a pet. He fed me, gave me shelter, clothing, and toys. After all this time, I really owe Uncle Baba for helping me even though I didn’t know it then. But there was only one thing Dad wouldn’t give me: his affection. To be honest, I don’t think he knew what it meant to give warmth and love to another person, whether it’s a woman or a child. That is, not until Mum came into our lives.
Instead I spent most of my time asking questions and receiving no answers. They were mysterious people with the world held tight in their hands. They could do anything.
I wanted that ability too.
Of course, it would be some time before I realise what responsibilities that ability entailed. I thought that if I were powerful, I could look after myself and never get hurt again. But it just wasn’t true.
‘Boss, let’s play a bit of poker.’ Uncle Baba said one day.
‘No.’ Rejected.
Uncle Soryu looked up from his book and sent a disapproving look at him.
‘Baba, there is a child here.’
‘Poker is not for children.’ Uncle Mamo muttered sleepily.
Everybody shot Uncle Baba down for the suggestion.
‘I want to play! Can I play too?’ I shot my arm up and waved it around.
‘No.’ Rejected. Again.
‘Kid, you do not want to play poker. You’ll lose instantly.’ Uncle Mamo finally got up from the couch for the first time that day.
‘Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!’
‘Koro, he’s saying that you don’t have enough money to play.’ Uncle Ota was always a devil.
‘Now, now Ota, don’t be so mean to Kiki. She’s just curious,’ Uncle Baba crouched down onto his knee.
‘Princess, poker is an adult game but you’re more than welcome to watch!’ He was always the more kind adult in the group. But I know that they’re all kind… in their own special ways.
‘You can watch me! With you by my side, I’ll win for sure!’ Always jolly too. He slipped an arm around me and hugged me close while the other lingered in the air like a star performer.
‘Baba, you always lose.’ Uncle Ota quipped in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘I do not!’
‘Koro, come sit with me and I’ll let you play with the chips!’
‘Uhhhh….’
‘Stop it. You’re confusing her.’ Uncle Soryu was always a firm favourite of mine after Mum and Dad. I might even be so bold as to call him a secret crush.
‘That’s enough. Kiki, sit next to me and watch what I do.’ Dad ultimately came to my rescue and the game began.
‘So Kiki, first we all put in a certain amount of chips.’ Uncle Baba held up a white chip, a red chip, and a blue chip.
‘How many chips?’
‘However many you want. Boss always insists he go first.’ There was a glare involved.
’10 million.’
‘Can’t you lower the amount?’ Uncle Mamo never did have as much money as the others. But…
‘If you don’t have enough money you can leave. Or are you so poor that you have to use our money to live in this hotel?’ It was rare to see Uncle Soryu smirk so evilly.
But Uncle Soryu always “convinced” him to continue. And Uncle Mamo always rose to the bait.
He threw another red chip into the middle. Raising the stakes.
‘Ooooohhh, Mamo is getting ready to win!’
‘Even though we all know he’s going to lose. Just like you Baba! The old men always lose.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Hey! That’s so rude Ota!’
The game was under way, with Dad and Uncle Baba giving audible instructions on how to play. I suppose this game was what shaped me into the Tres Spades Casino Queen when an international poker competition was held at the hotel.
‘Alright, time to show hands.’
I remember lifting up my hands as if it was an order. I also remember everyone laughing because of my hands.
‘Not your real hands. The cards.’
‘Ooooohhhh.’ You can imagine how red I was and how deeply I had buried my face into the pillow on my lap.
Uncle Mamo lost, Uncle Ota had a Three of a Kind and Uncle Baba had One Pair.
It was down to Uncle Soryu and Dad.
‘If you win, you can have the property you’ve been pinning for.’
‘Very funny.’
Uncle Soryu had a Full House.
Dad had a Royal Straight Flush.
‘So… who won?’
Throughout the games that afternoon, I was snuggling closer and closer to Dad’s body. And, for once, he didn’t push me away.
I was grateful for it.
*
‘Here you go Dad! All neatly organised in alfabetisal order.’
‘Alphabetical order.’
‘That’s what I said, alfapetical order.’
‘……….’ I knew Dad was sighing inwardly but I was content with life at the time. I didn’t know the danger that would happen hours later.
For a while, Dad decided to put me to work, to make up for the fact that I couldn’t pay to stay in the hotel. It was a bit dick-ish on his part but at least he didn’t sell me at the auctions. Eventually, he became more caring towards me as time went on. Waking me up when I had nightmares, patting me on the head, allowing me to help clean the paper work in his office. He even took me outside once on an exploration trip to see potential buyers and land to put the Ichinomiya name on.
I thought that I could finally be free from the pain I received. For a little while, I forgot why I had run away and why I was broken. But they reminded me of what my worth was.
‘Baba and Ota are taking me shopping. Should I get you something?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Like what?’
‘Whatever you think I will like. And if I don’t like it, I will tell you.’
‘Yeah, okay. Alright, I’ll be back later! Don’t work too hard!’ I waved my hands at the doorway to the purple man behind the desk. He didn’t look up.
‘Why am I here?’ Uncle Mamo whined.
‘Because you were sleeping. You need to do more than just eating and sleeping.’ Uncle Baba said behind the steering wheel.
‘I have work to do!’
‘You don’t have a job!’ Uncle Ota declared.
‘Yes I do kid!’
I couldn’t help but laugh at the scene in front of me. Uncle Baba decided that we should all hang out for dinner and try his new recipe of dumpling stew so he dragged us out to go shopping. But apparently I was too curious for my own good. It wasn’t long before I had wandered off to a different section of the shop that I felt a hand cover my mouth with a drugged napkin. I saw them pass by a corner before slipping into unconsciousness.
I hated myself for believing that I had a chance to live freely.
*
I remember waking up in a warehouse. I was chained to the ground with cuffs around my ankles and wrists. The stone ground was cold and miserable. I had to force myself to sit up and was instantly sick on the floor beside me.
‘She’s awake.’
‘I can see that idiot. Call the woman.’
When I was done, I looked up to see masked figures and screamed. They wore grizzly bear masks but not the fun-loving cartoon kind. They had tortured looks on their faces and blood seemed to seep out of the eye hole cut outs. A 7-year-old’s imagination can speed towards any direction but I knew better. They were symbols of the family I had left behind.
I backed into the wall behind me, hoping that the wall would open up and I could get away.
‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble young missy. You’re mum is very worried about you. Why don’t you speak with her, you little rat? Hm?’ A raspy voice floated out of the mask but I couldn’t move my hands close enough to my ears. The man reached out towards me but I took a bite into his fingers before they could touch me.
‘Ah! Damn you!’ He stood up quickly, cradling his right hand, and kicked me in my ribs. He threw down a punch on my left cheek for good measure before stomping off.
I was so used to the pain that I stopped crying out back then. But I guess staying with the bidders softened me too much. I sobbed quietly, feeling a thin stream of blood trickle down my face, and remembering the masks.
They were quite literally called The Family. I was born into it after my “father” slept with his mistress while his wife was giving birth to his third child. Illegitimate and alone, I was abused mercilessly by my half-siblings and their mother. Father didn’t care about me, he only lived for women and alcohol. But he kept an iron-fist over a torturous empire dedicated to illegal smuggling of organs. They used the bloody bear masks to practically scare their victims to death.
They were proud butchers. All of them. I was ashamed of the torture that it became a threat to my life every day.
Death was at my doorstep until I could take it no more.
‘You disgusting child, you never should have been born!’
Finally, she broke after her children accused me of attempting to steal money from their safe. They all knew it wasn’t true. She knew it was not true. She reminded me my place in this world when she drew a katana out and slashed it down my eye.
It wouldn’t be until I meet Uncle Luke Foster, who gave me a new eye and got rid of the scar, where I erase all traces of The Family.
‘The woman said to cut up her body for parts and organs. There is an auction nearby where we can sell them.’
I know now that they were talking about Dad’s auctions but luckily for me, I would never be put on that stage, dead or alive.
Before the bone-saw was even picked up from a medical cart, the screeches of car tires echoed faintly. The ground seemed to rumble like an approaching earthquake when suddenly, Uncle Soryu’s black Bentley tore through the main doors, forcing it off its hinges completely.
Dust lifted up and invaded our lungs as gravity set in and plunged the remains of the doors into the ground. The car doors opened and Dad came out in such a stylish manner that I thought I was in a movie.
‘Kiki…’
‘Eisuke!’ We looked at each other for a brief moment, a brief look of anger on his face, before he turned to see the man standing by me with the saw.
Dad stepped forward with a briefcase when one of the henchmen pointed his gun at him.
‘Don’t move!’
‘Eisuke!’ Uncle Soryu had his gun on the henchmen who immediately started shaking under his intense gaze.
Dad opened the briefcase and slid it forward.
‘$30 million in cash. If you give me the girl.’
They started mumbling and whispering, wondering what to do. It was clear the money Dad offered was substantially more than what they were originally being paid. But what would a famous billionaire hotel mogul want with a battered child? Looking to their leader, many of the men waited for an answer.
He looked down at me for a moment but I didn’t dare make eye contact.
‘Fine. Take her. She’s as good as dead anyway.’ The masked man threw the saw down and slowly crept up to the briefcase. He kneeled down when a shout came from the back of the warehouse. A large group of men appeared from the shadows with guns aimed at the heads of the henchmen.
‘Don’t shoot! Drop your weapons and get down!’
‘Wha-‘ Uncle Soryu moved quickly and bashed his gun onto the man’s head. He fell unconscious.
‘Don’t be so surprised. The Ice Dragons can be very useful at times like these.’ Dad had a smug look on his face; he knew he had won.
‘Mafia?!’
‘The Ice Dragons?!’
‘What are they doing in Japan?!’
The henchmen struggled and muttered and whined as the Ice Dragons led them away.
‘What should I do with them?’ Uncle Soryu handcuffed the man and forced him to stand on his feet.
‘The usual.’
‘Fine.’
‘Hey princess, let’s get you out of there.’ Uncle Baba’s voice came from one of the masks and I almost screamed again.
‘Don’t worry! Look!’ He took it off and I was relieved.
‘Baba…’ He unlocked the cuffs and Dad helped me stand up.
‘How did yo-‘
‘After you went missing, we did some digging around.’ Uncle Baba said, dropping the mask onto the ground.
‘We found out about The Family and traced you to here.’ Uncle Soryu came forward after handing the unconscious leader to Uncle Inui.
‘How though?’
‘The pager Eisuke gave you.’ Uncle Ota pointed to the object in my pocket.
I looked up at the man.
‘I never lose what belongs to me.’
‘We were lucky they didn’t take the pager from you. We’re glad that you’re safe.’ Uncle Soryu smiled at me.
‘You came to save me?’ I grasped Dad’s hand and asked in a small voice.
‘What kind of owner would I be if I let you get yourself kidnapped?’ I heard groans from the others.
‘Eisuke….’
‘Boss, she’s not a pet.’
‘Hey, Koro belongs to all of us. Not just you Eisuke.’
‘Eisuke?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Can I stay with you?’
Dad looked mildly taken aback but he regained his composure, took out his pocket handkerchief and dabbed it on my cheek.
‘Ow…’
‘Stay still.’
‘Yes, stay very still for me.’
We all turned our heads to the sound of the new voice. He stood there in front of the car. The glare of the knife against the moonlight shot into my eyes. I blinked multiple times in the hopes that I had imagined him. My birth father stood there glaring at me alone, ignoring the Ice Dragons around him.
‘Stay very still while I cut you up into thousands of little pieces you damned hell spawn.’ He spat out those words that I knew so well while I quivered. He was capable of violence in every way. There were many times when he killed servants or subordinates out of anger. He was even worse when drunk, I never forgot the day when he stumbled in intoxicated and killed my mother in front of me.
‘He’s mad.’ I heard Dad whisper as he positioned himself in front of me. Shielding me.
‘You’ll have to get through me if you want her.’ Dad stood his ground and stared the crazed man down, something no one has ever done. But all it did was enrage him further.
Everything happened so fast that day, that everything is still hazy even after 15 years. He charged at Dad while gun shots rung across the warehouse. Uncle Soryu stopped him, dodged the knife, and grabbed his wrist, pinning it behind him. But that man got free and elbowed Uncle Soryu in his stomach. Suddenly, they were grappling with a gun and, as Uncle Baba and Uncle Ota tried to get me away, a single shot hit me.
‘KIKI!’ I remember falling to the ground clutching my side and hearing the yells of everyone around me. Dad’s face was the last thing I saw before blacking out.
I thought I was dead for real; I guess he almost made good on his promise to kill me.
*
In the end, I never saw The Family again. While Dad was bribing the henchmen hired by my step-mother, Uncle Mamo and the police arrested The Family using proof given by Uncle Baba’s sources. Apparently, he smelled of alcohol too that night so to hear that Dad killed my birth-father gave me a sense of peace that I didn’t know I had the capacity to feel.
I spent 2 week recovering in a private hospital. I was grateful. They never left me alone, always watching over me. The bullet wound did a lot more damage than the staff thought but they patched me up really well. Later, I would ask Dad to send small gifts to them as a thank you for looking after me. One of the nurses said that I nearly died on the operating table and that it was a miracle I pulled through at all.
‘You must have a big will to live, my dear. I’m sure there is someone you are living for in this life.’
I was unconscious for a while in the hospital after the operation. But I clearly remember the things that Dad said when he thought I was asleep.
‘Getting yourself kidnapped, getting yourself shot, nearly dying during surgery, you’ve lived through so many incidents. That’s not even mentioning the abuse you suffered growing up. He was mad. Very mad. I saw it in his eyes the hate he had for you, for the world. A man like that never survives. Only people like you. People who brave through situations, no matter how horrible or tragic, get to live in this world. I should know.’
I felt my hand enclosed in his hands.
‘I lost my family when I was your age. But I was taken in by my adopted father who was a close friend of my dad’s. He raised me, gave me a home, and taught me how to take care of myself. I repaid all of his kindness for giving me a new chance at life. Now I want to do the same thing for you. You asked if you could stay with me. I don’t intend to let you go, not after all this. I promise I will raise you the same way Akira raised me so that you can say that you made it through your trauma. That you deserve a new chance at life. Besides, Baba would have my head if I let you go now. You’ve really wiggled your way into our hearts Kiki. And it’s not a bad thing.’
‘Eisuke? I’ll look after her, you can go back to the hotel.’ Uncle Mamo walked into the private suite, so I couldn’t answer him. But in my heart, I already did.
‘You alright?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘She’s a tough kid. She’ll wake up soon.’
‘Oh I know. I doubt after all this, she would give up that easily.’ The door closed as Dad left the hospital.
I never forgot his words but I also didn’t ever tell him I knew. Maybe he sensed that I was awake but didn’t say. Dad never mentioned it and I was too shy to bring it up.
Eventually, the wounds healed but my body was still scarred. I went back to the hotel after what felt like forever. They held a little party to celebrate my return but I think they just wanted an excuse to drink. The way they drunk alcohol was very different to what I was originally used to. For a moment, I thought they would become like my birth-father, but it turns out maybe he was just a violent drunk.
Hours later, Uncle Mamo started sobbing and Uncle Baba reflected on the meaning of life, often asking me if I knew the theory of evolution. I was 7 years old.
Uncle Ota went to sleep and Uncle Soryu only shook his head disapprovingly at the mess in front of him. Dad gave me orange juice and snacks until I started feeling sleepy. He carried me upstairs in his arms. I woke up cuddling Dad in his room the next morning.
I finally found the home that I had always wanted.
*
After Dad and I got ready in the morning, Mr Kenzaki came to the penthouse.
‘It is good to see you’re back in high spirits again Kiki.’
‘Thank you!’ I said while eating an apple.
‘Here sir, the documents you requested has arrived.’ He handed over a black folder and Dad opened it.
‘Good. You can leave.’
Mr Kenzaki bowed and I waved goodbye.
‘Kiki. Come here.’
I got off my seat on the couch and stood in front of him. Dad un-crossed his legs, turned me around and lifted me up onto his lap.
‘Bwah!’
‘Pfft, are you comfortable?’
‘Oh, yes!’ I replied, looking up at his face. He placed his hand on my head and turned it towards the black folder.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Important documents?’
‘Yes. Do you know what of?’
‘For new property?’
‘No.’
‘A contract with another company?’
‘No.’
‘A restraining order on Uncle Baba?’
‘Pfft, if only.’ Dad chuckled.
‘Then what is it?’
Dad put the folder on the couch and adjusted me around so that I could see him.
‘They are adoption papers.’
At the time, my brain blanked out for a second. I had absolutely no idea what it meant. Then it clicked.
‘Who are you adopting?’
‘You know the answer to this, dummy.’ Dad laughed at my dumb question and I asked another.
‘You’ll let me stay?’
‘You don’t need to live in fear anymore Kiki. I will raise you to become my heir to the Ichinomiya Group and the Tres Spades Hotel. There will be hardships but I’m not about to allow you to go.’ He smiled a rare smile at me. I cried horribly ugly kid tears. All the tension in my life suddenly melted away when Dad held me tight to his chest. He patted my head as I sobbed my heart out.
‘You don’t have a choice in the matter.’
You have no idea how many times he says this exact line, or maybe you do. It is indescribable the feelings and emotions I had that day. Somehow, I found myself a new family and a new father who would look after me and love me like a real father. I believed that the idea of a family didn’t exist but the truth is that it does. You just have to know where to look.
Mum was added into my family a year later. A year after that, Uncle Luke, Uncle Shu, and Uncle Hikaru completed my family.
*
Hi, my name is Kiki Ichinomiya, President of the Ichinomiya Group.
And I am the heir to the Hotel King’s legacy.
39 notes · View notes
architectuul · 4 years
Text
FOMA 33: The Indoor University; Canadian Welfare And Modern Architecture (Part 1)
Starting from the ‘60s, Canada embarked in a massive policy of creation of institutions for higher education as part of a concerted effort of modernization of the country, which, after the end of World War II was increasing its autonomy from the British Empire. 
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Bata Library, Trent University, Peterborough (1967-1969) by Ronald Thom. | Photo via FIG projects
A survey of the 1965-66 academic year published in October 1966, by the specialized magazine University Affairs listed 22 institutions that were either new (Simon Fraser University, University of Calgary, York University) or had their status modified (Mount Saint Vincent College, for example, became Mount Saint Vincent University and Lakehead College of Arts, Science and Technology became Lakehead University).
Besides providing spaces and services for its citizens, these efforts were also instrumental to reinforce the concept of a country based on two cultures, the anglophone and the francophone, not just present in Quebec, but also to be found across all the country. Moreover, issues of decentralization, in order to bring higher education to all the provinces, were crucial. This massive investment from the federal state and the local administrations meant that universities were (and still are) public entities, a quite different condition if compared to the neighbor at the South of the border.
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Bata Library, Trent University, Peterborough (1967-1969) by Ronald Thom. | Photo via FIG projects
Ronald Thom designed the masterplan of the Trent University campus in Peterborough and a series of buildings scattered on the premises. The Bata Library was located at the core of the campus, with the intention to become its focal point, dramatically overseeing the Otonabee river. The whole building is organized around a vast lobby that distributes natural light to the surrounding study areas. The walls of Bata are exposed-aggregate rubble and concrete, which Thom saw as matching closely the stone outcroppings of the area.
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Scott Library, York University, North York (1968-1971) by John Parkin, John Bonnick, William Greer. | Photo via FIG projects
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An austere inverted concrete ziqqurat to the outside, the indoors reveals a vast lobby towards which administrative and librarian offices are organized through a system of semi-public terraces with reading spaces. | Photo via FIG projects
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Fisher Rare Books Library and Robarts Library, Toronto University (1968-1973) by Warner, Burns, Toan & Lunde. | Photo via FIG projects
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Two adjacent buildings, holding the collections of Toronto University; the six floors volume of the Fisher Rare Books Library contains a breathtaking space dedicated to ancient and rare books. | Photo via FIG projects   
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School of Architecture at Carleton University, Ottawa (1968) by Carmin and Eilin Corneil. | Photo via FIG projects
The stacked volumes of the studios and class-rooms are organized around the internal circulation, composed by a vast atrium that crosses the entire building, used as space for exhibition, lectures and students’ presentations. The whole language of the building is almost spartan with concrete and bricks left exposed as in an industrial building, hence underlying the productive nature of architectural studies.
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MacEwan Hall, University of Calgary (1967) by Stevenson Raines Barrett. | Photo via FIG projects
The seat of the students union of the new university, which in 1966 became autonomous from the University of Alberta. “In the early 1970s, MacEvan Hall included a food services area that seated 500, pool and ping-pong tables, a bowling alley, a 1,000 person dining room and ballroom, a fire pit lounge, a music lounge, a library, offices and meeting rooms, a bank, a barber, and a bookstore.”
“In the public domain the most important change distinguishing the new universities from the old is that the new universities are in the public domain in a manner, and to a degree, uncommon to the old. It is not simply that they are public institutions initiated and sustained by government grants. This was the case for many universities in the past. But most of the universities begun in the last decade … have stirred a wide interest and a sense of proprietorship in the communities in which they were established. The result is that these universities are in the public domain; not simply as public institutions, but as community projects. 
Part of the mystique of the university has been torn away. The old university with its absent-minded professors and its ivy-covered walls is a romantic picture that stirs pleasant memories, but little enthusiasm as a model for today’s development. The new universities are “public property” in a sense that was not true of universities in the past. As a consequence, all aspects of the university’s life and work are being regarded afresh by many people unfamiliar with university traditions. And while these people are not unsympathetic with what they see, they do not hesitate to criticize sharply when they see fit. The university no longer enjoys an isolated and protected position in the community.”
– Murray G. Ross, president, York University, in University Affairs, April 1965.
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Housing Union Building (HUB), University of Alberta (1969-1971) by Diamond and Myers Architects with R.L. Wilkin. | Photo via Capital Modern
Designed by former Louis Kahn students, The Housing Union Building (HUB) was an innovative experiment in student housing, combining function and circulation in a new way. The elongated building was designed as a weather-enclosed concourse linking to other campus buildings, and as the acronym suggests, was intended to be a central focus on campus for students, staff and the general public.
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Lethbridge University Hall (1968-1969) by Arthur Erickson. | Photo via University of Lethbridge
Arthur Erickson, perhaps the early prototype of the starchitect, a globe-trotting cosmopolitan designer, created the main hall for the University of Lethbridge, founded in 1967. The elongated building, a land-art megastructure over a ravine, juxtaposed to the horizontal landscape of the prairies was organized along an extended walkway, a six storey concourse with a complex section, conceived as the central element of social gathering, especially during winter.
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University Center, University of Manitoba, Winnipeg (1966-1969) by Number Ten Architectural Group. | Photo via Bohemian Blog
University Centre is a five-storey poured and pre-cast concrete structure constructed as part of a campus planning strategy that aimed to develop the campus as an urban centre. Overground facilities include dining space, offices and conference rooms, while the lounges, cafeteria, bookstore and open spaces for gathering were located below grade. University Centre serves as the central meeting point for all of the campus tunnels, culminating in a two-storey multifunctional space referred to as a “campo”.
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Located in a quite dense area of downtown Montréal, the two pavilions of the recently established Université du Quebéc à Montréal sit over metro lines, to which they are directly connected. A semi-underground concourse connects different educational facilities, such as cafeterias, auditoriums and class-rooms, creating dramatic spaces in correspondence of pre-existing heritage religious buildings, whose facades were incorporated in the general design.
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Pavillons Judith-Jasmin et Hubert-Aquin UQAM, Montréal (1974-1979) by Jodoin Pratte Lamarre and Dimitri Dimakopoulos. | Photo via © Jodoin Lamarre Pratte Architects
As a consequence of this ideological positioning, but also, of the peculiar climatic and geographical conditions of Canada, a few salient features can be read in the architecture and layout of many of the new facilities that sprouted in a very condensed period.
In particular, many projects shared the objective to interiorize within the envelope of the buildings, vast spaces for collective socialization, between students, faculty and staff. If the pastoral campus, inspired by Oxford or Cambridge was the model of the research university in the USA and of Canadian institutions between the XIX and XX centuries, one can identify in the new universities and in the additions and expansion of the existing ones of the ‘60s and ‘70s in Canada, the “galleria” as the dominant feature: a vast and climatically controlled environment for public life within an academic setting.
A very simplistic reading of such recurrent trope can just assume that as the majority of courses take place between September and May, when winter is the hardest, it is logical that indoor spaces are more important and more frequented than the lawns, courtyards, quadrants and gardens of universities in milder climates. Covered plazas, multi-storeys lobbies, expanded circulations, sky-lit concourses and indoor streets were part of an arsenal of architectural and typological tools mobilized by designers so as to accompany the surge of a new middle class of educated professionals, and to interiorize a strong idea of the “urban” inside the life of students. Such generosity was especially striking if compared to the tiny and cramped spaces of classrooms, laboratories, libraries and administrative offices of the university buildings from the first half of the XX century, often devoid of any places for informal exchange. 
Still now, these vast indoor fragments of city life are extremely popular an used.
---
#FOMA 33: FIG Projects
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FIG projects was founded by architects Fabrizio Gallanti and Francisca Insulza in 2003 in Santiago de Chile and is currently based in Montréal, Canada. FIG projects explores the boundaries between architecture, urban research and visual arts and promotes interdisciplinary initiatives. Wide ranging in nature, their practice extends from architectural explorations (new seat for the Literature School, Universidad Diego Portales, 2003-2005, Santiago, Chile; first prize Europan 8 competition, Kristiansand, Norway, 2006), urban studies (The Block, 2004; SARS Atlas 2006; Donde? 2006-2019), writing (Fan Club series for Interwoven magazine, 2016-2018) and curatorial projects (The World in Our Eyes, Lisbon Architecture Triennale, 2016). FIG projects work has been exhibited in different venues including Museo de Arte Contemporaneo, Santiago de Chile; exo.org, São Paulo; film + arch, Graz; Architecture and Urbanism Biennale, Shenzhen Hong Kong; Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montreal; Venice Architecture Biennale; Archivo Diseño y Arquitectura, México, Storefront Gallery for Art and Architecture, New York and Flint Free Festival, published in books such as “USE, Uncertain States of Europe” and international magazines as Domus, A+U or the Harvard Design Magazine.
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cirvat · 3 years
Text
Week 1- Creatober
Prompts: Disinterest, Presence, Flight, Dawn, Drown, Melancholy, Fracture
The architecture of the Wisteria Palace compounds often evoked a feeling of being infinitely small to anyone who walked through its many halls. Even the echo of various footsteps on polished granite bricks made the place feel incredibly vast and empty despite the number of people roaming the grounds.
Ursula often found that she would entertain thoughts of loneliness or melancholy as she wandered toward her destinations. Although, perhaps that wasn’t simply due to the pale marble and high walls.
She let her robes whisper along the floor as staff members jumped to move out of her way.. She could not fault them for their rudeness. Most of them were first or second children.
Too vulnerable to associate with a thirteenth child. 
Ursula’s pace was unhurried as she made her way to the Empress’s throne room where she had been summoned. Her mother had warned her about the need for her services as a courier soon but she hadn’t realized how soon it would be. 
The throne room guards leapt up when they noticed her approach, hurrying to open the giant doors. She kept her eyes forward, trying to put forth an air of disinterest, as she passed them. She made no comment on the small table pushed off to the side with cards strewn about its surface. 
Ursula let out a small sigh as she stepped into the room. This was by far her most favorite room in the entirety of the Wisteria Palace compounds. The bright white marble walls were drowning in creeping ivies and shadowed by the foliage of beautiful fruit trees. The tile flooring was bordered by moss covered stones and wild flowers. The great windows bracketing the room cast the air in a warm yellow light. The presence of peace was clear in each brick that dotted the path toward the thrones.
At the far end of the room sat Empress Sakura and her Consort Delphinus on two of the three thrones. Before them stood a group of four when Ursula decided to ignore for now. 
She approached the thrones and bent into a deep bow. “Mother. Baba. Greetings.”
“Good morning, Ursula!” Empress Sakura leapt out of her throne, bounding forward to stand before her daughter. “Thank you for coming so quickly!”
“Of course, Mother requested swiftness.” Ursula leaned into her space once before standing straight once more.
“My loving daughter.” The Empress stroked the air beside her as she moved away. “I have a task for you, my dear.”
“Whatever Mother requires.”
“I have a package that must be delivered to the Western Border office. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course.” Ursula bowed her head as her parent approached with a scroll. 
“The package has already been sealed in this.” Delphinus smiled, eyes crinkling, as they passed her the scroll.
“Thank you.” Ursula bowed and began undoing the high collar of her robes. She could almost feel the strangers’ eyes on her as she revealed the network of dark lines tracing runes just under her collar bone. 
She pressed the scroll to the runic epicenter and watched as the image of her chest seemed to almost fracture as the runes glowed. The air saturated with magic, whipping up a wind, as the scroll slowly sank into her chest. Within thirty seconds the scroll had disappeared.
“... What the- mnph!” A group of songbirds startled into flight and Ursula jerked her eyes up to see one of the strangers, the one with long brown hair, firmly covering one of their companion’s mouth.
“Ah, yes! Ursula!” Sakura smiled. “These fine people are going to be your escorts.”
“Hello.” The elder stranger raised their hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, your Highness. I am Kavan, a Senior of the Vulcos Guild and leader of team eight. I am a third son, auspiciously born during the harvest moon.”
“Greetings, your Highness.” The black haired one bowed low. “I am Shin, seventh child of a seventh child from the honored Yoshioka clan. I am a Junior of the Vulcos Guild under Senior Kavan.”
“Your Highness,” the stranger with long brown hair bowed, “I am Omu Kagura, Junior of the Vulcos Guild under Senior Kavan and the assigned medic of team eight. I am a second daughter, born on the winter solstice.”
“Hi!” The last stranger grinned. “I am Leo, ward of the honored Yoshioka clan and a Junior of the Vulcos Guild under Senior Kavan. I am a first son. How did-!” He winced as Kagura moved to elbow him. “Please forgive this one’s curiosity when he asks how her Highness stored the scroll?”
“Greetings to each of you.” Ursula nodded to each of them in turn. “I am Princess Ursula, thirteenth child of her Excellency, Empress Sakura of the Branched Empire. I earned my Mastership in Runic Magics with a focus in Sealing Arrays when I was 20.”
“Oh wow.” Kagura’s eyes went wide. “If I may ask, how old is her Highness now?”
“I am 26 years old.” Ursula blinked and turned back to her parent. “When shall we depart?”
“I have arranged for your preferred caravan to depart at dawn tomorrow.” Delphinus smiled at their daughter. “I wish you safe travels, love.”
“Thank you, baba.” Ursula bowed one more time to each of her parents, sending another nod to her newly appointed escorts, before turning to leave. 
The sooner this task began, the sooner it would end.
She had to go pack. 
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kittystargen3 · 3 years
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Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13534569/1/Return-of-the-Survivors
Summary:  Alternate Universe- What if Anakin's mother survived and Anakin never went dark side. Padme has the twins on Tatooine and survives. Anakin tries to help the surviving Jedi, while still keeping his family secret. Meanwhile Darth Sidious has been crowned emperor and is going after the remaining Jedi. Rumors have it he's looking for a new apprentice. Anakin gets to be a daddy.
I’ve added chapter 43 to Return of the Survivors.  Below is a small selection, please click one of the links to read more.
Chapter 42 - Visitor
Bail Organa parked his personal freighter on the surface of Tatooine, about a mile from the coordinates Ahsoka gave him, when last they talked.  He pulled out a worn coat to wear over the simple garment that he used back home to blend in with the populace, and set off through the streets looking for what he hoped would be an old friend, at the very least.  Before he left, his wife had given him the old coat, suggesting that his worn down street clothes would not be enough to disguise him on Tatooine.  Now, walking around the place, Bail was starting to think his wife was right.  ‘ Alderaan and Tatooine are such different places.’
As he approached his destination, a brick building in the center of Anchorhead, Bail noticed a group of children playing outside.  The game they were playing, all the way out here on Tatooine, seemed very familiar to him.  He watched them for several minutes before he realized why the game was so familiar.  It originated on Naboo.  Smiling, Bail mentally kicked himself.  ‘Of course it’s from Naboo.  Padme runs this place.’   Bail took time to help a youngling score a goal before he headed inside.  
Behind the front desk a young red-head greeted him with a smile.  “Hello, can I help you.”
“Yes, I’d like to meet with Padme Amidala, please.”  Bail could’ve asked for the Jedi Council, but he knew how many bounties the Empire had issued for anything relating to the surviving Jedi, and he wasn’t sure how honest they were with the center’s employees.  Besides, he desperately wanted to talk to his old friend.  
“Oh.  Uh, do you have an appointment?  I don’t see one on the schedule.” she asked.
“No, my name is Bail Organa.  She’ll know who I am.” Bail answered her with a fond smile.
“Alright, Mr. Organa.  I’ll have her commed.  Did you want to sign up for classes?” she asked.
“No, accademia is not why I am here,” Bail said.
“Of course, you must be here for the new life skills class.” Bail started to shake his head no, when she continued, “No, don’t worry.  We’re very sensitive here.  I’ll just put your name down, and the boss can finish your entrance form when she gets here.”  He rolled his eyes slightly, then nodded.  It was the easiest response to give.  Arguing against her assumptions would take too much time, and he really wanted to see Padme.  The woman behind the desk typed a message into a comlink, then began to chat about something she’d heard from her sister’s, friend’s, cousin… He wasn’t really listening anymore at that point.  
As Bail waited, his eyes scanned the office.  On a wall there was an article printed out from a local news bulletin.  Padme and another founder were being interviewed on their organization.  Bail felt proud of Padme.  In the article her responses contained such well paced logic, and at the same time, were so full of passion.  It was definitely true to Padme’s style.  He was glad his friend could achieve so much.  He didn’t doubt her.
On another wall was a collection of holo-images.  Pictures of people holding certificates of achievement, or wearing different uniforms.  Bail was just starting to scan these photos when the door opened...
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nikki-writes-stuff · 4 years
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Remember When... (Poe Dameron x Reader)
Prompt: Remember when we were little? 
Summary: As an officer in the First Order, you are captured by the Resistance. But you don’t expect a familiar face to be the one interrogating you.. 
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A/N: Here be smut! There is also an element of dub con in this - I don’t think it’s too bad, but ye be warned! 18+ please!
You struggled against your ties, gritting your teeth as the thin ropes dug trench-like marks into your wrists. You were in a shack with packed dirt as a floor and crudely-made bricks for walls, and the heat was sweltering; whatever planet you were on, you vowed to yourself never to come back.
The heat wouldn’t be quite so unbearable if it weren’t for the First Order uniform still clinging to your skin, turning sticky with your sweat. Flies buzzed around you, and you tried to twitch to get them to disperse, but they still stubbornly remained, dancing around you in lazy circles.
You turned to the guard standing at the door and arched a manicured eyebrow up at him, ignoring the way his lips sneered when you made eye contact.
“Could I at least take my jacket off?” you begged, hearing desperation lingering on every syllable. When they’d brough you here yesterday, you’d been prepared for torture, but this was so much worse than that. You’d been left here, and no one had so much as come to speak to you. The sweat trickling down your skin made you feel like you were being poached like an egg, and your tongue had turned to sandpaper long ago from dehydration.
“No,” the guard grunted, “The uniform stays on; you don’t get to hide who you are here.”
You sighed and slouched in the chair again, bowing your head and watching the sweat drip down. You didn’t know how much longer you waited, trying to allow your overheated brain rest, begging for sleep to take you. But when you finally heard movement, the sun was just starting to set beyond the little window carved into the wall across from you.
Your guard suddenly stood to attention, and you looked up to see a man part the tattered curtain covering the doorway. Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack; you knew who he was; everyone in the First Order knew of the great pilot. But your knowledge of him ran deeper than that; you’d seen him grow up alongside you. Your family had known his. Hell, he’d been your first kiss.
“You can leave now, Yondi,” he nodded, and the guard left after giving you one last acidic glance.
When the two of you were left alone, he finally looked at you, really looked at you, and the heat of his eyes made the air around you seem chilly by comparison.
“…Remember when we were little?” he started, shoving his hands into the tan pants he was wearing. “When we used to play cops and robbers? I would always be the robber, and you would be the police officer-“
“Dameron, please-“
“And you would always catch me,” he continued on, a small smile stretching his lips at the memory. It didn’t reach his eyes as he spoke, though. “Who would’ve known that I would get to play the cop someday.”
You gulped, squirming once more against your ties.
“But you’re not a cop, are you Dameron?” you asked. “You don’t exactly uphold the laws.”
“The laws are made by bad people,” he shrugged. “Didn’t know you would grow up to be one of them.”
You sighed and bowed your head.
“…Poe,” you finally murmured, the name sliding off your tongue just like it had as a child. “You don’t understand. I-“
“Then MAKE me understand,” he burst out, and your eyes widened. You’d never heard him that angry before.
You licked your lips, but your tongue was just as dry as them, and it clicked as you spoke.
“It wasn’t the same after you left,” you began. “Things got so much worse. Everyone started losing their jobs once the First Order took over. My family was starving. I had to do something.”
“So you sold yourself out for an organization even more evil than the Empire?”
“It makes money,” you sighed. “Good money. Most of it gets sent home to my family. The only reason why they’re able to eat is because of me.”
“There could’ve been other ways,” Poe barked. “You didn’t have to stay. You didn’t have to stick around and earn all those badges of honor.” He spat that last word, his hands balled into fists at his side. “How do you sleep at night?”
“The Resistance has caused its fair share of casualties, too,” you protested. “Riots have broken out because of you guys. People have stuck their necks out and gotten hurt because of your self-professed ‘worthy cause’.”
“But we haven’t killed entire planets,” he argued. “We don’t fight to strike fear into the galaxy; we fight to end it. Nothing we do will ever do can compare to the blood you have on your hands.”
You bowed your head, not knowing what to say to that. You were almost delirious with dehydration at this point; speaking so much had only heightened your symptoms.
“I bet you’re thirsty, huh?” he asked, pulling a canteen off of his belt. Your eyes lit up at the sight of it, and you watched as he took a long drink from it, some of the water dribbling down his neck to the column of his throat. You once more licked your lips at the sight of it, and you somewhere registered that you were nodding your head. “I’ll give you something to drink, don’t worry.”
Poe walked over and put a hand on the back of your chair, holding the flask just out of reach. Every time you moved your head towards it, he would pull it away, until you finally let out a whine and turned to him.
“I’ll give you something to drink,” he whispered, “but only if you tell me what the First Order is planning next.”
You felt your hope diminish and die in your chest, and you forced yourself to lean your head back and turn away.
“I’ve been trained to withstand torture,” you mumbled. “And besides, they would kill me if they ever found out I’d told you anything.”
“You assume you’ll be able to return to them,” he scoffed. “Who says we’ll give you back.”
Your eyes widened at his implication, and your head snapped back towards him. You saw his face as it had been when you were only 5 and 6, then as a teenager, then as the young man you’d kissed all those years ago.
“You…” You cleared your throat and tried again. “You would really kill me, Poe?”
His eyebrows furrowed, and he took another drink as he straightened up.
“Is it any less than what you would do to me? Or to any of my comrades?” You felt yourself turn pale, but he just capped the canteen and tied it back to his belt. “No, (Y/N), I wouldn’t kill you; we have too much history for that. But I do need something.”
You kept your mouth resolutely shut, and for a moment the two of you only stared at one another. You were at an impasse; you both knew it. Poe finally broke the silence, all the while keeping his eyes on yours.
“You look even more beautiful than I remember,” he all but whispered, and you blinked rapidly in confusion. “I’ve always wanted to see you again; I hated how we left things off.”
“How we left things?” you scoffed. “As I remember it, you were the one who left to be a spice runner on Kijimi. I also remember begging you to stay.”
Poe’s jaw twitched. “You know that I had to get out of there.”
“But you could’ve taken me with you! I didn’t want to stay on that planet. And you knew how I felt about you.”
“Did I? Because as I remember it, your first words after I kissed you were… Now, what were they? I wanna get this right; I believe they were, “We never should have done that, Poe.” Or am I wrong about that?”
“We’d been best friend since we were 5!” you exclaimed. “I was confused! I’d had a crush on you since puberty, but you were always chasing girls, even back then. I didn’t want to just be another notch on your belt!”
“You were always more than that to me,” he shouted. “You were the first love of my life! What was I supposed to think when you avoided me for the next year after the kiss, huh?”
You felt all protests die in your throat, and you looked down, feeling a familiar shame wash over you.
“I shouldn’t have-“ you began, but Poe cut you off, forcing your chin up to look at him. Your words fell away as you saw the look in his eyes; it was so much angrier than you ever remembered him being. You’d never seen him look like that, and you were surprised at the prick of fear you felt in your heart.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” he growled. “And I’ve never forgotten. Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized about you just like this? Tied up and at my mercy, just like I’d been at your mercy all those years ago for you to shoot down…”
“Poe, you’re scaring me-“
“Good! I’m glad you’re scared,” he grunted, moving down onto his knees. “Because I thought about this even before I knew that you were First Order scum. I’ve wanted you for so long, and you’ve always been so clueless.”
You were frozen when Poe surged up and pressed his lips to yours; his wet tongue forced its way into your mouth, and you were kissing him back before you could think it through. The water still lingering in his mouth felt so good against his, and you hungrily drank him in even as his hands pushed your jacket open.
“I’m gonna untie you now,” he suddenly grunted, “and just remember that if you try to run, you are in a camp surrounded by the very rebels you’d been trying to kill all these years. I wouldn’t recommend testing your odds with them.”
You nodded, head still spinning from the kiss, and a few seconds later you felt your ropes being loosened. You wiggled your hands away from the chair and reached for Poe’s belt, snatching the flask and stumbling away, opening it and emptying its contents into your mouth. There was only a few sips left inside, but you moaned when the water hit your paper-dry throat.
You dropped the canteen once you were done and turned to Poe, who was advancing towards you fast. You didn’t fight when he grabbed your wrists, but you did yelp at how he roughly pressed you against the wall.
“I didn’t say you could do that,” he grunted. “You just can’t help yourself but use me when I’m trying to trust you, huh?”
You shook your head, wanting to defend yourself, but Poe’s lips pressed to yours again in a bruising kiss. You gasped when you felt one of his knees press between your legs, moving up until his thigh was pressed against your heat, and you felt him press his hard length against your hip.
“Poe-“ you tried to say, but he pulled back and clapped a hand over your mouth.
“I don’t think you wanna be too loud,” he grunted, reaching his other hand down towards his belt. “I mean, I don’t give a shit if they hear me fucking you outside, but you always were a little shy, weren’t you?”
Your eyes widened, and you felt cold despite the heat. You shook your head rapidly and tried to shove his chest away from you, but he didn’t budge.
“Don’t make this difficult,” he groaned, flipping you around so your front was pressed against the cold, hard wall. “If you don’t just shut up and cooperate, I’ll tie you up and leave you to starve. And we don’t want that, do we?”
You froze, and Poe mistook your stillness for compliance. He hurriedly shoved your jacket down your arms, and your shirt and pants followed soon after. You couldn’t help but let out a moan of relief upon having the heavy clothes taken off, but Poe clearly thought that your noise was one of enjoyment.
“Oh? You’re liking this, aren’t you?” he chuckled, pressing his crotch against the curve of your ass. “I bet you’ve thought about me too, huh? Have you?” When you were silent, he brought his hand down against your ass; it didn’t sting much with your panties still on, but you still let out a surprised gasp at the sound it had made. “Have you?”
You looked over your shoulder and shook your head, but Poe’s smirk only grew wider.
“C’mon, hon, you know I’ve always been able to tell when you’re lying,” he sneered. “So you have thought about this. I bet,” he said, starting to tug your panties down, “that you touched yourself when you thought about me. Didn’t you?”
You thought back to the nights back when you were a teenager; the first time you’d touched yourself to the thought of him had been when you were seventeen, just weeks before your fateful kiss. And ever since then, when you would indulge yourself and let your hand slip into your panties while you lay awake in bed, Poe had found his way into your thoughts. More often than not, you would hear his voice in your head while you came, despite the years that had passed since you’d last seen him.
“I… I…” you closed your eyes in shame and just nodded silently.
Poe let out a sound that was strangely similar to a purr, and you felt him nuzzle the back of your neck.
“I’ve thought about you too,” he murmured. “Almost every goddamn day since I left.”
For a moment, his hands left your body, but you knew what was coming next as you heard his pants slide down his legs and onto the floor. When he gripped your hips again, you could feel his hard length pressed against the curve of your ass, and he lightly kicked at your feet to get you to spread your legs wider for him.
“That’s right, baby,” he hummed, lining up with your entrance. “I’m gonna make you feel so good…”
With that, he wasted no time before thrusting into you, and you whimpered at the sudden stretch; it had been a long time since you’d felt anything other than your fingers inside of you, and Poe’s cock was thick, just like you’d imagined it.
“Oh, god,” he moaned, letting his chin rest against your shoulder as he started rocking his hips. “You’re just like how I pictured. I’ve had a lot of girls, sweetheart, but I always wanted you.”
You felt him take a handful of your hair, pulling on it until you tilted your head towards him. He kissed you deeply as his hips started moving faster, finding their rhythm. All you could do was claw at the wall in front of you and take it, trapped with his body shoved up against yours.
“I know you like this,” he whispered, his lips still grazing yours as he spoke. “You’re so wet for me already. I’m gonna fuck you so good that you won’t ever want to leave me again; you’ll never want me to stop.”
You gasped when you felt him hit that spot deep inside you, and you arched your back. He was going to make you cum sooner than you’d expected to, but between the drag of his teeth against the curve of your neck and the way he was pounding inside of you, you had no hope of lasting much longer.
“Say you want me,” he suddenly growled. You could only whine in response, but then his hand wrapped around your neck, applying just the slightest amount of pressure. “Say. It.”
“I-I want you!” you cried, but his grip on your throat only got tighter.
“Say you belong to me.”
“I’m yours-“ you gasped. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and you clawed at his hand weakly. “I belong to you, Poe, please-“
As the corners of your vision started turning back, you felt your orgasm building up, getting closer and closer. Even through the haze that had settled over your mind, you knew you were close.
“Poe!” you wheezed, letting your eyes roll to the back of your head.
All of a sudden, his hand let go of your throat, and you had barely enough time to take in a deep breath before you were cumming around him with a shriek. Your thighs trembled and your toes curled as you felt your pussy fluttering around him, and it wasn’t long at all until he came inside of you. He moaned your name under his breath like a prayer, repeating it over and over again as his hips lazily rode out his orgasm.
When he finally stilled, slumping against you, he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck before pulling out and taking a step back. Without him supporting your waist, you turned around and let your back rest up against the wall as you fixed your clothes with trembling fingers.
You made to pick up your shirt, but Poe snatched it from you and ripped the garment as you sputtered in surprise.
“You won’t need this uniform anymore,” he explained, letting the tattered fabric drop to the floor. “Take those pants off; I’ll go get some new clothes from you and bring them back.”
He made to leave, but you called his name, and he turned around just before he could walk out of the hut again.
“What happens now?” you asked. “What are you gonna do with me?”
Poe’s lips twitched up into a smirk, and he arched an eyebrow at you.
“Well, you said you belong to me, right? So you’ll stay with me. I’ll move you to my tent; that’s where you’ll be living until we have to move our camp again.”
You blinked in disbelief.
“The First Order will try and get me back,” you said. “I’m a high-ranking officer; they might make a really good deal in return for-“
“I’m not going to let the First Order take anything else from me,” he interrupted. “They’ve already stolen so much.
“You’re here to stay.”
With that, he walked out, and as you sat there on the floor, you felt any hope of leaving this place die away. You were stuck here, and Poe was never going to let you go again.
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Labor of Love: A Critical Role Shadowgast Fanfic
I don’t have any excuse for this besides have a cute modern with magic bakery shadowgast AU in this trying time with a healthy dose of food description and stressed businessman Essek trying to find love in a modern with magic world. If people would like me to continue this, let me know!
Enjoy!
Read on AO3
Preview:
*“Guten Morgen, welcome to Xhorhaus Bakery. How can I help you?”
Essek’s mouth went dry.
The face that met his was attractive in the very traditional Empire way. In fact, the man looking at him looked as if he had stepped right out of an Empire propaganda film espousing the ye olde Zemnian way of life. There were the deep set blue eyes, the long copper hair pulled out of the way in a bun. He had pale freckled skin and the shadow of a ruddy beard beginning at his jaw. There was a dusting of flour or sugar on his cheek, and he wore a simple white shirt with a blue apron tied at his hips. It wasn’t fair that he had to meet someone so attractive so early in the morning, Essek thought derisively.*
Essek often wondered if he was born cursed, or if his disdain for most living things rubbed off on his environment and made it almost impossible to function. It wasn’t as if he tried to be hateful or annoyed at most things in life, it’s just that most things were so thoroughly irritating that it was desperately hard to function. He wondered if everyone felt this way...or if it was only him. 
That was the thought that crossed Essek’s mind as he sat in traffic for ten minutes. His car, a shiny black new model grumbled in discontent as white fumes danced into the cold Rosohna air. His GPS finally pinged to let him know there was a road closure, and in a fit of desperation, Essek swung his car into the left lane and turned off the street and onto the next avenue. Rosohna was a relatively updated city, and having lived there all his life he tended to be able to navigate it well. This, however, would be an annoying detour.  
“Hey Hallas, text Leylas Kryn,” Essek asked as he tapped the steering wheel. He jabbed at his radio, turning off Marion Lavorre’s latest single half way through her call for her love to treat her the way she deserved. Good for her.  
“What would you like to say?” his phone asked him, lighting up from where it sat cradled on his dashboard. 
“Road closed, running late and won’t be able to go by your preferred coffee shop. GPS says I’m 15 minutes out. I’ll try to swing by another place on the way,” Essek said, as clearly and concisely as he could. Hallas managed to read back the message before Essek sent it. Almost immediately his phone pinged in response and the message was read out. 
"Alright. Thank you for letting me know, the ambassador is running late anyways so you have some time." 
 Essek sighed, drumming his fingers with a bit more intensity. He didn’t like this day already and it had barely started. 
He plugged his GPS and looked for the closest coffee shop with the best reviews on the way. His GPS pinged with the place, a bakery called the Xhorhaus Bakery. It was a kitschy name, with a bare bones website, but it would just have to do. With few other options, Essek set his sights for the place. Essek pulled in at the quaint bakery, thankful for the empty parking spot in the front.  Essek didn't like new things as a rule. New meant unpredictable and unknowable, and Essek prided himself on knowing everything that was going on all at once at all times. 
Essek rushed through the door, hand on his phone and tapping it to the parking monitor sensor. He caught a glimpse of frosted glass and pretty dark brick, but barely paid attention until he was in the door. 
Essek nearly swallowed his own tongue as his brain screeched to a grinding halt. 
It was utterly magic. That was really the only way to describe it. Display cases were bursting with pastel-frosted cupcakes and sugar-glazed fruit tarts. There were rows of sweets...golden dough puffs filled with ricotta and cherries and dusted with confectioners sugar, macarons arranged like beautiful shiny buttons, turnovers fashioned like ship masts, elephant ears, honey-buns shaped like bees, cookies pressed into whimsical shapes. There was a whole section for ice cream, waffles and crepes advertised on the weekends. Mothers and fathers cradled children and laughed as a bright blue tiefling dolled out what looked like free samples, a tall firbolg carrying a tray disappeared into the back as a half-orc came in to slide another tray of cookies into an empty rack. At the sit down section, a halfling and two human women of various sizes both carried trays of different styled cups and kettles to customers. The whole place had an eclectic vibe, like things had been found at consignment stores and sales and brought together to fill the place. Each table was different and the chairs were all different too in a way that looked half-planned and half-thrown together. Like the business had been a half-thought half-dream that had gained a foothold in wakefulness.  
Thankfully, Essek was in a line. He absorbed the information that lay before him quickly, as well as skimming the coffee menu that was emblazoned on the board in chalk. There were categories like, Breakfast with Beau, Bakery Favorites, and Cad’s Tea Corner. Bakery Favorites seemed to be the safest choice. The edges of the boards were doodled with flowers and cute animals and...was that a dick? No. Probably not he was just seeing things. Though it wasn’t an exact match to what his boss and her wife usually got, he hoped it would be good enough that she would forgive the difference and the lateness. 
He got up to the counter, having practiced his order in his head at least a dozen times. The wait time hadn’t been long, nor was the line. That at least was a benefit over the place he usually stopped to get his boss’s drinks. Their usual place was a trendy cafe with a dizzying variety of brews that was operated by people who looked down at you for not knowing a medium was a grande. Essek tended to feel safe in a place of rigid social roles like that, so it never bothered him. This was a new frontier. 
“Guten Morgen, welcome to Xhorhaus Bakery. How can I help you?” 
Essek’s mouth went dry. 
The face that met his was attractive in the very traditional Empire way. In fact, the man looking at him looked as if he had stepped right out of an Empire propaganda film espousing the ye olde Zemnian way of life. There were the deep set blue eyes, the long copper hair pulled out of the way in a bun. He had pale freckled skin and the shadow of a ruddy beard beginning at his jaw. There was a dusting of flour or sugar on his cheek, and he wore a simple white shirt with a blue apron tied at his hips. It wasn’t fair that he had to meet someone so attractive so early in the morning, Essek thought derisively. 
“One venti matcha latte with almond milk and a single pump of agave, one venti iced caramel macchiato, as light on the ice as possible, and one tall black coffee,” Essek said in a perfectly even and rehearsed tone, working past the fact he felt like he was being punched repeatedly in the face each time he noticed something new about the extremely handsome man. He was wearing a nametag but he just couldn’t focus enough to read it. His hands were large. Really large. Gods above and below, were bakeries always this warm? 
“Which blend would you like for the black coffee?” 
“What?” Essek asked, startled because for some reason the handsome man was still talking to him. 
“For the black coffee,” the man repeated, pointing to the different...canniesters? What did you call those? He didn’t know the word. Coffee-holder would be what he would call it in Undercommon. Essek didn’t like this. He was going off script. This was why he hated new places. “We have three blends. Dark, medium, and light.” 
Did it matter? Essek thought, now concerned that it did. He had always just assumed that the different types..obviously were roasted for different times. But it all tasted the same to him. 
“Dark,” Essek said, feeling as if this had been happening for an hour. He needed to go lay down. The handsome man began to press the buttons into his register. 
“Would you like anything else? We have some samples of our honey-buns,” the man said, motioning to the tray on the counter with bite-sized portions cut out. “They are our highest seller for breakfast items.” 
“I’ll take a dozen,” Essek said. Hopefully this too would help ease the fact he was definitely late, plus, the office-girls always loved sweet things. He offered his card to the cashier, who motioned to the coins-only sign. “I’m sorry, sir. Card reader is down unfortunately. Haven’t had a chance yet to renew the enchantment.”
“It’s no problem,” Essek said, fishing out his coin purse and placing the coins into his hand. His skin brushed--hot, no he wasn’t thinking about it.  
“Of course,” the man said. “I’ll get that ready for you. I’ll need a name for the coffees though.”
“Essek.” 
“Thank you.”   
Essek stepped to the side, the place labeled with pick up. Essek stood there, trying to be interested in his phone. Empire News Network was reporting about some sort of sea creature sighting by sailors. He was more interested in the little white-board by the pick up station. Written in beautiful looping cursive was “Send me a Message!”, the name of the messaging and photo app that was popular nowadays. There was a list of names...most likely employees: @nottthebrave, @captntusktooth, @ohnoregard, @caddyshack, @orphanmaker, @littlesapphire, @caleb_widogast, and @frumpkinthefeyking. Above them all was @XhorhausBakery, the emblem with the little cat and the crown next to a tree. 
Bad idea, Essek thought, though his own Message was open. This was a bad idea. But which one was the hot cashier? It wouldn’t hurt...just to follow him would it? He needed to figure out which one of them was the hot cashier, but, he didn’t think he could look at the hot cashier for long without his eyes burning. 
“Coffees and honey-buns for Essek!” 
The cheerful accented voice came from the blue tiefling, who nearly leaned over the counter. She was dressed in a white dress and the blue apron, and wore a pink bandana tied to the top of her head in front of her curled horns. On the front of her apron was pinned the name tag, “Hi I’m Jester!” 
“You made the right choice, though I also love the elephant ears, oh and the macarons, but don’t get me started on the cupcakes!” Jester said excitedly, giving him the drinks in the drink holder and the box. The box itself was a simple robin’s egg blue, but it was tied with a pretty pink ribbon. “You should come back for the cupcakes! We enchant them so they give you different sensations as you eat!” 
“Are all the sweets here enchanted?” Essek asked, suddenly now very nervous about the box of treats he was holding. 
“Yep! We’re a maaaagic bakery,” Jester said, with her fingers wiggling on the word magic. Essek noticed a holy symbol of some sort tied to her wrist. 
“What do these do?” Essek asked, holding up the box. 
“Oh! Those? The honey changes flavors, and it gives the scent of flowers as you chew! Like a little bee going through a field,” Jester said excitedly. “Right Caleb?” 
Essek’s head whipped to the side so fast he probably almost broke something. There was a large hand that raised with a thumb’s up. Hot cashier was Caleb. 
“Thank you,” Essek said, and without any further ado he was out of the bakery like hellhounds were at his feet. 
Essek managed to get to the meeting within the bounds of polite lateness. The Bright Queen accepted her drink, as did her wife Quana. Essek handed the box of honey-buns off to the receptionists who took them gleefully. He spent the first part of the morning responding to emails and inquiries. He quickly got together the itinerary for her next visit to Assarius for the conference on magic education. He absently pawed at his coffee, taking a quick sip. The coffee was good enough that he paused for a moment, before shaking his head. It was all mental, after all, it was just black coffee. It didn’t stop him from downing it though. 
“Essek,” Leylas Kryn said as she left her office. Essek ripped his tome-pad from its charging station and followed her as he usually did. “Thank Luxon, at least you are able to keep appointments. Why are people so incapable of keeping to schedule. You took care of the itinerary?” 
“Yes, the schedule was sent out to you and the core ambassadors five minutes ago,” Essek said as he tapped the screen open. “Travel has been booked, your private plane should be ready to go at 8:00. Hotel at the Pillow Trove has been arranged--the Royal Suite, as usual. I also made sure to set restaurant options for you, though I have of course included both my recommendations as well as your travel agent.” 
“Tell Orphea that I said no on the model she chose for the Tal’dorei spread. I said I wanted young, fresh, illuminating. She sent tired and dowdy. We want people to be celebrating the Xhorhassian cultural boom, the renaissance of our people might I add, and not rolling their eyes. Also RSVP that party Zethris Olios is holding if you haven’t done so.” 
“Already taken care of, ma’am. I told the driver to pick you up at 9:45 sharp, and made sure to request the drink selections for your entourage...in mini-bottles, of course.” 
“Wonderful work, Essek as always I know I can count on you,” she said with a nod before looking back at him. “And by the way, that latte you got me today was fantastic. I know Quana greatly enjoyed her drink as well. The girls were raving about those...uh...honey-buns all morning too. Make that your usual stop if you don’t mind. No use going to a coffee shop and a different bakery when you can just get everything at one place.”
Essek nearly tripped over his own feet, but managed to catch himself. After all, he couldn’t scuff his shoes. He had just bought them. 
“Of course,” Essek said, trying to write the reminder in his phone...his Message was just staring at him...hot cashier-Caleb taunting him. He had thought it would be one time. He could follow the man on his public Message page and oggle at him because he would never see him ever again. Attraction was so much neater and simpler if the people on the other end of it...well...if they were simply reduced to pictures of them and their cat maneuvering a coffee machine.  
It was fine though, Essek snapped at himself. He was an adult. He could deal with looking at an attractive man every morning. If anything, it would be a nice distraction from the daily grind. 
“Essek!” Maruo crowed from her office space as they walked by, her goblin ears perked up excitedly. “Those pastries you got were amazing! I was gonna eat the last one, but did you want it?” 
"No thank you...I don't particularly like sweets," Essek said, as graciously as possible. Leylas Kryn raised an eyebrow at him. She waved at Maruo who gave her the honey bun instead. 
"You don't like sweets?" she asked him, sounding extremely suspicious as they continued to walk. The sound of Leylas Kryn’s heels were enough to get everyone in the hallway to move out of her way. As they walked towards the elevator, the drow woman in it exited with a nod of her head and seemed content to wait for the next one.  
"Not really," Essek admitted. He couldn't remember the last pastry he had eaten. Part of the issue was that he didn't get very hungry. That morning he had a breakfast bar...the night before...well he had eaten leftover take out. He didn't remember eating lunch at all yesterday--he probably hadn't. He had been on the phone with the interviewer. Most of the time, he got home and was simply too exhausted to make a substantial effort. 
The other part of it was food didn't hold much appeal to him. He thought back to when he was growing...minimally but growing, and he had eaten two huge meals a day. He went out to dinner with these important executives and politicians now and picked at his plate. It took such an effort to get up in the morning and to do the things he needed to do that enjoying food was low on his priorities. 
"Eat it," she ordered, shoving the honey bun in his face as they walked out of the elevator and into the main lobby. "You need a little sweetening, Essek."
"Give him a whole box," Quana Kryn chuckled as she saddled up next to Leylas as they walked to the car. She was dressed in a power suit that immaculately matched Leylas’ little black dress and red pumps. It annoyed Essek how perfectly in sync they were, especially considering that Leylas left their house at least an hour before Quana so they didn’t even have time to coordinate.  Did having sex regularly do that to a couple? Essek didn’t delve in much further with that line of questioning
"I am perfectly pleasant at all times," Essek said, with a signature smile. 
"Of course, but something sweet never hurt anyone," Leylas said with an irritatingly knowing gaze as the driver opened the door for them. “Follow us in your car?” 
“Yes, of course, I will meet you there,” Essek said, and then with a pop of the door and the engine, the Kryns were off to take on Rosohna. Essek stood on the curb for a moment, looking at the honey-bun he had in his hand. With all the excitement that a child had when taking a health potion, Essek bit into the pastry. 
It was a revelation. Still crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside. A smooth, mellow, and yet fragrant honey and cinnamon swirl sandwiched within layers of buttery, fluffy pastry. There was the scent of spring-time and lazy summer mornings when dew was fresh on the grass and wildflowers and there was that pleasant warmth in the air, and the frosting itself was vanilla and honey and just a dash of sea-salt. 
Before he realized it, it was gone from his hand. The magic had dissipated, and left him yearning for more. 
Oh no, he thought. This couldn’t end well.  
----
With the Kryns at the conference for the week, one would think that Essek may have time to breathe. However, being one of the high-ranking people at the company meant that somehow he got even more mucked down in the day-to-day tasks. He did go to the Xhorhaus Bakery a few more times, but always called in his order ahead. He would catch a glimpse of Caleb, on occasion receive a smile or a welcome, before being handed his order and rushing right out. Essek could pretend it was the assistants' fault...or the marketing department, who were all actually obsessed with the treats he was bringing in on a daily basis. But really, he was the sucker making the point to go in there like some sort of lovestruck teenager to ogle at the cute boy behind the counter.  
When he finally arrived on his day off, it was a solid relief. Though, as usual for being a drow, Essek was up early and with little to do. Essek didn’t enjoy cleaning...he did have people who did that after all. He technically had a gym membership...but hated working out more than anything. He ought to visit his den, as any good drow boy did on his day off, but the idea of seeing his family tended to make him nauseous. His eyes caught a stack of books that he hadn’t gotten around to reading--
It was a bad idea...but he was going to do it anyway. He had never been a paragon of wisdom anyways. He dressed as comfortably as he ever let himself dress, after all, life was a performance. If he wasn’t wearing the absolute best, then he was always going to be judged as the absolute worst. And on top of that, Essek was a vain creature who spent a lot of money on deep conditionings for his curls and on his crystal facials (which, honestly, the crystals probably didn’t do anything but they felt expensive and Essek always liked feeling expensive). The one thing he could always control was the way he looked, and he liked looking good. 
With his black leather messenger bag slung on his shoulder, his peacoat buttoned, and his boots on, he headed out into the cold morning. In Roshona it was always night, but definitely not temperature controlled. Essek buried his chin more stubbornly in his scarf as he continued to walk through the streets. When he arrived at Xhorhaus Bakery, he felt appropriately wind-tousled and cold. The building itself was warm, and wafted the crippling good scents butter and vanilla to a distracting degree. 
It was busy, as Essek had guessed it would be so early in the morning. His shoulder was beginning to ache by the time he reached the front counter. But all of his earthly concerns were wiped away when he met Caleb’s blue eyes. He still wore the white shirt and apron that was the uniform most likely, but that day he was also wearing a button with a cat on his apron. He still looked devastatingly attractive in every possible way and it wasn’t fair because he looked like he had just rolled out of the bed. Essek needed at least an hour in the morning to talk himself into being even vaguely pleasant. 
“Oh! Guten Morgen, and welcome back to the Xhorhaus Bakery,” Caleb said, a certain pleasant crinkle to his expression. He was smiling a soft, gentle smile that caught Essek off guard. “What can I get you this morning?” 
“What do you recommend for coffee?” Essek asked him, placing his palms on the counter--stretching cold-bitten fingers. He was having heart palpitations, he was pretty sure. He kept trying to look at Caleb and he just couldn’t. It was like looking into the headlights of a car. “I normally just drink black coffee but…” 
“I’ll make something for you then,” Caleb offered. “I have a drink in mind. I would also recommend our turnovers today.” 
“I’ll have that then,” Essek said, handing over his coins. Caleb took it, opened the ancient looking cash register and handed back the change. Essek slid it into the tip jar. 
“Danke. Is that for here or to go?”
“Here, thank you,” Essek said, reslinging the bag and going to find a table. 
Essek took a corner table by the window and set about settling in. He balanced his messenger bag on the extra chair before pulling out his books, parchment, and his fountain pen. Essek had always enjoyed spellcraft...he had majored in it in university. Advanced Dunamancy with a minor in Spellcraft Engineering. Gods, if there had been any sort of work besides military for wizardry Essek would have pursued it as a career. But the choice had been military or starving eternal adjunct professor and Essek didn’t find either attractive. Essek had applied for an internship at the government’s Cultural Offices, and had gotten that and through that had managed to work his way up to assistant to Leylas Kryn herself. 
It was a well paying job, with fashionable perks like fancy parties. But Essek didn’t love it. He was good at it, but he didn’t enjoy it. Essek didn’t enjoy much in life, so these little treasures he snuck were so much more important. 
He was in the middle of reading the second chapter of the Durolvir Lectures on Dunamancy when movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head from his book just as the blue tiefling named Jester settled down the tray and the coffee. Her tail curled in the air like a cat catching the sight of something interesting to bat at. 
“You totally came back! I knew you would!” Jester said, leaning on the table. Her rather impressive muscles on this display and tipping the table slightly in her excitement. Essek scooped up his cup and the saucer to keep it from spilling on his book and on his notes. On the side of the cup it had the image of swans in a springtime scene, a rather quaint and adorable image. 
“I’m surprised you remembered me,” Essek noted, taking a sip of his coffee. It had milk, which was a departure from normal from him. It was smooth and creamy and honestly? The best cup of coffee he had ever had in his whole life. He hadn’t realized he had sighed until he saw Jester was still looking at him rather intently. 
“Well duh, of course I remember you. You’re hot boi!” 
“...hot boy?” Essek repeated somewhat incredulously. 
“I know your name, silly, but you are totally hot boy. Every time you’ve come in here you’ve ordered by phone, rushed in, and grabbed it. I was just surprised to see you actually sitting down this time, which you should do more because, like, we would get to hang out.”
“Well, thank you,” Essek said with a more legitimate smile. “Unfortunately, I am not very good company.”  
“I don’t believe that for a single minute,” Jester said suspiciously before shrugging playfully. “But it’s okay if you’re shy! Caleb can be shy too. So what do you do? Where are you from? What’s your mother’s name? Are you married?” 
“Are you always this curious?”
“Just about our regulars!” Jester chirped. “Ooookay maybe I lied, I’m curious about everyone but especially our regulars.”
“Well...I am not married. My mother’s name is Dierta Theylss, of Den Theylss. I am from here, and I am an assistant.” 
“Ooo, do you work for someone really cool?”
“Perhaps,” Essek said, settling down his cup as he felt that he was no longer in danger. “But I would like to keep some air of mystery.” 
“You are mysterious, Essek,” Jester said, utterly tickled-pink...or blue...by that. “Alright, well I gotta go get other people their things, I’ll be over here so just holler if you need something!”
“I will,” Essek promised but suddenly jumped as he felt the sensation of something brushing against his leg. He looked below to see a cat, a well-cared for orange tabby circling his legs. Essek was not used to cats...they were a rather foreign phenomenon that had just recently been introduced. Essek timidly reached his fingers out to brush his head and was rewarded with the creature butting its face against him. He yawned, gave him a slow blink, and then puttered off to parts unknown...which was a basket by the window.   
Now thoroughly distracted from his reading and with a plate in front of him, he took another crack at this sugar-thing. Essek took a bite from the turnover, and nearly groaned. The outside butter-puff-pastry was crisp, and the sugar nearly shattered. The inside was first caramel-apple and then it was sharp lemon and then again tart-sweet raspberry. He finished it quickly, taking long luxurious sips of his coffee after he did. Essek couldn’t help but wave over one of the servers he hadn’t met yet. It was the halfling woman who was balancing a tray full of plates and cups on her hip. On her shirt was a name tag that said “Veth”. 
“What’s up?” Veth asked curiously. 
“Do you know what sort of enchantment is being used in the baking process?” Essek asked. 
“It’s not an enchantment per say,” Veth said, brushing her apron with her free hand. “Caleb’s not an enchantment wizard, he’s a transmutation wizard.”
“Caleb is the one who developed this spell?” Essek asked. There was a fluttering of excitement in his chest. A wizard. Had someone magically engineered this man somewhere to make him absolutely perfect for Essek’s imagination? He came to this bakery to...well...enjoy his books and catch a few glimpses at the man. Essek hadn’t come there to get his heart stolen right out from his chest. 
“I helped him a bit, but yeah,” Veth said, tugging at her braid thoughtfully before she got a glint in her eyes. “If you are interested I’m sure he’d be happy to explain it to you.”
“Oh no, no,” Essek said, waving his hand desperately. Scripted conversations like ordering at the counter were totally fine. Essek enjoyed parameters and unspoken understandings of conduct, in fact, that was where he shined. But actually speaking to Caleb? Essek couldn’t think of anything more panic-inducing than that. 
“No, he’ll be absolutely thrilled!” Veth trilled excitedly. “I’ll go scrounge him up for you!”
She darted off before Essek could get in another word edgewise. This left Essek sitting there, his body nearly vibrating with uncontrolled dread. For a moment Essek seriously considered shoving his things into his bag and running out of the bakery. He wasn’t fast enough, however. As he saw Caleb pop out from behind the counter and begin to walk towards his table. He couldn’t risk never being able to come into this establishment ever again, so he just sat there as Caleb walked up to the table. He was taller than Essek had expected...maybe the counter had done something to his perspective besides giving him a barrier that allowed Essek to imagine that Caleb was some sort of perfect dreamt-up figment of Essek’s socially isolated imagination. 
“Veth said you had a question for me?” Caleb asked curiously. 
“Ah...it wasn’t anything so major...I was just curious about the spell used to change the flavors of the turnovers,” Essek said, taking a sip of his coffee to clear his suddenly clogged throat. He wished he could melt into the floor...to float away...to disappear completely. However Caleb’s open and earnest gaze kept Essek pinned there in the present. 
“It’s a modification of Minor Alchemy,” Caleb explained, taking the empty seat across from him. 
“Temporary changes the essence of one object into another for a short period of time,” Essek said, his fascination pushing back his embarrassment. “How do you do it on such a large scale then?” 
“I cast it on the filling as it’s being made,” Caleb explained, there was a certain twinkle in his eye. “Are you interested in spellcraft, Herr Essek? I see you are certainly reading some heavy texts.” 
“Oh,” Essek said, looking down at the books scattered about in front of him. “Wizardry is just a hobby of mind nowadays.”
“I don’t think Advanced Studies on Magic, Time, and Space sounds like a hobby,” Caleb joked, holding up the textbook before settling it down with a reverence that had Essek’s stomach twist. “Though I have to admit, dunamancy has been an area I’ve been extremely interested in since immigrating to Xhorhas.” 
“University is still selective...well, racist would be a better term for it...against Empire nationals,” Essek said softly, smoothing the page in front of him. “Unfortunately, it is just a hobby for me nowadays. I used to be a working wizard, but...well, the bills don’t pay themselves. It’s not a very interesting story so I won’t bore you with the details.”  
“I have been lucky enough to be able to use what I love every day with the help of my friends,” Caleb said with a knowing look. “I hope you can do that too at some point.” 
“Yes...I would like to think so,” Essek said, his fingers curling over the pages of his book. He met Caleb’s gaze and for a moment something passed between them that had Essek tingling all over and--
“Caleb, stop flirting and get back over here!” A gruff female voice called out from over the counter. The human girl in blue glowered over in their direction. Essek watched Caleb’s face turn a delightful shade of pink, unfurling across his skin like the petals of a distant flower. He was so very grateful for the shade of his skin concealing his own embarrassment. 
“I hope to see you here again sometime soon, Herr Essek,” Caleb said as he got up. 
“Just Essek,” he corrected. “And yes...sometime soon for sure.”  
Essek watched Caleb walk off, cradling the warm cup in his hands, and couldn’t help but smile.
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sciencespies · 3 years
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Civil Rights Icons' Mothers, Lost Ancient Cities and Other New Books to Read
https://sciencespies.com/history/civil-rights-icons-mothers-lost-ancient-cities-and-other-new-books-to-read/
Civil Rights Icons' Mothers, Lost Ancient Cities and Other New Books to Read
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Anna Malaika Tubbs has never liked the old adage of “behind every great man is a great woman.” As the author and advocate points out in an interview with Women’s Foundation California, in most cases, the “woman is right beside the man, if not leading him.” To “think about things differently,” Tubbs adds, she decided to “introduce the woman before the man”—an approach she took in her debut book, which spotlights the mothers of Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X and James Baldwin.
“I am tired of Black women being hidden,” writes Tubbs in The Three Mothers. “I am tired of us not being recognized, I am tired of being erased. In this book, I have tried my best to change this for three women in history whose spotlight is long overdue, because the erasure of them is an erasure of all of us.”
The latest installment in our series highlighting new book releases, which launched last year to support authors whose works have been overshadowed amid the Covid-19 pandemic, explores the lives of the women who raised civil rights leaders, the story behind a harrowing photograph of a Holocaust massacre, the secret histories of four abandoned ancient cities, humans’ evolving relationship with food, and black churches’ significance as centers of community.
Representing the fields of history, science, arts and culture, innovation, and travel, selections represent texts that piqued our curiosity with their new approaches to oft-discussed topics, elevation of overlooked stories and artful prose. We’ve linked to Amazon for your convenience, but be sure to check with your local bookstore to see if it supports social distancing–appropriate delivery or pickup measures, too.
The Three Mothers: How the Mothers of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and James Baldwin Shaped a Nation by Anna Malaika Tubbs
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Ebenezer Baptist Church is perhaps best known for its ties to King, who preached there alongside his father, Martin Luther King Sr., between 1947 and 1968. The Atlanta house of worship proudly hails its ties to the Kings, but as Tubbs writes for Time magazine, one member of the family is largely left out of the narrative: King’s mother, Alberta.
The author adds, “Despite the fact that this church had been led by her parents, that she had re-established the church choir, that she played the church organ, that she was the adored Mama King who led the church alongside her husband, that she was assassinated in the very same building, she had been reduced to an asterisk in the church’s overall importance.”
In The Three Mothers, Tubbs details the manifest ways in which Alberta, Louise Little and Berdis Baldwin shaped their sons’ history-making activism. Born within six years of each other around the turn of the 20th century, the three women shared a fundamental belief in the “worth of Black people, … even when these beliefs flew in the face of America’s racist practices,” per the book’s description.
Alberta—an educator and musician who believed social justice “needed to be a crucial part of any faith organization,” as Tubbs tells Religion News Service—instilled those same beliefs in her son, supporting his efforts to effect change even as the threat of assassination loomed large. Grenada-born Louise, meanwhile, immigrated to Canada, where she joined Marcus Garvey’s black nationalist Universal Negro Improvement Association and met her future husband, a fellow activist; Louise’s approach to religion later inspired her son Malcolm to convert to the Nation of Islam. Berdis raised James as a single parent in the three years between his birth and her marriage to Baptist preacher David Baldwin. Later, when James showed a penchant for pen and paper, she encouraged him to express his frustrations with the world through writing.
All three men, notes Tubbs in the book, “carried their mothers with them in everything they did.”
The Ravine: A Family, a Photograph, a Holocaust Massacre Revealed by Wendy Lower
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Few photographs of the Holocaust depict the actual moment of victims’ deaths. Instead, visual documentation tends to focus on the events surrounding acts of mass murder: lines of unsuspecting men and women awaiting deportation, piles of emaciated corpses on the grounds of Nazi concentration camps. In total, writes historian Wendy Lower in The Ravine, “not many more than a dozen” extant images actually capture the killers in the act.
Twelve years ago, Lower, also the author of Hitler’s Furies: German Women in the Nazi Killing Fields, chanced upon one such rare photograph while conducting research at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Taken in Miropol, Ukraine, on October 13, 1941, the photo shows Nazis and local collaborators in the middle of a massacre. Struck by a bullet to the head, a Jewish woman topples forward into a ravine, pulling two still-living children down with her. Robbed of a quick death by shooting, the youngsters were “left to be crushed by the weight of their kin and suffocated in blood and the soil heaped over the bodies,” according to The Ravine.
Lower spent the better part of the next decade researching the image’s story, drawing on archival records, oral histories and “every possible remnant of evidence” to piece together the circumstances surrounding its creation. Through her investigations of the photographer, a Slovakian resistance fighter who was haunted by the scene until his death in 2005; the police officers who participated in their neighbors’ extermination; and the victims themselves, she set out to hold the perpetrators accountable while restoring the deceased’s dignity and humanity—a feat she accomplished despite being unable to identify the family by name.
“[Genocide’s] perpetrators not only kill but also seek to erase the victims from written records, and even from memory,” Lower explains in the book’s opening chapter. “When we find one trace, we must pursue it, to prevent the intended extinction by countering it with research, education, and memorialization.”
Four Lost Cities: A Secret History of the Urban Age by Annalee Newitz
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Sooner or later, all great cities fall. Çatalhöyük, a Neolithic settlement in southern Anatolia; Pompeii, the Roman city razed by Mount Vesuvius’ eruption in 79 A.D.; Angkor, the medieval Cambodian capital of the Khmer Empire; and Cahokia, a pre-Hispanic metropolis in what is now Illinois, were no exception. United by their pioneering approaches to urban planning, the four cities boasted sophisticated infrastructures and feats of engineering—accomplishments largely overlooked by Western scholars, who tend to paint their stories in broad, reductive strokes, as Publishers Weekly notes in its review of science journalist Annalee Newitz’s latest book.
Consider, for instance, Çatalhöyük, which was home to some of the first people to settle down permanently after millennia of nomadic living. The prehistoric city’s inhabitants “farmed, made bricks from mud, crafted weapons, and created incredible art” without the benefit of extensive trade networks, per Newitz. They also adorned their dwellings with abstract designs and used plaster to transform their ancestors’ skulls into ritualistic artworks passed down across generations. Angkor, on the other hand, became an economic powerhouse in large part thanks to its complex network of canals and reservoirs.
Despite their demonstrations of ingenuity, all four cities eventually succumbed to what Newitz describes as “prolonged periods of political instability”—often precipitated by poor leadership and unjust hierarchies—“coupled with environmental collapse.” The parallels between these conditions and “the global-warming present” are unmistakable, but as Kirkus points out, the author’s deeply researched survey is more hopeful than dystopian. Drawing on the past to offer advice for the future, Four Lost Cities calls on those in power to embrace “resilient infrastructure, … public plazas, domestic spaces for everyone, social mobility, and leaders who treat the city’s workers with dignity.”
Animal, Vegetable, Junk: A History of Food, From Sustainable to Suicidal by Mark Bittman
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Humans’ hunger for food has a dark side, writes Mark Bittman in Animal, Vegetable, Junk. Over the millennia, the food journalist and cookbook author argues, “It’s sparked disputes over landownership, water use, and the extraction of resources. It’s driven exploitation and injustice, slavery and war. It’s even, paradoxically enough, created disease and famine.” (A prime example of these consequences is colonial powers’ exploitation of Indigenous peoples in the production of cash crops, notes Kirkus.) Today, Bittman says, processed foods wreak havoc on diets and overall health, while industrialized agriculture strips the land of its resources and drives climate change through the production of greenhouse gases.
Dire as it may seem, the situation is still salvageable. Though the author dedicates much of his book to an overview of how humans’ relationship with food has changed for the worse, Animal, Vegetable, Junk’s final chapter adopts a more optimistic outlook, calling on readers to embrace agroecology—“an autonomous, pluralist, multicultural movement, political in its demand for social justice.” Adherents of agroecology support replacing chemical fertilizers, pesticides and other toxic tools with organic techniques like composting and encouraging pollinators, in addition to cutting out the middleman between “growers and eaters” and ensuring that the food production system is “sustainable and equitable for all,” according to Bittman.
“Agroecology aims to right social wrongs,” he explains. “… [It] regenerates the ecology of the soil instead of depleting it, reduces carbon emissions, and sustains local food cultures, businesses, farms, jobs, seeds, and people instead of diminishing or destroying them.”
The Black Church: This Is Our Story, This Is Our Song by Henry Louis Gates Jr.
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The companion book to an upcoming PBS documentary of the same name, Henry Louis Gates Jr.’s latest scholarly survey traces the black church’s role as both a source of solace and a nexus for social justice efforts. As Publishers Weekly notes in its review of The Black Church, enslaved individuals in the antebellum South drew strength from Christianity’s rituals and music, defying slaveholders’ hopes that practicing the religion would render them “docile and compliant.” More than a century later, as black Americans fought to ensure their civil rights, white supremacists targeted black churches with similar goals in mind, wielding violence to (unsuccessfully) intimidate activists into accepting the status quo.
Gates’ book details the accomplishments of religious leaders within the black community, from Martin Luther King Jr. to Malcolm X, Nat Turner and newly elected senator Reverend Raphael G. Warnock. (The Black Churches’ televised counterpart features insights from similarly prominent individuals, including Oprah Winfrey, Reverend Al Sharpton and John Legend.) But even as the historian celebrates these individuals, he acknowledges the black church’s “struggles and failings” in its “treatment of women and the LGBTQ+ community and its dismal response to the 1980s AIDS epidemic,” per Kirkus. Now, amid a pandemic that’s taken a disproportionate toll on black Americans and an ongoing reckoning with systemic racism in the U.S., black churches’ varying approaches to activism and political engagement are at the forefront once again.
As Gates says in a PBS statement. “No social institution in the Black community is more central and important than the Black church.”
#History
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tragedybunny · 4 years
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The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 20
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Hello, Lovelies. Here we are again, closer to the end. Thanks for waiting for this. You all mean the world to me. ❤❤❤
They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.
“WAKE UP!” I can’t, everything hurts. The blackness is soothing. “Get up girl!” I force my eyes open despite the blinding pain.
Through bleary vision, I find a massive black bird perched on my stomach, though I can’t feel its weight. “Bea?” No, my thoughts are muddled, that can’t be Bea. I cough, the dust swirls, and my vision begins to clear. I take it in with dawning horror, a creature of blackness and wings that came from some nightmare.
“Wrong.” Its voice reverberates with power and rage and I shudder unintentionally. “Now get up, Noxus requires your service.”
As the world comes back into sharp focus, I see it’s red eyes boring into me. I’ve seen them before, in the birds that gather wherever he goes, in those moments where Jericho lost control. I inhale and pain radiates out from my core. My mind still struggles to grasp the situation, and I utter the only words I can think of. “You can talk?”
“What did you think? I was some mindless gibbering thing?” It sounds offended and I laugh weakly. Of course, the demon he shares a body with is as prickly as he is. Or maybe it takes from him the way he takes from it. “Enough. Are you going to save the Grand General or not?”
I let my eyes close for a second. Opening them, I try to push myself to sit, but pain forces me back to the ground. “I’m useless, go find Darius.”
“He’s not here!” It thunders at me. “Likely that is very much by design.” It walks along my chest to my face, poking what I would loosely describe as a beak at my chin. “YOU are here. If you don’t get up he will die and the Empire will fall.” It takes to the air, flying, maybe, my mind is still pulling things together. It perches on a piece of rubble and stares at me.
I finally force myself up, letting out a pathetic sounding cry as I do. I’ve been his weapon, his lover, his confidant, his wife, why not his savior as well? I cough, causing the dust that’s settled around me to rise again, and I force my legs under me, to start bearing my weight even as the shake. I rise despite the screaming pain now in my abdomen, the real possibility I’m bleeding inside. Behind my rage and disorientation, fear is starting to take hold, fear for him. Will I be enough to save his life. “Fine, where did they take him?” I stretch, testing knees and ankles, hoping they will hold up.
“Finally, I can see some of what he sees in you. So you choose to save him, this you do willingly?” It tilts its head, a gesture that’s disturbing in its bird-like manner.
“Yes, now tell me what I need to do.” I order it, perhaps too bold, but I feel as though I could die at any moment. I don’t need the ridiculous games of some demon, I need to get moving.
“Perfect.” It’s beak clicks with a resounding snap. With a flap of ethereal wings, it rises from its perch, taking to the air and rushing straight at me.
I feel a burning ignite in my skin as it makes contact with me, disappearing in a blaze of flickering black and red. A fire ignites in my veins and I collapse back to my knees for a moment. My breath comes in strangled gasps as my body knits itself back together. The pain is surreal, and I know something inside me was terribly broken. Soon enough though, I am standing, a sureness of purpose filling me, creating confidence such as I have never known. It’s as though all the knowledge and power in the world are mine for the taking. Is this what he feels at every moment? In my hand a dagger of spectral force forms. I aim and let fly it, watching as it buries itself in the bricks. Perhaps I can do what needs to be done after all.
The deafening sound of ravens pierces my mind and I clutch my head for a moment, trying to silence them. Then I see it, an image forced into my thoughts, a chamber below the forbidden center of the Immortal Bastion, a cage of stone, the route clear to me as though I’d tread it a thousand times. I take off down the ruin of the stairs, full tilt, leaping over the rubble with ease. The noise hits me as I descend to the bottom, soldiers falling into order, officers taking command. A din permeates the background, unrest is growing in the city in the wake of the explosions. I vaguely recall hearing the noise of the multiple blasts before blacking out. My heart bursts into agony, I was alive to hear them because Jericho had me pinned under him, using the demon to protect me.
I fight back a cry. Would he have been able to escape if I hadn’t stopped him to talk? What if I can’t save him? Godsdamnit why do I still care so much after all the pain? “The Grand General is missing...Secure the City...Form up for search parties...send word to the Hand…” I fly through them, catching snippets of conversations, startling those that catch a glimpse of me. “Was that?... It can’t be...Commander?”
There are no guards left at the gates that lead into the fortress proper. Here the central towers rise from the ground, a forbidden haven of dark magic. In the shadows, wandering paths lead to doors, some secret, some not, that give entry down into very bowels of the fortress. I instinctively know the one I’m looking for, slightly hidden as it is, my fingers activating the concealed lock as though I’d done it a thousand times. I enter into the stone hallway opened before me with caution, still unsure of the power I temporarily possess. It’s only moments before I stumble on the first of the traitors, one of my former Guild members. He hears my steps and spins to face me, smile wide. “What luck, the Usurper’s whore.” He begins a charge.
“I don’t have time for you.” A spectral blade flies from my hand driving deep into his throat. Another forms almost without thought and I bury it in his chest, watching as he falls. With his dying breath, the ravens come, bringing me his secrets, burning my mind with them. I see Talon and my rage is reignited, he leans in to speak. “Once we deliver the false Grand General to her, justice will be done.”
I shrug off the vision quickly, trying to focus on my current reality, there’s no time for it to distract me any longer. I hold onto my fury at Talon, a fury that’s simmered for years, ready to unleash it when needed. I should’ve known he’d be involved. I sprint ahead, the small shaft of light from the outside fading. The only other light comes from torches set along the walls, glowing sickly green as though their illumination was from some foul magic. Another comes into view from behind, I leap onto her back, blade to her throat. She’s gurgling blood before she even can react to my presence.
There’s a fork ahead, hard right, again I simply know the way. One more guard stands before the open doorway to a large chamber, a sword already drawn. Concentrating and curious I bring my hand up, crackling bolts of energy emerge from it, similar to something I’d seen Jericho do. The guard twitches and flails, and I close the distance, another throat slit. More ravens, my head feels as though it will burst, I choke back a scream from the pain. Finally, the last of what I need, the key to the cage, and the word in old Noxian that will activate it.
The opening leads to a landing, then a set of stairs descending to an open torch lit chamber that reeks of earth and decay. A small band mills about, possibly twenty or so, I duck below the rail of the landing and try my best to get a count. Not truthfully as many as we had thought when he’d finally shared his suspicions with me, but that doesn’t mean more aren’t coming. On the other end of the chamber, as though they are purposefully avoiding it, is the cage of stone. Inside I just barely make out Jericho’s form, he’s not on his feet, and my heart catches in my throat. I need to get to him.
I know I’ll be spotted if I take the stairs, only one way to go, and I hope I know what the demon will do. A quick jump and I bound over the side railing of the landing and drop down into the shadows beside the stairs, a fall that could kill. I tuck my legs and try to land with the least amount of impact. Pain still blossoms in both my knees, too far down it seems, but it could have been worse. A sensation of warmth washes over me and the pain fades, I know whatever I did just healed. No time to think more on it, I sprint off toward the cage, throwing a glance at the conspirators to ensure I haven’t been noticed. They seem to be wandering aimlessly, perhaps waiting for something or someone, and at least keeping their distance from where I need to be.
I circle around to the back of the damned thing to keep concealed and I have a moment to study it. Petricite, of course, that’s how it works. Ancient inscriptions of old Noxian encircle it, the same faint green emanating from them as the torches. And then I finally let my eyes settle on him, he’s seated with his knees pulled up to his chest, a grimace on his features. I hold myself back from crying out to him. “Jericho!” I whisper desperately instead, kneeling as close to the cage as the demon will let me. His eyes open slowly and he turns to face me, taking my breath away. Blood runs down the left side of his face, matting his hair down over an angry, swollen bruise, and his nose looks broken. Rage like I’ve never known wells up inside me and I feel my hands begin to shake. THEY HURT MY HUSBAND. I shove it down, for once I’m fighting to not give in and lose control.
“Kitten?” That nickname is a blade in my heart, regret for what I said the last time I heard it engulfing me. “What are you doing here?” He seems to have trouble focusing on me. I need to get him out of there before that head injury does him in.
“Rescuing you.” I smile slightly, desperately trying to put him at ease.
He shakes his head, I should have expected his resistance. “It’s too risky for you alone. Leave, help secure the Empire for Darius. It needs him.” He really thinks this is an order I’m going to obey.
“We both know it’s you the Empire needs. And I’m not really so alone.” I coax out the demon’s aura, and I feel it change me as I watch his dawning recognition. I send it back to resting in the depths of my soul before I can attract unwanted attention.
He closes his eyes for a second, and I can tell he’s resigning himself to not arguing with me further. Finally he exhales and opens them. “If you must.” The slight tremor in his voice says so much more than his words alone and my heart aches at the sound of it. “Kat, I…”
“Shh.” I cut him off, feeling the hot sting of tears in my eyes. We don’t have the time. Before the turmoil can get the better of me, I stand and suck in a deep breath. “Thank me later.”
I turn, wiping my eyes, and stride out from behind the cage toward the milling group. “Hey, idiots!” No going back now. “Where’s the moron in charge of this shit plan?”
All eyes now turn to me, some of them whisper to one another. Through the demon I can just barely hear them. How did I get here? What am I doing? Are there more to come? One hooded figure steps forward to speak out loudly. “Finally, I’ve waited for this for months. One step closer and I’ll sink my blade into you.”
That voice, the Guild betrayer revealed at last. When I think on it, it never could have been anyone else, but it stings deeply and I wish it had been. I’ll mourn later though. “Ah, Inara. Couldn’t find your own way out of my shadow? Had to throw in with these traitors to feel important?”
She breaks from the crowd, charging forward to stand in front of me. So easily played. “Did you actually think I would follow you? You’re-”
“Shh.” I hold up my hand and cut her off, I don’t have time for theatrics. “You assume I care.” My hands reach back and grip my daggers, it’s not time to reveal my little surprise yet. “Fight me or remove yourself from my path.”
She sputters, I’ve stolen her momentum. “Enough Inara, I’ll handle my darling sister.” His voice comes from the back of the crowd, at last, the nobody who would’ve replaced me.
They part and let him through, the deference paid to him that I can only assume is a mark of leadership. The smug look on his face nearly pushes me over the edge. Years of hatred and bitterness stoke my rage, but I reign myself in, I need to keep control. I give him a quick look over as he approaches, and there, on his belt, is the amulet that serves as the cage’s key. “Let him go Talon, this is the only warning I’m giving.”
He throws back his head and laughs, how typically irritating. “You really came to rescue the Usurper? After everything he’s done? And to think, I tried to offer you mercy for Markus’s sake. I spent months warning you what was coming.”
A growl escapes me in spite of my efforts. The stalker, it was him, when I look into every dark spot of my life he’s there. I inhale and assess the situation, I can’t lose control now, I’m so close. I don’t need Talon dead, I just need to get near to him. And if I stoke his anger, he’ll go right along with what I need. “He’s the rightful ruler of Noxus and you are a traitor.” I stare him in the eyes, daring him to act.
“I’m a traitor?” He scoffs at me. “Who’s here to beg for the life of their father’s murderer? Who’s been playing whore for that same murderer until recently?”
It’s my turn to laugh now. “I’m not here to beg. I’m here to present a challenge. One duel and we’ll see who’s the better of father’s pupils. I win and the Grand General goes free. You win and you may do as you wish with both of us.” I mentally urge him to take the damn bait.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” I bite my tongue, he really doesn't want me to answer that. “I have him in my control, and justice will be done for father once our Matron arrives. I don’t need to answer your challenge.”
I lock my eyes on his and smile with all the malice in my soul. “Oh Talon, you poor confused moron.” Time to play all my cards. “Jericho didn’t kill father.” I lean forward, smile ever widening, and entranced, he mirrors my movement. “I did. Sunk my dagger down into his throat, and watched him bleed. It was glorious.”
He gives a primal scream and I take a step back, landing in a defensive stance. “You bitch! I’m not shocked you wielded the blade. But he had his hand in it.” He snarls again in frustration, eyes still wide with shock at my revelation. “Fine, I’ll accept your challenge, to expose you as the failure you are.” He almost makes it too easy.
At his signal, a loose circle forms around us, drawing a collective intake of breath. Before most could even react, several blades fly from his hands. I dodge them, intentionally slowing myself, and feel one nick my shoulder. I see a smile tug at the corner of his lips, he’s satisfied with what he thinks he’s done. Let him believe he is superior. I retreat a few steps and strike, a dagger loosed in his direction, meant to graze, striking only his thigh.
I leap toward him, following its path, swinging wildly, missing as expected, my momentum carrying me forward. I feel his blade carve into the flesh of my back and I bite my lip to keep from crying out as hot blood trickles down my skin. I push the demon down, refusing to let it heal the minor wound. Behind me, he gets confident and lets out a chuckle. “Losing your touch Kat? You’ve spent too much time playing Lady of the Manor.”
“Fuck you gutter rat.” I hear his sharp exhale, he always did hate being reminded of where he really came from. I turn and another of my daggers goes his way, just a hair too wide. He grins and that should seal it. He leaps at me with every bit of that uncanny agility he’s always possessed.
He’s on top of me before most would even be able to comprehend the situation, a downward slash meant to cut straight into my heart. I surprise him by slamming my body into him rather than attempting an escape. It serves as a distraction and brings me close enough to wrap my hand around the amulet and tear it from his belt. The price is that the blade meant for my heart drives deep into my shoulder and I cry out as my arm goes limp. “You could never beat me. You’re a failure who doesn’t deserve his legacy.”
“Idiot!” Now the demon makes itself known, veiling me with its power. A glance around reveals growing horror in their faces. I feel them, the wings unfurling from me, I find myself standing just above the ground, as fire sings in my veins. I use the moment and take a leap toward the cage, the distance covered in one single bound. My wounds burn as my body stitches itself back together before I land in front of the door to the vile thing. “This was never about beating you!” Talon begins to rally them leading a surge toward me. I slam the amulet into the circular depression on the door, breaking the circle of glyphs, feeling the power drain from my body. “Amon-ana-noxa.” The words ripped from the secrets of a traitor’s soul.
The sound of the lock reverberates through the chamber like thunder and the inscriptions cease to glow. I draw my daggers, readying myself for the onslaught as I feel that incredible power pass by me. “I’m going to enjoy tearing all of you apart.” My heart leaps to hear his voice, strong and confident again.
Within seconds he’s beside me, power and rage emanating from him. There’s hesitation among the conspirators and they slow. “Are you cowards?” Talon shouts, growing desperation evident. “There’s still only two of them.” He’s gone too far down this path, he can’t turn back now.
Jericho looks down at me. “No mercy.” He commands, my Grand General, and for a moment I feel a sense of awe for him that reminds me why it is he who controls the Empire.
“Understood.” I assess our situation, no matter his seeming power of the moment, I doubt he’s fully healed. We need to be quick about this. I’ll be more effective at their back lines. “I’ve got an idea, give me a hand getting behind them.”
He nods and holds out his hands, hands cupping them together. A quick run and I leap into them, the demon’s strength easily propels me behind them. My dagger finds its first target as those in front get close enough to feel the force of an arcane blast.
One turns to me and I make a swift movement, running him through before sending a blade through the air into the first that tries to break away. Several screams pierce the air, Jericho is easily dealing with those that have closed in on him. I spy Inara within the melee and set my focus on getting to her. I leap to retrieve my thrown dagger and then to my next target, opening their throat from behind. I look up, and two of them held still by arcane energy are being dragged back to Jericho.
Another falls before me and my path to Inara is clear. I ready a blade for the traitorous bitch. Over those still remaining, I see Talon make a desperate leap toward Jericho, blades flashing through the air. “Enough!” He roars, demon fully loosed, rising to meet Talon in the air, scorching those that still remain around him. I feel a chill that prickles my skin and notice a strange mist that has begun filling the chamber.
It feels me with a sense of unease that pulls my attention from the mob that is now breaking and running. “Talon, we need to leave, now!” Inara pleads. I’ve lost track of her in the chaos. No, they can’t do this and just walk away. Blackness seeps into the edge of my vision, I’ve contained my fury far too long. Not willing to let them escape, I scan the crowd for them. They need to pay for what they’ve done. Another of the cabal rushes past me and I grab her to open her throat, still searching for my now singular focus. There, a doorway with a pair of figures entering it. “Damn it!’ I snap and charge toward them, this isn’t over.
“Kat don’t.” He shouts after me, but it’s too late. Lost in my thirst for vengeance, I’m already following the passage from the door deeper into the catacombs, the mist thickening around me.
I catch them just as they turn sharply and plunge into a room illuminated by a haunting blue-green light. They’ve disappeared as the mist conceals all here, and quickly I find myself disorientated. A voice snaps from within the mist. “You fools, what have you done?” It’s her of course, the Black Rose Matron. How could this plot have come from anyone else?
A deep resonant laugh echoes throughout the mist, it’s origin lost. It freezes the blood in my veins and I suddenly feel like a child, small and alone. “It can’t be!” LeBlanc’s voice holds a rising panic that leaves me even more shaken. Her frantic chanting fills the air as I try to turn and retrace my path back out of the chamber.
“Behold this lovely little consort of death who strays so close to me. Come further into the mist, come to me, join me in my kingdom, Katarina. I will make great use of your talents.” Trance like at this malevolent presence, I’m rooted where I stand, his terrible voice filling my head. I know I should flee, but I can’t. “We will do many great things with you serving at my side.” I can’t think, but I feel myself begin to move, drifting further into the mist.
Pain blossoms in my core and shakes me from the stupor. A force grasps me and begins to pull on me. “Get away from my wife.” No, he shouldn’t have followed me, he should’ve escaped. The pulling cannot move me from where I’ve been stuck, and soon it dissipates.
Again, that sinister laugh echoes around us. “Your ‘power’ means nothing to me, Grand General. I am the embodiment of forces you cannot even comprehend.”
“I comprehend well enough the fragility of your ego, you who must brag from the shadows.” The entity lets out a primal growl. “Come on out and face me if you are so mighty.” My head begins to clear, Jericho’s taunting served as an ample distraction, no doubt as he planned. He laughs at the creature and now free, I fly towards the sound.
It seems as though I travel farther than the chamber should have allowed. “I’ve slain countless who would dare threaten me and you’re no different.” He sounds so close, but I can’t find him. Panic begins to take hold, is there no way out. “Kat.” He’s there before me, grasping my hand, pulling me to him. The mist begins to thin.
“Well played Grand General.” It sounds as though it is fading away. “Know this, when I return, she will be the first thing I take from you. The second will be your Empire.”
No more time for bandying words, neither of us react, focusing on navigating our way out of the chamber. Leblanc is still somewhere in mist and there may be threats above in the city as well given the explosions earlier. We need to get to someplace safe where we can fortify our position, plan, undo whatever harm that has been done.
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pomegranate-belle · 4 years
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V-day ask meme 5 with mattfoggy?
5. Character spends all day trying to give a valentine to their crush, only to be foiled in increasingly ridiculous ways
So this became... 3k words. I feel like this trope is very high-school oriented, but somehow the fic ended up being comicsverse so idk. It’s set... Somewhere in a post-whatever-run-we’re-on-now future where Kirsten is back and Matt’s not stupidly sleeping with mob boss wives. Also, massive apologies to any X-Men fans; I do not know shit or fuck about characterizing Magneto and Professor X, I just wanted Sir Ian and Patrick Stewart to cameo in this fic—
Despite all the commercialism and the overwhelming scent of flowers and processed candy, there’s just something about the aura of Valentine’s Day that Matt likes. People young and old get excited for it — whether for romantic purposes or just because chocolate will soon be on sale — and their feelings infuse the air in a way Matt can’t quite pin down to one or another of his senses. The Valentine Vibe, Kirsten had called it when he tried to explain the sensation to her.
He’s... Ecstatic, to have her back in his life, there’s really no other word for it. They’re not quite what they once were — in fact, Matt has no idea what they are except she’s there and they love each other but they’re not the kind of people who kiss each other anymore. Still, after climbing out of his latest spiral to find her waiting at the top? He can’t think of a better dynamic to have with an ex. She’s still Kirsten, after all. She’s still intelligent and funny and brave and doesn’t take his shit.
She’s also begun to take a particularly pointed interest in his relationship with Foggy that he thinks he should maybe be a little frightened about. Her intention is that Matt, so she says, ‘stop pining and seduce him already’ — which is easy enough for her to say, but just because he and Kirsten followed an absolutely fantastic trail of sexual tension to an even more fantastic relationship does not mean the same thing will work with Foggy.
You don’t seduce Foggy Nelson, and Matt would know. He’s been trying unsuccessfully for fifteen years and he is not subtle. Matt knows he looks good even if he can’t see it himself; the empirical evidence is pretty, uh, evident. But whenever Foggy sees him shirtless his only reaction is to toss a shirt at him and tell him to cover his shame with a warm fondness that’s simultaneously disappointing and heartwarming. Matt’s not even on the menu to Foggy, he’s concluded. But, well. Matt’s always been a champion of lost causes, and all that.
Besides, best friends give each other stuff on Valentine’s Day all the time. Foggy loves chocolate, and he’ll probably brush off what the ‘oh my god Matt you big softie this is totally the sappiest one in the store’ card Kirsten helped Matt pick out says as being a joke, so it’s not like there’ll be any negative repercussions. Matt’s resolved. He’s gonna do it.
Unfortunately, Foggy’s in a meeting with a client when Matt shows up to probably-unsuccessfully sweep him off his feet. The secretary says it’s set to go on another two hours. Matt doesn’t have that kind of time to bandy around now that he’s trying to be responsible with his work-life balance, so he makes a tactical retreat.
Fine. He’ll just take Foggy out to lunch and give him his valentine then. No problem.
They actually do make it to lunch, which gives Matt a false sense of security. He decides to save the valentine for the end — like dessert. It’ll be sweet, he’s certain, and he’ll be able to savor Foggy’s happiness the entire time he walks him back to his office.
Matt is just about to pull out his gift and offer it to Foggy when his phone starts announcing Jessica Jones’s name. He spends about three seconds too long debating whether to answer or not.
“If you ghost her she’ll beat the crap out of you,” Foggy points out, standing with a metallic rasp of chair legs against the floor. “I’ll head out and let you take that.”
Foggy sounds content, smells like deli ham and honey mustard and potato chips — a not-super-healthy sandwich lunch masquerading as something more so by way of a thin layer of lettuce — and gives off the same soothing body heat he always has, excepting his bout with cancer that Matt tries not to think about. To make a long story short, he feels like home to every one of Matt’s senses, and it’s a struggle not to ask him to stay. Still, the insistence of Matt’s phone prevails, because he knows what Jess is calling about. He’d asked her to help keep an eye on Mike and let him know if he was up to anything — if she has something to report, it’s bound to be important. So, Matt offers Foggy a nod and then pulls out his cell to answer her.
Of course, both he and Foggy are busy all afternoon, but Matt knows that Foggy usually knocks off early on Fridays, so he wraps up his own business — meeting with Jess to discuss strategy, any work that can’t be pushed to later — as efficiently as possible and follows suit. His plan is to meet Foggy right as he’s stepping onto the sidewalk — waylay him and present him with the valentine before anything else can interfere. Except that as he’s strolling along down the street, Matt happens to hear a mugging going on down an alley that he’s passing. Breaking that up takes more time than he’s willing to admit — god, he’s getting old — and even vaulting over a few rooftops doesn’t make up the delay. Foggy’s gone when Matt reaches his destination. He lets his head fall back against the brick wall behind him, breathing heavily, and then reaches for his phone.
“Matt?” Foggy’s voice is tinny and confused and perfect over the phone line. “What’s up?”
“Dinner?” Matt asks. “I was thinking Italian tonight, want to meet me at Maria’s at five-thirty?”
There’s a long, long pause.
“Yeah, sure thing, Matty. I figured you’d already have plans...?”
“Nah, nothing. See you then.”
Fourth time’s the charm, that’s what they say, right? Maria’s is quaint and quiet and always smells like good bread and cheese. He and Foggy aren’t the only ones there — a few couples seem to be scattered around the room, including a pair of teenage girls that are probably on a first date based on the way they fumble their words and their silverware. There’s also two elderly men, one in a wheelchair, who sound like they might be playing chess on a travel board while they wait for their food. They all add to the atmosphere instead of disturbing it, though, which is nice. Across the table, Foggy clears his throat, scraping the tines of his fork through his food.
“So. Lunch and dinner? I feel like you’re buttering me up for something,” he says. “We don’t have to move back to California, do we? Because I will, but I only just unpacked my last box a few weeks ago and it’s going to be a pain to pack it all up again.”
“No! No, nothing like that, Foggy,” insists Matt. “Seriously. I just want to spend time with you. Is that really so out of character?”
“On Valentine’s Day?” Foggy points out, and his silverware clinks against his plate. “I mean, kind of.”
The implication isn’t lost on Matt — don’t you usually have a date? — but he doesn’t address it. Foggy is his date, but couching it like that out loud is a little too presumptive, even for him.
“Well, not this year.”
Matt smiles his most charming smile, and it nets him a fond sigh, the kind that’s normally paired with Foggy ruffling his hair.
Again, Matt waits until the end of the meal. This time, they get to dessert, and the moment is perfect. They’re comfortably full, happy, and relaxed. It doesn’t matter if Foggy sees the gesture as romantic or not, because at least Matt can be satisfied that it was done as romantically as possible. His sense of aesthetics, such as it is, will be appeased.
Which is, of course, the moment the door of the restaurant bursts open.
“Magneto!” shouts a man, storming into the restaurant with heavy, clomping bootsteps and shattering the moment to pieces. “I’ll kill you!!”
Matt is going to kick this guy’s ass.
What is he even yelling about? Magneto? Magneto’s not—
And then one of the old men stands. Every spoon in the restaurant rattles towards him when he pushes back his chair, prompting a sigh from his dinner companion. And so it turns out that maybe the guy bursting through the door isn’t as off-base as Matt assumed. That old guy really is Magneto. It actually takes Matt a minute to realize that the man in the wheelchair across the table must be Charles Xavier. Xavier just isn’t someone Matt hangs around a lot, he tends to steer clear of both him and his academy when possible. It’s not mutants Matt has a problem with, though — it’s telepaths. The idea of someone poking around in his brain pan without so much as a by-your-leave gives him goosebumps. And not the fun kind.
As Matt considers all this, the scene continues — he notices distantly that the teenagers are being ushered towards the kitchen and away from the action. There’s a few whiffs of air as punches are thrown by the unknown assailant, and an unpleasant burning smell. Matt’s torn between shuffling Foggy away from danger and joining the fray himself, but when Foggy reaches out and grabs his hand for comfort he finds he can do neither.
“Let me very firmly impress upon you the enormity of your rudeness,” says Magneto, his voice crisp and cold.
Matt can’t even tell what he’s doing — something about Magneto’s powers is messing with his radar sense in the most disorienting way — but it sounds painful. Matt debates with himself the pros and cons of shaking off Foggy’s grip and intervening.
“Erik,” Xavier says warningly, though there’s still something quietly warm suffusing his tone.
“Oh, very well.”
The would-be assassin hits the floor with a thud that rattles the dishes on Matt and Foggy’s table. He’s breathing, a little bit labored, but still alive. And unconscious. Also possibly bleeding a little bit, but it’s hard to tell with the scent of all the metal in the air.
And that, he supposes, is why you don’t mess up Magneto’s dinner plans.
Magneto and Professor X make their leisurely escape, leaving Matt’s romantic moment with Foggy thoroughly in ruins. He lets it go, sighing into the last bite of his tiramisu and gives the plan up as a bad job. Maybe next year, he thinks wryly as he and Foggy get up together to examine the man left on the floor.
“He’s wrapped up in a chain of spoons,” Foggy narrates quietly, nudging the guy with his toe. “Wasn’t sure if you could tell that, you looked confused. He must have some sort of acid powers though because he managed to melt a few on their way in. I think maybe he just fainted when the chain tightened. Are you able to sense any really bad injuries?”
Matt tilts his head and concentrates.
“No,” he determines at last. “No, nothing.”
That settled, they split the check and book it before they can get caught up in a police investigation or a mutant hunt.
Their apartments are in opposite directions, so there’s not even an excuse to give Foggy the valentine on the way home. And anyway, Matt’s feeling so discouraged that he’s not sure he even wants to go through with it anymore. He turns for home, planning to crumple up the card and maybe eat the chocolates himself.
“Matt.”
There’s a tug as Foggy grabs his sleeve. He turns towards the warmth of Foggy’s body, the sounds of his heart and his breath, and tries to offer a smile.
“What?”
Foggy gives him a quiet huff in return.
“Come on, Matt, give me a little credit. You’ve kept coming up with excuses to meet me all day. There’s something you wanted to say, and you still haven’t said it,” he explains. “I can tell. So let’s head back to mine and you can finally get it off your chest.”
Matt feels, suddenly, seen. It’s an unsettling and vulnerable feeling, but he knows beyond all doubt that he’s safe with Foggy. That it’s silly of him to be surprised at somebody knowing him so well when that somebody is Foggy. There’s not much the two of them can hide from each other after being best friends for so long. Mood improved a little, Matt manages a more genuine smile, and they walk on together.
“So, what exactly is your problem, Matt?” Foggy asks once they’re safely inside.
And it’s not as if he says it in a rude way, he actually sounds very earnest and concerned, but that just impresses on Matt all the more how stupid this entire situation is. He’s twisted himself in knots all day over one dumb little gift for one dumb little holiday. Annoyed with himself, Matt divests himself of his glasses, cane, and suit jacket, opens up his briefcase, plops the valentine and accompanying small box of chocolates inside down on Foggy’s coffee table, then flops onto the couch on his back.
“That,” he says, gesturing towards it. “That’s my problem, ok?”
Foggy laughs.
“That’s what all this was about? A valentine? You had me worried you were getting ready to pull some crazy stunt or another.” He pauses, likely studying the items set on the coffee table. “Chocolate and a card, huh? For Kirsten, I’m guessing? I had a feeling the two of you would be getting back t—”
Matt is extremely tired of Foggy’s assumptions.
“No, it’s for you! I’ve been trying to give it to you all day!” he complains, throwing an arm over his face — he might be a grown man but after the day he’s had he’s allowed to be a little dramatic, ok?
“Me?”
Foggy sounds surprised and pleased, but not like he’s having any sort of revelation about Matt’s feelings for him. Which is fine. That’s what Matt had expected, after all.
“Yup.”
“Well, if it is for me, then I guess I don’t have to feel guilty about wanting to eat these,” Foggy says, and there’s some rustling of cardboard and plastic as he opens the box of sweets and chooses one.
Raspberry-filled, Matt’s nose tells him as soon as it’s bitten into. With a pleased hum at the taste, Foggy picks up the card and opens the envelope. There’s further quiet, inarticulate sounds after that — noises Matt remembers from studying near Foggy, the sound of him not-quite-reading-aloud.
There’s a pause.
Foggy’s heart does a funny kind of stutter in his chest, then speeds up considerably. He swallows the chocolate in his mouth with a gulp that sounds distinctly nervous.
“Um. Matty...”
And now Matt’s nervous too. He sits up, clenches his fingers in the fabric of his slacks to keep from reaching for his glasses.
“What? What is it?” he demands.
“Did you, uh... Did you know Kirsten wrote in this?”
Oh no.
“What did she write?”
“Well, there’s a pretty long spiel about what she’ll do to us if we hurt each other,” Foggy says, with a jovial tone that rings very hollow. “But she also says I need to get over myself and kiss you because you’re an emotionally stunted duckling and won’t make the first move.”
“... Ah.”
Matt’s still trying to calculate the relative distance to the ground if he flings himself out the window when Foggy’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“Is she right?” he asks Matt.
“About what?”
Though he tries for a devil-may-care grin, Matt thinks it probably comes out a little anemic.
“About you wanting to kiss me, Matthew,” Foggy says drily. “we both already know you’re emotionally stunted.”
Matt shrugs.
“I do. But you don’t, and that’s fine, I’m... I don’t need...”
“I don’t?” asks Foggy, sounding incredulous. “Matty, come on. There’s pretty much nobody on Earth who’d turn you down and you really think I would?”
“But...? You never said...”
Foggy sighs and steps back. Matt gets the feeling he’s probably shaking his head in despair at Matt’s apparent idiocy.
“And why would I, Matt? I mean. You know what I mean! I’m just not the kind of person you would... They have leagues for a reason, buddy.”
That self-depreciation, light but tinged with a very deep melancholy that Matt knows is drilled right through to Foggy’s core, drives him to his feet in agitation.
“Objection!” he snaps, and doesn’t care how ridiculous it sounds. “I’ve flirted with you before! How could you think...”
“You flirt with everything that moves, Matt, I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s just who you are,” Foggy explains patiently.
“Well...” He can’t exactly deny it. “Yeah, but I did want to kiss you. Do want to kiss you. All the time. Except after you eat something gross and unfit for human consumption.”
Foggy offers up a quiet laugh, then, and it smooths some of Matt’s ruffled feathers when he can’t detect any bitterness in the sound.
“Real smooth, Casanova,” Foggy says. “That was sarcasm by the way. I’m rolling my eyes at you.”
“But you still want to kiss me too,” Matt replies, because he’s beginning to think it’s true and he knows Foggy finds it both irritating and endearing, but more the latter, when he’s smug about things.
“You really are unbearable. What do I see in you, I ask myself,” laments Foggy, even as he steps forward and cups Matt’s cheek in his hand.
Matt can hardly stop grinning long enough to swoop in and kiss him first.
46 notes · View notes