🐤 orrrr 🕊️ or both if you feel like it!

Hey so I'm really terrible at the internet!!! I went and posted a thing and then didn't even answer all the responses I got, I'm sorry anon!! So... this is about this fic ask thing! Okay! Here we go!

🐤 a mystery quote (take out the context, even censor the names if you want! let em guess!)

Ooh okay I had to go ahead to my "notes" doc because I haven't gotten to this part yet lol, but love to let you guess. Although I think it's pretty obvious lol.

Now, don’t be alarmed.  I had to see exactly what sort of creature could inspire our Doctor to such new heights of idiocy.  Because, I’m sure you know, Ms. Does-Her-Research, Time Lords don’t really ‘do’ marriage.  The concept exists, of course, but it’s an enterprise of the eccentric.  The black sheep cousin who rocks up to Nana’s funeral in a studded leather jacket, sure, they’d have a wife.  Everyone would be whispering about it.  But it’s very much not the done thing.   So naturally, we both married young.  Rebels do.  And that’s when you learn the real lesson: it’s not just that sentimentality is discouraged.  It’s a dangerous liability when it goes well, and when it doesn’t?  You think you’ve seen a messy divorce?  That’s when the funny collars come off.  No, the real problem is: it ends, one way or the other.  One’s with solicitors, and the other is worse.  And if you’re the unlucky one left standing, you may find you have more lifetimes left to think about it than you’d like. I had to take a little peek at the one who made him forget such a lesson.  Of course, he is a moron.  Spending centuries going round picking up humans?  It’s like, you keep on buying hamsters, then come crying to me when it’s time to get out a shoebox?  Maybe after the first twenty you’d start to see a pattern? 

🕊️ a sweet quote (something sweet, fluffy! maybe it's cute or funny banter! or sappy wedding vows!)

Throughout their centuries together, the Doctor counted every day spent with River as a good day.  But some of them were just that little extra bit good.  Some days, her eyes lit up with immediate recognition of his age, and she greeted him as “husband” before even mentioning diaries.  He did so love when she was naughty, even if it was their own rules she was bending.   Some days, for example, they narrowly avoided being burnt as a ritual sacrifice on the way to dinner, then rushed back to the TARDIS on the sort of giddy adrenaline high that pushed dinner right to the bottom of the list. “We should be burning at the stake right now!” River scolded as he shook out his umbrella.  “It’s lucky for you you’re pretty.” “You were in no danger.  I knew something would come up.” “No you didn’t!” “I did!  I promise I did!” “Rubbish,” she declared, striding up to the console and pulling off her gloves.  She tossed her hair over her shoulder, shooting a wry glare back at him, and very nearly managed to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.  The Doctor was overcome with such a fierce wave of adoration, his rational mind checked out entirely for a moment.   “Okay,” he admitted as he stepped up behind her.  He slipped his arms around her waist and dipped his head; inhaled the cool, earthy scent of ozone and petrichor that clung to her hair, mingling with her perfume.  “I was just hoping,” he muttered in her ear.  “And they got lucky.  We wouldn’t be the ones burning if they dared lay a finger on you.”

You ask me for a quote you get a friggin novel because I have no self control. Thank you anon if you're still around, I hope you see this!!! I am going to try to write more and complete the second chapter if not before the holidays then very soon after!!

On February 21 and 22, 2023, the United States Supreme Court is scheduled to hear arguments in cases involving the content moderation practices of social media platforms. The Court has also indicated that it could later address the First Amendment issues involved in conflicting Court of Appeals decisions regarding content moderation laws passed by Texas and Florida. The February oral arguments will, no doubt, be revealing. At this point, however, the fact that the Court has bifurcated the content moderation issue into questions of platform behavior and state authority could be telling as to the intentions of at least some of its justices.

About two percent of appeals to the Supreme Court are granted certiorari and heard by the justices. That the February cases have made it over that hurdle suggests at least some members of the Court might have something to say on an issue that has become a fixture in the culture wars (and the trigger for the Texas and Florida laws).

Although only one of the February cases explicitly mentions it, at the heart of the content moderation issue is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act. For almost 30 years, Section 230 has been the foundation governing expression on digital platforms. The provision was enacted in 1996 at a time when the online experience was dominated by America Online (AOL), Prodigy, Compuserve, and similar services that ran commentary bulletin boards. The goal of Section 230 was to protect online platforms like these from liability for the third-party content that they distribute. In the intervening decades, technology has changed online experiences dramatically, and the U.S. Congress has failed to re-address existing and emerging policy issues considering those changes. It now falls to the Supreme Court to grapple with the statute based on the practices of 21st century social media.

Famously labeled “The Twenty-Six Words That Created the Internet,” Section 230 did not “create the internet” but rather allowed for the creation of the economic model of social media platforms. What the statute “created” was the protected monetization of users’ personal information through the application of software algorithms to target both advertisements and information and to sell access to those targets. This is a legitimate online activity. The question is whether technology and marketplace changes, since 1996, have also changed what society has a right to expect from the online platforms engaged in that activity.

The Section 230 Life cycle

The societal effects of Section 230 have gone through three stages. The original intent of Section 230, according to its authors, was to clarify the liability of online services for material published by others on their platforms. As online services evolved from bulletin boards to social media, however, the new social media companies took advantage of strict construction judicial interpretations to turn Section 230 from the protection of speech to the protection of a business model that profited from unfettered controversy. In its third phase, Section 230 has become a fixture in the culture wars.

Particularly when it comes to the culture wars incarnation, federal elected officials have used Section 230 as a tool for performance politics, but have done very little substantively. Concurrent with the lack of congressional action, the rigidity of Section 230’s black letter law has been interpreted by courts to short circuit the judicial capability to assess the application of common law principles, such as liability in light of new developments.

The Supreme Court appears primed to go where Congress and lower courts have feared to tread – and to do it in a bifurcated manner.

The February Cases

Scheduled for February arguments are two cases in which private citizens are challenging the behavior of social media companies. Both February cases involve social media’s relationship to terrorist activity.

In Gonzalez v. Google, the family of Nohemi Gonzalez alleges Google was complicit in the November 2015 ISIS attack in Paris that killed 130 people – among them Ms. Gonzalez. The plaintiffs submit the Google-owned service YouTube was used by ISIS to recruit and radicalize combatants in violation of the Anti-Terrorism Act (ATA) and Justice Against Sponsors of Terrorism Act (JASTA). In addition, they allege that, because YouTube sold advertising on the ISIS videos and shared the revenue with ISIS, the platform provided material support to terrorists. The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals dismissed the suit, finding that Section 230 protected YouTube from liability for videos produced by someone else, and that the sharing of revenue was simply the normal course of business and not in support of a specific group or ideology.

In Twitter v Taamneh, relatives of Nawras Alassaf, who was killed in a 2017 ISIS attack in Istanbul, take a related, but different approach to assigning culpability. They allege that by allowing the distribution of ISIS material without editorial supervision, companies such as Twitter, Google, and Facebook (now Meta Platforms) aided and abetted ISIS’ activity in violation of the ATA and JASTA. Interestingly, the issue of Section 230 is not a part of the Taamneh appeal. Although it was raised by the companies, the lower court never reached a conclusion and thus assessment of Section 230’s applicability was not part of the Ninth Circuit’s decision. The Taamneh plaintiffs did raise the shared revenue issue, however. The appeals court reversed the district court’s dismissal, finding that Twitter (along with Google and Facebook) could face claims that by failing to identify and remove the ISIS video, their actions played an assistive role.

The decision of the Supreme Court to hold the state action cases in abeyance while moving forward with the cases dealing with online behavior perhaps suggests a judicial strategy. Specifically, will the Court seek to deal with the topic of online content in a manner that is orthogonal to the absolutist debate that habitually surrounds Section 230?

Do Algorithms Change the Nature of Liability?

It is asserted by the Gonzalez and Taamneh plaintiffs, and the United States Department of Justice in its brief, that the Section 230 assumption that the “provider or user of an interactive computer service” is simply transporting the work of a third-party does not reflect how the companies have utilized advances in digital technology.

In 1996, at the time of Section 230’s enactment, online platforms such as Prodigy or AOL operated bulletin boards that hosted information posted by third parties. Today, the major online platforms have built their business around algorithms that utilize data collected from each user to select which postings to share with which users. This algorithmic recommendation, it is argued, transforms the platforms from a Section 230-protected “interactive computer service” to an unprotected “information content provider.” The platform companies argue that “recommending” is actually “organizing” and there is no other way to present information to users. The co-authors of Section 230, Senator (then-Rep.) Ron Wyden (D-OR) and former Rep. Chris Cox (R-CA), filed an amicus curiae brief with the Court in which they, among other things, assert that Section 230 anticipated recommendation algorithms and the ability to “filter, screen, allow, or disallow content” as well as “pick, choose, analyze, or digest content.” The authors explain, “[r]ecommending systems that rely on such algorithms are the direct descendants of the early content curation efforts that Congress had in mind when enacting Section 230.”[1]

The brief of the United States Department of Justice argued that the recommendation constitutes the site’s own conduct and is thus outside the protections developed for third-party content. “If YouTube had placed a selected ISIS video on a user’s homepage alongside a message stating, ‘You should watch this,’ that message would fall outside Section 230 (c)(1),” the brief argues. “Encouraging a user to watch a selected video [e.g., by placing it on the “Up Next” sidebar] is conduct distinct from the video’s publication (i.e., hosting).”

Whether or not algorithmic promotion changes the nature of an online platform, and thus its liability protection, will no doubt be one of the major issues addressed by the Court in the Gonzalez case. While there are credible arguments on all sides, one thing is certain, that such recommendation within a closed and controlled platform moves today’s online activities away from the metaphorical open public square.

Such algorithmic promotion also differs from the idealized public square in that it is a compensated service. The internet per se is a public square in which anyone can set up their soapbox and in which all the world’s information and opinions are readily available. In contrast, social media, although constructed on an open platform, is a closed business in which algorithms are programmed to maximize revenue by selecting points of view and targeting their audience. How such construction affects the liability protections of Section 230 will, no doubt, be a major question before the Court.

#BillionierVerdictOnFinancialIndependence.💰🚀💱. READ AND LEARN RELIGIOUSLY Make it a habit to learn about how money trend in market (foreign exchange), the secret of business 'startup', investing, real estate, company stocks, how to negotiate, tax laws, accounting, the difference between ASSET and LIABILITY, COMPOUND INTEREST and becoming a leader. What you don't learn you will never know. Beloved, I have to read my way out of ignorance into becoming an addictive, passionate, and ardent learner. 'I read more than I eat.' One of my inspired quote is "READING WILL MAKE ME LIVE IN ALL AGES." The truth, when I meet a person just for one minute discussion, I will know the era he belong to. We are in digital age, but I tell you most people are dwelling in hunter gathering era, they are way back 250 years from the reality of the future. If your mind is not renewed you will remain redundant. Positive thought is engineered by the valid information you feed your mind with. Be informed so that you will be reformed. The twenty first century has been labeled the age INFORMATION. The question is, how informed are you? about your business, career, vocation and your aspirations about life? You must learn something new everyday. I said this often that I TRAVEL THE GLOBE EVERYDAY. How? by reading. "Those who making reading their choice, ride on the wings of ideas confidently. To get ahead in this era of accelerating change and inventive ingenuity, reading religiously must be embraced. I'm a passionate reader, commitedly so! #FinancialIndependence.💱📈💰. #ReadAndLearn.📚🧠📘. (at Victoria Island, Lagos) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjpaQGJM_BI/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Signs Point to Support for Bitcoin and Crypto Stocks (MARA, BLQC, OSTK, SQ, PYPL, BITF, CAN, BTBT)

Inflation has been a problem for Bitcoin. According to the experts, that wasn’t supposed to be how the game played out. Bitcoin, we were told, was “digital gold”: an inflation hedge for the twenty-first century. (1) But that isn’t how things have played out for cryptocurrency investors this year. As it turns out, Bitcoin has been highly correlated with growth stocks (2) and risky assets of every stripe and the biggest loser in the global asset universe during 2022 – the first year featuring high inflation in a generation. While that has been bad news for Bitcoin all year thus far, the action this week suggests the potential that it could start to become good news ahead. The key point in this argument is the fact that risk assets, including Bitcoin, closed in the green on Wednesday despite the worst consumer price inflation in over four decades. CPI came in at a whopping 9.1% in annual inflation growth in June, as reported by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics on Wednesday morning. (3) It was a “hot print” for the market, and stocks and bonds sold off immediately in response – as did Bitcoin. But as the day wore on, rates came back down, and the Nasdaq and Bitcoin started to rally. Risk assets and bonds ended the day in the green, shrugging off the rough data and possibly signaling a risk market that has been washed out. No asset class has been as washed out as the cryptocurrency space this year. (4) That could translate into an opportunity for speculators over coming days and weeks. With that in mind, we take a closer look below at some of the most interesting opportunities among stocks tied to the cryptocurrency theme.   Block Inc. (NYSE:SQ) is an interesting way to get exposure to Bitcoin. The company holds Bitcoin on its balance sheet and also processes crypto transactions through Cash App. Square is more resilient than other Bitcoin stocks because it doesn't depend on crypto exclusively to make money. (https://seekingalpha.com/article/4451205-square-stock-get-your-bitcoin-exposure) The company operates through its Square, Cash App, TIDAL, Spiral and TBD54566975 products. Square helps sellers run and grow their businesses with its integrated ecosystem of commerce solutions, business software, and banking services. Cash App allows users to send, spend, or invest money in stocks or Bitcoin. Spiral (formerly Square Crypto) builds and funds free, open-source projects that advance the use of Bitcoin as a tool for economic empowerment. headquartered in San Francisco, CA. Block Inc. (NYSE:SQ) recently announced that it is working with Apple to enable Tap to Pay on iPhone, Apple’s contactless payment acceptance capability, within the Square Point of Sale app. "As a seasonal business that’s always on the move, it’s important to have an easy-to-use, reliable mobile option for taking payments," said Teddy Rojas, owner of Kona Ice Vacaville, an early participant in Square’s Early Access Program. "Square and Apple are making it really convenient to make sure we never miss a sale. With Tap to Pay on iPhone, I can process contactless payments quickly, even on cellular service, and it provides a really straightforward experience so new staff can easily get up and running on taking payments on an iPhone." (5) Even with that news, the action hasn't really heated up in the stock, with shares moving net sideways over the past week. Shares of the stock have powered higher over the past month, rallying roughly 2% in that time on strong overall action. Block Inc. (NYSE:SQ) managed to rope in revenues totaling $4B in overall sales during the company's most recently reported quarterly financial data -- a figure that represents a rate of top line growth of -21.7%, as compared to year-ago data in comparable terms. In addition, the company is battling some balance sheet hurdles, with cash levels struggling to keep up with current liabilities ($4.9B against $6B, respectively). (6)   BlockQuarry Corp. (OTC US:BLQC) has a different model that, in theory, should mean the stock isn’t necessarily at the mercy of changes and volatility in the price of Bitcoin. The company operates with a hybrid model where most of its coming sales growth is linked to established deals with other major miners in hosting agreements. In other words, no matter where Bitcoin trades, BLQC will still rake in cash. This should be buffering the stock during the recent bear in crypto prices. BlockQuarry Corp. (OTC US:BLQC) shares, despite this model, been pounded in the market rocked over recent months right along with the rest of the crypto space. But the company has posted good growth data and would seem to be on pace to announce another strong quarter for Q2 given its hosting deal announced with global leader Bitmain. The company recently announced financial and operational performance highlights for the twelve months ended December 31, 2021, as well as the full launch of the Company’s Phase One 20MW hosting infrastructure at its Southeast U.S. cryptocurrency mining site, which will drive approximately $9.5 million in annual revenues going forward. (7) Revs were up 1,643% on a year-over-year basis, cash increased 540% year over year, total assets increased 5,965% year over year to $10.8 million, and total net income was $3.55M, improving from a loss of ($26M) in 2020 – a rather astounding shift in one year. “2021 was a breakthrough year for the Company, and the investments we made during that period are already starting to pay big dividends as we begin to collect on the implementation of our Phase One hosting infrastructure,” noted Alonzo Pierce, President and Chair of BlockQuarry. “The topline exploded higher last year, and the bottom line is set to swing in our favor sharply as we get past our major fixed costs.” BlockQuarry Corp. (OTC US:BLQC) has, as noted above, nailed down a few key partnership agreements. In particular, it has key deals with Bit5ive and Bitmain Technologies that would seem to basically guarantee significant steady cash flows irrespective of changes in the price of Bitcoin. But the market appears to be missing this point so far, which could spell a big opportunity for savvy market participants.   Bitfarms Ltd. (Nasdaq:BITF) owns and operates blockchain farms that power the global decentralized financial economy. It provides computing power to crypto currency networks such as Bitcoin, Bitcoin Cash, Ethereum, Litecoin and Dash, earning fees from each network for securing and processing transactions. Bitfarms Ltd. (Nasdaq:BITF) recently provided a Bitcoin (BTC) production and mining operations update for June 2022. “The Bunker is nearing the completion of Phase 2, and it will be our largest active site, with 36 megawatts (MW) powering approximately 913 petahash per second (PH/s), which alone is nearly our total hashrate as at the end of 2020,” said Ben Gagnon, Chief Mining Officer of Bitfarms. “Miner deployments at The Bunker drove a 6% increase in our sequential month-over-month hashrate to 3.6 exahash per second (EH/s). Production averaged 14 BTC/day for the month and is currently clocked at 14.6 BTC/day.” (8) Even in light of this news, BITF hasn't really done much of anything over the past week, with shares logging no net movement over that period. Over the past month, shares of the stock have suffered from clear selling pressure, dropping by roughly -13%. Bitfarms Ltd. (Nasdaq:BITF) has a significant war chest ($394.8M) of cash on the books, which is balanced by about $178.4M in total current liabilities. One should also note that debt has been growing over recent quarters. BITF is pulling in trailing 12-month revenues of $227.7M. In addition, the company is seeing major top-line growth, with y/y quarterly revenues growing at 41.9%. (9)   Other key stocks in the cryptocurrency space include Marathon Digital Holdings Inc. (Nasdaq:MARA), Overstock.com Inc. (Nasdaq:OSTK), PayPal Holdings Inc. (Nasdaq:PYPL), Canaan Inc. ADR (Nasdaq:CAN), and Bit Digital Inc. (Nasdaq:BTBT).   References: https://www.cnbc.com/2022/07/08/why-bitcoin-doesnt-seem-to-be-a-hedge-against-inflation.html#:~:text=Bitcoinhasplungedinvalue,duringtimesofrisinginflation. https://blockworks.co/crypto-is-more-correlated-with-tech-stocks-than-ever-how-do-we-decouple/ https://finance.yahoo.com/news/june-cpi-preview-inflation-likely-surged-to-new-40-year-high-last-month-215233961.html https://fortune.com/2022/07/01/horror-story-charts-first-half-2022-stocks-crypto/ https://finance.yahoo.com/news/square-announces-plans-bring-tap-160000134.html https://www.marketwatch.com/investing/stock/SQ?mod=search_symbol https://www.otcmarkets.com/stock/BLQC/news/BlockQuarry-Completes-Phase-One-20MW-Launch-5600-Miners-Now-Online-Driving-95M-Annualized-Revs-2021-Audited-Financials-F?id=353592 https://finance.yahoo.com/news/bitfarms-provides-june-2022-production-110000790.html https://www.marketwatch.com/investing/stock/BITF?mod=search_symbol Read the full article

Annals of Technology: How Did Guns Get So Powerful?

Decade by decade, firearms have become deadlier—and tightened their grip on our collective imagination.

— By Phil Klay | June 11, 2022 | The New Yorker

Like automobiles, firearms now possess a cultural and symbolic magnetism that makes them, for many Americans, the cornerstone of a way of life.Photograph by Mark Peterson / Redux

Samuel Walker and fifteen other Texas Rangers rode into the countryside to hunt for Comanches in June of 1844. The Lords of the South Plains, as the Comanches were known, had ruled the American Southwest for a century; by displacing other Native American nations, raiding colonial outposts, enslaving people, and extracting tribute, they enacted what the historian Pekka Hämäläinen, in his book “The Comanche Empire,” called a story of role reversal, “in which Indians expand, dictate, and prosper, and European colonists resist, retreat, and struggle to survive.” About a week into Walker’s expedition, dozens of Comanche horsemen appeared behind the Rangers, armed and shouting taunts in Spanish. More were almost certainly hidden nearby.

That day, the Rangers carried rifles—their usual weapons. But each man also wore a pair of Colt Paterson revolvers, new and mostly untested. The guns used rotating cylinders; by drawing back a hammer, a shooter turned the cylinder, putting one of five chambers in position to fire. Intellectually, the Rangers understood the value of these weapons: there’d be no need to reload until all five rounds had been expended. Still, the guns were small and inaccurate, and so the Texans reached for their rifles first. The Comanches rode back and forth, goading them into taking shots. As the Rangers used up their ammunition, more Comanches emerged—sixty or seventy all told.

Eventually, the Rangers ran out of bullets, and the Comanches closed in. As the riders rushed across the prairie, the Rangers drew their pistols. The men fired a volley—and then, without pause, another and another. Comanches tumbled from their saddles. The Rangers “had a shot for every finger on the hand,” a surviving Comanche recalled. The Native Americans fled, and the Rangers followed; by the end of the day, sixteen Rangers had killed twenty Comanches and wounded thirty more, dealing most of the damage with their Colts. “These daring Indians had always supposed themselves superior to us, man to man, on horse,” Walker later wrote. “The result of this engagement was such as to intimidate them and enable us to treat with them.” This seemed to promise the decline of the Comanche empire and the security of Texas as a burgeoning slave state.

After the battle, Walker wrote to Samuel Colt, the inventor of the revolver, to inquire about buying more guns. But he discovered that Colt’s Patent Fire-Arms Manufacturing Company had gone out of business. Colt had been making money by supplying his “repeating rifles” to soldiers during the so-called second Seminole War, but “by exterminating the Indians, and bringing the war rapidly to an end, the market for the arms was destroyed,” he later wrote. (“The thing was so good it ruined itself,” his lawyer complained.) As the historian Pamela Haag writes, in “The Gunning of America: Business and the Making of American Gun Culture,” there was no mass market for firearms in nineteenth-century America. In fact, since before the country was founded, its appetite for guns had been so low as to be considered a security liability. A report from 1756 on the military preparedness of the colonies found that no more than half of militia members were armed, often with broken, ungainly, outdated, badly designed, or poorly maintained weapons; in 1776, the governor of Rhode Island told George Washington that the colonists had almost entirely “disposed of their arms,” because they believed themselves to be in “a perfect state of security.” When the Revolutionary War began, the scarcity of gunsmiths and guns forced the colonies to purchase tens of thousands of muskets from France.

Colt’s fast-firing revolvers were a significant innovation in gun design. But the generals who awarded firearms contracts weren’t impressed—they tended to focus on the accuracy of guns while undervaluing their speed. General James Wolfe Ripley, the Union Army’s chief of ordnance during the Civil War, saw repeating weapons as a “great evil” that wasted ammunition, and preferred rifles that a shooter could carefully and accurately aim. Walker and Colt lived in what now looks to us like a prehistoric ballistic world. Guns were slow and inaccurate. Innovation was possible but stymied by dogma. And the market for guns was too small to sustain large gun manufacturers.

Before starting his weapons company, Colt had travelled America as “Dr. Coult of New York, London, and Calcutta,” administering nitrous oxide to spectators, promising that the gas would help them laugh, dance, sing, and perform startling feats of “muscular exertion.” He decided to use his flair for advertising to restart his company on a new basis, removed from the boom and bust of wartime gun sales. He began selling abroad, attempting to smuggle guns into Russia in bales of cotton, supplying guns to soldiers of fortune in Cuba, and equipping the British in South Africa and “men of brains” in Mexico. At the same time, he worked at building up the U.S. civilian market. (“The Government may go to the Devil and I will go my own way,” Colt said.) He pioneered the use of celebrity endorsements, commissioning the well-known painter George Catlin to create absurd portraits in which Colt appeared shooting buffalo and jaguar with Colt revolvers. A native of Hartford, he persuaded the governor of Connecticut to make him a lieutenant colonel in that state’s militia; using that honorific, he introduced himself at foreign courts, presenting European royalty with lavishly engraved Colts. When a Hartford clergyman’s home was burglarized, Colt sent over a revolver along with a message declaring the gun “my latest work on ‘Moral Reform.’ ”

Colt coined the phrase “new and improved” to entice buyers, and published advertorials about his guns in magazines. To stoke sales, he suggested dangers around every corner; he wrote to the Mormon leader Brigham Young, advising him to buy Colt revolvers as a defense against “raids of savages” and “white marauders.” Later, he named several streets in Coltsville, his factory town, after prominent Native Americans—Sequassen, Wawarme, Masseek, Curcombe, and Weehassat—the names conjuring the images of Indian-fighting that had burnished his weapons’ reputation.

“What Colt invented was a system of myths, symbols, stagecraft, and distribution,” the historian William Hosley writes, in “Colt: The Making of an American Legend.” His guns were sold not just as tools but as a way to access “the celebrity, glamour and dreams of its namesake.” As Haag shows, other gun manufacturers soon picked up on the strategy. The Winchester Repeating Arms Company, which was also trying to grow its civilian market by adopting a policy of “scattering” its guns—rejecting higher-volume orders in favor of smaller buyers who might disperse its weaponry more broadly—began advertising its products as ideal for “single individuals, traveling through a wild country.” Gun manufacturers, Haag writes, began to employ “predicament” advertising, in which lone travellers were portrayed facing bears or outlaws. The only way out was through violence.

Last year, versions of these nineteenth-century messages persuaded Americans to buy nearly twenty million guns. In 2020, gun violence took the lives of twenty thousand Americans; add in suicides, and more than forty-five thousand lives were ended by firearms. Yet, if the messages were familiar, the guns themselves were transformed. In 1620, John Billington, the man who would become America’s first convicted murderer, arrived on the Mayflower; in 1630, he killed John Newcomen, a fellow-member of the Plymouth Colony, after they got into an argument in the woods. According to one story, as Billington took aim, Newcomen fled toward the shelter of nearby trees—an evasive maneuver that had every chance of success, given firearms technology at that time. Back then, reloading a gun was an arduous process, requiring the shooter to drop the weapon from the shoulder, point its muzzle upward, pour in gunpowder, shove in a bullet alongside a small piece of cloth, push both down the barrel with a ramrod until the bullet was seated against the powder charge, and then prime the firing mechanism. If the weapon had a cutting-edge flintlock ignition system, the shooter would additionally need to half-cock the hammer of his weapon, open a little pan sitting on top of the rifle, pour in gunpowder, close the pan, and set the hammer to full cock before taking aim. (Billington aimed true, and his rudimentary bullet crushed through Newcomen’s shoulder, killing him soon after.)

Compared with Billington’s gun—or Walker’s—a modern firearm is like a monster truck alongside a horse and cart. The anthropologist Thomas McDade has observed that, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the axe was “no less lethal a weapon” than the gun, but today otherwise ordinary Americans can unleash devastating firepower—as happened on May 14th, when a white supremacist killed ten people in a supermarket in a predominantly Black neighborhood of Buffalo, New York, and again on May 24th, when an eighteen-year-old gunman killed twenty-one people in an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas, nineteen of them children.

We wonder how we got here. How did guns grow so powerful—both technically and culturally? Like automobiles, firearms have grown increasingly advanced while becoming more than machines; they are both devices and symbols, possessing a cultural magnetism that makes them, for many people, the cornerstone of a way of life. They’re tools that kill efficiently while also promising power, respect, and equality—liberation from tyranny, from crime, from weakness. They’re a heritage from an imagined past, and a fantasy about protecting our future. It’s taken nearly two hundred years for guns to become the problem they are today. The story of how they acquired their power explains why, now, they are so hard to stop.

On July 3, 1863, line after line of Confederate soldiers, dressed in gray, marched forward as soldiers had done in decades past, charging toward a weak point in the Union line at Gettysburg. But weaponry had changed. Men fell “like wheat before the garner,” as one veteran would later describe it. Two years earlier, when the Civil War had begun, both armies primarily carried muzzle-loading smoothbore muskets. They’d rapidly switched, however, to .58-calibre rifles that fired a groundbreaking conical bullet called the minié ball. The bullet was easier to load and more aerodynamic than previous designs. It allowed soldiers to fire farther and more accurately upon rushing enemy troops, making massed charges deadly and Napoleonic infantry tactics obsolete.

In white Southerners’ popular memory, Pickett’s Charge, as the attack became known, would be seen as a gallant act of doomed bravery—the high-water mark of the Confederacy, marking the northernmost point that the rebels reached. But, in fact, it was a technologically aided slaughter, in which accurate, long-flying bullets insured a casualty rate of more than fifty per cent for the charging men. During the course of the war, the minié ball would kill tens of thousands; relatively few Civil War soldiers died of bayonet wounds, in part because they rarely got close enough to their enemies to receive them. As a result, tactics changed. Soldiers stopped firing at one another from close ranks; instead, they began arranging themselves into dispersed lines and firing from behind covered positions, such as walls, trees, rocks, fences, or elaborate fortifications. Slowly, this defensive style turned into an offensive one. One group of attacking soldiers could provide “covering fire” by shooting at an enemy position, forcing its soldiers to keep their heads down while another attacking unit moved forward safely.

Soldiers providing covering fire didn’t depend on accuracy. They often shot blindly, not even bothering to put the gunsights to their eyes. In theory, the units maneuvering into position would use precision fire to kill. But in practice this was rarely the case. Eventually, studies conducted during the Second World War would confirm that most battlefield bullet wounds occur randomly, and at close range. War movies often depict heroic point-target aiming and killing, and yet soldiers are often terrified; as their hearts surge with adrenaline, blood flows away from their extremities, impairing their fine-motor control as they spray gunfire toward their foes.

During the First World War, the use of machine guns epitomized this approach. The area fire created by such weapons removed the human element in aiming altogether. A machine gunner, whom the military historian John Keegan has characterized less as a soldier than a “machine-minder,” traversed his target area by applying a “two-inch tap” to the breeches of his weapon, sending it two inches to the right or left on a set of tracks; he tapped repeatedly until the gun reached a stop at one end, then tapped in the opposite direction. In this way, the area in front of the gun could be blanketed with bullets without the gunner having eyes on any particular target. Since each round had a slightly different trajectory, the target zone would be saturated with fire, creating a deadly area known as “the beaten zone.” As one Japanese officer put it, during the Russo-Japanese War, the machine gun could “be made to sprinkle its shot as roads are watered with a hose.” Kenneth Koch, the poet and Second World War veteran, would later recall how, “As machines make ice, / we made dead enemy soldiers”; writing in the Times, Brian Van Reet, a combat veteran of the Iraq War, has described how he and the men he served with often “fired nearly blindly, under the influence of a strange and numbing feeling of terror, rage and exhilaration. . . . Few of us really knew whom, if anyone, we had hit.”

The unromantic reality of increasingly industrialized war wasn’t likely to capture the public imagination, and so, in ads, dime-store novels, and movies, gun companies proposed a self-serving alternative history. Though Southern Plains tribes like the Comanches had been decimated less by firearms than by disease, Winchester described its Model 73 repeating rifle—a specially promoted gun that had been used by Billy the Kid and Buffalo Bill—as “the gun that won the West”; this legend helped the company to sell almost thirty times as many guns in 1914 as it had in 1875. Blending the military and civilian domains, Winchester advertised its weapons as “For Military and Sporting Purposes”; Colt marketed its Single Action Army model as “the Peacemaker,” a weapon “for all who travel among dangerous communities.” The Thompson machine gun, developed as a trench-clearing tool during the First World War, was advertised through images showing cowboys defending their ranches against marauders; ads proclaimed the machine gun “the ideal weapon for the protection of large estates, ranches, plantations, etc.” A deadly but inaccurate weapon of industrialized war was recast as a precision instrument for taming the supposedly savage frontier.

On a deeper level, the ads were political, recasting the American ideals of freedom and equality in martial terms. In gun marketing, self-reliance, respect, and freedom of movement were tied to the capacity to kill: “Abe Lincoln may have freed all men, but Sam Colt made them equal,” one advertisement read. The mythology of the hyper-violent West became so embedded in American consciousness that Teddy Roosevelt could construct a notion of American identity around it. In “The Winning of the West,” he painted a portrait of hard life on the frontier marked by continual violence; the effect of this continual hardship was to “weld together into one people the representatives of these numerous and widely different races.” According to this view of history, American identity was in large part a product of violence.

During the Second World War, Solomon Zuckerman, a scientist advising the Allies, made a surprising discovery. While examining an X-ray of a wounded soldier evacuated from Dunkirk, Zuckerman noticed that there was something odd about the way in which he’d been hurt: a grievous injury had resulted from a small metal fragment, barely larger than a pinhead, lodged in the man’s kidney. Other soldiers Zuckerman examined had similar injuries. At the time, experts usually considered fragments from exploding shells and grenades dangerous only if they weighed more than a twenty-fifth of an ounce—and yet one soldier had been severely hurt by a far lighter shard, one weighing less than ten milligrams. Another’s forearm had been shattered by a minute metal splinter. According to the science of ballistics, such injuries made no sense.

Zuckerman, who was born in South Africa, had trained as an anatomist and a zoologist. During the war, he’d learned to see horrific violence scientifically. He had studied the accuracy of bombing raids and the lethal effects of bomb blasts; his goal was to learn how much force living bodies could take, and where they were most vulnerable. His work had helped the Royal Air Force maximize the casualties caused by its bombs. At the same time, his steel “Zuckerman helmet,” worn by civilians and civil-defense organizations, protected British heads from falling debris during enemy raids.

Now, working alongside Paul Libessart, a French engineer who had fled to England after the fall of France, Zuckerman turned to the science of wound ballistics—the study of the manner in which projectiles damage human bodies. In the mid-nineteenth century, the deadliness of a firearm had often been judged by how deeply its bullets penetrated into wood; in the eighteen-eighties, the metric had shifted to whether a bullet could kill a cavalry horse. It was obvious that some bullets and weapons had more “stopping power” than others, but it wasn’t clear exactly how that power worked. Zuckerman wanted to solve the mystery.

Soldiers tended to assume that stopping a rush required heavier, more powerful bullets. In the first half of the twentieth century, American researchers conducted experiments of dubious value designed to prove this point. They hung cadavers in the air and shot them while onlookers estimated how far the corpses swung; they shot cows and observed the effects. Eventually, the U.S. Army concluded that kinetic energy—a combination of bullet weight and speed—was the crucial factor in bullet lethality.

The Dunkirk injuries convinced Zuckerman that something was missing from this story. He began to think that the over-all kinetic energy of a bullet might be less important than how much of that energy was transferred to a body during impact. He and his team tried firing a steel ball into a phone book, then repeating the shot with the book placed behind a block of gelatin, which could serve as a proxy for a human body. By measuring how much the gelatin slowed the bullet, they could guess at how much energy it transferred. They found that some varieties of bullets slowed down more than others, transferring more energy. Later, the team shot small metal balls through the bodies of unfortunate rabbits. By means of a technique called shadowgraphy—the analysis of shadows cast by bodies in rapid motion—they captured the moment of energy transfer. In the split second after impact, Zuckerman wrote, the limbs “ballooned due to the formation of an internal cavity.”

Wounds caused by firearms had long been identified with a “permanent cavity” created when the bullet itself physically crushed the body’s tissues. But Zuckerman’s images captured a different kind of injury: a “temporary cavity,” formed when the slowing bullet transferred energy to the surrounding soft tissue. Just as a diver creates ripples as she enters the water, so a bullet transfers momentum to whatever blood, spleen, brain, or muscle happens to surround its entry point. These ripples produce blunt trauma, pulping tissue and breaking bones. This was how tiny slivers of metal could shatter a man’s arm.

Zuckerman’s discoveries came too late to change the way soldiers were armed during the Second World War. But subsequent military studies, including a groundbreaking report written by the U.S. military’s Operations Research Office during the Korean War, measured a gun’s lethality by looking at the maximum size of the temporary cavity. The report concluded that “smaller bullets can be used to produce battlefield physiological effects at least equivalent to those of the present standard .30 cal.” Although the Army remained committed to powerful, accurate, larger-calibre weapons, a small insurgency within it began advocating a novel idea known as S.C.H.V.: small-calibre, high-velocity. Adherents to S.C.H.V. proposed that lighter rifles loaded with smaller bullets could allow soldiers to carry more rounds and fire with less recoil, while still causing horrible wounds.

These arguments dovetailed with work being done by an engineer named Eugene Stoner, who was tinkering in his garage in Hollywood, California, during the nineteen-fifties. Shy, reserved, and opinionated, Stoner was a Marine Corps veteran who’d fought in the Pacific theatre; he lacked a formal engineering education, but had worked his way up through the machine shop at the Fairchild Engine & Airplane Corporation. By the middle of the decade, Stoner had begun to apply his experience with aircraft ordnance to firearms. Using advanced alloys and lightweight parts that were common in aeronautics, he started developing a firing mechanism for a new kind of lightweight rifle. Success was slow in coming; the barrel of Stoner’s first prototype burst in Army tests. The weight of U.S. military opinion was in favor of a heavier, more powerful weapon, the M14. His fortunes began to change when one of S.C.H.V.’s boosters, General Willard G. Wyman, asked Stoner to modify his rifle so that it could shoot a redesigned .223-calibre round weighing roughly a tenth of an ounce.

The resulting rifle, the AR-15, could fire its .223 round at more than thirty-two hundred feet per second—nearly three times the speed of sound. Stoner later explained the advantages of its smaller bullets to Congress. All bullets are “stabilized to fly through the air,” he said, but “when they hit something, they immediately go unstable.” Tiny bullets, having a smaller mass, grow unstable faster, and tumble through the body, causing disproportionate damage. As a smaller bullet tumbles, it transfers its energy to your organs and creates shock waves strong enough to sever muscle; if such a bullet strikes your head, the pressure it creates can shatter your skull or squeeze brain tissue through your sinuses. It might also fragment inside the body, scattering small pieces of itself and increasing the damage.

As the Vietnam War began to ramp up, it was clear that U.S. soldiers faced a small-arms imbalance. American troops were armed with big, heavy, and extremely accurate M14 rifles; the North Vietnamese had AK-47s—sturdy, reliable weapons that children could, and often did, use. AK-47s were terribly inaccurate; expert shooters could struggle to put ten consecutive rounds on target from three hundred metres. Still, the U.S. military concluded that the M14 was an imperfect combat weapon. It had too much recoil to be fired effectively on automatic. Its heavy rounds imposed logistical limits on how much ammo could be carried. The journalist C. J. Chivers wrote in his book “The Gun” that, in fielding the M14, American soldiers fell victim to the “romance” of “old-fashioned rifles and the sharpshooting riflemen who carried them.” What they needed was an easy-to-handle assault rifle that could give them so-called fire superiority in close, frightening encounters.

Colt’s firearms division took a gamble on the AR-15, buying the manufacturing rights for the rifle from Stoner in 1959 and embarking on a unique marketing campaign. The firm invited the Air Force Chief of Staff Curtis LeMay to a party at a gentleman’s farm, where he fired the gun into a series of watermelons, creating bright-red explosions with each successful shot. The rifle was also tested on human heads imported from India, which were encased in ballistic gelatin and shot at from various distances. By 1964, the AR-15 had been adapted into the M16—a semi-automatic, magazine-fed, gas-operated assault rifle with smaller rounds, which could be carried in greater numbers and caused less recoil. The rifle was adopted quickly, without the usual process of debugging and refinement, and soldiers found that it often broke down in the field, jamming or failing to fire in combat. Soldiers died with jammed rifles in their hands while the design was revised. Meanwhile, Colt posted twelve million dollars in profits in 1967; Stoner became a wealthy celebrity.

As the twentieth century drew to a close, firearms manufacturers kept updating their stories. Crime rates spiked, and so the image of the frontier hero fending off nonwhite marauders was revised for the era of vigilante-vengeance films such as “Death Wish” and “The Exterminator.” The National Rifle Association ran ads asking “Why can’t a policeman be there when you need him?” and “Should you shoot a rapist before he cuts your throat?” In 1993, the shootout between members of the Branch Davidian cult and agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms sparked an anti-government wave. The N.R.A. added a new twist to the story, with ads that asked, “What’s the first step to a police state?” Guns had once been tools for the frontier spaces that the government couldn’t reach. Now, according to the gun lobby, they were a necessity for all spaces, at all times. When crime and authoritarianism run rampant, the Wild West is everywhere.

Crime fell in the late nineties. So did gun production, with just over five million units manufactured in 1994, and under three million in 2001. The 9/11 attacks provoked a modest recovery. But 2008 brought a seismic transformation—the so-called Barack Boom. The election of America’s first Black President coincided with what one gun-industry newsletter called an “incessant consumer demand for high-capacity pistols and military style rifles.” During the 2008 election, the N.R.A. warned that never in its history had it “faced a presidential candidate—and hundreds of candidates running for other offices—with such a deep-rooted hatred of firearm freedoms.” In 2013, despite crime rates that were lower than they’d been in decades, the head of the N.R.A., Wayne LaPierre, claimed that, under President Barack Obama, “Latin American drug gangs” had “invaded every city of significant size in the United States.” Gun marketing and political messaging merged more deeply, and in the last year of Obama’s second term gun manufacturers produced a record 11,497,441 guns for domestic consumption.

When John Billington came upon John Newcomen, his weapon did not promise him his manhood, or protection from his fellow-colonists, or escape from the coercive state under which he suffered. His gun did not claim to be the bedrock of his freedom or the means by which all men would be made to treat him as an equal. When Billington pulled his gun’s trigger, the bullet he sent forth was a simple metal sphere travelling at less than half the speed of the bullets fired by today’s mass shooters. It moved awkwardly through the air, and, in the body, it damaged only what was directly in its path. And it was a lone projectile. Billington’s gun, which took many minutes to reload, was incapable of creating a beaten zone. He had a tool suitable for murder—but not mass murder.

The guns that today’s Americans buy and sell by the millions are perfectly suited for that purpose. Civilian AR-15s differ from military versions because, in 1986, the Firearm Owners Protection Act banned the transfer or possession of machine guns; as a result, a mechanical block on civilian ARs requires the shooter to pull the trigger to release another bullet. But clever gun enthusiasts have figured out an easy way to bypass this mechanism: a device known as a bump stock uses the energy of the rifle’s recoil to assist in bumping the trigger against the shooter’s finger. The original military version of the AR-15 can fire eight hundred rounds per minute; an unmodified civilian AR-15 might fire forty-five to sixty. A version with a bump stock can fire somewhere between four hundred and eight hundred. In the 2017 Las Vegas shooting, a sixty-four-year-old man without advanced marksmanship skills or military training used a bump stock to achieve something like fully automated rifle fire, sending more than eleven hundred rounds into a crowd in the course of ten minutes, killing fifty-eight people and wounding more than five hundred. It would have taken Billington six hours to fire that many bullets.

Because a bump stock causes the rifle to slide forward and backward as it fires, it diminishes accuracy. In the aftermath of the Las Vegas shooting, this spurred some, like the Georgia state senator Michael Williams, to argue that the use of a bump stock “actually prevented more casualties,” because of the resulting “inconsistency, inaccuracy, and lack of control.” But statements such as this betray a basic ignorance about the history of guns and the reality of how they are used in battle. The bump stock effectively turns the AR-15 into a machine gun capable of area fire. This is how the Las Vegas shooter was using his weapon. As the retired Army Lieutenant Colonel Arthur B. Alphin explained, to the Los Angeles Times, the gunman “was not aiming at any individual person. He was just throwing bullets in a huge ‘beaten zone’ ” filled with civilians bunched together in ways that soldiers had long ago learned to avoid. Williams’s view is typical of a contemporary gun culture that sees the real-world damage caused by guns only through the foggy lens of a fictitious history; it puts a false emphasis on the accuracy of the shooter. The gunman’s lethality—dozens dead, hundreds wounded—wasn’t the result of skill but of the sheer number of rounds that his weapons could fire. He was not the expert long-range rifleman of Western lore but the machine-minder of the First World War, initiating a mechanical process designed to inflict death on an industrial scale.

In 1962, the Surgeon General of the U.S. Army, Lieutenant General Leonard D. Heaton, released a landmark study of wound ballistics. “The message which this volume contains for the physician who will be treating the wounds of war is clear,” he wrote, in the report. “War wounds, in many respects, are different from those found in peacetime civilian practice.” Heaton couldn’t have foreseen a world in which more than twenty million AR-15s were in circulation within the United States. In Las Vegas, the gunman’s high rate of fire made him more lethal, but so did the design of his bullets, which flew from his hotel room at supersonic speeds and then, upon striking their victims, began to slow and yaw, imparting their energy to bones, tissue, and organs. That night, of the hundred and four shooting victims seen at the U.M.C. Trauma Center, more than thirty had critical injuries; more than a dozen needed operations from orthopedists and cardiovascular surgeons. Chest tubes had to be inserted to drain internal bleeding; bowels had to be carefully resected by doctors working with needle and thread.

After such killings, there’s always a frantic parsing of the killer’s motives. Was the murderer driven by hatred of women, by white supremacy, by “replacement theory,” by Black nationalism, by isis, by anti-Asian hatred, by dreams of a race war, by bullying, by America’s mental-health crisis, by a spiritual darkness at the heart of our society? Why the shooter chose to open fire is always, fundamentally, a mystery. But with mass shootings the why is ultimately less important than the how. The guns have no motive. They have only a purpose: to rend flesh as efficiently as possible.

And yet it’s not quite right to see a gun as merely an efficient machine. When Americans call for regulation of guns, it isn’t the physical object in all its terrifying utility that blocks them but the deep attachment that their fellow-citizens have to their weapons and what they think they represent. Many of us walk around with an image of our country in our heads that we believe comes from history, when in fact it comes from marketing and mythology. It’s that marketing and mythology which keep us saturated with weaponry, and which need to be rejected before we can make any enduring change.

In 1968, an N.R.A. spokesman told Congress that American gun culture was the result of a “very special relationship between a man and his gun—atavistic, with its roots deep in history.” But in truth those roots are shallow, and the fantasies underlying the “very special relationship” are often threadbare. As the horror in Uvalde unfolded, there were plenty of armed police officers, but there was little willingness to charge in against a barricaded shooter. The police have been called cowards for their hesitancy, but their reaction is unsurprising: despite the often militaristic rhetoric of police unions, the average cop is not going to be ready for a situation most United States marines have never faced. When we arm our citizens with such lethal weapons, we can’t always expect uncommon valor.

Increasing gun sales have failed to counter increasing levels of gun violence: the Gun Violence Archive counts more than eight thousand gun deaths in the first half of 2022 alone. Perhaps the steady stream of death will eventually cause us to begin to reassess that “very special relationship” and open up new understandings of our own history. Until then, many Americans will keep living out a hundred-and-fifty-year-old dream—that, no matter what it is that frightens or enrages us in our complex, chaotic, and often unsettling world, guns are the answer. ♦

— A version of this essay appeared in “Uncertain Ground: Citizenship in an Age of Endless, Invisible War” (Penguin Press).

ray’s m.list

glad you came to read my trash :) <3

i currently am only writing for bucky and seb (on my own), if you’d like to request any other characters feel free to hit my line and i’ll see what i can come up with for you!

add yourself to the tag list and join the fam :) -ray

bucky barnes fics

sebastian stan fics

eddie munson

destined for an alternate universe coming soon (teaser) (teaser two) (teaser three)

short fic from dfaau (bob on the knob)

Park Hill Romance!

If you are okay with it, I was wondering if you could do a body switch soulmate au. When you first make eye contact with your soulmate you switch bodies. You stay in each other's bodies for 24 hours. I feel like this could cause some shenanigans on both sides. Tony hasn't had to be taught anything in awhile and Peter doesn't know how to run a company.

I was a little apprehensive about this idea at first but honestly? I adore it. I am afraid, however, I took this away from the ‘humor’ pathway and plopped it straight down into ‘light angst’. Please accept my apologies for that - And I’d be happy to write something more lighthearted if this doesn’t hit the spot. Keeping your own emotions and mindset out of what you write is hard sometimes. 

Slight AU in that they meet differently to CW. 

TW: Light angst | Slight hurt 

He was going to lose his fucking mind. He could feel each one of his IQ points disintegrating as he stared at the board (an actual digital board, what fucking year were they in? 2015?) and tapped his pen restlessly on the desk. He hadn’t been to school since he was eighteen. The last time he’d been in a classroom was January, giving a motivational speech to Princeton graduates. 

He felt too small and too stifled and if this woman pronounced Epinephrine wrong one more time, he was going to launch his desk at her and snap that stupid board in half. 

Because he could do that, now. Displays of sheer power. Because Peter Parker had been bitten by a genetically modified spider and Tony was currently occupying Peter’s body. 

Soulmates were so, so overrated. 

“Hey, wonder kid. Tap that pen one more time” the girl to his left whispered, and Tony shot her a cool side-eye. MJ quirked a brow at him, equally unimpressed, and nodded to the board. Tony scowled but knew the effect was ruined by the soft, pretty baby-face he currently wore. Curse Peter and his lopsided brows and his huge eyes. Curse soulmates for existing. 

MJ was thus far the only one who’d noticed The Switch. It was only sheer coincidence that Peter and Tony both had brown eyes of a similar enough shade that the telling switch of eye colour between soulmates hadn’t given them away. MJ, however, was astoundingly attuned into her best friend, and it had only taken three minutes in her presence for her scowl at him and ask who the fuck was wearing her friend’s meatsuit. Tony had to begrudgingly admit that he could see why her and Peter were good friends. She’d looked unimpressed at his claim until he’d pulled out his (Peter’s) phone to show the frantic texts from that morning, and then she’d huffed, rolled her eyes, and dragged him to first period. 

He thought lunch would be a reprieve when it came, but instead he found himself staring with growing dismay at a tray of food that he’d refuse even if he was a prisoner, blanching in disgust when a sloppy excuse for a mac’n’cheese was dumped into one of the slots. “I’m going to die” he complained, ushered along by an unsympathetic MJ. “This is cruel. This is inhumane. Dogs don’t even get fed this”. 

“Yeah, well. You’re a billionaire, so. Put up or shut up. I have no sympathy for capitalist elitists”. And, wow, rude. But understandable. He sank down onto one of the bench seats and tried to stop his stomach from rolling at the way the meal wobbled when it was set down. He’d been poking at it for several moments, largely ignored by MJ, when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up and stared with disinterest at the sneering figure above him, before he sighed. 

“Which one are you, then? Neb? Flake?” 

“Flash” the form above him frowned, and Tony waved a dismissive hand. 

“Yeah, whatever. Class killed off half my IQ points and I’m not wasting the rest on you. Off you pop”. He turned back to his pitiful excuse of a meal, prodding the macaroni distrustfully with his fork. The boy besides him gaped, flustered, before turning on his heel and stomping off. When Tony glanced up, the girl was looking appraisingly over her book at him. 

“Maybe you should leave your balls behind. Peter could do with them” she noted, before dropping her gaze again. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“How much money does he actually have?” 

“Sir’s total net worth including assets, liabilities and investments are currently estimated at just short of a trillion, Mr. Parker. In terms of ‘real time currently’ Sir has £515,268,385,012 as of the current hour”. 

Peter was gonna pass out. He was wearing the body of a man with five-hundred billion in the bank. He’d known Tony Stark was rich, obscenely and un-necessarily so, but that was a whole other level. Vaguely unsteady, he sank down on the plush couch, feeling a little green. It had already been a few hours since waking, but he had yet to get used to the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, Tony Stark. 

“Does that bother you?” The artificial voice asked after a moment, sounding impossibly curious. Peter hadn’t thought AI of this level possible, but here he was, talking to a voice that was more realistic than some of the living people he knew. 

“Its...A shock, I guess. I mean, it does bother me, I suppose. Nobody needs that much money. That much cold cash alone could eradicate homelessness in America. But...I don’t know. Its his money, he earns it. He saves the world and stuff. I don’t know how you could put a value on some of the things he’s done”. 

The AI was quiet for a moment, pensive. “Sir’s ‘profession’ is high cost also, Mr. Parker. The worth of the Mark IVII alone is £6,000,500,000”. Peter thought about it for a moment, then gave in, humming softly. He supposed in that sense, having that much money kind of didn’t matter, then, when a huge chunk of it was consumed by saving the world. He’d seen how often that suit got dinged up, and had no doubt repairs and replacing parts was costly. 

“Am I allowed to get something to eat?” He asked after a moment, stomach rumbling a little. He’d spent so much time this morning freaking out and being consoled by JARVIS that he’d missed breakfast and lunch had slipped him by. 

“Of course, Mr. Parker. Several components of the kitchen are automated, but I am capable of guiding through any recipes or devices you are unfamiliar with”. 

JARVIS had apparently activated something called ‘Romeo and Juliet Protocol’ when it had been revealed that Tony had been Switched, and a large majority of the Tower was closed off and protected. Peter couldn’t leave the penthouse and JARVIS had strict control of everything, even down to the doors. Peter was happy enough to just sit there and wait it out, though. As amazing as being here was, snooping was rude, especially when what he could find could potentially compromise the entire world. 

He chose to make a simple, small sandwich which involved nothing more than a single knife and plate, marvelling at the giant fridge and the ridiculous amount of food within. Apparently Mr. Stark had a chef that stopped by once every other day with prepared meals, and was on-call for whenever he required a fresh meal without having to cook it. The produce was organic and far different to the sad, wilting lettuce that could be found at the local Cheap Fresh. 

Technically, if it was plausible, when you Switched you were supposed to follow a specific protocol set up by the Government, but Mr. Stark had ultimately lost his entire mind at discovering his soulmate was fourteen and had immediately demanded Peter stay locked up like Rapunzel while he pretended to be him for the day to throw off suspicion. Peter couldn’t deny that had hurt a little, but he understood it. Soulmates or not it would be the scandal of the century - Tony would be called all sorts of things at best and investigated at worst, and the nature of their age difference meant a lifetime of interference and monitoring by the Government and protective services. He knew it was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened, to hide it from the world. Tony had suggested a private agreement, a ridiculous sum of money in exchange for Peter’s silence. 

He realised he’d been staring morosely at his plate when JARVIS prompted him softly, and he sighed, taking a bite. There was no physical remote for the TV but JARVIS helped him to access a cache of movies and he settled on Inception, his weakness for Tom Hardy and Leonardo DiCaprio soothing the ache of his new reality. 

“Am I allowed to ask what running a business is like?” He asked after a while, head balanced on his palm. 

“In what regard, Mr. Parker?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I’m fifteen. I don’t know how to run a company, let alone run a company and be a superhero. What kinda stuff does he do? Does he attend meetings? Does he fly around the world on company retreats like in the movies?” 

JARVIS sounded lightly amused when he replied. “Sir has delegated much of the daily company operation amongst several trusted employees, but he is still the namesake, owner and CEO of Stark Industries. He does attend frequent meetings, but most of Sir’s ‘flying around the world’ is done for leisure or Iron Man related activity”. 

“Sir spends most of his time in the lab, conducting important work for both his priorities. Sir also does a respectable amount of charity work, investment work and supportive work. I believe his latest venture is funding the entirety of MIT’s PhD graduate projects”. 

Wow. That was...That would be a lot of money. And being supported by someone like Tony Stark was bound to be something to boast about, something that would fluff up your resume a little. 

“Does he enjoy it?” Peter asked after a moment, fingertips raising absently to the arc reactor in his chest. It ached constantly, a low-level background pain that never quite faded out of touch, the odd sensation of a gaping maw in his chest something that had made him heave earlier that morning. Mr. Stark was tired, burnt out, but still going. It made Peter want to spend his twenty-four hours just sleeping, to try and soothe the man’s headache. 

“Sir finds great gratification in his duties” JARVIS replied quietly, though he did not specify which. Peter gave a hum and succumbed to the desire to nap, curled up on the corner of the couch with Inception fading quietly into the background. 

He ate again when he woke up, and blinked when he saw the time. Mr. Stark’s phone had been heavily locked down, but he could still access the message channel between this number and his own. The messages there were disheartening. 

Told your hot Aunt I’m staying at that Nate kids house tonight. I’ll be coming to the Tower, but you won’t see me. I’ll stay on the level below.

Sorry, kid. Seeing someone else wearing me like a Givenchy suit is just too head-spinning. 

JARVIS will keep you safe up there. We switch back at midnight, so try and get some sleep. You’ll wake up as yourself and I’ll get the plan in motion. 

“JARVIS, when was the last time Mr. Stark cried?” He asked timidly, and the AI was silent for a moment. 

“Four years ago, Mr. Parker”. 

“Oh,” he breathed out, vision blurring. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m about to ruin that” and he let the teardrops fall.

Even if he doesn't say so

A little darkgingerpilot Witcher AU I discussed months ago with @cleversturmhond I have no concept of how time passes anymore

Summary: The Witcher meets a bard, the bard meets a mage, and they travel the continent. Kylo knows what he feels, but he can't seem to act. Hux acts without talking about things. And Poe... well, what does Poe feel?

Tags: Witcher AU, Inspired by The Witcher, Slow Burn, if you count 13k as slow burn i guess, within the story its slow burn, fantasy medieval setting, Self-Indulgent, Mage Hux, witcher kylo, Bard Poe, scenic, They're oblivious, sex references, Yearning, i guess, im slapping a mature on it for sex references and some minor violence but honestly ehhh idk, darkgingerpilot

Chapter 1/2/3/?, wordcount 5012

also on Ao3

Whenever someone asked Kylo, he always said he preferred to keep to himself and the company of Silence, his horse and his best companion for the very fact of her name; she didn't talk, she didn't disturb the meditative quiet of his lonely rides, and, most importantly, he wasn't unsure how to curry her favour. An apple would do it. His current companions, on the other hand...

For some gods-forsaken reason, Poe and Hux were quarrelling about a composer who had been dead for over a century. When the three of them had first started travelling together years ago, and in the short time since they'd reunited, such discussion had been endearing; both of them were opinionated about certain things, and their conversations often turned into little debates over whatever topic arose while they were travelling. This was one of those occasions, Kylo enjoying listening to their thoughts and voices filling up the worn country roads. A throwaway comment had become interesting; Kylo didn't actually know much about this particular composer, whereas Hux and Poe both did, and, though Kylo didn't often contribute to these discussions in any great detail since the other two were both so much better with words, he did like to learn something new occasionally. But now, several hours into their journey and still on the same subject, it was just getting fucking annoying.

“I literally studied her work. You can't just turn around and say she wasn't revolutionary,” Poe objected, trotting along between Silence and Hux's own horse on the wide bridleway, looking up at Hux indignantly.

Poe's lowered position made it seem slightly laughable when Hux looked down at him and countered, “Since I actually met the woman, I think you'll find I can,” before prompting his horse to walk on ahead of them.

Poe picked up his pace a little and continued the argument, making some musical point Kylo didn't understand either. He tried to tune them out a bit as he let Silence drop back a short distance behind the them.

Considering how much time the three of them spent around each other in recent years, Kylo supposed he should be glad disagreements as lengthy as these were relatively few. And, certainly, they were fewer even than when it had only been Kylo and Poe on the path together.

[break]

Kylo had met Poe many years ago – at least a decade, if he thought about it – when he'd been compelled by his work to go through the city he'd been born in. Not only was the place particularly unfriendly to Witchers, but also had relations of his – distant now, yet he wanted to avoid them nonetheless – in positions of authority. Kylo had used a fake name, a low hood to hide his eyes, his scar, and stuck to the dingiest taverns, but a curly-haired, high-born young man had recognised him anyway, sitting himself down confidently at Kylo's corner table, offering his name, and saying, “I know you. You're that famous Witcher.”

Kylo had eyed his unwelcome acquaintance – Poewas what he introduced himself as – guessing that he couldn't yet be twenty summers old. Of course, Kylo was no good with ages – his own longevity had corroded his sense for them until everyone seemed either old or young in confusing measures – but Poe's next request had practically confirmed his suspicion.

“Would you let me come with you?” Poe had asked the second the bar-wench had placed down Kylo's ale.

“Come with me where?” Kylo grunted. He wasn't in the mood to bodyguard some noble, out for the first time in a world without castle walls.

“Well, where are you going?” Poe's eyes had glinted as he offered Kylo a charming smile.

Kylo had appraised him again, taking in his youth, his rich clothes, his courage, and summarily said, “No.”

Poe's smile didn't drop, even though Kylo could see his only half-amused chuckle for the frustration it was. “Come on, I just wanna see a bit of the world. Get away from my guardian's expectations.”

“The Queen?” Kylo had asked, an imprudently displayed gold ring on the youth's finger catching the light.

Poe had shrugged a yes.

It only made Kylo refuse all the more. The Queen was one of the people Kylo was known to by unfortunate fact of his heritage, someone he never wanted to anger, in case of her having some cause to meet with him personally. Poe, while not her blood family, would surely be missed, as her ward, were he to make off with a Witcher, especially with the one so primarily known for the massacre at Crait.

Poe's gaze went steely at Kylo's final dismissal, and he'd left the tavern quickly after that. It couldn't have been two years later when Kylo encountered the young man again, fine doublet swapped for something a little more incognito in orange and brown tones, a lute slung over his back and all the more determination to see everything.

Kylo hadn't refused him a second time, and he wouldn't have been able to, since Poe no longer had any qualms about following him uninvited. Thus, he had a new travelling companion.

Just as he suspected, Poe was a liability in some aspects of the job where monsters were concerned, but Poe had also dragged him, limping, back to camp before, bandaged his wounds, fetched his potions. His life had undeniably turned for the better with the bard around; Poe was a talented musician, it turned out, and the extra income and incentive to stay at inns meant Kylo was now more acquainted with feather pillows than he'd ever hoped to be. The positive company had made Kylo better as well, at talking to people, at putting up with them, at giving life nuance. His path was lighter with Poe on it.

They became comfortable around each other. They began to argue, about the silly things people who know each other well and cared for each other deeply argue about, about which direction to head in, which inn to stop at, about the jacket Kylo had left to get trampled by the last monster he'd fought. Barely a day went by without some kind of silly quibble to that effect, but it never truly changed the form of their relationship.

Then, they'd met Hux.

[break]

Kylo had been around long enough that he'd thought he'd heard of most of the other powerful, non-mortal beings on the continent, so randomly running into an evidently strong mage like Hux, who he'd never heard of, was a bit surprising. Kylo had been employed to go and rid a keep up on the hill of whatever it was that was plaguing it. He was expecting to take a while to figure it out, but when he arrived, the malevolent spirits were revealed easily by the mage already locked in battle with them.

The fight the man was putting up was impressive, given the sheer number of foes. He was spewing fire everywhere, manipulating the elements to his will, his bright hair and swan-white robe whipped around by the wind he was creating, but eventually Kylo could see he was losing, and so joined him in the fight. It was fortuitous that they were both there, as Kylo certainly couldn't have defeated them all on his own either. When the last spirit was destroyed, however, Hux had spun round, announced that he had decidedly notrequired the help of some filthy Witcher, and flounced off. He'd gotten about ten paces when he collapsed from the sheer exertion of having used his magic in such a manner.

So Kylo had carried the mage back to camp and laid him down on his bedroll to recuperate.

Poe was travelling with Kylo at that time, and, though he was surprised to see Hux, he seemed very glad to see Kylo back from the fight, juiced up on potions but otherwise unharmed. His smile had made Kylo's heart do something he didn't really understand, the same thing it did when Poe met his gaze during a performance at whatever tavern they were staying at, the same when Kylo said something complimentary to him. Indeed, it was becoming more and more of a common feeling, and Kylo was finding that he rather liked it.

When Kylo suggested he should probably go find a rabbit or something for dinner, Poe seemed happy enough to watch over the mage until he returned, and Kylo had picked his way into the forest they were camping on the edge of with his head full of thoughts of Poe. His distraction had meant he took longer than usual to catch something, and when he got back, it was to find Poe backed against a tree, Hux threatening him using a dagger Kylo hadn't realised he'd had on him.

“Kylo!” Poe had shouted when he saw him – and again, the weird thing Kylo's heart did around Poe – equal parts relieved and pissed off.

Hux relaxed only slightly at knowing whose camp it was he had been brought to, and, once Kylo had convinced him to lower the weapon, he protested strongly that he didn't want anyone's help or charity, and that he was offended to have been carried around like some damsel. Poe told him he was very welcome to fuck off, but it soon became clear that Hux wasn't in any shape to be going off on his own, so he stayed with them that night.

Kylo was settling in to sleep on the opposite side of the fire to Hux when Poe dumped his bedroll down next to him, closer than usual – cue the weird heart thing again – and lay down. All Kylo had managed to ask was, “What are you doing?”

Huffing, Poe leaned up to peer over Kylo's arm at where Hux was lying, turned away from them on the far side of their little camp. “He tried to kill me today. I don't wanna wake up with my throat cut for some magey shit.”

Kylo considered pointing out that Poe wouldn't wake up at all if his throat had been slit, but he was more struck by the implication that Poe was trusting him to protect him. Usually, people were more likely to fear that Kylo would be the one killing them after whatever monster he'd been hired to dispatch, but Poe was different, and always had been, really. He insisted that Kylo had good in him, that he wasn't all the darkness that Witchers were supposed to be. He wasn't entirely right, of course, but it was nice to have someone hope in him.

So instead of making the bard move away, all Kylo had said was, “You'll get cold, so far from the fire,” and offered Poe an extra side of his own blanket.

One night of Hux staying with them turned into two, into three, into a week's travel to the neighbouring city. In fact, Kylo was almost sad to see the severe mage leave, as it meant he and Poe went back to their usual sleeping arrangements, instead of curling up together with Kylo as his shield.

[break]

Months later, to Kylo's surprise, Hux sought him out. He was after a gem of something something and he needed hired muscle that he could trust would actually get the job done. Hux had found them by the coast, and the first thing he said as he took Poe in was, “You're still travelling with him, are you?” Kylo wasn't sure whether the question was meant for him or Poe, but they'd both answered definitively.

The month and a half of travel it took to reach the mountain cave system in which the gem was kept saw Poe and Hux grow accustomed to each other, if not strictly friendly. Poe didn't resume his habit of sleeping next to Kylo, Hux didn't try to kill Poe again, and eventually they stopped speaking to each other in jibes and barbs.

Hux and Kylo also ended up bonding; they would sit together in taverns while Poe was performing and talk, about things that they remembered from when they were young, things Poe had learned only from his history professors. It was nice to have someone who related, who had experienced similar things to him, who understood what it was to be not-quite human and tied to a duty they didn't quite want. Hux had been raised in magic, it turned out, and, as they talked, Kylo realised it wasn't so different to being raised into killing as he had been. The small, commiserating smiles Hux offered struck Kylo deeply, and one day he realised that Hux, bathed in the yellow, glowing tavern light, was beautiful.

When they reached the cave systems that were their destination, Poe had to stay in the local town while Hux and Kylo went in search of the gem, since the place was too unknown and dangerous to risk him coming. And it did turn out to be dangerous; Hux and Kylo each saved each others' life a few times, had several close calls, and, once all the stress and danger of the adventure had turned into the satisfaction of success, they translated that pent-up tension into a vigorous fuck on the way out.

“I don't know why you keep him around,” Hux commented as they trudged back to the town to meet Poe, gem firmly in his grasp. “He can't help you with your work like I could.”

Kylo supposed that was true. “He helps me be better,” Kylo replied, which was also true.

Hux made a derisive sound. “Does he, now.”

Kylo shook his head at Hux's tone. “Why don't you like him? You have plenty in common.”

“It's not that I don't like him,” Hux said, tossing his head to get a strand of hair which had slipped in front of his eyes out of the way. Considering Kylo was grimy and dishevelled from the fighting, Hux's deep crimson tunic still looked remarkably put together, and it gave him a haughty air as he said, “I know his type. I've served them in courts all over the continent for centuries. They think they're entitled to everything without working for it and without thanking the people who actually make it possible. He's just another ungrateful, mortal noble.”

Kylo thought about what he said for a good minute. “You're wrong,” he said.

[break]

Back at the inn, Poe had the entire town in the palm of his hand thanks to his songs. He looked charming as ever, flashing smiles to all the ladies who were fawning over him, but Kylo was happy to see that, when Poe spotted them enter, his smile softened and a new light entered his eyes. This time, the flip in Kylo's heart felt more natural than ever.

When Kylo emerged from the bathhouse, Poe was already waiting in his room for a full account of the adventure so he could turn it into his latest ballad. Kylo related what happened as he usually did, keeping to the bare facts and trusting Poe to make them into pretty wordplay later, until he got to the end, at which point he decided that Poe didn't strictly need to know that Hux had pushed him up against the wall of the cave and kissed him with a ferocity he wasn't likely to forget any time soon.

But Poe noticed the brief hesitation and looked up from his little book where he'd been scribbling notes. “What?” he asked.

Kylo shrugged. “Nothing. We left to come back here,” he said, pulling the shirt he was wearing off and reaching for a different one.

“Did something bite you?”

Kylo could hear the frown in Poe's voice, and he turned back to see Poe's eyes locked on a slightly bruised, reddish ring low on his neck. A vague recollection surfaced in Kylo's mind of Hux tugging down his collar, once his outer layer of armour was off, and digging his teeth hard into the flesh over that spot. He hummed, reaching up to rub at it and thus hide it from Poe's sight. “Must have.”

Poe stood up and approached, batting Kylo's hand out of the way, which he couldn't find the motivation to resist. When Poe ran his thumb over the bruise, he was so warm Kylo pushed into the touch. If Poe noticed, he didn't comment, his brow was deeply furrowed. “What kind of monster even has teeth like that?”

A knock came on the door. “Kylo,” Hux called from outside, “we need to talk about payment.”

“I'm...” Kylo hesitated, feeling strangely and suddenly like he'd betrayed Poe. “I'm coming.”

Kylo wasn't sure what about him looked guilty, but Poe seemed to realise at that moment where the mark came from. “Oh,” he said, stepping away and back to his book.

Not long after that, Poe announced his intention to head back to his home kingdom. Kylo's mouth went dry. It was Hux who had to ask the platitudes – did he have some business to attend to? How long did he think he would stay? - which Poe replied to blandly, something about responsibility to his mentors. Kylo wanted to ask him to stop, to stay, but all he managed to get out was, “I'll miss you.”

[break]

Time passed.

Poe left for home, taking his light and song with him.

Kylo spent one winter with Hux, back in the keep where they'd first met, which Hux had appropriated for himself, but it was all wrong; there was a grounding influence missing, without which the two of them spent more time treating each other angrily than well. The sex was amazing, but eventually, it felt hollow. The day it became clear that the harshest weather had blown over, Kylo was back on Silence, looking for the next contract out on a monster, something he could hack into pieces without thinking.

The seasons changed, fled and returned until it had been another year. Kylo was firmly back in the blank swing of contract, monster, payment, move along, but the campfire felt lonely after dark, when he had nothing to occupy his mind. He started talking to Silence; she never replied.

Sometimes, Kylo found himself wondering how long it would be until he ran into Hux again, and if he would even want to see him. Maybe he could make the way they left things up to him. They'd had something, after all, and, though it hadn't been perfect, he missed that feeling of love and understanding and protection which Hux provided. Kylo didn't hold out much hope of seeing Poe; he never went near his home city, and why would Poe venture out again? He'd seen his share of the world. He was back in his real life, now.

But eventually, those nights of wondering wore Kylo down, and, quite without intending to, he found himself directing Silence down the path to the kingdoms neighbouring Poe's.

There, Kylo found himself invited to the royal tourney of Queen Phasma, as a guest of honour. She was a renowned warrior, and Kylo reasoned that it would be rude to decline the request of such an esteemed ruler. He reasoned that perhaps she would even have some work for him. He reasoned a lot of things, in his attempt to deny to himself that the real reason was hope that a tourney would be more than enough cause for a neighbouring noble to be in the area, or even just a bard...

The festivities were festivities. It was strange, to watch others fight instead of having to do it himself, and for performance rather than necessity. Though sometimes the rush of people grated on him, Phasma was a gracious host and Kylo enjoyed the good food well enough, always keeping an eye out for some shock of red hair, or those cheerful, dark curls he so hoped for.

His vigilance yielded one of those prizes.

A tall, beautiful, severe looking man entered the great hall one evening for the feast, walking directly up to the main table at which Phasma and Kylo were seated, and didn't even falter when he recognised Kylo's distinctive scar, yellow eyes, dark garb.

“Hux!” Phasma exclaimed standing and marching around the table to pull the man into a hug, which he returned with surprising readiness, “My dear friend, it has been too long!”

Hux gave a half-bow. “I'm sorry I'm late, I was caught up with business.”

“Ah, yes, business,” Phasma said knowingly, “and where is Lord Dameron?”

Hux's eyes flitted over to Kylo's for the briefest of seconds. “Altogether too caught up with his teaching to bother with a tournament, I'm afraid.”

“Well you must tell him I want him at the next one.” With that, she made to retake her seat again, gesturing at Kylo. “Kylo, this is Hux, currently an advisor to court in the neighbouring kingdom and the most talented mage in all the continent. Hux, Kylo, the Witcher.”

“Yes, we've met,” Hux understated, settling his gaze on Kylo fully, now, and extending his hand to Kylo over the table. Not sure what he was expected to do, Kylo gave Hux his hand, and Hux took it, raising it to his lips and kissing Kylo's knuckles.

Kylo wasn't entirely certain if he could blush any more, since the mutations which had turned him into a Witcher, but if he could, he was sure he was, what with so many people around to witness a display of affection which Kylo was unused to at the best of times. Along with that, relief, because it made him feel suddenly like all was forgiven without him having to wrangle the words around an apology.

“Hux, stop that and sit down!” Phasma reprimanded, “The players will begin soon.”

It was only as Hux sat down that Kylo realised the empty chair on his right had likely always been for Hux. No sooner had he settled than the players flooded the floor, dancing into their performance of an old, famous play, something about two supernatural kings vying for the affection of a mortal with all sorts of fanciful gifts.

“This version is better than the original,” Hux remarked a short while in, and Kylo hummed out an assent, though he had never seen it when it first was performed. He was probably too busy wading through drowner guts, or something similarly uncouth.

“So, you're in Poe's court, now?” Kylo asked instead. “Is he king?”

“No,” Hux remarked, picking up his goblet of wine and keeping his gaze on the players. “Nor does he want to be. The Queen has plenty of other worthy successors, and Poe would much rather go back to spending his days as a bard.” He tutted. “Even if he doesn't say so.”

“Why are you there?”

He sighed. “I wanted to see what you meant about him not being like the others, so I offered my services to the Queen.” Kylo hummed again, and this time, Hux turned to look at him. “You were quite right. He's different. I find myself rather taken with him.”

Kylo reached for his own wine now, his mouth suddenly dry. “Oh. Have you..?”

“No. Kylo...” Hux placed his cup down and leaned to the side so his shoulder was brushing Kylo's, even as Kylo was resolutely not looking at him. “He misses you. And I know you miss him.”

As if by design, the lutist started to play, and both their eyes went to the young woman performing in the corner. Kylo found himself thinking, perhaps uncharitably, that she wasn't as talented as Poe, her song wasn't as sweet.

Hux didn't fail to notice this. “I think we should travel together again,” he said.

“We?”

“You and I and Poe,” Hux said, as though it were obvious. “Like we did those few months travelling in from the coast. I've found myself thinking about them a lot.”

Kylo shrugged. “It was only a few months. Things have changed since then.”

“Which is why we should give it another try.” Kylo jolted in slight surprise when he felt Hux's cool hand lay over his own on the arm of the chair. He turned to find Hux looking directly into his eyes. “Stay here for a week after the tourney is over, and I'll have convinced him to come. Kylo.” A tacit command from Hux, as usual, instead of a request.

Kylo nodded.

[break]

So Kylo waited by the city gates, where Hux had sent a messenger bird that he should meet them. He was nervous, when he first spotted the black dot on the distant path that he was sure was them, shuffling from one foot to the other and gripping Silence's reins tight, like that would do anything. He was wondering how he should greet Poe; hello, certainly, and he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from smiling, but he found that he also wanted to give him a hug, press their lips together, feel that he was really thereagain, after the nearly two years they'd spent apart.

It turned out he needn't have worried, since Poe sprang forward and clasped him into a hug without prompting, talking immediately about where they would be going and how good it would be to be back on the road.

Hux had merely given him a look that said I told you so, and followed after the excitable bard.

That had been nearly two weeks ago.

It turned out that Hux was entirely right; things were different than before, and they were better. The things that had changed were these:

Hux had brought a horse with him, this time, and several other magical items, such as a tent which was far larger inside than it appeared. Poe hadn't bothered with a horse, since he hadn't needed one before, and had thus left the money with which to pay for its upkeep back at home, planning instead to sing for his money like he used to. Kylo rather liked this; it reminded him of old times, when he steadfastly refused to let Poe ride Silence, in case it tired her out too much. The tent, on the other hand, felt annoyingly like Hux was living in style while the two of them were stuck outside, since Hux had never invited them in and Kylo, for one, wasn't about to invite himself.

It seemed Hux and Poe had also developed a much closer friendship, in the time Hux had spent at court. It made Kylo feel a little like he had missed out, like he had time to catch up on, like there was something impenetrable he couldn't access. Kylo supposed it must be similar for Hux, since he and Poe had known each other for so long before he met them, and again for Poe, given that winter when it was only him and Hux, but times like these – Poe and Hux discussing something so academic that Kylo knew so little about – could be daunting as much as interesting.

Mostly, Kylo felt like he still had to make something up to Poe, and he wasn't sure how to do it. He should probably just have a conversation with him about it, but the words never came, and bringing it up when nobody was thinking about it would, he was sure, just sour the mood. And if he just left it, the tension would have to break eventually.

[break]

Ahead of him on the road, Hux and Poe's little argument seemed to have reached a peak point. Kylo had been too lost in his thoughts to pay attention to what they were saying, but now Poe had stopped walking, raising open arms in that way of his that was almost defeated, but actually said he still thought he was right. It was very cute, like he was a turtle with a lute for a shell, and Kylo couldn't help but think his annoyed expression was charming as well.

When Silence reached the spot where Poe was standing, watching Hux ride on with his usual haughty confidence, Kylo hummed. “Did he win?”

Poe huffed, moving again to keep up with Silence's ambling pace. “No, but he's acting like he did. He always thinks he's right.”

Kylo thought about it for a beat; Hux did indeed always think that he was right. It was one of the things that had caused friction in their attempt at a relationship that one winter. It wasn't that all three of them couldn't be stubborn, more that Kylo and Poe had much more ability to hold out against each other's pestering than either of them seemed to have against Hux. One narrowing twitch of those steely-grey eyes, and anyone with even half a sense of self-preservation would surrender. So Kylo could sympathise with Poe's little pout.

They came to the edge of the forest, the village where they planned to stop a short way before them across a few fields. Kylo drew Silence to a halt and put out a hand to Poe, who looked at it first with surprise and then joy. He quickly allowed Kylo to help him up, settling just behind the Witcher, his chest pressed to his back, their thighs brushing against each other with every movement. Kylo could feel it all, and he tried not to let his stomach flip too much when Poe's arms snaked around his sides, hands locking at his front. He cursed inwardly that today he'd chosen to forgo some layers in favour of his cooler shirt.

But then Poe was saying to him over his shoulder – though it felt more like murmuring in his ear - “Come on, I wanna see Hux's face.”

Kylo prodded Silence to walk on, closing the distance on Hux. As they passed, Kylo felt Poe remove one hand to wave at the mage. Looking around, it was in almost slow motion that Hux's expression went from one of mild astonishment to annoyance to jealousy.

“See you there, Hugs!” Poe said, and Kylo smiled to himself.

❝ he was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges – sharp jaw, lean build, wool coat snug across his shoulders. ❞ 

huh, who’s DAVID CORENSWET? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ALAIN LESTOAT. he is a TWENTY FOUR year old PART-VAMPIRE wizard who is an UNSPEAKABLE. he is known for being RETICENT, MERCURIAL, ALOOF, EVASIVE, and DECADENT but also CHIVALROUS, ADROIT, PRAGMATIC, DEBONAIR, and INTUITIVE, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song THAT’S OKAY BY THE HUSH SOUND and THREE PIECE SUITS, LONE MATTRESS IN AN EMPTY APARTMENT, CODED NOTEBOOKS, INK-STAINED HANDS, BLACK COFFEE GONE COLD, UNSENT POSTCARDS, OLD TABACCO PIPE, SOFT DIMPLED GRINS, PERFECTLY COIFFED HAIR, ÉDITH PIAF RECORDS ON LOW, and RED LEATHER GLOVES. i hear he is aligned with NO ONE, so be sure to keep an eye on him. 

GENERAL

FULL NAME: Alain Danet Lestoat NICKNAME(S): some people call him ‘Drac’ for some reason, but he prefers to simply be called Alain AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 24, 09/19/2005 (will update graphic soon) OCCUPATION: Unspeakable, works in the Death Chamber most days GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: He/Him HOMETOWN: Eguisheim, Haut-Rhin, France CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England ALMA MATTER: Beauxbatons BLOOD STATUS: Part-Vampire (1/4th) / Halfblood

BIOGRAPHY

If you’ve ever had a chocolate frog, then there’s a great chance you’ve heard the name Lestoat. Among the many trading cards you can find in the packaged confection there is one for an Amarillo Lestoat, a vampire born at the same time that America declared its Independence, immortalized on enchanted cardstock. Amarillo’s rise to fame came with a single piece of literature which the vampire had published during his two hundred and one years. A Vampire’s Monologue, a mind numbingly boring read that offered the vampire a way to disable his victims so he could feed off them without trouble. It’s a story that has followed his grandson Alain throughout his twenty six years -- a fact that isn’t exactly welcome to the 1/4 Part-Vampire. 

Alain Danet Lestoat was born on a cold and murky September day in the commune of Eguisheim in Haut-Rhin to Marguerite Babineaux, a pureblooded witch whose family was one of the most prominent pureblood families in France during the 20th century, and her Part-Vampire husband Alexander Lestoat; the unexpectedly conceived son of the bore himself. Amarillo had no intention of fathering halfbreed offspring, but was surprised only ten years prior to his death to find out he’d impregnated a young witch he’d used his book on during a trip to Madrid, thus beginning the equally magical and vampiric lineage of the writer. Sometimes Alain wishes the man had managed to keep to this plan. From the moment he opened his eyes to the world he was instantly met with hardships and difficult hurdles to overcome. 

From his father’s side Alain had inherited a severe allergy to garlic, an acute aversion to direct sunlight, canines that were far too long and awkward for braces, and, of course, a slight penchant for the taste of blood. For her part, Marguerite had managed to pass down dark, thick curls and dimpled smiles, but that was not enough to quell the sort of fear that one got whenever he flashed a toothy grin at them. In Eguisheim, among the non-magical denizens, it was important for the Lestoats to stay incognito. Wixen could hide easily among the non-magical, ashen complexed and fanged Vampires could hardly do the same. As such, his childhood was rather isolated and sheltered. He spent most of his days roaming the rather large manor house they had acquired on the edge of town, reading the vast collection of books his two-centuries-old grandfather had left in his father’s possession, consuming knowledge about the world outside he could seldom take part in. 

It wouldn’t be until he’d received his invitation to study at his mother’s alma matter that he would get to see the outside world. With its sprawling gardens, never-melting ice sculptures and enchanting fountains, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic felt more like it belonged among Perrault’s stories than in the real world, and yet it was very real. Equal parts excited and horrifyingly nervous, Alain travelled to the secluded chateau to begin his education. His only hope was that among the magical folk of France he would be able to be more readily accepted. He was only a fourth vampire after all -- he was more like the other wixen around him, how could they abhor him? Disappointment would soon become a constant acquaintance for him. All it had taken was one excitedly large toothy grin to a fellow first year within the first minutes of the welcome feast and Alain’s reputation had been set. Leech. Bloodsucker. Monster. All desperately unfair labels since, as he constantly reminded others, he was more wizard than vampire, but it hadn’t mattered. Having knives for teeth was enough to cause anyone to instantly write him off as a danger and liability. 

After a particularly disastrous first year, including a rather humiliating question-and-answer session during a DADA class, he had sworn he would turn his back on the wizarding world and never come back. I’ll run away into the words, become the Bête in an enchanted castle and make friends out of the utensils I’ll steal from maman’s cupboard. It hadn’t been until Alexander intervened, having gone through a rough schooling experience himself, that Alain would be comfortable with returning to the academy. You’ll just have to prove to them they’re wrong by showing what kind of person you are. It was with this advice that Alain would come back year after year, despite the harassment from his classmates, in order to study. He had resolved to be the best wizard he could. He studied hard -- an easy feat since he was rarely invited along to field trips or outings with his classmates -- excelled at his academics and managed to be top of his class. Despite the naysayers, he’d graduated from Beauxbatons with top honors, and plenty of prestigious internships and job proposals to choose from. Tired of the isolation of both his small commune and the secluded chateau, he had taken what he felt was the most lucrative option -- an internship with the Bureaux des Mystéres in the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France. 

It wasn’t a particularly glamorous position -- he mostly helped file nonsensical reports. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near the actual Chambers within, but he’d caught on quickly enough to know that some really interesting and important stuff happened in there. Why else didn’t anyone talk about it? When he was able to, he applied to become an Unspeakable trainee and before long he was finally setting foot inside those elusive rooms and learning their secrets. He could be trusted to keep them; he was never one to socialize anyway. Who was he going to tell? The only person who was ever privy to his intimate thoughts was his little sister Amélie, and she was still too little to have discussions about his job. Quickly, he’d come to find the secretive and confidential world within those chambers were far more comforting than the vast world outside. His hunger for knowledge about the things he was studying had lead him to submit an application for another Ministry of Magic across the channel. It was said that in the UK they had made more headway with the types of things that were being studied within their own Department of Mysteries, and Alain was desperate to understand everything. When he’d gotten a response back from their Department head eagerly welcoming him to the team, he left first thing and didn’t once look back. France had already taught him enough, it was time to find something more on other shores. 

He’s been in the UK for only a year and a half now, and most of the time he’s spent sitting before a stone arch and shroud, listening to voices calling to him. The Death Chamber. There was something kind of funny about a vampire studying death, but Alain doesn’t care. Each day more mysteries open up to him, keeping him from sleeping and eating as his mind reels with everything. He’s been so occupied with his highly secretive work that he hadn’t noticed the climate changing around him. As a foreigner he understood the past conflicts in England in a textual sense. The Wizarding Wars and the Death Eaters were footnotes in his textbooks, a foreign problem to learn from. They weren’t close to home or part of his own history, so he hadn’t given them much thought. When a string of high prolific deaths began taking place they were sad, no doubt, but not warning bells of something dark to come. As such, he hasn’t taken a side. Per his letters home, he insists that should things become grim in England then he will secure a portkey back to France and resume his post in the Ministére, but Alain figures that whatever is happening will eventually de-escalate. Hadn’t they stopped a rise in dark wizardry in this country a matter of decades prior? 

ok so basically: alain is an introverted part-vampire who migrated to london about a year and half prior to start of game to work at the department of mysteries in the ministry. he started his career as an unspeakable in france’s ministry but is eager to learn more than he thinks was capable back in his homeland. 

BULLYING AND SLIGHT NON CON TW. generally he’s kind of introverted and keeps to himself; this is because he was harassed and bullied a lot as a beauxbatons student for being “halfbreed”. he’s 1/4 vampire and the grandson of a famous vampire writer, a legacy he really hates. in particular he hates that he’s 1. labelled as a monster by ignorant people (he lives off regular food, thank you very much) but also 2. if people know about his grandfather, then they know he wrote a boring af book and in a shady way to get people to submit to him for feeding. kinda feels non-consensual ya know?? 

PHOBIA MENTION TW as both a vampire and a frenchman, he dresses impeccably, so he’s usually seen around in long trench coats and thin tailored suits. he wears red leather gloves as both a fashion statement and also because he is a bit of a germaphobe. he won’t divulge details but this has to do with a vicious prank that was done to him when he was a student. he was kinda carrie’d if ya feel me. 

despite an air of decadence and debonair, he’s kind of poor (rip) and lives in a dingy little shoebox flat where he sleeps on a barren mattress and eats instant ramen and boxed wine for dinner. most of his money goes towards his closet or to his family back home, who doesn’t really need it but he loves spoiling his little sister so he would rather fund her life than his own. claims he’s making enough to live elegantly so they don’t realize he’s a l i a r. 

look he’s gonna be a bit of a hard egg to crack but i promise once he is cracked he’s charming and sweet and a loyal good friend so pls don’t give up on his interactions if he’s aloof and distant ;-; give the boy a chance. 

idk i’ll probably add to this as I think of stuff; it’s 3 am lmao

MISC

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Demisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Heteromantic LANGUAGES: English, French, Spanish, Some German FAMILY: Alexander Amarillo Lestoat (father, b. 1967 in Madrid, Spain), Marguerite Celeste Lestoat neé Babineaux (mother, b. 1981 in Mulhouse, France), Amélie Marguerite Lestoat (sister, b. 2011 in Eguisheim, Haut-Rhin, France), Amarillo Lestoat † (grandfather, b. 1776 in Philadelphia, America, died 1977 in Madrid, Spain; vampire and author of a vampire’s monologue)  PETS: Barn Owl named Archimedes and Black Kneazle named Persephone FACE CLAIM: David Corenswet ZODIAC SIGN: Virgo MBTI: TBD PINTEREST: (x)

WANTED CONNECTIONS

tbh i have nothing in mind so just hmu if you have ideas. if not, we will brain storm :) 

bonus: 

alain danet lestoat, beauxbatons first year c. 2017. ignore that wonky ass eye i’m too lazy to fix it

I think I’ve sent a similar request somewhere else but some angsty then fluffy reader x 13 where reader is disabled and has chronic pain and is worried that they’ll put 13 in danger or get left behind, but in response 13 is really sweet and builds the reader a cool supped up wheelchair to adventure in? Feel free to change details if I’m being too specific.

I had to do a bit of research into chronic pain to make sure I got it right. Hopefully I did.

Title: Stay

You loved travelling with the Doctor. The adventures she had taken you on had made you love life again. You cherished the memories that you held and adored the new family that you had made.

It’s funny how quickly that could all be taken away.

Sometimes you think that it was all a dream, that you weren’t hit by that car that on fateful day. Out of all the trips you had taken with the Doctor the only one where you got seriously hurt was when the five of you were back on twenty first century earth. The car had appeared out of nowhere and ran a red light. You hadn’t been able to move out of the way quick enough and all you could remember was a sickening crunch and the terrified screams of your friends.

The crash resulted in a broken leg and you were relieved that you hadn’t died. At first everything seemed fine, your leg healed normally and you were able to continue your adventures with your friends. Life was good again.

But then the pain started.

The crippling, burning pain shooting up your leg as though someone had replaced your blood with acid. You spent days writhing on your bed in agony, the Doctor hand clasped in your sweaty one as you begged her, pleaded with her, to stop the pain. You remembered the heart breaking look on the Doctor’s face when she told you that there was nothing she could do.

On some days the pain would stop and those days were the worst. The days when you would think that everything was back to normal and you would go out with your friends. Today started as one of those days, the five of you running back to the TARDIS keeping just ahead of the guards. But then the pain blossomed up your leg again. You gave a cry of pain and stumbled to the ground. You heard to Doctor give a shout in panic. Your vision turned white as you let the pain consume you and you were vaguely aware of someone picking you up and running back. You opened your eyes slightly and looked around. You were in Ryan’s arms and in the TARDIS. You took one look at your friend’s concerned faces then everything went black.

 *

  “I’m sorry.”

The Doctor looked up at you. You were currently in your bed and the Doctor was sitting next to you.

“What for?” she asked

“Everything. Ryan could’ve been killed because of me.”

“It’s not your-“

“Don’t say that!” you yelled, “It is my fault. It is wasn’t for my stupid leg then I would’ve been able to keep up with you. Ryan wouldn’t have had to stop and help me. Let’s face it, I’m a liability toward to guys. If you have to keep waiting for me in every adventure then sooner or later one of you are going to get hurt.”

“Look at me y/n.” said the Doctor gently

You shook your head. The Doctor reached over but you jerked away.

“Take me home.” You said

“Pardon?”

“Home, I want to go back to earth.”

“I don’t mean-“

“I do mean that Doctor. While I’m around you guys are not safe. It’s better for everyone if I stop travelling.”

The Doctor suddenly stood up, her char clattering to the ground.

“Stay in bed for a couple of days,” she said walking towards the door, “Wait until your leg is better. Then we’ll talk again.”

 *

 You remained in bed for the next couple of days. Ryan, Yaz and Graham all visited but you didn’t see the Doctor. When you told them of your plan they all protested.

“You can’t just leave!” said Yaz

“I agree,” said Graham, “You still have so much to see.”

“But I’m slowing you guys down,” you explained, “Ryan, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt because of me.”

“But I didn’t.”

“This time maybe but what about the next time? I can’t risk you guys getting hurt. I’m sorry, but my mind is made up.”

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

The four of you looked over at the Doctor who was standing in the doorway.

“Yeah.”

“Can you guys leave us for a sec? I have to talk to y/n alone.”

Reluctantly the others left you. Graham gave your shoulder a comforting pat before leaving. When the two of you were alone the Doctor said,

“I’ve got you something.”

“A present to remember you by?”

The Doctor didn’t say anything. Instead she pushed into the room a wheelchair. Your eyes widened when you saw it.

“Doc-“

“Just listen,” said the Doctor, “I heard what you said and I don’t want you to leave us like this. I made this for you and look!”

The Doctor pressed a button and to your surprise the chair lifted off the ground.

“It flies!” the Doctor said grinning at you, “And if there’s a circumstance which means you can’t get back to the TARDIS quickly you press this button,” the Doctor pointed to the button on the opposite arm, “And you’ll teleport back to the safety of the TARDIS.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.” You said shocked

The Doctor sat next to you on the bed.

“I don’t want you to leave me y/n, I mean,” she said quickly, “Us. I don’t want you to leave us.”

You smiled at the Doctor, understanding what she really meant.

“I don’t want to leave you too Doc.”

“So you’ll stay.”

“For as long as you want me to.”

The Inugami - Chapter 15

Summary: When Kagome Higurashi moved to the bad side of Chicago to help with her grandfather’s restaurant, she expected chaos. Being thrown into a fake gang, caught in the middle of a drug war and grudge that stretches centuries back in time, befriending a grumpy half demon along with a ragtag bunch of three other misfits… wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. High school AU. Inukag.

Rating: T (some language)

Pairings: Inukag, Mirsan

Chapters: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 |  Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 | Ch. 15

Shorts: 1. Sesshomaru | 2. Miroku | 3. Shippo | 4. Sango | 5. Sesshomaru | 6. Inuyasha | 7. Shippo

**Also on ff.net here and ao3 here.

The Final Chapter! Thank you to my faithful beta, @akela-nakamura!

Kagome’s boots barely echoed softly through the kitchen of the empty restaurant. It had been kept sparkly clean, smelling strongly of bleach, each surface shining and lonely at the same time without food on the countertops. She knew that hours had been reduced until the Higurashis were to return. 

She lowered her hood, brushing snow from her arms. She was moving mechanically, as if displaying overly human actions would verify her racing heart and anticipation. For the first time in six months, Kagome was about to see the friends that had brightened her world, and the man she was impossibly in love with.

After countless late nights spent speaking quietly over the phone to him, just about how their days had gone, something funny they’d seen, anything that anyone could talk about, she was finally going to see Inuyasha again, face to face. 

He didn’t know that, though. Of all Shippo’s schemes, this surprise was her favorite. Apparently, she was to be Inuyasha’s Christmas present, a role she was all too happy to fill. 

The Higurashis had finished moving back to Chicago just yesterday, into a nicer house this time. The rent was surprisingly cheap for such a decent neighborhood (compared to the last, at least.), and Kagome didn’t bother voicing that she was sure the landlord name “Nonemu” was code for “Sesshomaru trying to not look nice.” 

She startled at the sound of the bell jingling from the front, her frenzied heartbeat coming to an abrupt halt. And then she heard it in person, his gruff and so, so loveable voice only meters away. 

“This had better be good,” grumbled Inuyasha’s voice. Her breath caught. The sound of clomping snowy shoes on the welcome mat. “Comin’ in on one of my only days off…”

“I promise, your Christmas present will be worth it,” Shippo said firmly.

“Why aren’t Sango and Miroku here? Didn’t you get something for them?”

“Of course I did! But this is just for you. They’ll come a bit later, give you some time alone with your present.”

“What? Why would I need- Ugh, Shippo, did you dump five gallons of bleach in the place? I can’t smell a thing!”

Kagome smirked; Shippo had really thought this out.

“Stop whining! You’re about to get the best Christmas present ever.”

“Sounds cocky. I once got a whole sock from my brother.”

“I’ll just assume that’s a ‘Wow, that sounds so thoughtful, Shippo! I don’t even need a present because your friendship is enough of a gift.’ I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Wh-wha-you’re just leaving me here? You’re just planning on locking me in here, aren’t you?”

“For fuck’s sake. Just… stay here. As one Inugami to another, just trust me.”

“...fine.”

A second jangling of the bell--Shippo had left. Kagome breathed in slowly, steeling herself, shaking out her hands as trying to rid them of water. She paced to the door that led to the dining area. Each step seemed to take too long and not long enough. 

Finally, Kagome pushed the door and immediately saw him, standing with lowered ears, hands in his pockets, characteristically annoyed. Affection swelled in her chest, seeing Inuyasha in that red jacket, beat up boots tapping on the cracked tile. It was as if she’d been blocking out how much she cared for him, and the waves how much she’d missed him crashed over her in an instant. But she was frozen, hardly able to breathe until he finally caught sight of her.

His jaw dropped, and a startled sound seemed to stick in his throat. But he wasn’t still like her--he immediately came forward and leapt over the counter. In an instant, he was embracing her, and she had forgotten how warm, safe, smelling like leather and wind and-

“Home,” she murmured into his chest. “I’m home.”

“I love you,” was all he said back. “I love you.”

SIX YEARS LATER

There was a jangle from the front door, and Kagome looked over to see one of their regulars, Joseph, walk in, smiling and pulling a brown-haired boy behind him. The second boy looked skeptical and closed off, scrutinizing every wall and inch of the ceiling. Kagome watched her husband turn and regard the boys, resting his arms on the bokken that laid across his shoulders.

“Oh, a newb!” Shippo whispered to her in excitement. “Oh boy, Inuyasha is gonna do the thing! I love this part.”

Kagome allowed herself a small smile of agreement. She’d seen such a scene many a time before, but it was always inspiring to witness it again. This was the purpose of the Inugami now, after all. 

“Hey, Joe,” Inuyasha greeted, giving a nod. “Who’s the kid?”

With mildly hidden enthusiasm, Joseph tugged his friend up behind him. “This is my buddy, Derek. He’s the one I talked to you about last week. I talked about Inugami a bit with him and he was thinkin’ about joining. Ain’t that right, Derek?”

Derek huffed, “Tch,” as he was pushed forward to stand about four feet away from Inuyasha. The boy shoved his hands in his jean pockets, clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes up at the older man.

Inuyasha, in turn, stared down at Derek, golden eyes sharpening and chin raising. Finally, Inuyasha growled, “Don’t gimme that entitled teenage bad boy shit face, kid. If you wanna be Inugami, we’ve got a code to follow. So are you gonna listen up or get out like a loser?”

A pause. The boy seemed startled by Inuyasha’s attitude, but soon realized that Inuyasha was truly waiting for an answer. “Uh… Okay, I’ll… listen,” Derek mumbled back.

“What was that?”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re listening…?” Inuyasha drawled, gaze biting.

“S-sir. I’m listening, sir.”

“Alright.” Inuyasha took the bokken off his shoulders, slamming it to the ground at his side. Derek startled backwards into Joseph, who hid a snicker.  “The Inugami have self control. The Inugami do not involve themselves with gangs or gang activity. The Inugami don’t smoke or do that drug shit or even vape. I hate the damn smell and they make you weak. The Inugami don’t drink underage and if they are of age, they don’t drink irresponsibly like a deadbeat. The Inugami go to school and do their damn best in it. The Inugami do not fight unless in defense of self, defense of another, or a controlled spar supervised by an Inugami leader. The Inugami do not steal. The Inugami do not threaten, intimidate, or hurt others. The Inugami respect all humans, demons, and otherwise equally. The Inugami do all they can to help their neighbor. The Inugami keep a cool head and don’t respond to fucking morons that are trying to provoke them-”

Beside her, Shippo coughed in a way that sounded a lot like the name, “Koga?”

“-Inugami don’t whine about shit or think they’re entitled to shit. The Inugami work hard, challenge themselves, and don’t blame other people for their problems. The Inugami accept their cross to bear, their responsibilities, what can and cannot be changed, and their duty to become the best they can be.”

Inuyasha walked up close to the boy, staring down at him with an intense light in his eyes that Kagome had fallen in love with. Derek backed up even further, stumbling, but Joe steadied him. Inuyasha’s bokken was back in its sheath, and his powerful arms were crossed as he went on, “Now, if you think you’re incapable of those simple, moral and reasonable rules, if you just wanna be born as a street rat and die a thug that didn’t leave the world any better than it was when he was popped out of his poor mother’s womb, then you can turn your ass around and get straight back out that door. I ain’t here to give you free shit or coddle you or let you do whatever the fuck you want, whatever feels good.”

Tilting his head, Inuyasha said more quietly, “But if you stay… The Inugami is here to support you in doing shit that does good. The Inugami will have your back, teach you defense, give you a place to go, and make you something to be proud of.” 

Inuyasha pulled the bandana off of the handle of his bokken; Kagome knew it was situations like these for which he always kept an extra red bandana around. The red cloth was held out to Derek, who was eyeing it wide-eyed and white-faced.

“So?” Inuyasha said, hand open. “You gonna stay or go?”

Kagome clenched her fists, an excited smile bursting on her face.

Derek stared down at the bandana, back to his friend, and then up to Inuyasha. “I… I’m gonna stay.”

Finally, Inuyasha gave the kid a quick, rare grin. “Good choice. Here.” Derek took the red bandana, gripping it tightly. His friend gave a whoop and clapped him on the shoulder while Inuyasha dug around in his bag for the registration.

“Just a little stupid paperwork, brat,” Inuyasha explained, holding the paper and a pen out to Derek. “Liability shit, and we wanna be able to contact you if you need help. I’ll give you my number, and the other four Inugami heads will probably give you theirs eventually. What are you doin, signin’ that already?! Always read a contract before you sign it, idiot. There ya go…”

By the time Derek was finished registering, the other Inugami had begun to file in, ready in their training clothes and chatting with one another comfortably, about twenty-five of them today. Kagome couldn’t help but smile at all of them, greet a few; these teenagers, all coming in here trying to make their inner-city life better, to improve themselves. These kids were the dreams of all the original Inugami, and it’s why she came every day without regret.

Inuyasha was talking to some of the kids. When he looked over at her, beginning to start her stretches on the bench next to Shippo, his entire body seemed to relax, and he returned a smile. But when he started to make his way over…

“Whoa,” she heard Derek say quietly, not too far away, to Joseph. He was pointing at her. “Who’s the chick? I’d tap that so hard.”

Joe looked panicked and was about to answer, but that’s when Inuyasha hit Derek in the back of the head, causing a resounding SMACK followed by a high, “Ow!”

“She,” Inuyasha snarled, “would me my wife.”

“Shit,” muttered Derek.

“I guess since you haven’t seemed to catch on to the specifics of ‘respect all humans, demons, and otherwise’ and you have a problem with thinking with your dick, I’ll have to add that the Inugami men are not fucking perverts or fuckboys. The Inugami other than me do not even think about daring to touch her in a way any more than a consented hug. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”

“Don’t apologize to me, boy; apologize to her!”

“R-right.” The boy turned quickly and practically bowed to her. “I-I’m sorry, um…?”

Kagome smiled in amusement. “Mrs. Tashio will do.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tashio.”

“I forgive you, Derek. Welcome to the Inugami!” She stood and held out her hand, which he shook tentatively. “I’m so happy you’ve joined us. Oh that’s right, I made cookies today! Do you like chocolate chip? You can have some-”

“Kagome,” Inuyasha sighed, looking only minisculely more grumpy than usual. “It’s like you’re rewarding him!”

“I am!” she said with a huff, putting her hands on her hips. “He joined us! He apologized for what he said, so I think he should get a cookie. Besides, I tried this new recipe and I want the kids to say if they like it…”

“You made it. Of course they’ll like it.”

Her heart swelled. “Oh Inuyasha, really? You think so?”

His cheeks were turning about the color of his bandana that was tied around his head. “Keh, you know I think so.”

Kagome gave him a long kiss for that, and then went back to find the cookies in her bag. As soon as she found them, she began passing them around (with intermittent munching on her own part).

She pretended not to hear Derek whisper to Joseph, aghast, “How did such a cranky, terrifying dude end up with an angel?”

“No one knows exactly how it happened, but Papayasha and Magome are super into each other,” Joseph answered with a shrug. “Also, don’t count on the angel thing. I chose to challenge her to a fight one day and it was the worst decision I ever made.”

“...what did she do to you?”

“I don’t remember much, but I remember that I sure as fuck didn’t like it and felt it for the next week.” 

“Inugami!” Inuyasha boomed. “Assume the position!”

The students scampered into a circle around Inuyasha, Shippo trailing behind, who began to explain what techniques they would be learning that day. As this process commenced, the charming tone over the door chimed, indicating the entrance of Miroku, Sango, and the twins. Both were dressed in gym clothes and each carried an eager toddler, looking windswept and tired, but both smiled at the sight of Kagome waving to them. 

Sango hadn’t changed much in six years; despite having two children already, she kept up with her training well, especially now that they had two extra giggling girls that liked to ride on their parents’ backs during push ups. Miroku had cut his hair to keep the babies from tugging on it incessantly (he’d insisted for months that he’d felt some spiritual energy leave him as it was cut and therefore he was the reincarnation of Samson), so that he looked far more mature than he actually was. 

Kagome greeted them both with a hug and lifted the most wiggly kid from Sango. “Hi guys! So glad you could make it on such short notice!” 

“Ah, we wrapped up the latest case this morning anyway,” said Miroku, setting down his daughter so that she could join in on tackling Shippo. “First case in nearly a year where Sesshomaru hasn’t poked his nose into our P.I. business--not our fault people around here don’t trust the cops and we make major bank.” Miroku rolled his shoulders, stretching out the gun holsters that decorated his sides on straps. He shot a winning smile. “Just surprised we have a short notice call that wasn’t: Help, Inuyasha got poisoned, or help, Kagome was kidnapped, or help, Inuyasha got tackled by a furry convention and is now setting them on fire-”

Sango jumped in before Kagome could stop them, “Help, Kagome put a force field around the pie until I apologize, or help, Inuyasha is out of the dorm room because we were canoodling too long in the library make out corner, or help, Kagome heard me sleep arguing with the drapes and now thinks I have a secret Japanese lover-”

“Yes, okay, noted that we need to call you guys under better circumstances,” Kagome covered hastily. “But this is a great circumstance, I promise!” She stuffed another cookie in her mouth, eyes gleaming. “Cookieh?”

They took a cookie. 

Another chime of the door, and Emma came skipping in, her stoic father gliding behind her. Sesshomaru looked emotionless and statuesque as ever in his full Commander’s uniform, an image of intimidation marred only by the flower crown perched atop his silvery hair. Judging from Emma’s matching set, it was of her creation and insistence. All the teenagers glanced at him or even flinched as he came in, indicating that the cuteness did not, in fact, ruin his effect. Kagome was impressed. 

Sesshomaru beelined for Kagome as soon as his icy gaze found her, and he stopped abruptly several feet away. “What is the urgent matter of which I must attend? Emma and I were on our way to the park. I would prefer if this afternoon activity were not interrupted by my brother’s next grievance.”

Kagome laughed him off. “Oh no, no grievance. Just something we wanted you to be here for and then you can be on your way!”

A half millimeter quirk of the eyebrow. “Why.”

With a nervous laugh, Kagome scurried closer to the circle of students and waved a hand over their heads for Inuyasha’s attention. Best not to trust dog demons to be patient, she’d found. 

His white ears perked up, and he stopped in the middle of demonstrating a new headlock on Derek. “Everyone here?”

“Yep!”

He released the teenager to his half laughing, half pitying peers, and pushed through to her. “Before I get on with the lesson, Kagome and I have an announcement that we wanted you all to be here for.” He put an arm around her, “It regards why she won’t be helping with any sparring from now on.”

The collective “aww” that arose from the kids actually touched Kagome, though she ignored Joseph’s not-so-subtle, “Thank God.”

Inuyasha looked to her with those shining, golden eyes, prompting her to say, “‘Papayasha’ is gonna be an actual Papa.”

The gasps and happy shrieks almost covered Inuaysha’s groan of, “Why are you encouraging them to call me-?”

Sango grabbed her shoulders. “You’re pregnant?!”

“Yup.” Kagome patted her tummy. “Can’t fight any of you--Magome’s got one in the ol’ incubator.”

Sesshomaru was grimacing. “I feared this day. The day in which an army of small Inuyashas are born. I surrender. You can keep the sword. I recognize when I am outnumbered.”

Shippo was in full on tears, clutching his face. “Tiny Inubabies with puppy ears and without Inuyasha’s horrible personality… adorable!”

Miroku only shrugged. “I’m honestly just surprised it took this long. You guys are like Catholic rabbits.”

Sango smacked him, but Kagome was too busy laughing. Surrounded by love and her growing family, she felt so far from that scared, weak girl she had been all those years ago, who felt so far from home. Home was something she created, right here, with her Inuyasha, and with the Inugami. 

Snippet of TenII/Rose fic I’m workng on.

“Let’s take a breather,” Rose sat next to him and plopped back on the bed until they lay side by side. “This is lovely.  The bed not you being all manly brave not admitting you’re about gnaw your leg off.”

 “I’m not,” Oh he was grumpy and showing it.  Still, it was well earned.  “Is this what it’s like for humans.  Do the right thing, save the mythological creature or what not and linger in a state of misery until your rubbish body decides to heal itself?”

 “Well, there’s all the lovely cuddling up with pillows, eating feel good treats, marathoning telly or surfing the net whinging about whatever everyone is whinging about.  And online shopping.  That always helps me.”  

 He rolled his head to the side to find her whiskey brown eyes sparkling almost as bright as her tongue touched smile.  Oh yes, he’d deal with the pain.  After being loud and human about it.

 “Online shopping huh? Well, not exactly the market on Vireakilx but I’ll give it a go.  Do we have funds?  We need those right?  I mean Rose Tyler, will you be my sugar mama?”  

Rose burst out in howling laughter that shook the bed.  He didn’t even mind it jarred his aching ribs or that he might want to groan and gasp for breath.  Until she sucked in area and grimaced.

 “You’re more injured than you let on.  All this going on about me when you’re just as bad.”  He leveraged  himself up. “I need to take care of you.  With no TARIDS and rubbish twenty first century medicine.”  His heart hammered in his chest.  “No, no, no.” He grunted and stood.

 “Doctor, it’s okay.”

 “But it’s not.  I need to get cracking on another TARDIS.”  He tugged and pulled at his hair as  his mind whirled with lists, things he needed, calculations and Rose, always circling her.  “We need an inner sanctum, security, pillows and bubbles and things so you don’t—”  Oxygen seemed to deplete in a heady dizzying way as Rose guided him back to sit on the edge of the bed, broken leg before him like the liability it was.

 “I’ve put you in danger, in harms way with no way to care for you,” he admitted, his mood once again plummeting downward into that dark place that was often home, his failures and all the people he’d lost or hurt.

 “Stop it,” her firm voice and the pressure of her fingers through his suit coat, brought him back to the present.

 “I was the first out of the jeep to go investigate and if you’ll remember, you were sore at me.  I made a choice.  And it won’t be the last time I make a choice to help.  That’s what we’ve always done, you and me. Doesn’t have to be to stop an alien invasion or take a bullet or get tossed about by the forest spirit.”

 “A bullet.  No.”  He couldn’t’ help but really examine her, trailing his fingers along her jaw, down her neck and clavicle.

 “It was over a year ago on a dimension jump.  Was an accident.  I was stupid and didn’t move fast enough.  Nothing overly serious, barely even a scar.”  She was trying to comfort him and he would not have it.

 “No, it was serious. I wasn’t here to help and you could have—”  Every muscle tightened and tears burned his eyes.  The Doctor tugged her into his arms, both of them wincing but still clinging to each other.  “No more bullets,” he murmured into her neck.  “No more anything for a while.”

Six Suggestions Which Will Help You Choose The Right Car Locksmith Jacksonville FL

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Buy Yourself a local practitioner

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Last words

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Noir (yutae)

Week I pt. 2

Tokyo – fall of 1983: Nakamoto Yuta is quickly rising in the ranks of one of Japan’s most notorious yakuza families, and he’s poised to climb even further if he can stop himself from being ruined by the pretty Korean boy who’s shown up out of nowhere.

Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2  |  Chapter 3  |  Chapter 4  |  Chapter 5  |  Chapter 6  |  Chapter 7  |  Chapter 8  | Masterlist 

Glossary of Japanese words

Characters: Yuta x Taeyong + NCT ensemble, Twice J-line (for funsies)

Genres: Gang!AU, angst, smut, fluff, 1980s!AU

Warnings: graphic violence, swearing, minor character death, alcohol use, mentions of drugs, period-typical homophobia, xenophobia, BDSM

Rating: 18+

Length: 2k (will progressively get way longer)

They had beaten Taeyong when he had asked.  He had gotten on his knees before the leader of the Specters and implored him humbly to let him join.  He would be a model warrior, he had assured: would fight unquestioningly anyone who challenged the gang and never run away.  He could prove himself.  The Spectors’ leader had pointed to the full red circle on his white headband.  Don’t you know we don’t accept gaijin ?   I’m not a gaijin , Taeyong had argued, only to be met with a venomous cackle.  Taeyong was sure he had felt a thin rain of spit land on him from the force of the laugh.  What are you then, Zainichi?  That’s worse!  Then they beat him. That was seven years ago, but it still carried trauma for Taeyong.

Gassan-ya was not Taeyong’s favorite bar, but it was doing him good to laze there at the counter drinking alone, eating peanuts, and listening to a mixture of citypop hits from the jukebox behind him and a report on Mitsubishi’s rising stock values on the television hanging from the ceiling.  That’s what he had been doing, until the Specters came zooming on their souped-up bikes past the front windows, hooting and hollering in their white uniforms, and banging baseball bats and rusty pipes against the pavement as they went.  Taeyong cursed to himself upon seeing the group of boys speeding off to a battle, shoving a handful of peanuts in his mouth and swigging the rest of his beer before ordering another.

He could never figure out why he was always so enamored with the Bosozoku boys he saw; why he had felt a need to become one.  Was it his desire for a sense of identity and belonging?  A need to act out against his parents’ authority?  The terrifying thrill he got from imagining himself in battle, taking a bat to some poor young man’s head?  Was it self-hatred?  He figured the correct answer was probably all of the above.  Walking around for almost a quarter century in Japan with the name Lee Taeyong had naturally brought him nothing but rejection – professional, academic, romantic, you name it.  And those who had accepted him were often no better off in life than he was.  Two of his best friends were locked away for petty theft, after all.

So, Taeyong had tried to join a violent biker gang at the age of seventeen, learning to ride his dad’s old motorbike, style a pompadour, and roll his R’s in preparation to make his case.  He did it because if he was going to be an outcast he at least wanted to be an outcast that someone could give a damn about.  He liked the thought of letting off some steam in a grand way, of being a source of fear for prosperous average Japanese people, of claiming his own place in the warrior tradition.  And it would have pleased him to have one of those bikes too.

But it had gone horribly wrong when he did make his case, and now he was too old for the Bosozoku anyway.  He spent his days working at an autobody shop and his nights drinking and trying not to get too close to anyone.  You see, Taeyong was a sensitive boy, but he lived in a world where it didn’t pay to be sensitive.

The bartender slid Taeyong his Sapporo over the counter as the rumble of twenty Bosozoku bikes was finally fading into the night, and he downed the drink as quickly as he possibly could.  It was a nice night and he needed to get out into the fresh air.

Taeyong left the bar on the outskirts of Tokyo and rounded the corner to a sidewalk perpendicular to a small alleyway.  Taeyong noticed curiously the sound of what he could only assume was an interpersonal struggle coming from the alley behind Gassan-ya: feet scraping against asphalt, heavy breaths, and urgent growled arguing.  Against his better judgement, perhaps because he had exceeded his usual drink limit, Taeyong decided to investigate, clutching the switchblade he kept in his pocket and tiptoeing cautiously as if attempting to approach a spooked deer.  When he got close enough to see, he found two men in trench coats hovering over the man Taeyong recognized as managing the bar in some capacity.  In the dusky light it was hard to make out anything clearly, but Taeyong was pretty sure at least one of the men held a revolver.  Taeyong tightened his grip on the knife and peeked out from behind a stack of liquor crates since he didn’t know what else to do and his curiosity was getting the best of him.  As if that would save him.  

“I’m sorry, we’re just a little short!” The man on the ground was attempting to explain – his voice hoarse.

“Well we’re sorry, but we need 30,000 for this week.”

“Please!” protested the apparent victim. “We’ll get it to you soon. Just – just give us a couple days.  I’ll do anything you need and we won’t be late again!”

Taeyong assumed the assailants would respond with something, but instead, the man on the ground seemed to spot him spying, their eyes locking, and Taeyong’s heart plunged into his stomach as the men in trench coats turned around and aimed at him.

“Come out, whoever you are,” said the closer one, “hands above your head!”  Were they cops?

Hesitantly, Taeyong crept out from his hiding spot and raised his arms as his lips attempted to form something coherent to say.

“What are you doing here?” Asked the other one.

What was he doing there?    

“I – I heard something.  I thought it might be a mugging…I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”

“Don’t move,” said the first one.  He turned to his partner.  “Take him to the van.  Kid’s a liability.”

“Yes sir!”  The farther one approached Taeyong and all of a sudden, his mind was spinning not just from the alcohol but also from the battle raging in his mind between the urge to run and the knowledge that he could very well lose his life.  If he were a wild animal, he would be playing dead.

Evidently, Taeyong didn’t think quickly enough, because his kidnapper had already reached him and taken off his hat to cover Taeyong’s face with.  He was led to a van, then formally blindfolded and handcuffed and left to wait for the two men to finish doing whatever they planned to do to that poor bar-owner.

The next several hours were the most terrifying and disconcerting thing that Taeyong had ever experienced.  First, they took him into the city to somewhere in Aoyama, he was pretty sure, and proceeded to have a conversation about him as if he weren’t right there with a man named Gwang-suk (Taeyong noted the Korean name with a mixture of comfort and dread).  Should they kill him?  Please, no .  Should they let him go? That would be greatly appreciated .  Should they recruit him?  To do what exactly??? Taeyong had deduced at this point that he was being held by one or another yakuza syndicate, but beyond that he could not have been more lost.  Then, Gwang-suk suggested they take Taeyong to someone named Nakamoto and that was that: back in the car.

A twenty-minute drive and he was marched into another building and shoved into a chair at an oak desk and finally allowed to see his surroundings.  Taeyong heard a man and a woman talking muffled through a wooden door behind the desk which, when it slid open, revealed a handsome man with white hair and piercings wearing a snakeskin suit.  In fact, Taeyong was briefly distracted by just how handsome the man was.

“ Shategashira !” Taeyong’s kidnappers bellowed, saluting the younger man who was now seated at the desk facing Taeyong.

“At ease,” he said coolly in a rounded Osaka accent.

The man on Taeyong’s left spoke.  “We’re sorry to interrupt you and Ms. Hirai, sir!”

“That’s no problem,” said the man Taeyong could only assume was “Nakamoto.”  “Work is always my priority as you know.”

“Of course, sir!”

The two men recounted their version of events with great enthusiasm and Nakamoto listened.  When they were done, he looked at Taeyong straight-on and asked, “is this all accurate?”

The directness startled Taeyong.  “Um – yes, factually that’s more or less it.  But I was never trying to get into any trouble!  I promise I would never talk!”

“Yes,” said Nakamoto, seeming to search Taeyong’s face.  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.  But you see, the Inagawa-kai simply can’t afford any loose ends, as I hope you understand.”  So that’s whose custody he was in, Taeyong realized, only the third largest and second most powerful criminal organization in Japan – maybe in Asia.  No sweat.  

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” Nakamoto asked.

“Taeyong.  Lee Taeyong.”

Nakamoto nodded knowingly.  “Mm, I figured that’s why you ended up here.  I deal with all the zainichi .”  

Nakamoto was the first Japanese person Taeyong had heard say that word without even a hint of distaste and this fact only confused his fear even further.  Taeyong had never felt more helpless.  Here he was, with no idea how anything around him worked nor what it meant, his life so fully in the hands of this beautiful man across from him that it made his head pound.  

“So, Taeyong.  Let’s figure this out.  Where are you from?  What do you do?  Tell me a bit about yourself.”

What is this, a job interview?

“I…well…um, I grew up in Shin-Ōkubo and I uh, still live there.  I work in an auto shop fixing cars.  I’m 24?  What else do you need to know?”

“We’re the same age,” remarked Nakamoto with a slight smile, and Taeyong wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a means of connection between the two men or a subtle jab at Taeyong’s relative lack of status.  Either way, the nervous shaking in Taeyong’s body was beginning to fade as he became more and more confident he was not in imminent danger of death.  However, he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility he was being toyed with.

Nakamoto spoke again.  “How about your family?”

“We’re not very close,” said Taeyong.  “We only speak very occasionally.”

“Well,” Nakamoto responded, “we’re similar in that regard as well.  Do you have a criminal record?”

Taeyong was a bit taken aback by the question, but he was speaking with a gangster, so it wasn’t too out of the blue.  “I’ve stolen some shit, but I don’t usually get caught.  Spent a couple nights in jail for property damage a while ago.  Things like that, I guess?  I was sort of in a gang with my close friends in high school, but we didn’t do much other than loiter.  When I tried to join more established gangs I was rejected.”

“I see,” said Nakamoto, “well you could still always join a gang, if you haven’t already outgrown that impulse.”

Was this the recruitment his kidnappers had mentioned?  How on earth to respond?  “Oh?”

Nakamoto laughed, a sharp sound.  He was apparently done dealing with his victim and turned to the larger of the men who had abducted Taeyong.  “Find someone to go back home with him and monitor him tonight.  I think we’ll make him a foot soldier.  It’s better than the alternatives.  Understood?”

“Yes, Shategashira !”

Yuta turned back to Taeyong, who had gone tense against his chair.  What’s a foot soldier?  For Inagawa-kai? Would he have a gun?  Could he even fire a gun?? What were those alternatives that would be unspeakably worse??? And what was he supposed to say to his boss????

Nakamoto addressed Taeyong one more time.  “I hope you understand that this is for your own good and that you won’t resent me. I'm confident that we can come to an understanding.  I’ll be seeing you soon.”  And with that, Nakamoto was back out the door and Taeyong was once more being hauled to his feet.       

ray’s m.list

this is all my writing so far! also this m.list will most definitely change in the future but for now this is good at the moment i’ve only written bucky fics but i have other ones in the works.

as i’ve said before i’m really not good at descriptions

my requests and all tag lists are open

IVE SINCE UPDATED THIS!!! CHECK OUT THIS LINK FOR THE NEW M.LIST

ray’s m.list

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Bucky Barnes

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work in progress

watch your six

desired reality mishap

warnings: violence? language, less than proficient knowledge of shifting, i think that’s it?

reader shifts to the mcu

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twenty-first century liabilities

warnings: ummm.. not many? language (obvi, it’s me), mention of gun fire?, police violence (but not really?)

Bucky goes to his first BLM protest and meets four new friends.

male chivalry

warnings: okay so there is a trigger warning of sexual harassment and attempted sexual assault, language, men being gross, protective!bucky, angst a bit, i think that’s it, if you see anything else let me know

Bucky’s new friends educate him on what it’s really like for women.

social media

warnings: none, maybe a smidgen of language? fluffy bucky, bad description of dancing? idk, there really isn’t anything in this one to be warned about it just super wholesome

The group of four help Bucky set up his socials.

when worlds collide

warnings:there is none, this is like just cute i think

Bucky introduces his group to the Avengers

fuck misogyny

warnings: language, creepy men, feminist!bucky

Bucky uses his newly gained knowledge of feminism to squash misogynistic interview questions.

A Friend of Yours request

warnings: not much, canon lvl violence, some suggestive stuff closer towards to end, language, i think that’s it

The reader grew up with Sharon and was with her during the events of Civil War. She helps out Steve, Sam and Bucky, causing her to flee to Madripoor with Sharon.

A Friend of Yours - pt. 2

warnings: canon lvl violence? SPOILERS FOR TFATWS, (it’s the episodes with yn in it, like rlly) language throughout the whole thing

The reader meets up with Bucky, Sam and Zemo to figure out this Flag Smasher drama

A Friend of Yours - pt. 3

warnings: TFATWS SPOILERS!!!!!, language, canon lvl violence, soft!bucky, some suggestive content

body shots

warnings: smut (unprotected sex, don’t recommend kids) drinking, language

the reader convinced bucky that body shots are hot

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Sebastian Stan

3.10

warnings: language (only a bit), cute Seb, lightly implied smut, i think that’s it

the reader is a singer being interviewed on the late late show and is surprised by the second guest

thanks, vogue <3

warnings: language, fluff, cute seb

*can be read as a continuation of 3.10 or on it’s own*

singer!reader is doing a vogue beauty secrets youtube video with a surprise special guest

pretty

warnings: suggestive content, language, etc.

quick lil drabble of singer!reader

onwards and upwards

warnings: fluff overload, language

singer!reader says i love you for the first time

dm slide

warnings: alcohol consumption, language, nothing else really, it’s just really fluffy i think

the reader is a celebrity who sends a drunk dm to seb

diner girl

warnings: fluffy beginning, language, annoying coworkers, soft!seb (a lil bit), SMUT AT THE END, a lil bit of dom!seb, fingering, vaginal penetration, PROTECTED SEX (wrap it b4 u tap it), google translate romanian, lil bit of aftercare, fluffy ending

the reader is a waitress at a late night diner and meets an interesting new customer

my hero - request

warnings: self-esteem issues, anxiety, toxicity in the fandom, language?

the reader suffers from anxiety and feels bad because of it but seb comforts her and helps her through it

unrequited bucket list - request

warnings: language, smut, angst

the reader is seb’s best friend since childhood and she’s in love with him

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