#There is nothing more insulting than being told that your own hard labor is not yours

[starall-bright]

Any Man Can: Race, misogyny, familial ties, and the issue with idealizing father-daughter relationships

It was never about recognizing that misogyny came from “every man”, just about “any man.” The fact that it can come in various forms and ways from any man is enough. For it to be concerning, it doesn’t have to be “every man”, the fact that it can be “any man” is concerning enough.

It’s weird to me that there was so much emphasis on father-daughter relationships in media and real life to the point that so many mothers and mother-daughter relationships were erased or left out. It somehow doesn’t matter to people that the mother did 9 months of labor making and delivering a child in agony, some becoming permanently disabled in the process, took care of and nursed and raised the child with her blood and sweat in real life. All it took was the child being female for everyone to try to push down the mother and pretend like the father was the maker, which was not only insulting but just...hm

I’m also making clear that I’m not trying to say something like “all mothers good, all dads bad”, no. I recognize that in many cases, there are good fathers. My issue is that the line for being a “good father” is relatively low compared to the line for being a “good mother”, and a father doing a normal thing (like paying attention to his kids in the slightest) is often treated with greater approval and exaggerated “status-giving” than if a mother does much more hard work.

Nothing wrong with being close to your father but. It used to depress me, seeing all this media and societal pandering that “fathers are the biggest supporters in a girl’s life” or “dads are their daughters’ best friends” because I wasn’t close to my dad and I was heavily attached to my mom, and I wish my mother had that recognition - for being my supporter, my best friend. And it mostly stemmed from the fact that I knew that in reality, no girl I knew in my community actually had a good relationship with their dad, or at least, not one that superseded the slightly better relationships they had with their mothers (even if those weren’t too good on their own for some people either). Even the “best father-daughter” relationships was a basis of pure transaction, not unconditional love. It’s always not the horrific physically abusive relationship either, thank goodness. It’s just. dehumanizing in other ways.

There’s a difference between “one or two women have good father-daughter relationships” and “all women must be close to their fathers because women have to be some man’s property, even if it’s not sexually related” and it’s disgusting because you find this in both the East and West. The idealization of fathers and the dehumanization of mothers. The same girls who idealize their fathers at their expense of their mothers for no other reason than the public perception that it’s “better” end up being wives to men like their fathers and then realizing how it was like to be treated as a mother, a woman.

Even when you’re not married, you’re not actually allowed to be anything to your dad other than a very specific kind of woman, nor does your dad actually, truly defend you if you “go astray”. I still remember the time a security guard looked at my 13-year old sister (who was fully-covered in pants and a long-sleeved shirt) exactly once, and my dad noticed. He could have glared at the security guard. He could have told him not to look at her. He could have just moved the car or stayed quiet. He could have asked my sister how she felt. But instead, he hissed to my sister that if she wasn’t wearing a headscarf and abaya the next time we go out, he’d break her legs.

He calls my mother an idiot routinely, even though he is the reason she left her career and studies - to take care of us because he sure as hell couldn’t. He spends all day on his political talkshows as she is forced to cook, clean, take care of the kids, and then he makes fun of her for not knowing much. For destroying her life.

He screams at the top of his lungs if my sisters and I so much as disagree with him over simple things.

He constantly denies anything we accuse of his family, even when our cousins and uncles were abusive to us.

My mother tells us we’re lucky to have him because at least he provides for us. At least he didn’t get married to someone else. 

My mother idealizes her own father over her mother, but never mentions how her father got her married to this abusive man, and how her older sister was married as a child and nearly died in childbirth, and my “precious” maternal grandfather didn’t do jackshit to help her. My mother realizes that she’s become the woman she looked down on, and now there’s no other way to reconcile with this horrific fact other than continue to idealize and apologize for men. Excuse my dad, excuse her dad, excuse everyone else’s men.

One of my friends’ father constantly yells at their wife for giving him 4 daughters and threatens to marry another, while another already had a secret second wife in another country. All the women in my community were once qualified doctors, engineers, lawyers and accountants, now forced to sit or slave away at homes and develop depression, diabetes, fibroids, even cancer because of difficult births, bad conditions, drug abuse from their husbands. Their families don’t support them to go work or study, and the place we lived forbade women of specific backgrounds and races to work anyways. 

Some girls in my age group didn’t even get to go abroad to study in university (as the country we lived in didn’t allow to study in local universities). Their families took them back to Pakistan to get married, and they’d get some admission at a small university there while their husbands and brothers got to go abroad, travel, and later on drag their wives with them as little house slaves. I consider myself extremely blessed that my parents let me study in the West. I consider myself extremely blessed that I don’t have brothers or a husband.

If that’s not bad enough, other women are brainwashed into supporting misogyny and abuse against girls. They hold their little religious circles or tea parties bashing so-and-so’s daughter for getting divorced and not even mentioning that the husband was abusive. The man or boy is never at fault. Such women - gossiping about and looking down at other women- disgust me too. 

Every conversation about a woman or girls somehow ends up making her seem like a failure or a villain. Every conversation about a man or boy has to end up praising him in some way or overlooking his flaws.

It’s one of the reasons why I distrust men and boys in general. Why I don’t forgive easily. Why I don’t partake in so much woman-bashing even if the woman has made a mistake. In my experience, there is nothing more unforgivable than the horrible things men enforce and perpetuate in society. The way they make everything revolve around entirely them. The way they have for centuries.

I’m not talking about your “cute, progressive” dad with sandals and “you can wear anything you like, dear!” exception. I’m talking about the majority of men and boys that I have seen in my life. Fuck them. Fuck the ones who are strangers and fuck the ones in my family, equally. I’m done believing that I can pick out specific men and boys who are good and bad, that whatever the males in my family are is probably better than “those unnamed men outside”. Nearly none of them can be defended. 

I wasn’t surprised that when I came to live in the West again and made new friends, they had similar stories, despite how differently I had imagined things.

One of my friends, atheist, was abused by her grandfather and her father knew but said nothing. Another one of my friends, Mormon Christian, talked about modesty standards and how her father had once physically beat her so badly it left scars. And yet another one of my friends, who comes from an atheist African family, was sexually abused by her teacher. Another was disfigured by an acid attack from someone she had refused to marry. One of my best friends almost got roped into an arranged marriage with a misogynist in America, who planned to cut her off from family, friends and university so she could be his obedient housewife. Yeah, the “land of the free” also has its fair share of misogynists too.

What the leftists in the West trying to perpetuate misgoyny and pick and choose “who” gets to do it fail to understand is that “Muslim” men aren’t better than “Christian men”, and “atheist men” are not better than any other men either. In general, American and European men and African men and Arab men and Desi men aren’t different when it comes to their treatment and views of women. I don’t fall for the fallacious arguments that one group thinks of women better than the other group, that one group of men is acceptable and another isn’t. That it’s okay for one group of men to be misogynyists and not for the other. Misogyny is wrong, period. It’s wrong for African and Desi men to abuse women and girls no matter their skin color or racial background, just as it’s wrong for any other man to abuse women and girls. 

Back to family, I cannot in good conscious even think about the media pushing how “father-daughter relationships are so pure” when my dad and other people’s fathers just showed how men in the real world think. How girls like my friends, my sisters and I were trapped under men like this as the rest of the clueless world gushes about how men who become fathers are so good to and for women. Yes, I’d still say that my father is a better man than some stranger men I’ve come across - that doesn’t mean I defend what he does or thinks about other women and girls, and that doesn’t mean I don’t acknowledge that there are men and boys like him.

We always look for ways to justify at least some men or find a way to sympathize with them, and it’s depressing. I believe that nearly anytime we idealize a relationship with a man in it, we reflect this mentality so much.

“Sure, most men are like that, but Muslim/Christian men don’t - !”

“Sure, you might mean men like that, but your father/husband is someone who protects you, he’s different-!”

“This group of men can’t do that, they’re also oppressed-!”

It’s why I believe you shouldn’t hesitate to criticize a man who deserves to be criticized. It’s why I believe you don’t need to make convoluted reasons to defend a man or call out his crimes. It’s why I believe in the rights and dignity of women and girls above all else, even if I don’t agree with many girls either.

I’m not saying women and girls are angels who do no wrong - far form it, unfortunately, so many women and girls either enable men and/or actively abuse other women and girls too. 

If saying “men and women should be equal” means denying how much of an unfair edge men have held over us for years and erasing the sex-specific oppression and injustices that women and girls have had to face, I wonder if true equality is possible.

I’m saying that regardless of how many women and girls you find who are toxic, nearly none of them will cause the wide-scale societal humiliation, horrors and subjugation that so many men and boys, as a class, have unleashed for generations. It’s why the whole “women can be worse than men” shtick does not at all make sense to me, given what I’ve seen. You will never find a woman who is allowed to have multiple husbands because she’s not happy with the kids she had with a previous husband, you will never find a woman who became a dictator and ordered an army of women to rape and enslave men. You won’t find men gang-raped by groups of women and said groups of women let free. You won’t find a woman who threw acid in the face of a man who didn’t want to marry her. You will never find a woman who has the legal authority to limit and cut down men’s education or healthcare. You do not see women trading off boys in marriage and expecting boys to pop out daughters, you do not see men and boys having their bodies ruined by childbirth and forced intercourse and the depression that results from losing your studies, your career, your life.

But you will find men and boys who can do nearly all of these things. In some cases, who have done all of these things to women and girls and continue to do it.

No, not every man does. But any man can. That’s the danger. And when they do, it’s even more dangerous.

I think if we want to confront the abhorrent sexism against girls and women, we need to be able to acknowledge that it comes from everywhere and, simultaneously, that men and boys perpetuating it makes it much worse.

#radical feminism #east #west #sexism #misogyny #tw mention of abuse #tw mention of forced marriage #tw mention of rape #father #thoughts #mother

[furiousgoldfish]

Personal post about trauma under the cut, extremely upsetting content, do not read if you had narcissistic parents and don't wanna get triggered, I am very sad and mad and it's hard to talk about this. TW child labor, child torture, brainwashing, death threats, narcissistic abuse.

*

I was a hardworking child, I was happy and excited to work, I wanted to be a part of everything that's being done. I noticed work warranted for people to get respect, food, praise, acceptance, and I wanted to work hard so I too would be a part of that. My family lived in a rural area, they kept animals, grew fields of crops, were always in some sort of construction work, so me always being eager to work was pretty much ideal for them, or you'd think that it was. You'd think that.

I was working eagerly and I realized, that unlike for adults, I don't get respect, praise, acceptance, or sometimes even food. It was for some reason denied to me only. And I was still happy to work because I chased that feeling of personal accomplishment, even if there was no rewards. And again, you'd think this is perfectly convenient and ideal to parents who wanted free labour and to give no recognition or praise in return. You'd think that.

But it wasn't enough for them. Father got this idea to take me out to work with him alone, away from home. I remember the place we went to, only as a place I need burned down to the ground before I could breathe again. It was a demolition-construction of a house, and I don't remember how many time I've been there. All I know is, after first few times, I no longer wanted to go. I begged not to go.

I am guessing my father could not bear the looks of me working happily, or even working silently. Me doing everything I was told was not fun enough for him– so he would give me false instructions. As an easy setup for punishment. I did exactly what I was told, and would get screamed at and beaten up. Then forced to keep working in tears, shaking, terrified, injured, while being further berated. And that was only the start.

Even as a child, I was diligent and responsible about doing work, and I know I was getting things done just fine, because, I was doing the sibling's share of chores too. If siblings were called to work, they would simply mess up on purpose so I would be told to repeat it after them, correctly. Sometimes siblings would have me do it and take the credit, which I didn't mind because working made me feel better about myself. It made me feel useful. My mind was already dissociated from my body to the point where I no longer felt exhaustion, pain, strain, or any physical effect work was having on me. I would get berated and shamed if I showed signs of being tired or strained. So my body disregarded it all.

And yeah, that wasn't enough either. I was still sometimes feeling okay. If I was allowed to work alone, and let my mind wonder, if nobody commented on it I knew it was okay.

So this is where they decided to take a step further and disallow me to feel okay at any point. I was humiliated while working to the point of tears. I'd be ridiculed in front of guests. I could no longer enjoy my own thoughts, but constant criticism, insults, accusations and humiliation was raining down on me at every step. And when I was done, with tremendous effort it took to endure this, I would be told 'It would have been better if you had done nothing.' So my insane effort to endure abuse to get things done, was rendered worthless in a second.

Father kept taking me away to work alone with him, and forced me to listen to his monologues, which I hated, because he was boring, wrong and self-obsessed, but I wasn't allowed to say that, or argue. My silent compliance was never enough. He had to hit me. He had to find something to berate me over. He kept inventing reasons. I would clean his entire garage and he'd move a steel closet I couldn't possibly move and berate me for not cleaning under it.

I had a log thrown into my head, causing a head injury, and I had to keep working. I fell and fractured my shoulder so badly I could barely walk; I was brought to a forest to drag logs around, too heavy for me to lift. I was sometimes orchestrated to get injured; father would start a trailer I was standing on the edge of, and forced me to fall by quickly moving forward just enough. I was still expected to work after that. He hit me with a blunt edge of an axe and berated me for standing there. I was told to 'not expect a lift to the hospital'. I was brought to work while starved, grieving, suicidal. I was lied to about where I was going and what would I be doing, and for how long. I was never allowed to stop working.

And the game of giving me wrong instructions and punishing me for doing it 'wrong' never stopped. I caught on and begged for correct instructions. I would ask to explain, how to do it, to show me, anything. 'HOW OLD are you not to know this? I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL YOU! YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW!' And by his rage, I could tell that if I don't do it any way I knew how, I'd be punished instantly. I had no choice but to try – and of course fail, and feel horribly ashamed for 'deserving to get beat up'. Eventually my brain started shortcircuiting at the simplest tasks, I would mess up because I was in terror. I couldn't think.

At this point, I no longer wished to work for people who would inflict violence on me. And that is when I was quckly informed that if I didn't work, I would be killed. Not in those words. It was 'You have to work if you want to live!' followed by 'We can kick you out and you will starve on the street. Nobody will take you in. There is no place for you. Nobody wants someone like you. You don't deserve to eat if you don't work.' My choices were taken away. If I still refused, the result would be to beat me and force me to work injured, shaking and crying.

All this, for what? I would have been HAPPY to work. I would have been chasing my little daydreams and singing the pokemon tune, and if I was ever praised, I'd be the happiest kid on the block. I was a kid who liked to work. I wanted minimal fairness, minimal acknowledgment. To be a part of the family. Only that.

It just wouldn't do for the narcssistic father. Watching a child be broken, terrified and shaking, crying, ashamed, guilty, working past exhaustion, in injuries, was just too tempting for him to pass up. Even free labor wasn't worth to him as much as the pleasure of child torture. He needed that like it was a drug. What kind of a sick high did he experience, breaking a defenseless kid? What kind of pleasure did it entail, getting someone rid of their natural happiness to work? Was it fun, tearing me into pieces, over and over again? Does he remember it as a delicious, satisfying pleasure? Does he daydream about it? He knew it was wrong; he forced me to stop crying and hide the tears before we went home. 'Don't say anything to your mother.' I was told before being stuffed back in his car.

And now... I can't work. I can't even move sometimes. It was torn away from me. My ability to work was ripped away from my child body when I had no way to defend it or to grab it back and protect what is mine. I can't work anymore. It's terrifying. It terrifies me to not work. Because I was made aware working is the only thing keeping me alive, and capitalism confirms this, so I remain to forever fight with myself about how even if everyone says otherwise, I still deserve to live. Heartbroken, abandoned, with my basic human abilities stripped from me. It doesn't make me deserving to die.

I am so angry and sad. If I had my natural ability to work back, I'd be fine. I would be able to live safely. I wouldn't spiral into feeling like an unworthy member of society. I learned to survive very insecurely like this, but I hate every second of it. To know that instead of this insane uncertainty, anxiety, guilt for being bedridden, guilt for existing and not moving, I could have just found a job, have normal income? I can't bear it. I can't bear knowing this was wrenched away from me, because it was pleasurable to do so, because tearing me into pieces was a fun hobby for people who didn't care if what they were doing to me killed me. And I couldn't have done anything to stop it. And I'm like this now. Unable to take any more torture, unable to endure any more of being triggered, wondering if I would die from lack of resources, or would my body fail permanently in attempts to process all the exhaustion and pain I was dissociated from for my entire childhood.

How was this worth it. How it could have been worth it to anyone, destroying someone's ability to work, only because it's pleasurable. I felt the plan was to work me until I no longer could do it, then kill me. It's what they did to animals. And I was told I was more worthless than an animal. I was called lazy and a monstrous name I can't even translate, that implied I was burdening everyone with my existence.

It was even a bigger punch to my face to realize, after I escaped, that he was profiting from everything I did. That it would have taken money – way more than was ever spent on my survival, to get all that labor done. He was profitting while telling me I was worthless and don't deserve to eat or sleep in his house. He is now renting the place I was broken to help build. I was torn apart and he is still benefiting from it. And I have nothing. Not even a functional body to work with anymore.

I know I'm not the only person who was constantly left alone with narcissists as a child and had this, or worse, done to them. They don't care which pieces of children are left over by the time they're done getting their high. We're only a thing to consume, not living beings, not people, not someone whose life matters. Our pain is food to them. My father readily became a predator who snached his own kid away for torture sessions, and felt proud and fulfilled to turn his own child into a creature who cannot work anymore to survive.

Don't leave children alone with narcissists. I am trying so hard to get better, but facing reality, is this a thing a person gets better from? It's not a bodily harm of once or twice, this was happening for the most majority of my lifetime. It makes sense I cannot move. It makes sense I'm terrified to be triggered into this. It makes sense I can barely bear the reality of it. A person tortured hundreds of times wont just get up and walk away. I can't either. I have to lie here and hope that one day it will get better.

If you read thru all this, and you relate to the parts of this story, know that I am so sorry for what you were put thru. It's devastating and horrenous. If this is how you grew up, it would have been better not to have a family. We all should have been protected from this.

#trauma #personal #i never told anyone about this #don't have the courage #i can only type it online #tw child abuse #tw physical violence #abusive parents #narcissistic abuse #child labor

[bloodycassian]

Enemies and Allies - Reader + Night court. the concept:

enemies forced together in alliance to save their courts. Politics, tension, "Once we're done here I will be the one to kill you." slow burn reader x an Illyrian? Not sure who yet

Part 1 of a possibly reoccurring fic.

You never liked dealing with other courts, but Rhysand and Tamlin were possibly the two worst high lords to deal with. Helion would have been up there too if he wasn't so damn charming. And Beron didn't even count, considering he was your uncle. He was annoying automatically. And a damned fool for not showing up to the funeral. Tamlin was a brute shoved into power much too early. You could tell just from the way he carried himself. No nobility, no grace. Just the brutal beast that lurked under his skin. The way he didn't bother leaving any flowers along the coast line was further proof of his childish ways.   Rhysand was the polar opposite. The epitome of arrogance, grace, poise and political power. All words and strategy, enough to make you double take every time he opened his mouth. Constantly on the lookout for hidden meaning or loopholes in his word choice. He made your heart race with stress.  His spymaster and general though, were like two neutral, yet menacing gargoyles on either side of him. They were unsettling, especially with the shadows that crept over the spy. You tried not to stare at those curling around his shoulders, or the dull siphons that laid on each of their hands. Or the wings.  The wings would have been the worst part if there weren't other winged generals at the funeral. Peregryns guarded their high lord, one at each side much like Rhysand. Only they radiated sunshine, and light and goodness. Still terrifyingly deadly, though. Their polished armor and ceremonial scepters glinting from the overcast skies.  "A funeral should be a celebration... of the life that was. Please, join us." Tarquin said, voice thick. His mate's lip quivered. The ocean crashed against the sand, scooping up the flowers left to honor his son. Your heart squeezed at the tone change in his voice. The way he struggled to hold himself together for his court.  Vivienne turned from the crowd, and Tarquin followed. Her dark hair moved like water over her thin frame. They held each other for a long moment while the Summer court guards ushered guests to the large open beach house. You hesitated, looking out towards the ocean as it roiled. The dark water churned, seagulls overhead made no sound as they passed.  "Its been a long time, Autumn." The sultry voice was enough to make your skin crawl. He had kept the nickname since he'd met you. And in the two hundred years since. He did not forget such a remarkable introduction. Especially of someone who had your kind of power in an opposing court.  His eyes flashed with amusement when you turned, plastering on a charming smile. "I would have preferred longer, but the Cauldron works in strange ways sometimes." You retorted, and began walking away from him, grinding your teeth when he followed with ease.  He laughed and nodded. "Indeed it does, with the passing of Tarquin's only child." the not question was leading, looking to see if you knew anything of the murder. Anger spread though you at the subtle accusation. You couldnt let it show.  You had to keep your calm. Or he would surely suspect something of you. You could practically see the accusation scene play out when Night court invaded Autumn on Summer's behalf. Claiming that Autumn had killed the boy. "A parent should never outlive their own child." You said mournfully. You knew from experience how it ruined families after such a loss.  When you snuck a glance at his face, you could have swore you saw pain there. A longing that you didnt understand coming from him. It almost made you feel bad for him. You jolted yourself, forcing your mind to focus upon on your steps in the sand.  He paused for just a second before opening the bungalow door for you, inviting you to the wake. All courts dressed in mute tones of their colors, not one dared to raise their voice above the hushed murmurs. Rhysand gave a nod to his two generals in the corner, standing like statues. "I'll be seeing you then, Autumn." His eyes met yours and you swore you saw something linger there.  Before you could tell him to knock it off with the nickname, he was weaving his way across the room to the two Illyrians. Stopping every so often to give grim smiles to the families of Summer Court. His actions seemed genuine in nature. You dared not reach out a mental hand to him though, knowing you might not return with it intact.  + "And what of Night court?" Beron's slurred words were familiar. The old man had been wasting away in his own filth for years. After the Lady of Autumn disappeared, he had nothing left to keep him in line. His sons - Eris namely- made the important decisions in the court, but he still acted as ruler. The figurehead for important events and nothing more.  He had also become obsessed with the innate abilities of all the other high lords. Constantly comparing his own lingering power with the others. In two hundred years, his body had seemed to begin to wither. Directly after your birth, some said. And cursed you for their ruler's demise. After the shame of being one of the few courts to refuse to help win the war, Beron had given up completely. Still power hungry, but no longer driven.  "Night court seems to be fine. Not shaken by the murders." You surmised as best you could after your short interaction with the High Lord.  "Was it's high Lady there?" He asked with a grunt of a laugh. He was always undermining the role, laughing whenever you mentioned seeing the lady of Night. "She was not. I believe she was taking care of the babe, as the two generals were there." He shook his head, his gray hair falling in his face. "As a female should." You fought not to cringe or bite back at him. Even if he was your uncle, Beron would be a fantastic target if there was, in fact a murderer loose in Prythian. You shooed the tratirous thought away.  "Tarquin and Vivienne send their regards." You said, hoping he would allow you to take your leave. You glanced around to the cavernous space that encapsulated the dark throne room. The banners on the wall seemed lacking in color. Years of dust likely growing on them. The cracked stone floor showed its age as well, moss growing in the corners. He refused to let anyone touch up the dim room after his wife had gone.  Echoing steps sounded behind you. You turned on your heel calmly, but gripped your sword. Ready to defend your High Lord if needed.  Your mouth fell open at the sight of The Morrigan striding down the long hall. Eris on her heels behind her. She was a beacon of light among the dull ancient stone walls. Eris had a wicked grin on, eyes locked on his father.  +  "The Queens have been killed." She announced, no wavering in her tone. Your stomach hit the floor. Beron said nothing, didnt show any reaction in the slightest. As if he already knew. "And they sent you so I could be assured the court of Nightmares isnt lying?"  "They sent me because I saw to their end personally." Eris even glanced at her with the tone she used. She leveled a look at Beron.  He waved a hand, as if the Night court commander hadn't just announced that the biggest enemies to Prythian were dead."Cut off the head of the snake and more appear." He coughed after the shrug, his breathing labored. Eris hid a pained look that you knew all too well. The denial of his father's life coming to an end in front of him. You could have balked at him for the outright insult but kept your mouth shut. "High Lord.." you began, wanting to consult him on the weight of the situation. He glared at you, that familiar piercing stare that told you to stop whatever you were doing. As a child, that stare was enough to make you behave. You didn't dare think of what more than a stare Eris had to go through during his childhood.  Eris' jaw clenched before he began "Father, the Queens no longer pose a threat. This would be the perfect op-"  "Enough, boy!" Beron's voice echoed in the hall. Your cousin's face went red with shame. Fear settled in your stomach. If Beron  had no plan for moving forces to the continent to stablaise, there would be a power struggle. Even you knew that. "You assume I dont have a plan. We can discuss this when there are no wandering eyes or ears present." His tone was softer, but still laced with that High Lord's authority.  Mor's eyes could have killed them if she had the ability.  She snorted, and turned on a heel to leave. Her footsteps echoing in the long hall. "The Night Court's whore, going back to where she belongs." Beron mused to himself. She stopped dead in her tracks. Eris' face went pale when she turned. Your palms went sweaty at her eyes, like two daggers looking at him. She held up a hand. Light flashed, and suddenly there was a razor thin spear flying through the air.  You ran at The Morrigan before you knew what you were doing. Your hands were a flurry of movement as you tried to keep her down. Eris just watched, unable to move as he watched death race for his father.  A wet splatter, and Beron's chest was punctured by that golden spear. His mouth leaked blood, his eyes closing. Eris was rooted to the spot. Your body locked up, and Mor shoved you off of her with a grunt. She wasnt trying to win the fight, she could have obliterated you in a second if she was. You felt like you weren't in your body. She stood, wiping the blood from her face. You didnt remember hitting her that hard. Your mouth was dry, mind buzzing. Mor waved her hand again and the spear was gone.  "Have all the power you want, Eris. Our deal has been struck. Send your forces to Rask by next week." She scowled at the body on the throne. The male you had just wished death upon. The reality of it made everything fuzzy. Eris was still pale, his eyes not looking away from his father. "We will see you there." He said, voice weak. Distant.  You could only faintly hear Mor Winnow away. The roaring in your head was overwhelming. Your uncle dead on his throne. A hysterical laugh bubbled from Eris' chest. Only one, before you could catch his gaze and see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks. + "You killed the Queens and my father without consulting me first. I hardly think our deal was struck." Eris had been strange after his father's funeral. But for the first time since, you saw a glimpse of the old him. On the move to Rask, he had been that hollow shell he seemed like. Btu as soon as he laid eyes on Morrigan waiting at that tent, he seemed to put on more of a show.  Inside the tent seemed too small. It was enormous, but with everyone inside it was too hot. Too cramped. The sun beating down did not help. The two Illyrians in the corner leering at you and Eris was not helping either. "A deal's a deal young Lord. I suggest you choose your words more carefully next time." Rhys winked. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hold back your tone. "You murdered him. I am being blamed for not guarding him well enough." Your reputation in the court had fallen.  Several Royal court members had been rumoured of your position inside the court, if you should be banished because of the death. None of them knew what actually happened. You and Eris had agreed on a believable story though, whoever had murdered Tarquin's son also reached Beron the night of the funeral. "I did not murder him. My lovely cousin however, did." Rhys drawled with a cat-like grin. It made you see red. Azriel grinned behind him. Those creepy shadows of his seemed more transparent in the sun. Mor glanced to you, her eyes not betraying anything she felt of the kill. You were hoping she would show some remorse for the death. Heat roiled in your stomach at the lack of care.  "Dont act so upset, Autumn." Rhys waved a hand, and you felt those clawd mental hands whisk across your shields. You snarled at him, reaching for your sword. You knew you couldnt win, even on your best of days. That didnt stop you though. Eris placed a hand on your arm. The two Illyrians had their siphon shields glowing in front of their high lord instantly. Rhys laughed calmly despite the tension in the room.  "You did give Mor quite the cut however, and burn it seems. Call it revenge." He folded his hand on the desk, wiping away dirt that wasnt there. Azriel's siphons burned brighter. His wings tightened behind his back. Mor still showed nothing, only looking from her cousin to Eris. Tense, her shoulders and posture radiated the worry. The tension of the room. Eris' jaw locked. He pulled you, willing you to let it go. You weren't proud of the fight with Mor. You wanted Beron to have at least died in an honorable way. But in the recent years with him hardly leaving his seat at the throne or his room at the castle, it made the chance of him seeing battle again nearly impossible.  "Maybe I should have done more." You muttered, sheathing your sword. The shadowsinger stepped forward, chest pushed out. His lips pulled back in a snarl, "Do not-" He began, voice a low threatening growl. "Azriel." Rhys said calmly, voice like honey. You grinned at the Shadowed one.  Rhys sighed and waved his tattooed hand in the air. Wine glasses appeared on the table he sat at. "Let's begin the real discussion at hand." He said calmly, pouring a glass. You glanced to Eris. He hesitated, but strode forward, taking a glass and downing it. + Eris was nearly drunk by the time you helped him out of the tent. After the long hours of dribble and stale conversation about diving resources, you couldnt blame him for having a few extra glasses of wine. He tripped on the rug going out. You caught him, but noticed shadows lingering around his torso.  "Get. Off."  You hissed, Not looking back. The shadows lingered for just a moment, then skittered away. You heard something like a sigh come from one of them as you led your cousin to his tent.

#reader insert #enemies and allies #acotar #acotar fic

[maybe-theres-hope]

Of Will and Wildflowers, Part 1

Tarlos | period drama/grudging acquaintances to lovers | Part 1/3 

Read on ao3

Thank you to @oquinn53 and @resiotcage for cheerleading and reading ahead of time. You both give me the motivation to keep going. 

Title by @oquinn53 :)

By law, TK Strand cannot inherit his father’s railroad empire until he marries. He has absolutely no intention of finding a husband on their trip down to Texas, but he finds himself blindsided by Mr. Carlos Reyes, only son of Doña Marialena Reyes. The problem is that Mr. Reyes resents the Strands coming to buy up parcels of his family’s cattle estate to build a rail line on. TK is perfectly happy to leave him to stew in his anger, as he has no use to see the man after the end of the week. However, TK will find that the heart wants what it wants, and there’s rarely anything one can do about it. 

Set in 1885

Below is an excerpt, full part 1 from the beginning is under the cut!

TK was astonished at his father’s ability to forgive anyone almost anything, but this was almost too far. Mr. Reyes had barely said a word at dinner, and that was only after he’d been forcibly pulled into conversation by Christina. Even then he’d talked of nothing but the weather and cattle movements, and he’d offered a mild chuckle at Elena’s story of her first time riding a horse. He’d spent the rest of the evening simultaneously staring at and avoiding TK.

TK knew this because he’d been doing the same, though he would sooner saw off his own hand than admit to it.

“He insulted us and called us names. He besmirched our honor. He wears brocade to ride in! What on earth makes him a good man?” TK huffed out a breath. He turned to see his father just smiling at him.

“He’s a good judge of a room, anyway. He seldom looked away from you,” Owen ribbed. TK could now see where this was heading. His own father was just as bad as the Doña trying to play matchmaker.

“Parents are far too successful in matching their children up economically, but when it comes to romance, parents are no better off than if they hadn’t known another eligible soul in the world,” TK recited.

“Oh, come now son, I’m not that insensitive! He’s handsome isn’t he?” his father returned, finally dropping the ruse and showing his true colors.

“Handsomeness does not a happy home make,” TK recited again.

“You’ve been reading too many Dame Juliette columns.”

“And you’ve been trying to plot my marriage since we were on the train, and the minute you saw a handsome son on this estate you’ve sealed my fate, have you?” TK groused.

At this, Owen softened his face. “I am sorry for being a bit pushy, but Mr. Reyes is the first man you’ve so much as made eye contact with of late. Is it so odd to wonder what about him brought you out of your self-imposed melancholy?”

“Who said I was out of my melancholy?”

“Your eyes whenever they met his.” Owen’s face was serious, no longer teasing.

“He makes me angry, is all. Anger is an emotion.”

“Yes. Yes it is.” And with that, Owen turned to climb into his own bed, the conversation abruptly halted and TK left wondering what his father thought he’d concluded from their exchange.

Lying on his own mattress across the hall, TK wondered at emotion. Sure, anger was an emotion. A useful one. But so was love, and he was determined to hold out for it.

Part 1

“Ms. Mercer’s proposal looks promising,” Owen says, mostly to himself but loud enough to include TK in the conversation, should he wish to participate. “And Mr. and Mr. Felton-Lowman have quite a sprawl, though it does look to contain more elevation than I was hoping. I thought all of Texas was supposed to be flat?” Owen muses as he tosses the papers back onto his makeshift desk.

TK is only half listening, choosing instead to stare morosely out the window at the passing countryside of the American South, eyes at intervals tracking livestock in the fields and lingering drips from this morning’s light storm rolling down the glass window of the lavish Pullman they’ve commandeered as their vessel for this journey. His father, bless his soul, had tried to get TK to care more about the business as of late, and truth be told, TK was very interested in the workings of his father’s company and he did take great pride in being able to inherit it someday and make his father proud. It was just that recently, he’d had his heart thoroughly crushed by an absolute rake of a man and he’d rather wallow in self pity than think about geological surveys and boundaries for livestock movements.

TK heard his father sigh, a sure sign that a lecture was coming soon. TK took a breath and held it.

“I wish you’d forget about that awful boy, Tyler. You wouldn’t have wanted a life with him anyway. His family was barely polite at best, and scandalous at their worst. Honestly, you got out on the good side of things.” TK wanted to say that he didn’t care about things like status and scandal, he cared about love and commitment.

Turns out all Alexander had been able to commit to was his harem of stable boys and footmen that TK had known nothing about until it was too late.

TK blew out his breath. He knew his father meant well. Owen Strand was not overbearing as some other fathers were, especially with an only child upon whom everything rested. He wished his son to be happy and settled, is all. TK knew this, and still he couldn’t help his sullen reply.

“Yes, father, I shall just forget. Forget every sweet nothing and every second and third dance. Forget every promise and every earnest declaration. Forget that it was all a lie. Yes, my mind shall be rid of Alexander’s presence by sundown. Then we shall celebrate. How simple.” He knew he was being unreasonable, but he wanted to be angry for a while. He’d only found Alexander with Mrs. Howell’s second footman three days earlier. It still stung.

As the train rattled on, closer to a place that TK was of a mind to understand was so far from proper civilization as to be considered exotic, he felt his father’s disappointment cling to him. That hurt worse than what he’d seen Alexander and the footman doing--which was something for which he was sure a name had not been invented yet.

“I’m sorry, father. It’s just that you’ve set this deadline for me with no explanation as to why, and I don’t want to let you down but I’m afraid I’ll never find the right man for me. I had thought it would be Mr. Thompson, but I was mistaken. Sorely mistaken.”

At this, TK looked up to catch his father’s soft look of commiseration. “I know you’re feeling overwhelmed, but you are getting on in age. Most boys are married off by three and twenty, and you’ve gone nearly four years past that. I’m not going to be around forever, you know. You need to secure a match that makes you happy, but you’ll need to do it sooner rather than later.”

“Why, father? Why must I rush such a momentous decision? You are in perfect health! I have another five or ten at least!” At this, he caught a very minute shift in his father’s countenance, something like pain, but it was gone in an instant. His father was the most stoic man TK had ever had occasion to meet; if he was in pain at all, no one would ever know. It must have been a trick of the flickering pre-dusk light coming through the windows of the train car. Owen took on a playful tone.

“Five or ten? What respectable young lad would want to marry a man of thirty-five? You’d practically be spinster by then,” he joked fondly.

“You’re a good deal past thirty-five and I’ve still seen twenty year old Miss Brinkman making eyes at you across the dancefloor of an evening. If I’ve inherited your genes I’ve nothing to fear,” TK shot back with a barely there smirk.

“Thank heaven for us all, but you’ve got your mother’s beauty. I couldn’t have asked for better,” Owen said quietly. TK’s mother had been gone these past ten years. A bout with pneumonia that the doctors could not cure had taken her from them. “But you do have my charm, I’ll allow you that. You should put it to use down south. Perhaps a cattle baron might catch your eye?”

“Oh by God, no. I couldn’t imagine whiling away my days on a smelly farm trying to read reports by moonlight and taking my sullen and fatigued husband to bed only for him to fall asleep minutes after his head hits the pillow. No romance in hard labor, that’s for sure.” TK shuddered a bit to think of life on an actual farm, constantly smelling of hay and manure like some streetsweeper back in Manhattan.

“I do believe successful cattle barons can afford more than a few tawdry tallows, Tyler,” Owen quipped with a smirk before turning his attention back to the maps and surveys scattered in front of him. The conversation that, just moments ago, had been fraught with uncertainty and earnestness seemed to flutter into the wind. TK and his father were like that most times: they’d lay things out on the table between them, and if it clearly couldn’t be resolved in a single good-natured quarrel, they both gave themselves time to regroup to resume the discussion at a later date.

For this particular subject, TK was coming to think of that ‘later date’ as a cuff slowly tightening around his wrist, the chain binding him to his destiny getting shorter and shorter.

He looked down at his hands, privileged hands that hadn’t had to do much manual labor in his life, save for the few times his father took him to the yards to show him how things were run. Owen, on the other hand, was an entirely self-made man, who saved and invested his earnings working for Vanderbilt and made enough to purchase his first railcar at just twenty. He contracted it with the Erie and charged passengers thirty-five cents for passage between New York and Boston. From there it only grew, to what was now a very respectable business, looking to lay lines of their own. Perhaps not the largest--that was still Vanderbilt’s claim--but certainly a player on the board.

And it would all be TK’s if he could just hurry up and fall in love already.

_______

The carriage from the station drove them twenty miles through gorgeous hill country. The cattle and horses grazed on rolling plains that swelled gently as they approached the horizon. It was warm, but not unbearable, which TK attributed to the absence of industry steaming and smoking and saturating the very air in one’s lungs as it did in Manhattan. Furthermore, despite the over-abundance of livestock surrounding them, the smell was far more pleasant than he was used to. TK could not help but conclude upon this observation that maybe it was not the horses that stunk, but the people. After all, fresh air was a luxury very few could afford, and they usually had to go thousands of miles to get it, such as he and his father were doing now.

Still, he held to his earlier affirmation that he could not see himself making a life in a place such as this. Despite the fact that he’d concluded they apparently smelled horrid, TK loved being around people. He supposed that was to be attributed to being an only child, and having no siblings underfoot to raise ruckus and otherwise pierce the silence that hung heavy over their home of late. Even though he’d not experienced that kind of life, he’d always hoped to make a large family of his own, his husband and he adopting ten or more children to raise and fawn over. TK had never considered for a moment that he wouldn’t be a father, regardless of his proclivity for finding only men attractive in any way. Some of that persuasion chose to remain as partners only, bequeathing their fortunes, such as they were, to their universities or other charitable pursuits. But TK had always wanted a house full of mouths to feed and hearts to warm.

He dreamed about the day when he could look over at his husband, gray-haired and body-bent, and smile at what they’d created.

Except it did not seem as though he would be acquiring a husband any time soon, and that thought vexed him more than he let on to his father. Yes, he agreed that he was getting on in years as far as marriageable age for young bachelors was concerned, but his one universal truth was that he would not settle for someone who was not the love of his life. That conviction, though others called it foolish, was the great constant that ran through every interaction TK had with any handsome man he happened upon.

He was determined to uphold that promise to himself, no matter how many years passed. If the right one came along, he’d know it. No matter for the moment, anyway, as he was doubly sure he’d not meet the love of his life in the middle of cattle country.

As the carriage rounded another gentle swell, a rather large bright structure came into view. TK put his hand up to shield his eyes for a moment, as it seemed the very sun shone out of the building. As they drew closer to the drive—lined with giant oak trees on each side like twenty such sentries—it became apparent that the house was not radiating light, but reflecting it. Every upright surface was covered with glittering textured limestone, something TK had seen here and there on their travels through the southern states. Also something they had encountered before was a grievously oversized stoop—which these people called porches—that spanned the entire width of the house, and it was evident that it wrapped around to the sides as well. It was dotted here and there with rocking chairs and benches, each with a wool blanket or cushion thrown haphazardly onto the seat to aid the sitter’s comfort on the otherwise hard wood surface.

They reached the house after a long drive up, and the carriage deposited them at the bottom of the steps up to the grand estate. TK had seen mansions in Manhattan and beyond, but this house was like a full government building. It was massive. He wondered how many people lived here.

As their driver helped them from the carriage and began to let down their luggage, a shriek of delight could be heard just inside the door. TK jumped for a moment, not expecting such a sound in such a peaceful place, before he was bombarded with the view of three bright young ladies in finely detailed seersucker and bustled skirts.  

“Oh, you’ve arrived at last!” the one who looked to be the eldest exclaimed. She was tall, at least half a foot taller than the other two, with ink black hair tied up in neat chignon. Her sleeves accented delicate wrists and her waist was nipped down modestly. She smiled like TK and his father arriving was akin to a grand parade, when really they resembled world-weary travelers who could barely un-stoop their backs from so long inside the carriage. The other two young ladies—girls really—giggled behind their hands. They bore a strong resemblance to the elder; certainly they were all sisters.

Ever the gentleman, TK removed his hat to gesture to the ladies, who gave curtsies in answer. Owen did the same, and received curtsies that went just a bit deeper. “Good afternoon, ladies,” Owen called with a smile. “I was told I could meet directly with Doña Marialena upon our arrival.” He quirked his eyebrow up in question, even though it was perfectly plain that none of these girls was old enough to be the proprietor of this estate, unless they had been sorely deceived. TK thought he might admire someone capable of extending that sort of ruse for as long as they’d been corresponding with the Doña. But alas, a moment later, a much older woman who resembled quite strikingly all three ladies gathered on the porch emerged from the wide open front door.

The Doña was an intimidating woman on her own, but the height afforded her by their current positions made it seem even more so. TK tucked his hat into his elbow and bowed low, following his father’s action. The older woman bent her knees a bit, and TK noticed she did not descend the steps to meet them, but instead kept her position above, behind her daughters.

“Welcome to La Hacienda Reyes, gentlemen,” she intoned in a very slightly accented, gravelly voice. It should have sounded harsh, but it just sounded well-used, as though she’d employed it many times to shout at her daughters for their impropriety at scurrying out to meet guests on the lawn without their bonnets, as she looked apt to do right this very second. TK did not mind their state of dress so much, as rules were getting a little more lax for the younger set these days, especially in the city. Though, now that he thought about it, these country folk might be a mite more traditional, but he let the thought fade into obscurity as the Doña smiled softly down at him a moment later, as if sharing a secret.

He and Owen approached the steps as the Doña descended to meet them. Owen made their introductions as TK took her hand in his, giving a small bow as was customary. He let his father lead the conversation as he made his way over to the daughters assembled on the lawn. He kissed each of their hands in turn, learning that their names were Christina, Elena, and Raquel, from eldest to youngest. He was also informed that Christina was not the eldest in the household; her sister Rosa was ten years her senior and married, and she and her wife were summering on the East Coast.

As Christina regaled TK with how wonderful and filled with revelry their visit was to be, a lone figure appeared at the edge of his vision, galloping up quite swiftly on horseback. The animal was beautiful, sleek and black and moving with its rider as though they were one. As they drew closer, Christina also lit on to the approaching figure.

“Oh, there’s my brother. Mamà will have his head for not meeting you directly, as the man of the house should. Even though he won’t inherit, she still insists he accompany her when seeing to the business of the estate, especially when Rosa is away.”

“I’m sure he had urgent business to attend,” TK offered, however he did not know what kind of business a man in fine brocade—as he could now see the golden threads shining in the Texas sun—would have out in the fields. “We did arrive earlier than expected, I believe. Our apologies.”

“Oh, no. He wished to stay away. I’m of right mind to assume he thought we’d already be inside by now and that’s why he’s made his appearance, and he’ll be sorely thwarted to see us still about.” She fought to hide a smirk, and TK was intrigued. However, he didn’t have time to contemplate on the apparent lack of manners of the man of the house before the man in question was upon them.

He was invariably handsome, that much was clear on his approach. He had tanned skin that shone in the rays of the afternoon sun, and curls atop his beautiful head that caught that same light and transformed into blacks and browns and golds as he moved. He was fit and tall, as TK could tell even from his seat on the horse, and he commanded an air about him that sang with regality. As he disembarked from the saddle, TK was struck dumb at the fluidity of his movements. It was as if he was still galloping along with the horse, moving slowly and rapidly at the same time, body deliberately placing itself where it needed to be rather than flinging his limbs about as some proud men were wont to do when they felt the urge to assert their authority.

As he turned to face the gathered group and at last revealed his face from a close angle, TK was struck dumb. This man was gorgeous. Exquisite. A dream made flesh. TK could all of a sudden imagine what this man looked like when he smiled, when he was upset, when he was elated, when he cried. He could picture a thousand candlelit dinners at the Fifth Avenue Hotel across from this man, surreptitiously dragging their toes against one another under the table, faces and hearts alight with the impropriety of doing such a thing in public, but being too enamored of each other to care.

He could picture all of this so clearly and crisply that he could almost smell the gardenia adorning the little vase upon the table. That was, until the man opened his mouth.

“Gentlemen,” he spit, as though the word were a curse upon their persons. He turned to the Doña and intoned in a volume that was surely meant to be overheard but made as if to seem secretive, “Mother, I thought you said only one was coming. We must entertain two greedy industrialist blackguards for the whole of the week when we’ve not even fully migrated the herd?”

At this, Doña Marialena did not even flinch. She simply leaned in closer to her son and spit out a quick succession of words no doubt meant to silence his gaucherie, but which only served to wind his already pinched countenance into a tighter knot. When their short exchange had ceased, he looked mildly chastised but still as though he would rather be anywhere than here, meeting TK and his father on the front lawn. However, after receiving that nearly silent dressing down from his mother in front of their guests, he screwed his face into a more acceptable visage, and approached Owen, who was holding out his hand.

Doña Marialena made their introductions, “Carlos, this is Owen Strand and his son, TK. Mr. Strand, this is my son Carlos. Please excuse his horrendous manners.”

Carlos took Owen’s hand. “Welcome to our Hacienda, sirs. You are from New York, is that correct?”

“We are. Nearly a fortnight’s journey to get here, but it was beautiful country to pass through,” Owen answered in a friendly tone, unfettered by the exchange of impropriety that had just taken place and determined to move into more friendly territory.

“Ah, well. Let us hope your trip was not in vain,” Carlos answered with a barely there sneer. He turned to TK and offered his hand as Owen and the women turned to shuffle inside the house.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Reyes. I hope we can find some mutual agreement that is beneficial to all in this endeavor,” TK said solemnly while shaking the man’s hand. He’d abruptly become determined to dispense with all amorous thoughts of this abhorrent man. He and his father were here to do business, attend a party or two, and leave with contract in hand, and nothing more.

“There is nothing beneficial to my family about breaking off pieces of our home to sell to ardent capitalists,” Carlos hissed in a volume meant only for TK. “My grandfather’s blood is boiling in his grave as we speak.”

“Well then I suppose it is advantageous for us that you are not the one making decisions about the estate. Your mother seems quite keen to receive the compensation of ‘ardent capitalists’, as you say. Perhaps there are some issues with the household which require assistance which you, as third born, were not made privy to, sir.” TK could not help himself, and shot back the jab without thinking it through. It was ill-bred talk of money in the open, and much more so to bring it up in a first meeting, but Mr. Reyes was the one who’d alluded to finances first, so TK felt little remorse upon seeing the other man’s face flash with indignation.

Mr. Reyes looked as though he wished to lob one last verbal volley at TK, but seemed to think better of it which was a surprise given his utter lack of tact until that moment. He turned away from TK with a last look of barely tempered rage in his brown eyes and made his way up the steps and into the house.

TK followed, determined not to ponder on why that look had given him gooseflesh in a way that did not suggest fear for one’s life, but rather intrigue at what other thinly veiled emotions his own words could make those eyes flash with.

_______

Dinner was a modestly lavish affair. The table was adorned with yellow roses, to symbolize friendship and cooperation, which TK thought was a nice touch from the staff yet ultimately ineffective.

Well, possibly not entirely ineffective, as his father was currently wooing and entertaining the four women at the table with his usual easy charm, and they all seemed to be devouring his anecdotes and quips with good spirts.

It was Mr. Reyes that seemed out of sorts with the rest of the party. Even TK himself was beginning to forget their fraught exchange on the lawn and give in to the revelry of the evening. Truth be told he was glad to be at table with someone other than his father, who tended to give him pitiful looks and well-meaning advice about his recently broken heart. TK also had to admit that along with the laughing women, even Carlos himself was a nice change. His presence gave TK something to focus on other than thinking of his failed chance at happiness.

As it was, TK had already forgotten that he’d vowed he would not focus on Mr. Reyes at all.

“Your father tells me you are six-and-twenty and still a bachelor? How ever have you managed that?” The Doña asked across the table. Given his current preoccupation, TK didn’t even take the slightest bit of offense from the statement. It was helped along by the kind look in her eyes.

He gave a bashful chuckle. “Hard work and perseverance, ma’am,” he joked, and the table laughed along with him, save for one. “I’ve simply not encountered the right match, I’m afraid.”

“If he was married to the work, I’d be less anxious, but alas…” Owen trailed off with a good natured smile. Even with all his father’s nagging, TK knew in his heart that his father wanted his son to be happy and unhurried in choosing a husband.

“I’m holding out for my perfect compliment. Is that so naive?”

“Maybe not for a man in such good standing as you. I’m sure you have suitors left and right vying for your attention, Mr. Strand,” Elena said from across the table.

“I’m afraid at the moment I am quite unadorned with neither suitors nor passing interest,” he answered her.

“I, too, am similarly afflicted,” Elena mourned with a sigh. TK thought she couldn’t have been more than seven-and-ten, quite young to be so concerned. Then again he thought perhaps the country was different than the city. The Doña was mature to be sure, but she looked much younger than he’d thought a woman with a child of more than thirty years—as had been hinted about the absent Rosa—would look. She must have been wed around Elena’s age after all.

“Oh hush, sister. Your situation is not nearly as dire as mine,” Christina said. She placed the back of her hand to her forehead in an affected swoon. “Whenever shall I leave the nest?”

“When someone who possesses such a lack of wits that it precludes them from knowing better comes to sweep you off your feet,” said Raquel. Her sister gave her a scathing look before smirking and presumably kicking her lightly under the table. The younger sister just giggled and went back to her meal.

As TK watched the family interact, lightly teasing each other good-naturedly but never outright insulting each other, he could sense the love and connection among them. Oh, how he longed for a large family such as this someday. Surrounded by his children and their love for each other that ran so deep as to assure each and every one of them that no matter what was said in jest, they were always seeded first in the minds of the rest.

Even with all the lighthearted conversation going on at table, the sole Reyes son was still silent. TK thought it odd that such a stoic, contemptible man could be born into a family of such vibrant women; he was surrounded by their vivacity every day and still he was unmoved to even smile into his potatoes at their revelry. The rest of them also seemed to sense that Mr. Reyes did not wish to partake in the lively conversation, as none of them moved to include him. The Doña glanced to her son every now and then, and TK couldn’t have said her expression looked reproachful (as he would have agreeably afforded her) but it did not look content either.

Perhaps this was not usual behavior for Mr. Reyes. If that was so, then it really was the Strands’ arrival that had put him out of sorts and TK had no recourse to remedy that at present. He and his father were here for business that must be conducted, and Mr. Reyes would just have to live with that.

The Doña had apparently noticed TK going quiet among the ruckus and subsequently had noticed his earlier gaze flickering around the family accompanied by a soft smile. It seemed as though she’d misinterpreted his attentions, however.

“Perhaps the perfect compliment is sooner encountered than you think.” She gave a very slight incline of her head, seemingly meant to indicate Christina, who was sitting to her right and had proceeded to blush so profusely TK was momentarily concerned for her health. He endeavored to be diplomatic but firm against the Doña’s clear initiative, which was impossible for anyone at the table to miss.

“Ah, your family is lovely, Doña, but I fear your son and I would need to converse at length before we could find views on which we do not differ at the moment.” It was part lighthearted joke, part barely concealed jab at Carlos, and part signal of his preferences, so as not to invite any more ideas about betrothing him to one of the daughters.

Alas, he did not miss the Doña’s sharp eye turn to her son before landing back on himself in quick succession. Given their greeting, the Doña should not rightly expect there to be any amorous feeling available between them. Her face relaxed after a moment, and she returned her gaze to the rest of the table. TK did not feel cowed, per se, but the weight of her scrutiny could still be felt upon his cheeks. He was immediately given to wonder what could be contained behind those steady brown eyes, so like her son’s.

As the conversation resumed—Christina was finally ribbing her brother for his lack of mirth this evening—yet again TK found himself studying Carlos Reyes, handsome specimen that he was. But the cut of a man’s jaw and the shine of his eyes did not a welcome companion make, in TK’s view. Sure, he’d lost himself for a moment in the man’s fluidity of movement, the low timbre of his voice, the fire in his expression. But the measure of a man is in his actions, not his appearance. A man can appear any way he wants to; it is his behavior that epitomizes his character. Carlos Reyes had shown himself to be headstrong, closed-off, and prejudiced. TK had no use for such a personality. Carlos could while and wallow away his days alone for all TK cared. He would leave here with no attachments and that would not be a hardship.

Just at that moment, the man in question met his eyes. They stared for a moment, caught in some trap of unconscious strain, seemingly bound to the attempt to find the measure of each other in a single look. When TK looked away first, he felt as if he’d lost some contest.

When he chanced a glance toward the man again, he found his gaze hadn’t wavered but was now more open than it had been since they’d met, which admittedly was not to say much.

Later that night, when Christina had shown them to their guest rooms, Owen made an observation as they dressed for bed.

“The girls are quite well-bred,” he stated, apropos of nothing. The caliber of the family had no bearing on the land, therefore it was of little interest to them in coming into this negotiation. At least, that is what TK believed. His father, it was apparent, thought differently. “And Doña Marialena is a fine head of the household. She has taught her children well.”

At this, TK scoffed.

“And her son is quite adept, don’t you agree?” Owen continued as he hung his dinner jacket away. “A good man who knows the value of family and home.”

TK could not let this statement slide. “A good man? He’s an absolute cad!”

“Oh? He was perfectly cordial during dinner. There was that snafu when we arrived, but that was cleared up quickly. I say, he’s a fine man.” TK was astonished at his father’s ability to forgive anyone almost anything, but this was almost too far. Mr. Reyes had barely said a word at dinner, and that was only after he’d been forcibly pulled into conversation by Christina. Even then he’d talked of nothing but the weather and cattle movements, and he’d offered a mild chuckle at Elena’s story of her first time riding a horse. He’d spent the rest of the evening simultaneously staring at and avoiding TK.

TK knew this because he’d been doing the same, though he would sooner saw off his own hand than admit to it.

“He insulted us and called us names. He besmirched our honor. He wears brocade to ride in! What on earth makes him a good man?” TK huffed out a breath. He turned to see his father just smiling at him.

“He’s a good judge of a room, anyway. He seldom looked away from you,” Owen ribbed. TK could now see where this was heading. His own father was just as bad as the Doña trying to play matchmaker.

“Parents are far too successful in matching their children up economically, but when it comes to romance, parents are no better off than if they hadn’t known another eligible soul in the world,” TK recited.

“Oh, come now son, I’m not that insensitive! He’s handsome isn’t he?” his father returned, finally dropping the ruse and showing his true colors.

“Handsomeness does not a happy home make,” TK recited again.

“You’ve been reading too many Dame Juliette columns.”

“And you’ve been trying to plot my marriage since we were on the train, and the minute you saw a handsome son on this estate you’ve sealed my fate, have you?” TK groused.

At this, Owen softened his face. “I am sorry for being a bit pushy, but Mr. Reyes is the first man you’ve so much as made eye contact with of late. Is it so odd to wonder what about him brought you out of your self-imposed melancholy?”

“Who said I was out of my melancholy?”

“Your eyes whenever they met his.” Owen’s face was serious, no longer teasing.

“He makes me angry, is all. Anger is an emotion.”

“Yes. Yes it is.” And with that, Owen turned to climb into his own bed, the conversation abruptly halted and TK left wondering what his father thought he’d concluded from their exchange.

Lying on his own mattress across the hall, TK wondered at emotion. Sure, anger was an emotion. A useful one. But so was love, and he was determined to hold out for it.

_______

The morning after their first night in La Hacienda Reyes, TK woke with renewed energy to be devoted to forgetting Carlos Reyes even existed.

This endeavor proved extremely difficult when upon descending the stairs to the foyer, the man in question was seemingly awaiting him, pacing across the marble floor with agitated clicks of his boots. The sight brought TK up short, and he consequently forgot that his father was just behind him, causing Owen to collide into his back and sending TK tripping down the last two steps—

Straight into Mr. Reyes’ arms. They were pressed together so tightly for a moment that TK swore he could feel the other man’s exhales as they left his nostrils, softly caressing TK’s cheek as they went. One of his hands was gripped tightly on TK’s shoulder while the other had instantly wound its way around his waist to steady him.

It took TK an inordinate amount of time to catch his breath, all the while feeling that very firm body against his. As his senses returned, he felt himself blaze with the most furious blush at the proximity, and hurried to right himself. He nearly butted his head into the other man’s nose in the process, but proceeded to stand upright without further incident. He set about straightening his waistcoat before looking up and catching Mr. Reyes’ eye almost by mistake.

The other man seemed just as red in the face as he. They held each other’s gaze for a split second longer before TK was violently reminded that the incident had not happened in private, but that the whole of the ghastly encounter was overseen by his own father.

Owen asked, much too late in TK’s opinion, “Are you alright son? I apologize for being so clumsy there,” he added in address to Mr. Reyes.

The man of the house was the first of the pair at the bottom of the stairs to regain use of his tongue. “It’s quite alright, sir. No harm done.”

“That’s true, as you were here to prevent it. Lucky, that.”

TK thought to himself that he would like to disappear from this mortal plane rather than be party to his father’s smug innuendos, especially after their conversation last night and TK’s renewed vows of thoroughly avoiding the man of this house.

Mr Reyes, however, seemed unattuned to Mr. Strand’s jabs, and simply addressed them both again cordially.

“Good morning to you both, I hope you slept well.” They replied that they had, as was proper, despite TK’s own thoughts. He wasn’t about to share that . “I’ve actually come to offer you a tour of the grounds at my mother’s behest, and also in apology for my unmitigated rudeness upon your arrival.”

TK was inclined to believe the apology was also at the Doña’s behest, if not absolutely forced. She seemed a formidable enough woman to demand decorum from her adult son.

“I understand your company is pursuing the land in the northwest quadrant of the estate. It would be my pleasure to take you there so that you can survey at your leisure.”

“So early?” Owen asked. They had not yet broke fast.

“Yes sir, in order to avoid the humidity of midday, I thought we’d ride out closer to dawn. Our cook has packed some provisions in lieu of the breakfast meal.” At this, he gestured to a medium sized basket atop a side table by the door, apparently from which the scent of bacon—as TK had just caught on the air—was emanating.

To be quite honest with himself—which he would admit much, much later was not very honest at all—TK was not at all looking forward to spending the morning with Mr. Reyes and his ridiculously dashing seat on a horse. His father being there would temper his mood, but he’d rather spend the day walking about on his own, soaking in the fresh air and solitude of the country. Or even alongside his father and the Doña, negotiating the sale of her land, as Owen had expressed his desire that TK begin immersing himself in the business and he saw no better time than now, in avoidance of any extra time spent in Mr. Reyes’ presence.

The man made him hot around the collar and jittery, and the real problem was that TK was even more angry that neither of those emotions were particularly loathsome at the moment and he could not explain to himself why.

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Mr. Reyes. Unfortunately, I really must sit down with your mother and ask her about some specifics regarding the provenances, so I must decline your kind offer.” At this, he turned to TK, who was already giving him wide eyes of panic before he even opened his mouth. “TK, would you be so kind as to accompany Mr. Reyes around the property? You know the general gist of what we are looking for, and you can report back to me with what you find. I’d really appreciate your help on this, TK.”

The man was practically grinning like a fool. TK thought he might keel over right there on the marble tiles of the Reyes’ foyer.

Mr. Reyes’ face was unreadable at the moment, but TK could imagine the line of his thoughts. The two of them no more wanted to spend time with each other alone than either would want a hole in the head.

Mr. Reyes, however, was the first to recover from the abrupt change in plan, with a direct capitulation that TK could have punched him for, had he been a less tactful man. “That…would be agreeable,” he said haltingly. He turned to look at TK, who schooled his countenance into something less vile than he felt this turn of events warranted. “Would that please you, Mr. Strand?”

Would it please him? Absolutely not.

“Of course, Mr. Reyes,” he said tightly, resigned to his fate. “I look forward to seeing your lovely estate and hearing its history.”

Mr. Reyes looked almost surprised at his cordiality, and TK congratulated himself on his capability of social falsehood.

_______

Their journey was to take them from the back of the house out and around the northwest corner of the ranchland where they would stop to breakfast at a small manmade lake and then south to the orchards, through which they would find themselves back at the west side of the house. All told, Carlos informed him, the trip would take them for six miles. TK resigned himself to a morning of misery, and judging by his would-be companion’s face, he was not alone in that regard.

Their basket of provisions securely fastened to Mr. Reyes’ saddle, and both saddles securely fastened to their mares, the pair set off in silence other than Owen’s shout of farewell from the porch.

They strolled along at a leisurely pace—too slow for TK’s regard—for quite a while before either spoke. Mr. Reyes looked over to TK with a judgemental eye before saying, “Watch for snakes in the grass. Flor will not spook at them, but she will spook if you do.”

“I’m not afraid of snakes,” TK snapped, although he couldn’t rightly say he’d ever seen one up close. “Furthermore, I am high on this horse, why would I worry about something as low as a snake?”

“Rattlers can jump. They’ll have your boot off and will have half devoured your leg before you can think to turn the horse.”

TK whirled to look at him, consequently causing Flor to twist toward Mr. Reyes and Jimena, putting them much closer than TK would like after their bout that morning. He knew his face was a mask of barely concealed horror, the image Mr. Reyes’ words had conjured up no less than tremendously frightening to a city gentleman.

Mr. Reyes’ face, however, was all mirth; his cheeks were reddening in the effort of holding back his obvious laughter, which he gave up the moment TK noticed his ruse.

“That was a bold-faced lie and you are a scoundrel for it,” TK muttered, feeling teased.

“I’ll take that judgement just to see the terror on your face again,” Mr. Reyes laughed. TK was determined not to acknowledge that the man had a nice laugh, a full bodied, soft-edged one that sent warmth down to the tips of TK’s toes. TK was also determined to keep the scowl upon his face for the whole of this journey, never mind the wrinkles he was likely to develop. Curse this loathsome cowboy and his ill intentions and his shining curls and his full lips. They lapsed into silence again for another half mile.

In his endeavor to ignore his companion, TK failed to notice how he was being closely regarded by said companion. He should have been able to feel the gaze upon the side of his face like sunlight as heavy and warm as it was, but alas he remained ignorant of it in favor of the beautiful countryside.

TK began to notice little strains of wildflowers growing on the gentle swells of hills here and there, their elevations no more than four or five feet. It was like looking at someone’s floral bedding that had been disturbed in sleep and not righted in the morning; soft, loved, and lived in, a safe place to come back to at the end of the day, a warm comfort to calm the tumultuous stresses one was apt to battle in the waking hours.

“The red and orange ones that reach toward the sky are called Indian Paintbrush,” Mr. Reyes intoned softly causing TK to turn his gaze away from the flowers in a startle. It had been so quiet he’d almost forgotten his company. “There,” Mr. Reyes pointed, urging TK to return his focus to the flowers. “That line there is all paintbrush. And the purple spiked ones are Horsemint.”

“Why are they so named? Do they taste of mint?” TK wondered aloud.

“I’m…not sure. I’ve never had occasion or urge to eat one. Perhaps the name means only horses would taste the mint, but Flor and Jimena do not seem so inclined either.” His chuckle was tacked on at the end, but it didn’t feel accusatory this time. It sounded as if TK had honestly stumped him with his question and he was considering the answer in earnest, but had ultimately come up short of a correct guess.

TK focused again on the sweeping little hills as they continued to trot along. “And the pink ones? What are they called?”

“Ah, I believe those are Evening Primrose. Those are the most prominent of the wildflowers here, as I’m sure you can tell. Quite boring to look at compared to the others, but a constant nonetheless.” His tone gave TK the impression that he, too, found the fields of flowers calming. It would make sense, seeing as this was his homeland. Or…was it?

“Have you always lived here? Or did your family come into the property recently?”

“My great-grandfather purchased the land at a pretty steep discount in twenty-six, just a couple of years after the Colonization Law took effect. He came far enough north that he wouldn’t be too crowded in with the rest of his countrymen, and settled the bit to the south of us, where the house is located. He did build it, but it was not as large as it is now. It’s been expanded with both generations since, I believe.”

“Your great-grandfather came from Mexico to settle?”

“Technically, this was Mexico still when he came, since the war for Independence was not won until thirty-six. But yes, he came from Guadalajara. He thought less over cultivated land would suit better for cattle ranching, and it turns out he was right. We now have three hundred head.” His voice was proud as he recounted the story, and TK was drawn in by the clear reverence he had for his family history. He wanted to hear more, so he asked after how the estate came to be so large.

“My grandfather negotiated the rest of the land from the tribes settled here at the time, which admittedly were so few in number that the endeavor was swift. He offered them fifty head and a handsome cash sum as well, and the deal was struck in accord. The tribe moved north to the central territories and are still there today I believe. We’ve had a few high ranking members as visitors in my youth, and they were always amiable and welcome.”

Mr. Reyes’ soft smile had drawn TK’s attention again and this time he let himself look. The man practically glowed as he talked of his heritage, his family, and it was rather intoxicating. TK wanted to ask after more, but it seemed they’d reach the aforementioned lake that they were to stop and break their fast beside. He allowed Flor to carry them to a stop at a suitable spot and dismounted, again allowing himself to watch as Mr. Reyes did the same. He was taken in by the same fluidity and grace as he had been the day previous, before their awful actual meeting.

TK was finding it hard to remember Mr. Reyes being crass yesterday, no matter how hard he tried.

In tandem, they  spread out an extra saddle blanket in the grass, still slightly damp from the morning dew. Their provisions were divvied up and tea was poured into metal cups, and TK was just about to take his first sip when Mr. Reyes spoke, and his tone bade TK listen carefully.

“Mr. Strand—“

Without rightfully thinking about it, TK interrupted him with, “Please, you should call me TK. Well, my name is Tyler, but only my father calls me that. Friends call me TK.”

Mr. Reyes looked taken aback for a moment, possibly at the implication of friends , but TK kept his face impassive. He’d not have them making a mountain out of a grain of sand such as a name. They were to be business acquaintances anyway, and they should address each other as such. All of Owen’s partners called him by his first name, so TK took a page from his book by extending the offer. It would help keep his mind firmly on their business relationship.

It absolutely was not so he could hear his name, both sharp consonants of it, softened in Mr. Reyes’ steady timbre.

“TK,” he corrected, and the named man swallowed a sigh at being proven right about the sound of it coming off those lips. “I would like to—that is, I am committed to—well, what I would like to say is—“ he halted, frowning down at an apple clutched in his own hand. He set the apple aside, and turned to TK directly.

“TK, I mean to sincerely apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was rude and judgmental without cause, and I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me that transgression, as I do hope we are able to work together seamlessly in this partnership.”

It seemed sincere, TK thought. The man’s eyes were fervent and his face was open in a way it hadn’t been since the Strands had arrived. For a moment, TK was lost in those eyes that reflected the climbing sunrise off the water of the small lake like Mr. Reyes was radiating the warmth of goodwill through his very irises. His eyes were soft, inviting, shining with their earnestness. It was a long moment before he spoke, which Mr. Reyes seemed to take as reservation but was in fact TK pure preoccupation with studying the man’s face at the most inappropriate of times.

“I do hope I haven’t ruined things between my family and yours,” Mr. Reyes went on. “It’s just that I—well I’m quite attached to my home here and my pride is tied up in what my forefathers accomplished.”

“To see it broken up and sold off is to admit defeat that this generation could not hold the line,” TK finished for him, and his eyes grew wide.

“Yes, precisely.”

“I have misgivings about that kind of thing also. My father built such a tremendous enterprise—nothing like the Vanderbilts of course, but sprawling in reach nonetheless. I…find myself at times overwhelmed with the prospect of taking it on alone.” It must have been the country air, the absence of all human life for a few miles, and the still burgeoning sunrise combined that made his tongue so loose with such intimate thoughts. Surely he was losing control of his faculties if he was given to sharing his heart in this way, TK mused.

Even so, Mr. Reyes’ face had not closed off yet; it remained open and inviting to those thoughts and perhaps welling up with some of his own to share, now that the barrier had lost a few bricks and they could see each other over their respective sides of the wall they’d built over the previous day and evening.

“But, you won’t do it alone, will you? You cannot inherit until you marry, by law,” Mr. Reyes reminded him. Those deep brown eyes were on him again, somehow more liquid than before. TK must be imagining things now. He blinked the line of thought away.

“Yes, that’s true. But who’s to say I’ll marry a man who wants to be involved in the railroad business? My true love may be a man of the arts, constantly shut away in his studio creating pieces to adorn our home and teaching our children to appreciate the craft of them. Or he may be a man strongly devoted to politics and spend months away from home campaigning for the betterment of the American people. Or he may prefer the country life to the city, and I must remain in the city for the business for the bulk of the year. So you see, I may yet end up running the business alone, even if my life will not be spent in solitude. If I marry for love, I’ll be glad of that connection regardless if I get help with the business. Help is not what I’ll be marrying; it will be companionship outside of worldly endeavors that will make it worthwhile.” The picture he’d painted for himself inside his head was content, and he noticed he’d closed his eyes for a moment while he’d intimated the details to Mr. Reyes.

When he opened his eyes and refocused on his company, he saw Mr. Reyes duck his head slightly, a faint blush high on his tanned cheekbones. TK wondered if the other man was embarrassed of the intimate turn their conversation had taken, and hurried to move them to more casual topics.

“I do apologize, Mr. Reyes, I did not mean to be overly familiar with you. God above, it must be the early hour that has me as yet unable to master all my faculties.”

“No, please, do not apologize. I simply—that is—I do…admire your candor and conviction. Marrying for love is not rare, but it is not the standard. To be so assured of your path in life is enviable. I admit I haven’t given much thought to it myself.”

“You don’t think of who you’ll marry?” TK asked. He’d thought of nothing else since he was a boy.

At this, Mr. Reyes’ eyes turned down for a moment, a cloud of something passing over his features before the sun shone through his expression again. “Not in the sense you’ve described, no. I supposed I always knew I would marry, because I knew I would not inherit the estate—though I do envy Rosa a bit—but I’ve never imagined what kind of man I would spend my life with. I always assumed I’d know who he was when he came along.”

Their eyes met and for a moment not even the crickets or birds or any other constantly buzzing creature could be heard. TK was the first to break it, albeit in a slightly hushed tone.

“And he hasn’t come along yet?” he asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Mr. Reyes answered. He looked disinclined to elaborate. They gazed at each other a moment longer before Mr. Reyes broke the contact and gestured to their spread. “We should partake of Mrs. Smith’s generous meal. It seems she packed for much more than three this morning,” he laughed, and it only sounded a little forced. “I assure you, the fresh bacon cooked in rosemary will change your perspective on life the moment it hits your tongue.”

TK took the change in subject gracefully, also keen to step back from the precipice they’d found themselves on much too early in their acquaintance, truth be told. They’d forgotten themselves but no harm had been done, and they could go on as intended—as short-term business collaborators only.

_______

They rode the rest of the way around the western perimeter as the sun reached higher in the sky, Mr. Reyes pointing out landmarks here and there. Ostensibly this outing was for TK to survey the land for it’s viability for their project, and he was doing so, but he was also enamored with Mr. Reyes’ ability to guide them along with enthusiasm and grace. It was very clear the man loved his home and was deeply proud of it, and TK was entranced when he talked.

By the time they reached the apple orchard, TK had stopped deluding himself that he wasn’t fond of Mr. Reyes. He’d had his misgivings from the beginning, and for good reason, but there was a good man underneath the initial prickliness. Mr. Reyes could be likened to a cat protecting its young. Docile for the most part until his family was threatened, and TK could see where he’d felt that way initially. Mr. Reyes had come around quickly though and TK was not sure how much of that was due to his mother’s insistence and how much was just their conversation on this journey around the property in the early morning light.

“It smells so heavenly here,” TK mused aloud as the horses picked their way between the lines of trees. To be able to be abreast of each other to properly hold a conversation, the horses were so close that occasionally TK’s knee or thigh brushed against Mr. Reyes’. It startled him each time, even though he’d come to expect it. He supposed it startled his body but not his mind, which was a disconcerting feeling indeed, but not altogether unpleasant.

“They are called Gala apples. They thrive quite well here in the moderate rain. Would you like to try one?” Mr. Reyes asked. TK nodded with a small smile, and watched as Mr. Reyes dismounted Jimena and left her untethered. He turned back to TK and held out his hand. “Come along, it tastes better if you fetch it from the tree yourself,” he teased.

TK stared at the outstretched hand before taking it and dismounting gracefully, coming familiarly close to Mr. Reyes for the second time that day. This time, only their hands were touching as opposed to their whole bodies—as they had been on the stairs that morning—but it felt almost more intimate. TK noticed that they’d paused to regard one another again as they had multiple times on this journey. However, as they had done each time, they broke their gazes and their contact and went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The only problem was that each time it happened—and this incident more than all he rest—set his heart aflutter in such a way as to distract from all else in the moment. It took him increasingly longer to come back to himself each time.

He watched as Mr. Reyes took a wooden-runged ladder from a pile on the ground and set it against the trunk of the nearest tree. Deftly, he climbed a few feet, reached up, and plucked a ripe bit of fruit from one of the lower branches before coming down off the ladder assuredly, his steps practiced as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Perhaps he had.

TK held his hand out for the fruit, but Mr. Reyes pulled it back and away. “Ah, ah. This one is mine. I told you, it tastes better if you fetch it yourself. I set your example, now it’s your turn,” he said, spitefully taking bite out of his prize, then using it to gesture to the ladder.

Unfettered by Mr. Reyes’ teasing, TK was determined to show that he could keep up with his companion’s prowess. He approached the ladder, assessing it for any weak points before tentatively stepping onto the first rung. It bowed gently under his weight, and he paused a moment to gather himself.

He felt a hand upon his hip and froze for a moment, feeling distinctly untethered. Looking down, TK saw Mr. Reyes’ earnest eyes on him, one hand steadying TK on the ladder and the other still casually consuming his fruit. He gave TK a reassuring smile and nodded in the direction of the tree, encouraging.

The climb to the correct height took TK a bit longer than it had the cowboy who was used to such endeavors, but he managed. He plucked a juicy-looking specimen from a close branch before carefully climbing down, deliberately placing each footfall for optimum support from the wooden rungs below him. It was slow and arduous, but he accomplished it.

Once landed on the ground, he held up his spoil triumphantly. Mr. Reyes smiled.

“And now, Mr. City Gentleman, you have farmed apples!” He declared.

TK bit his lip for a half-second before being unable to hold back his mirthful laughter. His eyes crinkled and his cheeks ached with it, and it felt so good that he didn’t notice his companion was gazing at him once more, admiration and awe in his expression. When his laughter came down to a more manageable level a few seconds later, they were caught in each other once again, as they had been many times that day. TK’s smile was still spread across his face and he looked up through his lashes at Mr. Reyes to see a serenity over his countenance that had yet to be shown since they’d known each other.

It was beautiful.

Just as quickly as the moment had began, it passed, with Mr. Reyes fingering his collar away from his neck in what seemed like a nervous gesture. “The heat is beginning to get oppressive,” he offered in explanation, though said heat was not yet unbearable in the slightest. “We should retreat to the safety of the house.”

“That sounds like a good idea. I wonder if our parents have concluded their negotiations for the day. I’d like to convene with my father to let him know what I’ve seen.”

“Of course, well. Shall we?” Mr. Reyes gestured down the path between the trees, Jimena’s reins held loosely in his hand as he led her on foot. TK grabbed Flor’s lead and followed in quiet contemplation. He realized his manners had slipped.

“Thank you, Mr. Reyes, for this tour. It was enlightening, as well as a pleasant diversion.”

“You are most welcome. And please, call me Carlos. After all, we are to be friends, as you put it.” His smile was radiant.

“Carlos,” TK tried out the name on his tongue with a nod. It tasted like the smoothest brandy, and TK felt like he was already drunk off of one sip.

“I wanted to reiterate my apology, to make sure it is clear. I judged you and your father before I allowed you to state your intentions. Your plans for the land, so far as you’ve told me, will not impact our operation negatively and I get the distinct feeling it is your mission to keep things that way as you work your way across the country. So I thank you for your discretion, and I once again humbly ask you to forgive my behavior yesterday.”

“It is already forgiven!” TK tells him, wanting to put any and all ill will behind them after such a glorious morning. “Do not worry over it any longer. Let us be friends from this day forth.”

Carlos smiled so wide it momentarily arrested TK’s heart.

They reached the house in due course to find Elena on the porch frantically waving a piece of paper in her delicate hands. They tethered the horses to the post off the side of the house and approached. The girl looked as if she could barely form words through her excitement.

“Carlos!” She cried as they ascended the steps and removed their hats. “Guess who’s coming to the ball tomorrow night!”

“I’m sure you will tell me without me having to guess,” her brother teased good-naturedly, sharing a conspiratorial smile with TK as they passed into the foyer.

“Mr. de Castillo,” Elena said, giving the name a weight that surely meant something, but which TK could not discern. He’d never heard the name before, but then again he did not know the upper class set of this region well enough to know their names and statuses that might warrant such excitement.

When TK turned to face Carlos, he wondered what Elena could find so appealing that her brother seemed to find mildly horrifying, judging by his expression. His eyes cut to TK and they almost looked…guilty.

Elena went on, oblivious to her brother’s distress. “His letter is posted from Santa Fe nearly two weeks ago, and he says he should arrive just in time to dress and attend. Isn’t that marvelous news, Carlos? He hasn’t come east since the fall. Oh how we’ve all missed him.” She put emphasis on certain parts of her sentence that didn’t entirely make sense to TK, but he could feel a growing lump in the pit of his stomach as he watched Carlos’ face drain of color slightly.

“He sounds like a character who’s good to know, if his presence at a dance excites you this much,” he offered to Elena to try and ease the focus off of Carlos, for he seemed unable to speak at that moment.

“Oh, it’s not me he excites,” Elena said, cutting her eyes to TK’s right, smirking but saying nothing more. TK did not turn to look at Carlos again, because that lump in his stomach was getting heavier the more Elena talked and he was not rightfully sure he could put a name to it just yet. Looking at Carlos’ guilty face was surely to spell it out quicker than he’d like. He halted his train of thought and plowed on.

“Well, I look forward to meeting this esteemed Mr. de Castillo. You said he’s not come east—do you mean to say he is from the west coast?”

“Yes, San Fransisco! His father rushed there in forty-nine and made quite the coup. They’re able to give the Rockefellers a run for their money, I’d wager,” she said. “And he’s so handsome as well.”

That bit tacked on at the end was again delivered with a weighted look at Carlos which TK again ignored.

He was saved from replying to Elena’s last comment by his father and the Doña appearing in the foyer.

“What’s got everyone in a fuss?” Owen asked.

“Mr. Fernando de Castillo is coming to the ball tomorrow night!” Elena exclaimed, elated to share her momentous news with anyone who would listen.

“De Castillo…” Owen pondered, “Is that Isador de Castillo’s boy? Of San Fransisco?”

“Yes, the very same. Mr. de Castillo the younger visits us quite often, as he’s got business back east with his company and likes to stop for a week or so on his way through. We’ve all grown quite fond of him, especially Car—“

“That’s quite enough, Elena. The Mr.’s Strand are not interested in country gossip. Run along and find Constance to start your lessons. Your sisters are already studying while you’ve been flitting about.” The Doña’s voice was firm and clearly dismissive. She glanced at her son and TK in turn, before turning her attention back to Owen. “Mr. Strand, might we all go into the drawing room for tea? Our sons can regale us of their journey around the property.”

Owen’s smile was wide and eager as he looked to the two young men. “Of course, I cannot wait to hear your thoughts on the land, TK. The Doña and I will also impart to you what we’ve agreed upon thus far, though there are still the finer details to work out.”

Carlos immediately followed Owen into the room off the left side of the foyer, barely sparing TK a glance in contrast to all their lingering looks throughout the morning. That, combined with Elena’s cryptic words regarding their future guest, unsettled TK more than he would have liked. Still, he was determined to soldier on in his mission to become good friends and business partners with Carlos and the rest of the Reyes’, and he’d not let a silly thing like a matter of the heart—which may not even exist—get in his way.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #911ls #tk strand #carlos reyes #brooke writes

[just-a-quirkless-loser]

New Beginnings

Part Five: Courting?

Part 4

Chiyo enjoyed her time with the pack. It took a bit of time on her behalf to come out of her shell but, she eventually was able to start hanging out with her packmates (although, she didn’t like Mineta as much as the others). She was still somewhat reserved, opting to spend time with Aizawa if given the chance. And, no one knew about her past or where she came from.

She still hasn’t starting her quirk training but, no one pushes her to do it. They know that she’ll do it when she feels comfortable with herself. Part of her wants to show them what she can do but, she’s afraid of showing them how much of a monster she can be.

Mirio has taken to coming to get the omega as soon as lunch begins, her pack staring at him weirdly as he waits for her at the door (one person in particular doesn’t like how close he is to her). They have lunch on the rooftop, laugh at each other’s cheesy jokes, sit so close to each other that they can feel their body heat. As much as she’d hate to admit it, she likes being so close to him.

He’s not the only person that she doesn’t entirely hate. Despite the jarring way they had first met, Shinsou and Chiyo are surprisingly close. Shinsou finds her presence to be calming, her scent of peaches and pine driving him near insanity. But, he’s also found that’s she’s clever, always having something to say or some inquisitive look on her face. She’s kind in her own way; giving offhanded compliments while she looking away from the person as to hide her flustered face.

“We’re matching,” Shinsou grins, twirling a piece of her purple hair between his fingers. “Aren’t we the perfect pair?”

“Get you grumby hands off my hair. My hair is nothing like yours,” although this may sound like an insult, she means to say she likes his hair more than her own. She fiddles with the fabric of her shirt (something her pack had come to know as her being nervous).

“You’re right...yours is clearly nicer,” blossoms of red on her skin.

“Whatever, you’re ugly anyway,” she stalks off to go be with the girls. Aizawa was off patrolling and that meant she’d have to conversate. “Stupid boy thinking he can touch me. So fucking weird. JIROUUU, HE TOUCHED ME.”

Jirou and the girls were in the kitchen, no doubt watching her stomp over with puffed out cheeks. Out of all the girls, she’d bonded with Jirou over music and art, leaving her to be closer to the outspoken omega.

“He’s been being weirder than usual lately,” Chiyo snatched a piece of candy away from Momo. “The other day, he gave me a fucking blanket.”

“Did you not like the blanket?” cue the offward stare at the candy wrapper.

“I-I it wasn’t entirely shitty. Had fluff n smelled like him.”

“Did he say why he gave it to you?”

“No. The bastard just came to my door and pushed it in my arms with a weird ass grin then walked down the hall with his hands in his pockets,” a piece of her hair fell in her face.

Meanwhile, Shinsou was outside with the boys working up the courage to go inside and talk to Chiyo. So far, she had accepted the blanket which was a good sign. But, he had no idea how she’d respond to him asking her out for food.

“Baggy eyes, just ask her. It’s not fucking hard,” Bakugou was getting tired of the alpha’s sour scent and pacing. A few more minutes of this and he knew he’d go crazy and go ask her out for his friend.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shinsou was antsy. Sure, Chiyo was doing good at fitting in and talking more but, was this too soon? She’s only been with the for a month.

“Just go in there and ask her. You’re the only guy she talks to on a regular basis,” Kirishima did have a point. It’s not that Chiyo didn’t like the boys but, for reasons she’d sworn never to revisit, she just didn’t like being around them longer than what was necessary.

“She probably doesn’t even know what a date is,” he’s trying to talk himself out of this, even though all the boys know he’ll have to ask her out eventually. “The only time she leaves the campus is with Aizawa.”

“Then, this would be good for her. Give her some exposure to the outside world. Then,” Kaminari wiggles his eyebrows to leave the suggestion in the air. Sero slaps him upside the head.

“This is why you shouldn’t be allowed to have hands,” Kaminari pouts.

Shinsou just shakes his head and decides to do it before he loses his nerve. He walks through the dorm door, confronted with Chiyo smiling. It makes his heart beat even faster than what it was before, the erratic beat sousing against his chest. He wanted to keep that smile on her face no matter what happened.

“Omega, are you busy today?” Chiyo looked at him with furrowed brows.

“Uhhh, I don’t think so. I was gonna paint some of my room,” Shinsou smirks. Ofcourse the cutie would try to seclude herself after daily dose of interaction. “Stop smiling, it’s ugly.”

“You hungry?”

“When am I not hungry?” Chiyo’s known for being a big eater.

“Then, get ready and I’ll take you out for ramen,” Chiyo tilts get head.

“We’re going alone?”

“Yeah,” Shinsou walks off before Chiyo can rethink her decision. He walks off, jumping up and clicking his heels once he’s around the corner.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Looks like you’re going on your first date,” Chiyo turns slowly to Jirou, still not believing this happened. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell him to do it.”

“I gotta go,” Chiyo runs off to the elevators and up to her room. She’s tapping her foot in hurried beats, her body trying to suppress upcoming shudders.

‘Need Aizawa. Need alpha. Gotta get alone. Gonna lose it,’ she runs to her room and locks herself in. These are the moments she wishes she was still alone. There was no worrying over trivial things or fears of losing her cool.

“AIZAWAAAAA, I need help,” She screeched into the phone the moment he picked up. His breath sounded labored but that was probably due to him running home from his nightly patrol. “Shinsou. Me, Ramen. UNSHITTY BLANKET.”

“Kitten, you know I can’t understand you with how fucked up that sentence was,” Chiyo took a few deep breaths. “Good, just breathe. Now, tell me what happened.”

“Shinsou gave me a blanket last week which wasn’t really that bad but that’s beside the point and then today he asked me to get ramen which is unfair because he knows how much I like to eat and now I don’t know what to do and,” she took another breath when she heard some chuckles. “Aizawa, why are you laughing? This isn’t a laughing matter. This is life and death and you’re laughing like candy man.”

“For one, I don’t know who that is. For two, you’re overreacting Kitty. It’s not like he’s asking you to marry him. Just get dressed, go out, and enjoy yourself. This is a good moment to bond with him,” he clears his throat. “Well, not that much bonding.”

“I don’t even know what to wear,” she got up and starting rummaging through her closet. While Aizawa had taken her to go shopping for more casual clothes, she hadn’t picked anything really flashy because she didn’t think she’d ever have to wear the clothes on anything like this. Now she wishes she listed to the older alpha when he told her to pick something nice.

“This is what happens when you don’t listen,” she scoff.

“Just shut the fuck up and help me,” he laughs.

“As much as I’d like to help my kitten, I have patrolling to do. Get the girls to help you. I’ll be home by the time you get home with lovvvvvverboy.”

She doesn’t even dignify him with a response and hangs up on him as she moves things in her closet at a more aggressive pace. She can’t just go downstairs and ask the girls for help; it’ll make her look innocent and naive (even though she really is and they all know it but she doesn’t want to put the final nails in her coffin).

She starts to settle on a pair of light wash blue jeans and a baggy long sleeve when she hears a knock on her door. She already knows it’s the girls because she knows that Aizawa called them due to her stubborn inability to ask for help.

“I need help picking out what to wear,” she says, not even looking to see who it is, and walking back to the pile of clothes that were in the middle of her floor.

“Okay, what the hell happened in here? It looks like a hurricane came in here,” Uraka’s eyes are wide.

“Haha, really original,” Chiyo sneers.

“Hey, no being mean just because you’re nervous,” Jirou and Mina both chop her on the head. “But, seriously, you’re room is fucked up.”

“Are you guys just gonna judge me or are you gonna help me?” Chiyo clenches her fist around her shirt.

“We never judge you,” Mina rubbed the top of her head which made the omega elicit a small purr. “Aizawa was right to name you kitten. So touch starved.”

“Stawwwwp and help,” Chiyo pushes her hands away, missing the petting but she’d never admit that. Growing up, she didn’t experience the same physical contact that most did. And, when she was touched, it was with malice intent. So, it felt weird when she first starting getting close to the pack and they would randomly touch her.

“Hmmmmm leave it to us,” she didn’t realize that Hagakure was there before she spoke. She feels bad for the girl that’s literally invisible; it must be lonely to never be acknowledged unless people notice the floating clothes.

And, that’s how Chiyo ended up where she was now. Her and Shinsou were currently walking down the street to a nearby ramen restaurant, Chiyo fighting the wind that was pushing her skirt up. The girls chose a pastel purple skater skirt that had suspenders and a long-sleeve white shirt that tucked into the dress. Her hair was pulled up into two side ponytails, making her look even more adorable than normal.

They walked in a silence that gnawled at both of them. Both of them were nervous but, Shinsou knew he’d have to be the one to say something.

“I can’t believe you wore a skirt all for me,” Chiyo sputtered and turned to the boy, hands clenched at her side as she snarled.

“It’s not for you, asswipe. The girls thought it would look nice,” he laughs.

“Ofcourse they did. Either way, it looks nice on you,” she blushed and turned to the side.

“You don’t look disgusting either,” she sped walked forward so she didn’t have to keep looking at him. He looked handsome in his black jeans and purple bottom down. She figured the girls had picked out her purple skirt on purpose. “C’mon I’m hungry and you’re sitting there like a dick.”

“Dicks only stand up where they’re hard,” She puncher his arm before she dragged him the rest of the way.

They arrived at the ramen restaurant a few minutes later with Chiyo only having to hit her companion a few times. It was a quaint building with a two floors, red brick exterior, and a few windows scattered around. The around smelled just like ramen, which was a good thing in Chiyo’s mind. They were seated in a booth tucked away in a corner of the restaurant.

“Ohh, look at the two of you on a date. So kawaii,” Chiyo wanted to yell at the little woman that seated them that it wasn’t a date and that she only agreed at the prospect for free food but, Shinsou just threw his arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.

“She’s the kawaii one,” and she was silent. She was seated across from Shinsou, looking everywhere but him. It’s bad enough that he looks so good but he keeps staring at her and it makes her heart feel weird. “You’ll have to look at me eventually, omega.”

“I hope they put poison in your ramen,” she bites her lip when hey make eye contact. She doesn’t know why him calling her by her second gender makes her want to croon for him.

“Such strong words from such a cinnamon bun,” she quirks her head.

“I’m not a cinnamon bun. You can’t even eat me, dumbass,” she looks up and nods her head in appreciation as a server comes and drops her bowl of ramen in front of her. “This, however, seems promising.”

He doesn’t say anything as he watches her practically inhale a noodle. She looks so cute while she eats, swaying side to side as she dances happily, the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. She looks carefree with half a noodle hanging out her mouth and that makes him all the more happy he decided to court her. If only he knew she didn’t know what courting was.

“Are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna eat?” He digs into his meal, happy with the comfortable silence that lands over them. They eat in the silence, playing footsies under the table.

“What’s your favorite color?” Shinsou asks her randomly. She stops with her noodle halfway in her mouth, wondering to herself if she even had a favorite color.

“I don’t think I have one,” she shrugs.

“Everyone has one,” she just shrugs again. “You have to pick one. Anything. “

She thinks for a moment. It’s not like she has a preference in anything so she doesn’t understand why this is so important to him but, she still comes up with something.

“Just one?”

“Mmm, you can have more than one.”

“Black, purple, and blue.”

“Why those colors?” She blushes. She didn’t want to tell him that she chose those colors because they’re the colors of her three favorite people’s eyes. “Well I like purple too.”

“Why do you like purple?”

“It’s our color,” Chiyo stuffs her face in her bowl, not looking up to catch the dreamy gaze on Shinsou’a face. “I see that makes you blush.”

“Shut it, bags for eyes,” he smiles. He brings his index finger under her chin and forces her to meet his eyes, his fingers giving her a scorching feeling.

They sit there staring at each other, both of them ruffled in their own ways.

“You’re eyes are beautiful; it’s a shame I never get to see them since you’ll never look me in the eye,” she gulps. “Do you think you could work on that for me?”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” she doesn’t look away even when Shinsou removes his fingers from her chin. “We should get back to the dorms before Aizawa tries to skin me alive.”

Heading back to the dorms was calling, both their hands intertwined. Every time she tried to pull her hand away, Shinsou would chide her and hold her hand closer. It was even more embarrassing when they got back and everyone saw them holding hands.

“Awwwww,” they were all sitting on the couches waiting for the two of them.

“FUCK ALL OF YOU,” she ran to her room to escape the heat from her cheeks.

“YOU’RE CUTE WHENEVER YOU GET EMBARRASSED,” Shinsou yelled to her, smiling harder when Chiyo retaliated with her middle finger.

“Fuck you especially, old man.”

“You should save that for Shinsou,” and that sent her to her room. She stayed in her room to keep away from the teasing from her packmates. It’s not that she was ashamed but, she wasn’t used to these new emotions. Emotions like fear, happiness, and attraction (most definitely attraction) were foreign and its hard for her to deal with that.

Her pack mates did feel bad for the teasing; they often lost sight of the fact that she’s not used to handling things like they can. Aizawa assured them that she wasn’t mad at them but moreso just freaked up with herself and her newfound emotional freedom.

“We’re sorry, Chiyo. We feel happy that you’re coming out of your shell for Shinsou. We don’t want to make you feel weird or anything,” Jirou would come to talk to her everyday (along with Shinsou).

She wasn’t mad at them at all. If anything, she was mad at herself for being difficult and troubled. This was supposed to be primal instincts for her yet, it feels like learning to be someone new all over again. Years of suppressing herself has led to this and it’s overwhelming to start over again.

“Chiyo, Class is over,” Aizawa was tapping on her desk as she stared outside. She jumped to attention, noticing that it was lunch time. Although, her pack was still in the classroom looking at her. “Are you good?”

“Oh, yeah, I was just thinking and stuff,” she grew red. “It still feels different being here.” She purred as Mina rubbed her head. Mina has noticed the particular spot and hasn’t stopped rubbing it since, noting that it makes the omega release happy pheromones.

“Bambiiii, you’re late to lunch,” Chiyo looked to the door to see Mirio holding both of their lunches. Chiyo can’t deny how gorgeous his blue eyes look as the light reflect off of them, his muscular frame leaving the the opening.

“Who’s Bambi?”

“That’s me,” it’s one of the few times Chiyo says it. “He calls me that all the time.”

“That’s cause she’s cute like Bambi. And those eyes are big like em too,” Chiyo giggles and marches up to the blonde alpha. She grabs her lunch from him and looks back to wave at her pack.

“And he’s Smiles. I think his name is pretty explanatory. We’re gonna go have lunch,” and they’re off to the roof. Shinsou stands there, his scent filled with jealousy. How dare this alpha come on the steal her smiles? She doesn’t even smile like that for Aizawa! And, she fucking giggled. And, he’s fucking feeding her. He’s trying to steal his girl.

Meanwhile upstairs on the roof, Chiyo sat with Mirio as she ate the pork cutlet he had cooked for her.

“It’s sooo good,” she fakes a few tears as she chews on the pork. It’s salty on her tongue and that’s exactly how she likes her food. Plus, he even packed her some cucumbers and melon that he cut into little stars!!!

“You think everything is good,” he hands her some of the cucumber from his bento box when he notices she ate all of hers. “And, I swear, you’re the cutest thing when you eat.”

“I’m cute either way. Or, at least, that’s what you all tell me,” she gladly takes the cucumber. The air felt good on her skin as she scarfed down the rest of her lunch.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he looks down at her, a smile gracing his face as normal. But, this smile was nervous. “Can I take you to karaoke after school? We can go right after school and I’ll pay for the food and we’ll have a lot of fun.”

“Sure. I like spending time with you. You always make me smile,” and that’s true. Chiyo never feels pressured to feel anything other than happiness and humor with him and it’s a nice change from her pack mates. It’s just pure, organic fun. “But, I don’t really know that many songs.”

“That’s okay. They have private rooms. Plus, I don’t sound the best.”

“That’s an under exaggeration. Remember when you tried to sing last week? That poor bird took a nose dive down a tree,” she points at the supposed tree below them. “Yep, poor bird had to end it right then and ohhhhh fuck stop it Mirio. Stawppppp,” Mirio pulled her into his lap as he tickled her sides. She threw her head back and tried to squirm away from the torture.

“Take it back, Bambi,” he kept going, watching the girl with tears in her eyes.

“Never you sadistic, oh shit alright, you sound like Beyoncé,” he laughs at her goofiness. “She ain’t got shit on you Mirio.”

“You’re such a goofy bug. But, alas, we have to get back to class,” she pouts. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll come get you as soon as the bell rings.”

He walked her back to class, catching the looks her packmates gave him. He just brushed them off and picked her up to give her a hug. Much to their displeasure, she didn’t wiggle away from his touch like she does them. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head in his neck, unknowingly scenting him.

“Alright Bambi, remember that we’re going right after school. Get those vocals ready. And those ears better be ready to be blessed.”

“More like tortured.”

“What’d you say?” he showed her his fingers to remind her what would happen if she didn’t agree to his voice.

“Such an angel,” she formed a halo on top of her head with his fingers. He shook his head at her teasing. Class went by antagonizingly slow, seeming to be longer than what it ever was before.

When class ended, true to his word, Mirio was there to pick her up. She just didn’t think he would permeate his body through the floors and land right in front of her desk.

“Well, Smiles fell from the sky,” he laughs at Chiyo’s poor excuse of a joke. It makes him feel good that she tries to make him laugh.

“I’ll always fall for you,” Chiyo goes to say something smart. “I know it was cheesy. Good for me, you like cheese.”

“You’re lucky that I really do like cheese,” they walk out holding hands, a normal behavior between them but, to her pack, felt painful. She never holds their hands. Hell, she still tenses when they touch her.

The two of them walked down the sidewalk, holding hands and talking. Well, it was more like Mirio bringing up topics and Chiyo putting in her opinion every now and again. But, that’s how they liked their relationship. She doesn’t feel pressured int conversation which makes her want to talk to Mirio and Mirio doesn’t feel that she doesn’t like his presence which makes her want to be around her even more. Hell, not that many people can handle him smiling constantly but, she handles it like she’s been with him for years.

“So, there I am, blood on my titties,” Chiyo hutches over as she laughs. Mirio (along with Kaminari) has been teaching her meme culture. “C’mon, omega, I haven’t even finished the joke. “

“I can’t h-help it,” she looks up at him with a blinding smile. These smiles are reserved for him and him alone. “You don’t even have titties.”

“Hey, I have titties,” their conversation is cut at that once they get to the karaoke place. They’re pulled into their own room, a couch to each wall of the room and a microphone stan in the center. A large t.v. is plastered to the wall, reading for the lyrics to come.

“Woahhh, this...is...awesome,” Chiyo throws her stuff onto the closest couch to the door.

“I’ll have to thank Nejire,” Mirio sits down beside her, despite the abundance of seats around them. But, she doesn’t mind it. She’s touch starved so, she’s not the type to pull away from his touches. It’s weird how close they’ve gotten but, Chiyo can only attribute that to the fact he gives her the same vibes Aizawa does. “They even have snacks.”

“SNACKS,” she jumps up and grabs a mochi bun that’s sitting on a stool in front of them. The red bean flavor makes her moan out in food ecstasy, making Mirio have to adjust himself. “You want some?”

“You’re sharing? You must be in a really good mood,” Mirio pens his mouth for her to shove the bun in. He agrees that it was moan worthy when he grabs another one. “Should I be the one to sing first?”

Mirio ends up singing first, gracing her ears with his “angelic” voice. She follows his suit, stumbling on the words but still having a pretty good time. He walks her back to her dorm, him giving her a piggyback ride since she was “too full of snacks to move.” It feels good to finally have her in his arms.

“You wanna know something?” Chiyo says as she plays with the collar of his shirt. She’s nervous to say this but, she wants to.

“Tell me, Bambi.”

“You make me smile, Smiles,” she nuzzles her face into his neck, a way for him to know just how much it took for her to tell him that.”

“I love making you smile,” they walk in silence for the rest of the way. They come to the front of her dorm, walking up to Shinsou waiting on the steps with the rest of her packmates peaking through the windows.

‘What did I do this time?’ Chiyo thinks as she slides down from Mirio’s back.

“Go inside, I have to talk to Mirio,” Chiyo wants to protest with Shinsou but complies as Mirio gently nudges her to go inside, his comforting smile telling her that he’ll be okay.

“What the fuck was today? We’re not good enough fr you? Huh? Shitty girl thinks she’s too good for our pack,” of course Bakugou is the one losing his mind first. His carmine eyes bore into her eyes, making her turn her head. It’s too much to stare at his anger when she doesn’t know what exactly she did. “You fucked up with Shinsou. Are you just being a whore?”

The word makes her visibly tense, arms wrapping around herself to keep from attacking. Aizawa taught her this coping mechanism. “What did I do to make you all so angry with me?”

“You don’t even touch us like you touch him. You don’t talk to us. You don’t play around with us. It’s like you don’t even care to be in this pack,” Jirou walks to be in front of her. “And, how could you do that to Shinsou?”

“What did I do to Shinsou?”

“Are you kidding me? You’re courting with him! What makes you-”

“What’s courting?” and that quells the anger of her pack. Aizawa told them she was behind in their world but, they didn’t think she was this far behind. They just sit their staring at her, making her feel even more uncomfortable than before. “Could you all stop looking at me like this?”

She chirps to let them know how she’s feeling, causing two overprotective alphas to burst through the entrance, their soothing scents makes her shoulders slouch in a pleased manner.

“WHAT DID YOU ALL DO?” Mirio pulls her to his chest, Shinsou coming to her front to rub the nape of her neck which makes her mewl embarrassingly. She hides her face in Shinsou’s neck, Mirio rubbing her nape as well. She’s essentially sandwiched between them; it’s more comforting than what she thought it could be.

“SHE DOESNT KNOW WHAT COURTING IS! YU BOTH CAN’T KEEP THIS UP! SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT THIS IS,” Jirou tries to snatch her from the arms only to be snapped at and pushed roughly. “SHE DOESN’T KNOW.”

“Then, we’ll teach her.”

—————————————————————————-

@sinclairsamess @sakurashortstack

#anime #bnha #fanfic #mha #mha fanfiction #ao3 #bnha fanfiction #shinsou x oc #bnha shinso hitoshi #mirio x oc #mirio togata #omega #omega oc #alpha shinsou #alpha mirio #omegaverse #possessive #cute #tsundere oc #kuudere

[thecleverdame]

This Is Not A Fairy Tale - One

Alpha!Prince!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Masterlist 

Summary: You’re a suppressed Omega who is forced into servitude after the death of your father. Your stepmother Naomi is a heartless woman who forces you to do the cooking and cleaning, while she tries to marry off her own two daughters, Alex and Claire. But your life takes a wonderful and dangerous turn when you meet the charming Prince Sam who also happens to be an Alpha.

Warnings: ABO smut, abuse, death of parents, magic

Beta:  ilikaicalie  

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content. 

-

Once upon a time, you were happy.

There are faint and fading memories that still linger. The face of your father, the scruff of his beard when he kissed you and the way he held you in his arms. He was a warm, kind man with a heart of gold who taught you many useful skills, the most important being how to always find the positive in any situation.

He was your hero, a giant of a man who could do no wrong and made you feel loved and safe. The two of you were tucked away into your own quiet little corner of the world.

He met Naomi when you were eight. She was a blonde, pushy sort of woman who was used to getting her way. She smiled and cooed over you, putting on a show for your father but even as a girl you knew she was poison. There was disdain bubbling under the surface. For many years you thought back on those early days, trying to pinpoint why she harbored such immediate hate.

Now you know. She was jealous. Jealous of your father’s unwavering love and excitement in your company. She wanted him to love her the way he loved you. Perhaps if she had been his first love he could have given her his whole heart. But your mother stole it many years before you were born.

He told you stories of your mother, a strong woman who argued as fiercely as she loved. She died giving birth to you, gave her life to bring you into the world but your father never once made you feel as if it was your fault. He only spoke of how proud she would have been of the little woman you were becoming.

Life was good, despite Naomi’s harsh stares and her two boorish daughters. As long as you had your father, you were willing to share him. For reasons beyond your comprehension, Naomi made him happy, and his happiness was yours in kind.

Six months to the day after they married, your father died. It was an accident, the carriage overturned, he fell and snapped his neck. It was quick and unexpected. You sobbed on the cold stone in front of the hearth, crying into your hands and begging God to bring him back. He was all you had in the world and now, there was nothing.

Naomi didn’t turn you on you all at once. It happened slowly over time. She took the toys from your bedroom, assigned chores that previously belonged to the servants. She ensured that you worked from sunup to sundown, laboring until your fingers bled. Exhaustion drained the fight right out of you and before you knew it, the world was turned upside down.

When your first heat came you were fifteen and living the bowels of the house, sleeping on a bed of straw. You writhed in pain, screaming and crying until Naomi’s daughters, Alex, and Claire found you in a state of pure agony.

“What’s wrong with her?” Claire asked, standing next to her mother as they watched you with interest.

“Is she sick?” Alex leaned forward to inspect you.

“My Lord,” Naomi breathed, staring in disbelief. You were an Omega. She could scarcely believe her eyes. “How is this possible?”

You shouldn’t have existed.

There were only a handful of Omegas left in the world. Betas were commonplace, Alphas were rarer, but not unheard of, but Omegas were coveted, sought-after. This meant you were special, that someone would want you and she couldn’t stand the idea of you being elevated above her or her daughters.

Thirteen Years Later

“Wake up!”

The toe of a boot connects with your ribs, jarring you awake. You sit up on the floor, blinking in confusion.

“What’s happened?” You squint, staring up at your step-mother.

“Get up,” she spits, thrusting a cup of tea toward you. “The girls and I are headed into the city. We want to get an early start, so let’s get this out of the way.”

You groan, looking up at her as you take the mug from her hands. This is your morning ritual. This tea, which is more of a poison, is disgusting and bitter. It drains the life from you, twisting your stomach into a knot and causing nausea that stays with you for days at a time. It’s been slowly killing you for years and someday soon it will do its job. But it keeps your Omega at bay, suppresses your heats and urges. That’s what matters, subduing your instincts.

After she leaves you’re free to get up and begin the day in peace. You change out of your nightgown, inspecting your ribs before pulling on your only dress. The weight has been falling off for a long time, but there’s not much left to lose. Once you had hips and curves, but now you’re wasting away.

The morning chores fly by. Cleaning Alex and Claire’s bedroom takes ten times as long when they’re present. They enjoy throwing clothes onto the floor as you pick them up and hurling insults designed to keep you in your place. Naomi’s room is always the most time consuming, she likes things just so and has a tendency to follow you around, pointing out spots you’ve missed and demanding you start over.

And if you take too long, they beat you. Sometimes with a switch, other times with whatever object is the closest.

But today will have none of that. By the time the sun is high you’re finished with all your daily chores. You will often take a secret nap in the barn in the afternoon, a quick little cat nap so you can make it through the day, but this afternoon the empowerment of freedom is calling your name.

The fields in summer have always been your favorite. There are wildflowers in every direction as far as the eyes can see. You wander to the edge of the forest, then follow the stream just happy to be out in the sun and the warm blowing breeze. The birds sing, flitting from branch to branch and you get lost in the memory of better times.

Coming upon a clearing, you head to the willow tree with her branches hanging nearly to the ground. Underneath her shade, there is a soft bed of moss and you lie down, staring up at the beams of sunlight shining between the narrow leaves.

You're almost asleep when you hear the hooves of a horse. Emerging from underneath the branches you coming face to face with a tall, handsome man. He stops short, the reigns of his horse in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he offers with a small bow. “I didn’t realize there was anyone out here.”

“I was quite hidden.” You look him over trying to decide if he’s any kind of a threat. A woman alone in the country is an easy target for rapscallions, but he doesn’t seem the sort.

His clothes alone tell you of his wealth, and his demeanor has the self-assurance of someone who’s accustomed to a position of stature.

“Would you like me to leave you?” He looks from you to his horse, his eyes lingering on your face. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“There is no intrusion,” you smile. “I was under the impression that this place was my secret, but I don’t mind sharing.”

“Good,” he stares at you, a big, broad smile revealing white teeth. “I was out for a ride and decided to stop to eat. Would you like to join me?”

“Oh, thank you, but I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“I have more than enough.”

Before you have the chance to protest he’s pulling his saddlebag off the horse, and unrolling a blanket to layout on the ground.

“I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.” You’re nervous, small excitement at this personable stranger.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon than having lunch with a beautiful woman.”  

You blush and he chuckles, taking your hand to lower you onto the blanket. The instant his skin touches your hand you feel it, a rush of heat that seems to beeline right for your heart.

“Thank you,” you sputter focused on straightening your skirts.

“Of course.”

He’s looking at you but you don’t meet his gaze, afraid of giving away this embarrassing attraction. You’ve never responded like this to any man before, but he is quite a breathtaking specimen of the gender.

He unrolls several cloths, laying out a feast of bread, cheese, sweet fruits, and wine.

For the first time in nearly a year, your stomach settles and you enjoy the food in front of you. He was right, he has enough to feed ten men and you eat until your belly is full.

“What’s your name?” he asks, tearing away a bite of bread with his teeth.

“Y/N.” You take a sip of the wine. “And you?”

“Sam.” He watches you until you’re forced to look away. “Forgive me, I have this feeling as if we’ve met before. There’s something so familiar about you.”

“I think I would remember you.” You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, and immediately recoil. “I only meant, you’re very tall. Hard to forget.”

“Well,” he grins, breaking a piece of cheese in two, handing you half. “I would remember you as well. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a woman as magnificent as you.”

“My God,” you suck in a breath, looking away from him as your cheeks burn hot.

“Forgive me, I’m being too forward. I’m not normally this bold with someone I’ve just met.”

“Where do you live?” you ask, desperate to turn the conversation around. “Perhaps we have bumped into each other and simply don’t remember.”

“In the city.”

“I’ve been to the city many times, what district?”

He waits for a moment as if considering the authenticity of your question.

“The castle.”

The castle. Your mind processes a million tiny pieces of information all at once. The fine gold thread of his clothes, the horse, the leather of the saddle and the ruby red ring around his middle finger.

Dear God in heaven.

“You are...Prince Samuel?” you ask but you already know the answer, suddenly frightened.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, reaching out as you stand up.

“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have left the house and now I’m taking up your time.”

“Stop,” he commands and you freeze as he stands. “Please, don’t run away. While we don’t know each other, I do find your presence...calming. I can’t explain it, but I hope you might feel it too.”

You do. Your aching bones and tired body feel alive, in perfect working order.

“I am no one, my lord.” You look at the ground, unsure of why you’re so afraid. Noami has you conditioned, fearful of consequences at every turn.

“On the contrary, you are a truly remarkable creature.”

“You shouldn’t say such things.” Your eyes tick up, sneaking a look at him but only for a second.

“Right.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not normally a man who speaks in such a way to a lady. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You gulp, gathering courage and looking him in the eyes. “I should go home but I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want you to, either.” His jaw clenches and then he gestures toward the blanket. “Shall we sit and talk for a while?”

“I’d like that.” You sit, side by side, staring out into the field talking but not really listening because all you can focus on is how wonderful he smells. It’s a scent that grows stronger with each passing moment, curling around you like smoke and settling right into your bones.

It finally dawns on you. He’s an Alpha. You’ve never met one in person before, they’re a rarity, but the King and both his sons are Alphas. Perhaps that’s the reason for your bold demeanor.

“You live nearby?” he asks, eyes flitting from your mouth to your neck. There’s sweat pooling in the dip between his collar bones and you’re fixated on it.

“Close enough.”

“And do you enjoy...living in the country?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Will you forgive my indecency, but can I just…” he leans forward, waiting for you to stop him but you’re frozen in place.

Sam lowers his face to your neck, the very tip of his nose touching under your ear and a shiver shoots from the back of your skull all the way down to your toes. He draws in a deep breath, making a small, strangled noise before pulling back.

His eyes are lit up with surprise and confusion.

“You’re an Omega,” he whispers, looking in amazement as if you are indeed some wild spectacle.

“Yes,” you mutter, stuck in this moment, unable to move. He’s very close, inches away from your face. He’s breathtakingly handsome...this will surely be the death of you.

“I didn’t know there were any of your kind left in this part of the world.”

“My step-mother hid me away,” you explain softly, looking down at your work-worn palms.

“Who are you?” He takes your hands in his, big rough hands that squeeze you tight.

Eyes fluttering closed you try to ignore how wonderful his touch feels. You wish he would wrap his arms around you and hold you, never letting go.

“I told you.” You’re suddenly overcome with emotion, tears pooling in your eyes. “I am no one.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth, Omega.” He’s closer now, eyes darting from your lips to your throat, then your bosom. There’s a frenzy building, you both feel it.

You whimper when he calls you Omega. No man has ever used your title before, no less an Alpha.

“I scrub floors.” Your lids flutter, breathing him in.

“I don’t care.” Two fingers touch under your chin, tilting your face up to him.

There’s an ache between your thighs the likes of which you’ve never felt before. A throb that’s emanating from your bud and sending a desperate need out in every direction. Breath flutters and the rest of the world goes silent as you both feel any semblance of restraint slipping away.

“I don’t think we should be alone together,” you say.

“No, probably not.” He doesn’t look away, still holding your face up to his. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod yes, unable to speak.

His lips are gentle at first. The warm press of his mouth is wonderful and opens up a world you never knew existed. When you sigh his tongue curls into your mouth, wet and slick over your own as he forages deeper.

Before you know what’s happening you’re lying on your back with Sam hovering above you, his mouth moving from your mouth down your jaw. He nips at your chin, teeth scraping down your throat as you roll your hips in search of more.

“Can I touch you?” he asks again.

“Yes.” Your voice is broken, but you manage at least a single word as his hand snakes under your skirt.

Long fingers trail over your thigh, moving higher and higher until he’s right there.

“Have you ever been touched before?” he inquires, the pads of his fingers moving slowly up and down close enough to your sex that he can feel the heat on his knuckles.

“No,” you admit. You’ve scarcely touched yourself, never had the inclination. But something about Sam has ignited a dormant need inside you.

He grunts, watching your face as the tip of his thumb dips between your folds. Everything down there is wet heat, and slick, dripping for his touch. He rubs his thumb up and down the length of your pussy, sinking in a little deeper but only teasing.

And then his thumb moves up to your clit and you think you might perish here and now. You’re sweating, gasping and wiggling as he rubs you with a well-placed touch. It’s not long until there’s the build up, pleasure stacking upon pleasure and the world explodes. He presses gently with two fingers either side of your clit, keeping firm pressure as you cum. Legs stiffen, toes curl and you cry out the only word that makes sense.

“Alpha!”

“Omega,” he growls back, dipping down to kiss your lips.

There’s a bulge in his trousers, pressing firm into your hip and you’d like to explore more of him when you hear the church bells ringing in the distance. The chimes shock you back into reality and you sit up, pushing him off you.

“I have to go!” You’re panicked, a shaking hand over your mouth.

“I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Sam offers. He watches in confusion as you adjust your dress, cheeks still red from your peak.

“No! You can’t!” you sputter. “I’m sorry but I have to get back. It’s six and I need to be home when they return!”

“When who returns? Why won’t you let me-”

“I’m sorry,” you stop, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him one last time. “Goodbye, Alpha.”

Before Sam can stop you, your sprint off toward the woods.

#alpha sam winchester #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction

[marta-bee]

On Fanworks as Commodities

I've been thinking lately about commodification and how it applies to fandom.

 At the risk of giving an unhelpful circular explanation, commodification just means treating something like a commodity when it really isn't. And by commodity, I mean the kind of good or service that it's the kind of thing we can "reduce" to market terms. A loaf of bread is a commodity. So is a house or the services of an accountant- you're not losing anything or "debasing" anyone when you suggest these things can be bought and sold.

 But what about surrogacy pregnancy? This is the question Elizabeth Anderson asked in her philosophy paper, "Is Women's Labor a Commodity?" (This is where I first encountered the concept.) She asks what exactly is being sold when we pay a woman to go through a pregnancy and then give up the resulting child to someone else. Anderson said if it's the child that's being sold that seems obviously inappropriate- we rightly consider a human person as the kind of thing you can't just buy and sell- but she also argued even if the woman is just selling the use of her body for a period of time (say, implantation and surrogacy pregnancy of a fetus conceived through in vitro fertilization of the adults who will become the legal parents), there's still something lost. The argument is, pregnancy naturally (at least usually) forms a loving bond between mother and child, which a surrogate woman would wisely try to avoid; otherwise giving up the baby would be that much harder. In effect, it encourages her to alienate herself from the products of her pregnancy. It degrades the commercial surrogate, turns her into an emotionless, contextless factory. And it degrades women who might lovingly serve as surrogates (say, for a sister or friend) because it turns their gift into something indistinguishable from a market transaction.

 That's the argument, anyway. Once I found it convincing but these days, I have my doubts. For instance, I don't see any problem saying commercial surrogacy is a different kind of process than surrogacy offered as a gift to someone you know. Even if the result is the same, they seem like very different beasts. I'm also uncomfortable with this idea that certain kinds of work just can't be ethically paid for. Because this usually comes up with "caring" work, which is most often done by women even these days, it becomes too easy to not help bear the costs of that work. We can expect, say, a nurse to care about her patient even though she's paid a salary; is it so wrong if a child who quits her job to care for a sick parent to also be paid for her sacrifice?

 That's more a criticism of how the concept is applied, though. I think it's applied too quickly, and in ways that turn it into an either/or, where this doesn't need to be the case. I still think the basic idea has a lot going for it. We do give the market too much power to answer questions it really isn't well suited for. Healthcare, for instance; it needs to be paid for, but not in a way that keeps people from accessing it who need it, or even lets those who can pay get to it more quickly. And maybe market pressures can make it more efficient, to a point, but we really shouldn't reduce it to something that can be bought and sold and understand entirely on those terms.

So, what does all this have to do with fandom? Well, I'm of a different fannish generation than a lot of you young whippersnappers- I first got involved in fannish circles with the Lord of the Rings movies back in the original 2000s. This was pre-AO3 and pre-Tumblr, and only a few years after Anne Rice got ff.net to disallow all fanfic based on her novels. We posted our disclaimers about not owning the characters for a reason and professed our poverty because we believed (or feared at least) we could be sued by the canon's authors. I was mostly in the Tolkien fandom, and it was well known that the estate was never going to authorize fanfic, commercial or otherwise. They state as much on their website, though I can't remember how long that Q&A has existed in its current format.

 That gave us a lovely little commercial-free zone. If you couldn't sell your own work commercially, then you could give up all pretenses of success along the normal capitalistic lines and delve into areas that just would never have been very marketable in traditional publishing. Tolkien fandom itself was pretty conservative but I know other fandoms went much further in this regard, exploring genres that just would never be marketable especially before the niche and self-financed publishing the internet opened up for a lot of authors. If the law wouldn't let you do what you wanted to do anyway, why not become utterly ungovernable? So, fanfic became (for me at least) art about art rather than filthy lucre. We were doing what we did because we loved it, and as gifts for our friends, and as a way to be something that wasn't quite allowed in the "normal" culture for whatever reason- even just because we were women daring to make time for our weird little hobbies. It was glorious. And we worked hard enough in other areas of our life that we had the $$$ to indulge in this. We didn't need to be paid, and even if you offered to pay us for our works, we'd likely get a bit insulted and insist that wasn't what this was about at all.

I was told more than once by family that I was good enough to be a "real writer" and didn't I want to do my own thing. So yes, I did get a bit miffed and lean in to my identity of fanfic-writing as hobby not intended as a career.

 And I'll be honest: when I see people advertising for commissions or celebrating fan-authors going "professional" as if this is necessarily a step up from unpaid fannish work, I often have this old framework in the back of my head. And it's not really fair. For one thing, I was in college in the early 2000's and so even when we didn't have a lot of cash, we expected to soon get day jobs where we could afford to live comfortably and still afford our hobbies. The housing market crash and the Great Recession changed all of that, as did work opportunities like Instacart and Uber. For a lot of people even a few years younger than me, everything became a side-hustle and there just wasn't this expectation a hobby could be a hobby. I get that there's a lot of privilege entering into that.

 On top of which, there's all kinds of gender issues: professional artists, predominantly men, have been painting and selling drawings of comic book characters for years. Star Trek and Star Wars affiliated novels, and Sherlock Holmes pastiches (as opposed to fanfic), again written primarily by men, are also very much a thing. Hell, so are Renaissance artists and the patron system that was built off of. And of course, just because you sometimes produce fanworks just to sell and still do the less commercial work just for yourself if you ever want to. There's no real conflict in that. And it's not like producing art to sell is at all wrong. But to me it does feel like that kind of art is different than what I fancy I do, back when I occasionally wrote. :-) And I probably am more aware of this than I should be, because my backdrop is different from a lot of fans younger than myself, and really do try not to let my situation turn into a blind spot.

 Even so, I worry and struggle to find the balance between letting art turn a profit and be reduced to a strictly commercial venture. It's never been anything I've been even remotely drawn to do, and human nature being what it is, I probably do think more highly of the kind of thing I'd choose to do. But I don't want to be unfair, and I don't want to think just because art is paid for and written/drawn to order, it's some sort of assembly-line output with no heart put into it by the writer and artist. Just like an artisan shoemaker might take great pride in his art and work his hardest on each shoe he crafts, even if he must sell it to make ends meet. Somehow, I suspect thinking about this in terms of commodification, the dangers of evaluating artistry using market standards and the ways in which it can still have a value beyond commodity even if it’s bought and sold, might help. But I've not quit worked out what insight that kind of thought would provide, if any.

Do you think there's a special value in fandom or art generally that's not made to be bought and sold? Or am I perhaps making too big a deal over nothing and revealing myself to be an old fuddy-duddy in the process. (It's always a possibility!) I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts if you have any to share.

#philosophy #fandom #commodification #marta blathers

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 1

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse and soon they travel across the galaxy, looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 1 - The Great Escape

As the starship struggled through the atmosphere, the cargo hold shook like the world was coming apart at the seams. Sinead pressed herself against the wall, which was growing hotter as gravity tried to drag the ship back on the ground. She had squeezed herself between two crates and hidden by the shadows she was impossible to spot from the walkway.

Sound of blood rushing through her ears drowned out her labored breathing and loud bangs from the ship. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth and tasted blood. Her other hand curled around the handle of the whip, thumb hovering above the button that would power it up, releasing a power she didn't know how to handle. The whip, the one that started it all. It was heavy in her hand. If anyone found her, they'd meet a quick end, if she didn't accidentally dismember herself first.

Eventually, the floor evened out, and Sinead allowed herself to shift, her burning leg muscles crying out in protest. A drop of sweat landed in her eye and she rubbed her forehead. She was drenched in sweat, whether from fear or the hot wall she didn't know.

As the ship got farther and farther away from the cursed planet, the fog of terror started to lift. She was free, or as free as one could be hiding in a cargo hold, stowing away on a starship bound for the unknown; they might as well take her into the heart of Hutt space.

The hiss when the door opened hit Sinead like an icepick at the back of her neck.

Bothans. Two of them made their way down the walkway, growling deep in their throats as they went, their paws almost silent on the metal floor.

Sinead shifted ever so slightly, breath caught in her throat, ready to pounce.

One of the Bothans stopped in front of her hiding place. She saw its long face through cracks between the crates, long canines curling up over its upper lip.

A clawed hand curled around the crate, pulling it back.

Sinead forced her eyes open. Her finger found the button and-

A loud growl and the Bothan let go of the crate and pushed it back in place. Sinead watched with wide eyes as they went further down the walkway and helped the other carry a much larger container out of the room.

The door closed behind them, and Sinead let out a sigh of relief. The cargo hold felt cold suddenly, and empty, the only light came from ancient fixtures in the ceiling that flickered every time the ship shook.

She made it. She was going to make it. Once the ship docked, wherever that would be, she would sneak off and find another, get as far away from the Hutts as possible.

She'd find Kyen.

... ... ... ... ...

Four months later

Gineesh was nestled between two glaciers, growing from the cracks like stubborn weeds too deep-rooted ever to be pulled out completely. If the dormant volcano under the biggest glacier ever woke and flooded the area with molten lava, the city would find a way to break through the volcanic rocks before it even had time to cool off.

Two years ago, a surveyor from the mining guild found spice deep down under the ice and rocks, and what used to be a small port whose only claim to fame was that it was a stop on the way to Mon Calamari, bloomed into an entire mining operation.

Sinead had found a job in the big shipyard carved out of the ice, doing maintenance on the enormous freighters that came every day to pick up spice. Her father had taught her just enough not to get herself killed in an industrial accident, but mostly she fetched tools and ran messages for the more seasoned mechanics.

Working around the big ships made her feel closer to her parents than she had in a long time. They'd owned a freighter, running cargo for whoever wanted to pay for it, and Sinead had grown up among the stars.

She was jostled when she left the shipyard by big burly men coming in for their shift, their clothes covered in crusty oil and mud. The ever-present snow lined the road, turned grey from pollution. The road itself was a mess of dirt and sludge that seeped into her cheap boots as she walked.

A Twi'lek female waited for her just outside the shipyard; Ludah was young and pretty, her blue skin vibrant in the grey surroundings. She smiled when she saw Sinead.

"Jesha! I was about to leave without you."

Sinead shuffled closer to Ludah so they wouldn't be separated in the steady stream of people leaving and coming into to work. The sun was nearly below the horizon, but work never stopped a place like this.

"I had to finish up before I could leave. You know how it is."

Ludah squeezed past an overturned hovercart someone had left in the middle of the road. "I told you, you could work with me at the cantina. You'd get to sling ardees instead of oil for a change."

Sinead huddled further into her cloak. The glaciers sheltered them from the big snowstorms that ravaged Toola, but that didn't mean it wasn't colder than a wampa's balls.

"I've tried the whole server thing, and it turns out I'm no good at it."

"Because helping drunk assholes get even drunker is so hard."

"You're really selling this cantina job, you know that?"

Sinead knew she shouldn't talk to anyone more than necessary. She definitely shouldn't befriend the neighbor for fun walks through the slum, but she did anyway. She was a social creature, and the last months had been hell in more ways than one, although a different form of hell than the one she escaped from.

"Your loss."

Ludah leaned closer to Sinead with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes and said, "Lon stopped by after my shift ended."

Sinead blew out a deep sigh. "You know I don't want to hear about this."

"But he told me he's leaving tomorrow. We're gonna meet later, down by the mine."

"Ludah ..." Sinead said, looking around to see if anyone overheard them.

"I'm serious! I might never get to see him again when he joins the resis-"

Sinead's heart shuttered in her chest. "Shut. Up." Her eyes roved around them, hands balling into fists in her pockets. Everyone looked too preoccupied with themselves to notice them, but it only took one before the Empire descended on the planet like vultures. "Think before you speak, will you?"

"Sorry," Ludah said, not sounding particularly sorry. "I'm just so tired of being stuck on this frozen pile of bantha shit." She looked at the ground like the planet itself could hear her insult. "I'm tired of drunk astash grabbing my lekku and following me home. I don't want to end up like my parents."

"Keep talking like that, and you'll end up in a prison camp, which I guess technically counts as getting off-world," Sinead said.

Ludah sniffed and crossed her arms. "I hate this stupid place." Another nasty look at the ground. "I'm sweating under my lekku and the rest of my body is frozen solid. How does that even happen?"

Sinead let Ludah rant the rest of the way to their lodgings, at least it was better than her talking about the Resistance. News of the Resistance's victories had reached all the way out to the frozen planet, and tension was building in the slums that, if not taken care of, might explode into a revolt.

It wasn't that Sinead didn't understand where Ludah was coming from; she knew all too well the stifling feeling that came from staying in one place too long, kept in place by literal or metaphorical chains. That didn't mean she was going to risk the Empire finding her just because Ludah had cabin fever.

They rounded the last corner and their lodgings were at the end of the road. Ludah's house was larger and sturdier than many of the surrounding shacks. Warm light spilled out from the windows. In contrast, Sinead's one-room hovel looked like it shouldn't even be standing up.

Something made Sinead stop in her tracks; a chill that had nothing to do with the cold went through her body.

"Jesha? Are you all right?" Ludah looked at Sinead with furrowed brows. They stood in the middle of the road. "You look at bit pale."

A shadow moved behind the lone window of the hut, and Sinead took a step back.

"You know, I forgot something at the shipyard. I'll just see you tomorrow, yeah?"

She didn't wait for Ludah to answer but turned around and hurried back the way she came. There were fewer people on the street, the few streetlamps to be found in the slum still in working order was alight, making everyone who passed underneath look sick in the yellow light.

She reminded herself not to run as she hurried back towards the shipyard. Someone walking fast might just be late for work, but someone running would attract too much attention. She looked around as subtly as she could, trying to see whatever it was that gave her that feeling like it was the world's end.

The smell of fire, oil, and metal hung in the air as she entered the shipyard, the sounds of heavy machinery just as loud as when she left, echoing in the big open space. A Wookiee passed her carrying a rotor across his shoulders, almost as tall as he was.

Only one freighter was docked, which meant the shipyard was emptier than usual. Sinead hurried into a dark corner and entered a maze of pallets filled with spare parts for the ships. Stopping in front of the wall, she removed a small panel. The whip was still there, the kyber crystals fused into the metal glinting in the low light.

Sinead didn't give herself time to be relieved. She returned the whip and replaced the panel, making the wall look untouched.

She left the shipyard by a rarely used side entrance and hurried down the street. Another breed of people appeared after the sun went down; beggars and homeless people crowded around burning drums to find whatever warmth they could.

A hovercart filled with miners were going down the street, and as it passed her, she stole down the nearest alley. The darkness swallowed her up.

Filth and frozen mud covered every surface, and Sinead nearly tripped over a garbage can, spilling its greasy content on the ground. Only slivers of light came through the dirty windows turned towards the alley.

A Weequay sat slumped against the wall, and at first glance Sinead though he was dead. As she hurried past, he looked up and his hoarse laughter followed her, echoing through the alley.

If she could find a ship that departed tonight, maybe she could stow away on it, buy herself some more time. Then when the coast was clear, she'd return for the whip and-

Pain exploded across her face as she turned a corner. The world tilted, and she landed on her side, hard, holding her face like it was about to split in two. There was blood in her mouth.

A Trandoshan stood before her, his eyes glowing in the twilight.

"There you are," he said, the words low and rough. "Been looking all over the galaxy for you." While she lay dazed on the ground, he bent down and snatched the blaster hidden behind her cloak. "That thing is much too dangerous for a girl like you."

Sinead forced her hands to stop trembling. Snow and mud had worked its way through the many layers of her clothes. He'd taken her blaster, but she still had a vibroblade tucked into her boot.

"Y-you have the wrong person," she said, edging away from the Trandoshan.

His maw opened in a grin. "I don't think so," he said, bending down and grabbing her by the wrists. "You're exactly the girl I'm looking fo-"

Sinead's foot connected with his stomach, sending him flying back and landing with a crash on top of an abandoned bag which split open and a black, foul-smelling content spilled out on the ground.

Sinead got to her feet and broke into a dead sprint, running blindly down the alley. His undulating hunting call echoed between the narrow walls, and ancient survival instinct kicked in gear, screaming at her to hide in the nearest hole she could find.

But he would find her in the end. That's what Trandoshians do.

The alley opened into the main thoroughfare that cut through the slum like a dirty scar.

Sinead burst into the road like a shot out of a cannon. She screamed at the top of her lungs, the kind of scream that made the silence ring even louder once it ended.

People stopped in their tracks and watched as she made a beeline to a group of Besalisks standing by a grill where three small creatures hung suspended over the flames.

"Help!" Sinead's voice cut through the cold air like a whip. "Help! He's trying to kidnap m-" her legs were yanked out from under her and mouth filled with dirty snow as she landed on the ground for the second time that day.

A crowd formed around her; several blasters pointed directly at the Trandoshan who came skulking through the snow, a grappling line trailing behind him.

"She's a wanted fugitive," he said, snarling as his beady eyes jumped from blaster to blaster. "Sinead Cade-" He held out a small bounty puck where an image of Sinead spun slowly, the blue light making the Trandoshan look pallid and sick- "is wanted for theft and murder.

A murmur went through the crowd and they fell away one after one until people just moved around them like they rocks in a stream.

The Trandoshan bent over her again, catching her wrist in his hand. "If you run again," he said, snarling as he drew in a breath, "I'll fly back to the Hutts with you strapped to the hull of my ship."

He fastened bindings around her wrist, and once he was sure they were secure, dragged her up by the arm. "Walk."

Sinead moved, head bent low in defeat while her eyes swirled around, looking for a way out. She still had the knife tucked away, but she had better make sure it stuck if she tried to use it.

Snow fell as they trudged towards the port located on the edge of Gineesh, covering the ground with fresh powder. Sinead's clothes started to freeze, and she had lost most feeling in her hands and feet. The Trandoshan kept a bruising grip on her upper arm, steering her towards certain death. His claws cut through her clothes like it was tissue paper, and Sinead felt warm blood trickle down her arm.

"If you send me back there," Sinead began, wincing as his grip got even tighter, "I'm as good as dead."

"And why is that my problem?" The Trandoshan yanked her to the side as a hovercart came zipping down the road, nearly hitting them.

"My blood will be on your hands."

The Trandoshan laughed, a raspy sound like scales slithering over stone. "You won't be the first, and you won't be the last."

Sinead swallowed down the growing panic and wet her lips. "I can pay you," she said, her voice lower and smoother than before, "I have something worth more than what they're paying you, I promise."

"Shut up." The Trandoshan pushed her forwards, and she landed on her knees in the snow. "We aren't all stupid enough to piss off both the Hutts and the Empire."

Sinead made a strangled sound as he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. A weight was sitting on her chest. The Trandoshan dragged her along, her fingers found the knife, and hid it in the palm of her hand.

"You're making a mistake."

"I'll live. Too bad you won't."

A ship rose in front of them, its charred hull and dark windows making it look abandoned. The Trandoshan released her to press a button on his wrist vambrace.

Sinead flicked open the knife and lunged at the Trandoshan, burying the knife in his shoulder until only the hilt was visible.

The Trandoshan screamed, striking her on the side of the head with a fist like a rock covered in sandpaper. She used the momentum to spin around and run. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, and with every labored breath, the cold air felt like knives in her lungs.

A roar echoed between the starships. She was about to chance a look behind when pain exploded in her shoulder and threw her to the ground. A smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Rough hands grabbed her hair and pulled her head out of the mud. The Trandoshan pressed his disgusting mouth to her ear.

"You really shouldn't have done that."

And everything went black.

... ... ... ... ...

Sinead came to, lying on her back in a small room. The first thing her brain registered was how cold it was. Her clothes were soaked in mud, melted snow, and blood, and the air was cold enough to crystallize in front of her face.

When she opened her eyes, she thought she had gone blind. Eventually, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Slivers of light made it under the door to the cell. Because it was a cell, that was for certain. She was lying on a small cot, and the only other furniture in the room was a metal bucket pushed into the corner, which Sinead had no intention of touching no matter how long she was stuck in there.

The dull pain emanating from her shoulder turned into a fiery agony when she tried to move. She covered her mouth with a filthy hand to stifle her cry. That only made it worse as her wrists were still bound together and every time she moved her arm, a new stab of pain tore through her shoulder.

She couldn't just stay there. She had to get up, find a way out of this.

Gritting her teeth, Sinead counted to three and hoisted herself into a sitting position, nearly sliding off the cot. Pain exploded behind her eyes. Pitching forward, she emptied her stomach on the floor. When she gingerly pressed a hand to the back of her neck, she discovered that her hair was stiff with blood.

Sinead breathed deeply against the wave of powerlessness that hit her. As long as she didn't panic, she'd find a way out. She had to.

Getting up took more tries than she cared to think about. She stepped around the sick on the floor and examined the door, a thick slab of steel that a thermal detonator wouldn't be able to break through. The rest of the cell was as if poured straight into a mold, there wasn't a crack or gap in the cold wall.

A low, constant hum made it clear that she was on a starship, and it was heading nowhere good. A strangled sob escaped her lips as her fingers dug into her arm. Her body felt light as if it'd been hollowed out while she slept or expelled with the vomit.

She didn't know how long she stood there. The room shuddered as the ship hit the ground. It felt like someone had filled her ears with cotton.

The door hissed open and the Trandoshan appeared, his beady eyes trained on her. There was a dark stain on his shoulder, a bacta patch peeking out under his jacket. Grabbing Sinead's bound wrists, he pulled her towards the door.

An involuntary, guttural scream tore from her mouth and she dug in her heels as he dragged her down a narrow walkway. The ramp was down, sunlight streaming through the opening. As the Trandoshan shoved her through, Sinead closed her eyes against the harsh sun.

The sight that met her when she opened her eyes made her want to close them again: Slezza the Hutt sat fat and glistening in the shade of a canopy held by four slaves; Beside him, Jusgra stood just as pale and insipid as she remembered him. A group of palace guards surrounded them.

On the other side of the landing platform, an army of white shone brightly in the sun. An Imperial officer dressed in grey was waiting in front of a squadron of stormtroopers.

She'd hoped she never had to step foot on Sriluur again. The dry heat assaulted her when she stepped out of the ship, a sweat breaking out under her clothes.

Sinead hissed between her teeth as the Trandoshan grabbed her injured shoulder and dug in his claws, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Jusgra's long face split into a smug smile. Humans came in all shapes and sizes, but Sinead had never seen anyone as disproportional as him.

"Ah, I see you've finally found your quarry. Took you long enough."

The Trandoshan growled. "Delivered in one piece, just like you said."

Jusgra grabbed Sinead by the chin and lifted her face into the sunlight. "Not without damaging the merchandise, I see."

Sinead's vision flashed and she spat directly into Jusgra's face.

He hit her across the face with enough force to make her legs give out, and she slipped out of the Trandoshan's grip, landing on the dusty ground.

Slezza laughed and said something in Huttese, but Sinead's ears were ringing too loud to hear.

She pushed herself to her feet. There was no way in hell she'd meet her fate lying helpless on the ground.

"If you're all quite done," the officer said, brushing a speck of dust off his grey coat. "I'd like to interrogate the prisoner."

The Trandoshan grabbed Sinead and pulled her close. "Not before I get paid."

Jusgra looked back at Slezza, who nodded his great head, and then Jusgra procured a pouch from a hidden pocket. The credits clinked when the Trandoshan caught it.

"You'll see it's all there," Jusgra said in a bored tone, examining his shirtsleeve.

"I just check if it's all the same to you," the Trandoshan said, turning the pouch upside down and counting the credits that fell in his palm. When he was satisfied, he gave Sinead a hard push towards the others.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

The starship took off, leaving her to die. Eventually.

Sinead breathed heavily through her nose, trying not to scream.

The officer stepped forward, flanked by two Stormtroopers who grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, making her clench her jaw in pain.

Slezza's booming voice rang out with a command.

"I do believe-" Jusgra stepped forward with his own guards behind him- "that seeing as she is property of the great Slezza the Hutt, and he deigned in all his magnificent glory to pay the bounty, she rightly belongs with us."

A change went through the guards and stormtroopers alike, tension boiling just below the surface. The stormtrooper to her right shifted his grip on his blaster rifle.

The officer patted his forehead with a handkerchief, not used to the oppressive heat of Sriluur. "She stole a valuable artifact belonging to the Empire, and I am tasked with getting it back. Since an alternate payment was found, the weapon still belongs to us."

"And we will relay the information on its whereabouts to you as soon as we've extracted it, I guarantee."

"That wasn't part of the deal-"

Slezza let out a gurgling roar, and the officer whirled around to face him. A hush went through the stormtroopers, and there was a low clicking sound of blasters being readied.

If they ended up opening fire on each other, maybe Sinead's death would be worth it.

Jusgra listened to Slezza with a passive face before smiling coldly at the officer. "Slezza the Hutt permits you to extract the information as you see fit, providing that she'll be delivered back alive, as the glorious Slezza wishes to oversee her punishment personally."

The officer gave a curt nod. "I can't see why that will be a problem." He adjusted a button on his coat and looked for the first time directly at Sinead.

"I don't suppose you'll tell us where you hid the weapon and get it all over with?"

"D'emperiolo nok," Sinead spat, looking directly into his runny eyes.

"This one has always been … spirited. More trouble than she's worth, really," Jusgra said.

"Yes, well, the Empire has ways of making people talk," the officer turned toward Slezza and gave a curt bow. "The Empire thanks you for your cooperation and looks forward to a long and profitable partnership."

As the stormtroopers led her away, Sinead looked up at the small building roof connected to the landing platform. There, in the heat haze, a shadow crouched behind a water tank.

Something glinted in the sunlight.

A grenade landed between the Imperial and the Hutt, and all hell broke loose.

Next Chapter ->

#the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x oc #mando x oc #din x oc #din djarin x oc #fanfiction #ends of the earth #oc: sinead

[waiting4inspiration]

Ivar the Boneless Masterlist

The (*) denotes to the imagine/drabble containing smut.

Ask me to be tagged in future works 

The Berserker - Masterlist 

Summary: The leader of an army of Berserkers takes an interest in the younger Ragnarsson. Not because of his ruthless personality but because it seems that everywhere the young king goes, battle follows right behind him and it’s something that her pack craves.

Rumors aren’t Always True

Summary: When rumors start to spread that Ivar can’t satisfy a woman, you decide to put his mind and ease and show him that it’s not true

You’re Infuriating

Summary: Your relationship with Ivar is a complicated love/hate scenario, but you both want it to be more love and less hate

What’s Mine

Summary: After Ivar gives a crazy battle plan, he makes sure you know better than to doubt that he would let anyone take what is his

Ain’t my Fault

Summary: It can’t be your fault that Ivar is so fuckable that he turns you on every time he walks through the door.

Hurt

Summary: When you finally find love after being hurt by Ivar, he confesses his love for you and hurts you farther than anything you can imagine

You want to what?

Summary: Prompt by @geekandbooknerd #25 “You came to my room and wake me up at 4am to cuddle?“

Braids

Summary: Ivar has to wake up from your slumbers just to braid his hair because he can’t do it himself

Confusion - Part 1 II Part 2 II Part 3 II Part 4

Summary: You and Ubbe have been fighting recently and you spend time with Ivar to calm down. Ivar confesses his feelings for you and you feel the same, but you still love Ubbe. Things don’t get better when Ubbe asks you a big question

When I was your man

Summary: Ivar regrets not treating you the way he should have and now has to accept that you’ve moved on. He only hopes that the new man in your life treats you so much better

Survive

Summary: Your plans to go home after a raid are intercepted by the Saxons and after you save Ivar during the battle, he wants to make sure that you’re well cared for as a way to show his gratitude.

Piece By Piece

Summary: Now that you’re queen and pregnant with Ivar’s child, your father decided to walk back into your life after abandoning you as a child

A Million Reasons

Summary: When Ivar realizes that he might lose you because of all the wrong things he’s done, he tries to give you a reason that overshoots all the reasons why you should leave in hopes that you’ll stay

Effervescent

Summary: Hvitserk and Ubbe don’t believe Ivar when he says that he loves you because you’re completely different than what he is. Your bubbly personality is the main reason for their disbelief, but you give Ivar an idea that might convince everyone that you belong to him

7 Things

Summary: After finding out that Ivar has told his brothers things that he thinks are flaws in your personality, you decide to give him a taste of his own medicine and tell him the things you don’t like about him

Quiet

Summary: Prompt by @geekandbooknerd #47 “Don’t make too much noise, we don’t want to wake everyone"

Tease *

Summary: Ivar’s constant teasing on a raid leaves you a frustrated, sexual mess. Especially when he decides to tease you under a table in front of the city’s king

Be Ruthless - Masterlist (COMPLETE)

Summary: You have been controlled by the men in your life ever since you can remember. Now, your brother has decided to marry you off to the leader of the Great Heathen Army thinking that he’ll gain some power from the alliance. Thinking that you could never love a man who uses fear as a weapon, you expect your life with Ivar to be completely miserable.

Jealousy

Summary: Ivar makes sure that the other men around you know that you belong to him and when you realize this, you put a plan into motion to prove to him that he’s jealous of you speaking to other men

Betrayed II Part 2

Summary: You’ve had enough of this war between Ivar and Lagertha and so look to the brothers for help to end this war. Even if it means you have to betray Ivar’s trust.

Father’s Day

Summary: Finding out that you’re pregnant, you come up with a plan to tell Ivar when he returns from a ‘business’ trip on Father’s Day

Pain II Part 2 II Part 3

Summary: You’re the only one Ivar will allow to see him when he’s in pain thanks to his legs. But when you tell him that he’s your best friend, you stir up a new kind of pain in his heart

Emulous

Summary: Ivar has his eyes on another woman instead of you making a fit of jealousy stir inside of you. He makes sure to show you that you can never truly stay mad at him for long

Broken Soul - Masterlist 

Summary: Ivar is certain that you are the one that will give him sons even if it means he hurts you and breaks your soul.

A Healing Soul - Masterlist 

Summary: There’s something different in Kattegat that’s begging you to stay. That something might just be Ivar who you can see has changed and learned from his mistakes. (Sequel to Broken Soul)

His Return *

Summary: Ivar comes back from a long raid, touch starved and with one thing on his mind: to feel your skin on his again

The Water Maiden

Summary: A fisherman catches a spectacular creature one day. Ivar surprises himself when he saves the creature because he sees something familiar in her eyes. (For @tephi101 ‘s 800 follower challenge)

Dainty, but Bruised II Part 2

Summary: As the dainty queen of Kattegat, you’re kidnapped by the Saxon’s as leverage to use to persuade Ivar to leave and not attack their city.  

Just Another Stripper - Masterlist

Summary: You’re a stripper at Ivar’s club and he insisted on giving you a lift, only taking you to his place instead of yours. Thinking that this is the start of something deeper, you stay the morning and make breakfast after staying the night. But it turns out you were wrong.

Collision *

Summary: While driving one night, you collide with another car and meet the fuming driver. When he calms down a bit, he finds a way to make time tick fast as you both wait for help to arrive.

The Surprise II Part 2

Summary: Ivar comes back from a raid expecting you to be at the docks and the first face he sees. When you’re not there and no one will tell him why, he bursts through the doors of your room, finding you beside the fire and realizes why you weren’t there.

Art II Part 2

Summary: After encountering a face that sends your mind flooding with inspiration, you start to sketch the face in the cafe. He catches your wandering eyes and demands to know what you’re doing and to see more of your artworks.

Throwing Insults

Summary: Ivar and his brothers visit the bar you work at, the former deciding to insult you. After threatening you by pointing a gun in your face, Ivar becomes fascinated when you have no fear in your eyes and wants to get to know you better.

Mine and Mine Only *

Summary: Ivar doesn’t want you to breastfeed your child for one, specific reason; he’s laid claim to your breasts

The Perfect Heir - Masterlist

Summary: Ivar can’t have his son being a cripple and leaves him to die in the woods. You can’t take losing another child or even conceiving another with him, so you leave to seek refuge with his older brother.

A Bad Feeling

Summary: You tell Ivar that you don’t have a good feeling about the upcoming war but he doesn’t believe you. And he regrets it the next day when you ‘feelings’ turn out to be true

Cruel and Kind (Beauty and the Beast - Ivar) II Part 2

Summary: You have to stay in Kattegat until your father can pay off his debt to Ivar. You two are nothing alike, but he is still fascinated by your kindness. Especially after watching your encounter with a buck in the forest

Poisoned Sleep (Sleeping Beauty - Ivar) II Part 2

Summary: Your father is given a kingdom to rule by Ragnar and you have to say goodbye to Ivar. One day, your cup is poisoned and you fall into a death-like sleep

Fighter

Summary: You go into premature labor, not knowing what will happen to the baby. Ivar makes a promise to himself to do anything to help his son survive

Bargains and Deals (Rumpelstilskin - Ivar) II Part 2 II  Part 3

Summary: You have to make a few deals with the man responsible for raiding your city for your family’s lives to be spared. That’s when you end up being his personal slave and he has another deal in mind, but won’t tell you what it is just yet.

Whispered Words

Summary: Ivar won’t admit to being soft. Not even if it’s around his own child. Not even when you’ve caught him being gentle.

Like a Child *

Summary: Ivar doesn’t like sharing you and is finding it hard to accept that that is what he has to do with his own child. Especially when he starts to miss your body.

Paper Rings

Summary: Ivar keeps spoiling you with gifts that you never even ask for and you want to know why.

His Fault II Part 2 II Part 3

Summary: Ivar’s determination to prove that his plan has no flaw is the reason why he doesn’t see your face after a failed attack

Complicated Relations

Summary: You and Ivar have been pretending to be in a relationship for a while now. But now that you’re actually in one, you have to pretend that you’re just friends around his family.

Klingon 

Summary: Someone underestimates your knowledge of a fandom. But you show them that they’re wrong.

Addicted - Masterlist

Summary: You notice that one heathen in charge of the raid on your home is cursed with pain in his legs. You offer to help relieve his pain, not expecting things to go the way you feared they would

One - Masterlist *

Summary: Ivar receives you as a gift with a strong claim behind your name: You can make any man hard with one look.

Honor; For the Gods

Summary: With a stupid decree, no woman is allowed to fight in the upcoming war. But you have other plans and decide to disguise yourself as a man to fight

Speak my Language

Summary: You arrive in Kattegat with Alfred and meet Ivar who is fascinated by the fact that you can speak his language and that you have taken an interest in his culture

Temptation

Summary: Your kingdom is raided by the Sons of Ragnar, Demons of the Deadly Sins. The Demon of Lust, Ivar the Boneless, finds you and steals your soul, preventing his brothers from tempting you.

The Wolf in the Woods *

Summary: It’s time to leave your father’s pack and find your own mate. When Alphas scent you out and fight for your approval, only the most ruthless will come out on top and claim you as his

Proceed with Caution

Summary: After you get injured in a raid, Ivar argues with you about what would have happened if you had died. More importantly, what your children at home would do if they lost their mother 

Paralyzed II Part 2

Summary: Ivar protects you from an attacking Saxon, but sacrifices the use of his arm for your safety.

Flight of Freedom - Masterlist

Summary: A paranoid king wipes out a race of dragons and dragon riders. Two riders are born as the genocide starts to die down. One rider is fortunate, growing with his dragon and becoming a strong rider. Another is less fortunate, having her dragon taken from her by the paranoid king and been kept prisoner as her dragon is used as a power play by the king.

A Queen Behind a King - Masterlist

Summary: Ivar’s been sloppy and irresponsible when it comes to his duties as king, leaving you to clean up his messes. Yet again.

Useless to Me - Masterlist

Summary: Ivar plans a raid without your consent because he feels you are no longer useful to him as a wife. You’re only good for sex and producing heirs for him, he thinks. And none of that has happened for a while now.

Hefna - Masterlist

Summary:  Ivar is rescued from death and taken to a camp where the occupants are Nomadic people who live by ways similar to his and his people, but it’s also very different. He meets you, his savior, and finds himself falling for you. Only, you’re getting married to the leader of the tribe.

Your Face (OC)

Summary: Ivar meets a woman he thinks is someone else; you. The resemblance is uncanny. But when he starts to remember you, he notices that there are differences. And this woman is not you.

Like me (Centaur!Ivar x Reader)

Summary: Ivar meets someone like him. Someone with 4 legs, and a horse body. Someone who has been alone most of their life because they aren’t normal. Like him.

Ride *

Summary: Ivar only wants the best. And when his search for the best horses leads him to your city and he sees you trying to tame a wild stallion, he ends up wanting something different

Face Changer (Ivar x Shapeshifter!Reader)

Summary: A Jarl comes to join Ivar’s raid to England with an interesting companion. After speaking to you, he finds that you and he are not so different

Tell Them II Part 2 II Part 3

Summary: Ivar hasn’t seen you since you broke his heart, and seeing you again brings back painful memories. For you and for him.

The Curtain Falls - Masterlist

Summary: Your happy marriage with Ivar is just a façade. When he unexpectedly shows up on your private visit to your family, you learn the truth of why he really married you because the reason was not for love. You wish you can learn to love him as the person behind the mask he puts on in public, but it’s hard with a war on the rise.

Cursed

Summary: The whispers have come back, taunting you and mocking you. You’ve kept your curse a secret for so long, but everyone has a breaking point. And what do you have left to lose now that you’ve lost everything?

A Different Way - Masterlist

Summary: During Ivar’s visit to Earl Gunnar’s city to find a wife among his 12 daughters, you - the oldest daughter - catches his eye and he’s determined to make you his wife even though you want nothing to do with the thought of marriage. Ivar has to figure out a different way to win your affection.

#ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless masterlist #masterlist #vikings masterlist #ivar x reader #vikings ivar #history vikings

[squidbatts]

i’m gonna run this nothing town

“That’s how I know I'm making the right choice. Cal, will you be my aide-de-camp?” A smile spreads across Calroy's face, sharp like the water-steel dagger he keeps tucked in his boot. “Amethar,” He says, voice sweet as the sugar beneath their feet, “It would be my honor.”

or: four snapshots of calroy and amethar, after the war

((this requires some explanation. this exists in an au where calroy and amethar (eventually) get married, calroy hates amethar but is also in love with him (and doesn’t know he’s in love with him), and calroy is still actively working against the rocks. it’s.... involved. inspired entirely by the enablers in the d20 server of color and @kindlespark‘s wonderful calroy art. please enjoy!))

{ao3}

1.

When the War is over, when all the dust has settled, Calroy still stands.

He stands beside Amethar, the new King of Candia and the Sugarlands; Amethar, the War buddy that considered Calroy his closest friend; Amethar, the arrogant, spoiled, ungrateful boy that cared more about playing soldier than his place in the Kingdom; His Majesty King Amethar of House Rocks, the Unfallen.

He stands there, and Amethar, in mourning clothes even at his own coronation, clears his throat.

“Cal,” Amethar starts, voice a whisper and brows furrowed, “You know I- I can't do this. I was never supposed to be the one to do this, I don't know anything about politics and I didn't pay attention in my etiquette classes and I never remember any of those fancy titles. I don't even know how to read, you know that.”

Calroy, who once had to trade hard labor and quick favors for his lessons, makes himself nod understandingly. “So you've told me, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, come on, don't call me that,” Amethar says quickly, waving a hand like his title is an annoying bug that he can shoo away. Calroy feels so sick with envy and anger that he worries for a moment that he'll pass out. “I'm not just outlining my flaws for my own health, alright, I wanted to ask you… I mean, you're the best guy I know, and I trust you to watch my back, and you're great at talking us out of scrapes, and my advisors told me that I should choose someone, and-”

“Keep talking like that and I'll die of boredom before you can ask me anything,” Calroy interrupts, tone balanced on the line between joking and rude. 

Amethar smiles, a clever little thing that looks much more at home on his face than his earlier wide-eyed nervousness, and his shoulders relax from where they'd begun to climb towards his ears.

“That’s how I know I'm making the right choice. Cal, will you be my aide-de-camp?”

A smile spreads across Calroy's face, sharp like the water-steel dagger he keeps tucked in his boot. “Amethar,” He says, voice sweet as the sugar beneath their feet, “It would be my honor.”

--

2.

Her name is Caramelinda Merengue and she hates Amethar. She doesn't say as much, because she's whip-smart and understands that would be an insult that even Amethar couldn't miss, but Calroy can tell. He reads it in the line of her brow and the tilt of her lips, in the way her hands tighten on her dress under the table and the way her cheek dimples when she bites it to keep herself from speaking.

Calroy rather likes her.

Her father is in talks with Amethar about marriage and Amethar is deeply miserable about it, as he makes clear to Calroy each evening when they drink together. Caramelinda is miserable about it too, though she's more graceful about it and never even brings up the fact that her set engagement to the late Archmage Lazuli of House Rocks had been one of love and not simple allyship; no, Calroy had to use his spies to find out that one because Caramelinda was too loyal to her duty and her father to complain where she could be heard. This is, technically, exactly the type of thing Amethar brought him in for, even ignoring that he has his own reasons for not wanting Caramelinda and Amethar to get married; marriage means heirs and Calroy doesn't need any Rocks brats running around and complicating his plans.

He approaches the Duke of Meringue with a soft smile and an open ear. He asks leading questions about the Duke's land, his crops, his wife. Caramelinda is his only child, the last of his line, and even despite subtracting the land and livestock included in her dowry, the bride price Lazuli had promised is… exorbitant. More than enough for the Duke to live comfortably for the rest of his days and more than the daughter of a fairly minor noble merited, in Calroy’s opinion.

Love, He scoffs mentally, can make fools out of even the brightest of mages.

“You know, he doesn’t actually want you to marry his daughter,” Calroy confides to Amethar that evening.

“It seems like he wants me to marry her,” Amethar responds petulantly. The syrupy scent of his cologne fills Calroy’s nose as Amethar leans closer to fill his goblet with butterscotch schnapps and Calroy has to resist the urge to either sneeze or take a deep breath in. “My advisors want me to marry her too. They said keeping Lazuli’s promise will show that we still respect our allegiances in Candia.”

A part of Calroy is almost impressed that Amethar remembered all that well enough to be able to parrot it to Calroy; the rest of him is too busy being annoyed at Amethar’s advisors to care. Amethar’s advisors are a bunch of rich elders who have been pressuring the Kings of Candia for the past fifty years and who have no problem publicly calling Calroy an upstart.

Calroy does not like Amethar’s advisors.

“Don’t you trust me?” Calroy asks, making a show out of pouting. Amethar’s eyes flicker down, just for a second, before he settles that earnest gaze back on Calroy’s eyes. There was a time, during the War, when Calroy had gotten tired of Amethar trying to be subtle about checking out his ass and staring at his mouth, when Amethar had let Calroy push him against a tree just outside of camp, when Calroy had bit Amethar’s lip hard enough to make him bleed and then blamed it on inexperience, when Amethar had cupped a hand over Calroy’s cheek and-

Well.

Calroy mentally shakes himself. None of that matters right now. The War was the War, but this is now.

“‘Course I do, more than anyone in the world,” Amethar answers, soft and genuine enough to make Calroy’s skin crawl.

“Then trust me on this. He wants land and gold, and his quickest route to those things right now is making you keep up Lazuli’s part of the bargain. If we can offer him an easier way to get what he wants-”

“Then I don’t have to marry Caramelinda!”

Calroy makes a noise like a champion’s bell and clinks his cup against Amethar’s. “Then you don’t have to marry Caramelinda.”

Amethar is smiling so widely that he spills more than he swallows when he tries to knock his drink back. “You’re the best, Cal, really.”

Calroy grins back, but when he says “And don’t you forget it,” his voice comes out a touch too demanding.

Whatever.

It’s not like Amethar will notice anyway.

-- 

3.

Amethar is looking for something. Calroy doesn't know what it is, which is weird enough on its own and would normally make him dismiss the idea, but Amethar's been spending too much time personally visiting the Dairy Islands for someone without a vested interest in what he could find there.

While Calroy appreciates the space he’s been given to pull at the strings that move Candia, the absence of the King has had the side-effort of making the other nobles bolder with their power grabs, more openly distasteful about Calroy's power. If Calroy has to hear another minor baron say Amethar's reliance on Calroy is unbecoming or gossip about how Calroy is a leeching social climber, he's going to do something he regrets, like run them through with his saber.

None of these people know that it's Calroy that keeps their precious liquor and food flowing, that he writes the trade proposals and organizes the council meetings. None of these people have ever had damp soil from a newly weeded field caked so deep under their fingernails that it takes fives washes for the water to run clear, they've never had so much blood dried into the creases of their hands that their palms were dyed red. Everything Calroy has, everything he is, has been fought for, and he refuses to let some snobby nobles or a flighty King ruin this for him.

He starts with increasing the number of meetings Amethar has to attend. As the Royal Aide-De-Camp, Calroy has almost complete control of Amethar’s schedule and, while it’s typically more advantageous for Calroy to go to these meetings alone and gently shift the popular opinion, Amethar’s stubborn blunt force works just as well when aimed right.

For a while, that is.

He can tell when Amethar starts to get jittery as he has less and less opportunity to sneak himself off to another country; the man all but whines about having to actually do his blood-granted duty, and Calroy makes himself grit his teeth in an approximation of a smile and then lets himself grip just a bit too tightly onto Amethar’s arm as he leads him to his next appointment.

He likes to think that he responds with more restraint than Amethar deserves.

It’s not until Amethar actually skips a meeting, like he’s a child sneaking out of his lessons, and doesn’t come back to the Castle for three days that Calroy decides this has to come to a stop. He stands outside Amethar’s rooms and puts all his energy into channeling the visage of a kind and concerned best friend. He takes a deep breath to center himself, puts a hand on the doorknob, and enters without announcing himself.

“Hey, you can’t- Oh, it’s just you,” Amethar says from where he’s making a pathetic attempt to cover the blown-up map of the Dairy Islands, brush still dripping with ink from where he’s been apparently marking the map. He relaxes when he sees Cal, even as Cal tenses.

This doesn’t look like a silly flight of fancy for Calroy to prod Amethar out of pursuing, it doesn’t look like the thrill-seeking work of a boy who misses the adventure of War. This looks calculated, particular. This, Calroy thinks, looks like a nightmare.

“What’s all this, then?” Calroy asks, gesturing.

Amethar runs a hand over his locs and laughs nervously. “It’s nothing. Just a little project of mine.”

Calroy wants to sigh, to yell, to demand that Amethar explain, but he knows that Amethar moves easiest when he thinks he's not being made to do so. He allows himself to furrow his eyebrows a bit more, hunch his posture a bit; make himself look confused and small like something hurt and sad, like someone who needs Amethar’s protection. It takes only twenty seconds under Calroy’s pitiful stare before Amethar folds.

“Okay, fine, but you have to promise to not get mad.”

“When have I ever been mad at you?” Calroy asks, question rhetorical not because he’s never been angry at Amethar but because Amethar would’ve never realized he had been. “I’m just worried. All this galavanting around, avoiding your duties, it’s not like you.”

It is like him, Calroy and Amethar both know it, and Amethar slumps at the lie. Calroy can almost see the cracks appear in his defenses. “Alright. You can’t tell anyone, but I… I have a wife.”

“You have a what.” Calroy says. It’s not a question but it should be because surely Calroy’s misheard. Surely Amethar Rocks is not telling Calroy that he has some secret little milkmaid in the Islands.

“A wife. Her name is Catherine, Catherine Ghee, and I was going to marry her the right way after the War and bring her in as my queen, but then I got moved from the Islands and she stopped answering my letters, and then my sisters-” Amethar cuts himself off, clearing his throat thickly. “Anyway, I forgot about it in the shuffle of everything else. And then there was the whole Caramelinda thing, you know.”

“I know,” Calroy confirms. Bribing enough the duke to make him rescind his acceptance of Lazuli’s -- Amethar’s -- marriage proposal had been his job, after all.

“Yeah! It reminded me. And I thought I’d go find her, it’s the right thing to do and I mean, I think I really loved her, Cal. I think she might’ve been it for me.”

Calroy’s jaw works hard enough that he feels the joint pop. Calroy closes his eyes in the face of Amethar’s enthusiasm, just to give himself a second to process. This would’ve been useful to know when you were almost married off to someone else, Calroy thinks but doesn’t say. What do you mean you got married and then just forgot about her? What part of that screams ‘she’s the love of my life’ to you? Calroy thinks but doesn’t ask.

“So, have you had any luck?” Calroy asks when he trusts himself to speak without screaming. Amethar’s face drops immediately.

“No. I found her parents back in her village but they say they haven’t seen her in almost a year, so I’ve just been traveling around. I hope- well. You know what I hope.”

Calroy hums. He does.

Many, many Dairy Islanders were lost in the War, a larger percentage than any other country. It’s very possible that Amethar’s Catherine Ghee is dead by now. Still, if she’s not…

“You should’ve asked me for help in the first place,” Calroy chides, playfully hitting Amethar’s chest. He lets his hand linger, feeling Amethar’s warmth and the strong pulse of his heartbeat through his doublet. “You have people to do things like this. I mean, really Amethar, I completely understand you and usually I’d be all for this -- hell, I’d join you! -- but when you’re gone so often, it worries the Kingdom.”

“It does?”

Calroy hums mournfully, tucking his hands behind his back and turning away from Amethar to study the map. “The War is over and the Concord is formed, but things are still getting back to normal. If your citizens notice their King, the venerated Amethar the Unfallen, leaving them so regularly, what will they think?”

Calroy doesn’t have to look at how Amethar’s face spasms at the title, but he watches out of the corner of his eye anyway. He knows the flinch intimately, has watched it and caused it enough that it’s burned into his memory; the way it starts with Amethar’s eyes slipping shut, how his jawline shakes, how he twitches as though he’s been slapped. Sometimes, Calroy wishes he could chant it just to see the reaction over and over again. Amethar the Unfallen, Amethar the Last of House Rocks, Amethar the Unprepared.

“The people will really get upset?” Amethar asks. His voice sounds smaller, less sure. Calroy makes sure his smile is more concern than smug delight before he turns around.

“It’s very possible,” Calroy answers, “But there’s no need to worry about it. Now that I know what’s going on, I can get the people whose job this should be on it. We’ll find your girl, Amethar.”

Amethar brightens, falling into step with Calroy and allowing himself to be guided from his rooms. “What would I do without you, Cal?”

Calroy is already mentally scripting how he'll tell Amethar that I've gotten some news back from the Islands and, well... your wife… they just couldn’t find anything. I'm so sorry, Amethar, I know the War has taken so much from us all, but no news is good news, right? regardless of what his search-and-destroy party finds. He bumps his shoulder against Amethar's, supportive and affectionate. “Let's hope you never have to find out.”

--

4.

It has been… a very long night.

It began with a furious letter from the Duke of Meringue, accusing Amethar of defiling and kidnapping his daughter, of breaking his word, of trying to undermine him. Calroy, who reads all of Amethar’s mail, throws the letter into the fire before taking the Amethar his daily stack of relevant but not too important mail. The day only turns to chaos as the evening falls, when an unannounced carriage pulls up to the gates, holding none other than the Lady Caramelinda Merengue. Before anyone can react, Caramelinda shoves a letter at Amethar’s chest, furious and red-eyed from crying.

“I’m pregnant,” She said, with a voice that carried across the courtyards of Castle Candy like a song even as she bowed low and proper, “It is your sister’s. I have come to ask to be quartered by House Rocks, on behalf of my unborn child, your kin.”

Amethar embraced the women, gleefully accepting her words without a lick of proof, while the entirety of the assembled court gossiped and Calroy picked up the letter. It was from Lazuli, of course, and it explained what had happened in the most confusing and circuitous way possible, of course. all will make sense in time, Lazuli said, trust your feelings, Lazuli said, all is as i foresaw, probably, and if it is not then it is close enough that it does not matter, Lazuli said. It all seemed to fit perfectly, arriving just in time, and Calroy could barely stop his fist from tightening and crushing the letter. After all, if he remembered Lazuli, there was probably a letter in lemon ink waiting just for him on the back, just like there had been on so many of the missives she sent to Amethar and Rococoa on the front lines.

Calroy, now, sitting on a part of the Castle wall far from the celebration for Amethar’s new sister-in-law and incoming nibling, lets his eyes slide closed for a moment. If there's one Rocks sister he hated, it was Lazuli, who used her powers of divination for busybodying and mocking instead of something as simple as saving her own life. There's nothing Calroy hates more than a waste of potential.

Speaking of which, I should probably check this. He holds the letter carefully over his lamp, watching as the heat darkens the lemon ink until he can clearly read Lazuli’s final secret message.

congratulations. or maybe not congratulations, if it didn’t happen in this time, The letter reads, you might never get this letter, or you might get it too late, or it might not matter to you, or you might get it and assume it means something else. it is of no concern to me. congratulations, if they apply.

Calroy presses a hand to his temple, frustrated. This, right here, is why he liked Lazuli the least. He's meditating on that when he hears the footsteps and jolts, his hand is almost around his secret dagger before he recognizes the gait, the sound of the slight drag of expensive shoes and the sure thud of his steps. Calroy forces himself to relax as Amethar swings himself onto the wall beside Calroy, close enough that he can feel the other's warmth.

“What a day. Just like Laz to drop something like that in a letter,” He starts without prompting, “When I was a kid and snuck out, she was almost always waiting right outside the gate for me like she’d used her divination just to scare me shitless. She loved that kind of stuff. Guess she wanted one last gotcha, huh?”

Amethar swings his legs restlessly as he gazes out over his Kingdom, lost expression making him look more like the youth of his story than the Ruler of the Sugarlands. Calroy reaches over and pats Amethar’s knee. “It’s not your fault.”

He says it both because Amethar wants to hear it and because it’s true; with all the forces invested in the downfall of the less impressionable Rocks siblings, it would’ve been impossible for Amethar to stop it.

Amethar’s eyes clear as he nods, and then he reaches down and takes Calroy’s hand in his own. “You always know exactly what to say.”

“You make it easy,” Calroy says, half a joke. Amethar snorts, and then he pulls their joined hands up and presses a candyfloss-soft kiss to Calroy’s knuckles

It happens so quickly that Calroy can’t anticipate it or stay his reactions; the shock that he feels, the flush rising to his cheeks and the speeding of his heart, is all 100% real. Amethar looks up at Calroy through his lashes and smiles at whatever expression he finds, slow and small. When he lowers his lips back down to Calroy’s hand, this time a proper kiss right at the curve of his wrist, Calroy is more ready.

He goes for flattered but nervous, allowing some of his real tension to make a laugh come out jerky and unsure. He widens his eyes and looks away even as he continues to let Amethar hold his hand. “Your Majesty-”

“Please,” Amethar murmurs, and when Calroy turns his head he’s looking back at Calroy with warm, expectant eyes, “Not from you, Cal. Never from you.”

“Amethar,” Calroy concedes, and is rewarded with a brilliant grin, “I don’t- I didn’t think-”

“I didn’t think of it either,” Amethar says, picking up Calroy’s purposefully fumbled sentence with perfect timing. “But it just makes sense. We’ve been through so much together and I wouldn’t be able to run anything around here without you; you’re my partner in all but ceremony at this point anyway. And Laz’s letter said to trust my heart.”

“And your heart says-”

“Yes. Yes, this is what my heart wants, Cal. What about you? Will you give me, give this, a chance?”

Calroy gives himself exactly two seconds. Any longer and Amethar will get anxious, any shorter and Calroy will seem desperate. In those two seconds, Calroy starts to reorganize his gameplan for the next five years and makes a mental note to write a letter to Ceresia to personally inform them of this development. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and smiles like the crescent moon above them.

“I'm so lucky,” Calroy says, entangling their fingers, “To have had a man like you beside me all this time. I would be luckier to keep him at my side.”

“Not as lucky as I’ll be,” Amethar says, looking like he’s barely holding himself back from doing something decidedly improper. He settles for pressing another kiss to Calroy’s hand and Calroy, sitting atop the parapet of a castle that will be his much sooner than planned, looks out to the sparkling stars. Not as lucky as you indeed, he thinks, but still, when he squeezes Amethar’s hand, their hearts beat as one.

#a crown of candy #crown of candy #calroy cruller #amethar rocks #acoc #one shot #prince consort calroy

[metaphorical-love-for-a-car]

Godfathers-- Crowley x Aziraphale x Reader (part two)

Request; “Could I get a plantonic X Reader where the reader is pregnant (with a ex-boyfriend’s baby) and Aziraphale and Crowley are very protective of them and the reader unexpectly goes into labor at Azzy’s shop and Crowley attempts to drive everyone to to hospital. And I say attempt as Reader ends up giving birth in Crowley’s car due to traffic.” (anon)

Warnings; none! :)

Word Count; 2.4k

Notes; the wait is finally over! sorry it’s taken me so long to post lol ALSO sorry if it’s not very accurate? i don't know anything about pregnancy, I just know what google tells me lol

"Crowley, are you sure? I really don't want to be a bother," you mumbled. He scoffed and shook his head. He tucked one of the bags he was holding under his arm, allowing himself to better talk with his hand.

"You'll only be a bother if you trash the place. Or be nice to my plants." Crowley paused. He pointed at you before giving you a stern look. "Don't be nice to them. They don't deserve it." You snorted, assuming he was joking. He opened the door to his apartment and motioned you in. You followed him inside, marveling at the place. Everything was spic and span, totally immaculate.

"Beautiful place you've got," you complimented. The tiniest smile crossed Crowley's lips.

His apartment didn't obey the normal laws of physics. It was a bit like the Tardis. The inside made the outside look unbelievable. Crowley was able to change bits of it as he pleased. In this case, he was able to add on an extra bedroom just for you. He set the bags he was carrying on the foot of the bed, glancing around the room before nodding in approval. He always considered himself good at interior design, though he'd never tell anyone that. "A friend of mine is bringing some dinner by. I just ordered some takeout, hope you don't mind." When you shook your head, he continued, "Good. Now, the entire place is soundproofed, so you can vent... or scream... or cry... or whatever it is people do after a heartbreak."

"Thank you, Crowley. I really appreciate it." He nodded and sauntered out of the room, leaving you to unpack your belongings.

You were changing into some more comfortable clothes when you heard muffled voices from the other side of the bedroom door. The rational, mature part of your mind told you that it would be rude to eavesdrop, but the curious, monkey side of your brain kept chanting about how you should listen in. It's not difficult to understand which side won. You pressed your ear against the door, straining to catch some of their conversation.

"...doing is nice, Crowley."

"Oh, shut up."

"You know, if you could whip up a whole new room, you could have miricaled a couch. Or at least another chair or two." Your brows furrowed. Miracles?

"Well, I wasn't thinking about that, Aziraphale. I've never had someone else stay here before!"

"Lucky for you, I have an idea since it'd be too obvious to add any new furniture at this point... Bean bags!"

"No. Absolutely not. I will not allow those abominations in my flat." You bit your lip to keep yourself from laughing. As much as you wanted to stay in hiding and hear where the conversation would go next, your stomach's demonstration of whale noises reminded you that that was not an option. You slowly pulled the door open, poking your head out and glancing around. Crowley had his back to you, but the newcomer caught sight of you from over Crowley's shoulder. He flashed you a bright smile. At the time, you didn't know him very well, but you recognized him from his occasional visits to Crowley's. His fluffy hair and out of date clothing choices made him hard to forget.

"Hello, my dear. It's wonderful to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances," Aziraphale hummed as he approached you. He pulled you into an embrace. Normally, you wouldn't want a person you hardly knew to touch you, but Aziraphale was like a ball of sunshine. He was incredibly comforting, something which you desperately needed at the moment. "Come along, let's get you something to eat before the food gets cold!"

The three of you divvied out the takeout. Crowley led you into what you assumed was his office slash living room, which hardly had any furniture in it at all. You and Aziraphale plopped onto two beanbags, and Crowley sprawled across a chair that looked more like a throne. He turned on the television, and Aziraphale raised a brow at him when Golden Girls came across the screen. "Again? My boy, how many times have you watched this series?" Crowley threw his arms up dramatically.

"It's not like I choose it every time! The TV has a mind of its own. And besides, it's a good show."

"You can't use that excuse for everything, Crowley. You're starting to turn into the boy who cried wolf." The red-head scoffed at the notion.

"Please, Aziraphale," he scoffed before turning to look at you, "What do you think about Golden Girls?"

"I've heard the name, but I've never actually seen it before." Crowley's eyebrows shot up as his posture went rigid.

"Never? Here I was, thinking you were a person of sensible taste. This must be fixed immediately." He pressed a button on the remote, flipping through the channels until he found one playing the very first episode. Aziraphale sighed and sank further into the bean bag chair. He shoveled the yellow rice into his mouth as Crowley animatedly explained to you the wonderful show that is Golden Girls.

At first, the plan was to stay at Crowley's until you were able to get back on your feet and find a place of your own. But with only a part-time job and a child on the way, you weren't sure how you were going to afford it. Aziraphale could sense your growing anxiety and suggested you stay with one of them until you felt ready to move out. You gladly accepted the invitation, having grown close to them since you first moved in. The three of you had spent many nights drinking non-alcoholic beverages and binging Golden Girls, and you always enjoyed popping into Aziraphale's bookshop. It took a lot of convincing, but you finally managed to get him to help you organize the mess of books that were piled around. The more time you spent around them, the more you realized that they weren't so human. I mean, they weren't exactly hiding it. It's a miracle more people didn't put it together.

Aziraphale thought it would be a good idea to check up on Adam. They couldn't just leave him completely alone, him being the anti-christ and all. So the three of you piled into the Bentley and made your way to Tadfield. You and your rather large belly took up a majority of the backseat. Traffic was terrible, as usual, but you made it through with the help of one of your favorite snacks at the moment-- a sauerkraut sandwich. Just two pieces of bread with sauerkraut in between. It grossed out Aziraphale and Crowley, but they knew better than to face the wrath of a pregnant person... especially after they saw how your emotions constantly changed. One moment you were crying over not being able to open a pickle jar by yourself, and the next you were screaming at your phone for charging too slow. Needless to say, they were afraid of being the target of your mood swings.

Crowley led the way through Hogback Wood, while you and Aziraphale walked arm-in-arm behind him. "Please be careful with our lunch, dear." The angel grimaced every time the wicker basket was swung.

"Calm down, Aziraphale. Nothings going to happen to the food," Crowley groaned, "Their hideout is right down here. They'll probably be playing with prop swords or whatnot." You could hear the group of children shouting. Sure enough, they came into view and were swinging long sticks at each other. A boy with brown, curly locked pointed his stick toward you all.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Sir Crowley Hellion, accompanied by Lord Aziraphale Inamorato. We brought along our guest, the kind (Y/F/N)." The demon and angel bowed, playing along with the game. You, on the other hand, were too hot and had too big of a belly to be doing such. Instead, you just waved at them. The rest of the group of children appeared, all eyeing the three of you suspiciously.

"What's in the basket?" a boy with dirt all over his face asked. Crowley held up the basket in question, raising a brow.

"Sandwiches."

"For all of us?"

"Yup."

"Did they make 'em?" He pointed his stick towards you. Aziraphale shook his head.

"No, I did." All of the children seemed relieved by this.

"Good. I heard pregnant people like to eat weird stuff on their sandwiches." They all gathered around Crowley as he handed one to each of them.

"You're telling me," he muttered under his breath. Which, thanks so your pregnant superhuman capabilities, didn't escape your hearing.

"Sorry, Crowley, what was that?" The demon froze like a deer caught in headlights. He stuttered for a moment, trying to come up with something clever and not insulting to say. You laughed and pat him on the shoulder. "Calm down! I'm just teasing. Now, hand me one of those sandwiches so I can go sit down. My back is killing me."

Everyone gathered near their fort and ate lunch. You were beginning to have stomach pains, but you blamed it on the sauerkraut combined with all the walking you did. The Them, as you learned they were called, explained the game they were playing. Adam was playing as Henry VIII, Brian and Wensleydale were guards, and Pepper was one of his many wives to be beheaded. The twist? She fought back, not wanting to come to her untimely end just because she was unable to bear a son. "So, what're you having?" Pepper asked.

"A girl," you answered fondly. Three of the Them smiled and congratulated you, but Adam leaned back and sighed.

"Sorry, guess that means you'll have to be beheaded." The children all started giggling, and Crowley snorted. You grimaced, putting a hand on your stomach. Aziraphale watched you worriedly. He placed a gentle hand on your arm.

"Are you alright?" Adam's brows knit together.

"I was just joking. We're not really beheading you." You waved him off.

"Don't worry about it, love. Just having a spell of contractions is all." Crowley leaned forward. Worry filled his features.

"Is the baby coming? Already? Should we leave?" You laughed before grimacing again.

"No, I don't think she's coming yet. I'm not due for another three weeks. But I think it probably is a good idea to head back."

The two helped you back to the Bentley, with the Them trailing behind out of curiosity. Thankfully, you didn't have to walk terribly far. Crowley had managed to park nearby just in case of a moment like this. You all piled into the car and waved the children goodbye. Crowley peeled out of  Tadfield, causing Aziraphale to look even more concerned. As you got closer to London, the traffic worsened and so did your contractions. The three of you were sitting in a standstill, and you were groaning in pain in the backseat.

"You know, we've got car parks everywhere... McDonald's, supermarkets, stadiums... the fucking M25!" Crowley screeched, gripping the steering wheel and shaking himself back and forth.

"Crowley! Your screaming is not helping!" Aziraphale huffed.

"Could the both of you please shut up so I can focus on not imploding?" Concern settled deeper into Aziraphale's features, and a hiss escaped Crowley's lips.

"I think we're running out of time," the angel whispered. "We need a miracle." Crowley gave him a look, and Aziraphale nodded. The demon sighed, taking the angel's hand in his own. Reality seemed to warble around the Bentley, which caused you to feel even worse. You ended up hurling, and Crowley let out a string of swears at the sight. "Look! We're at the hospital. Let's get them taken care of before we worry about a perfectly cleanable mess, hm?"

"Fine, but you better be naming this kid after me for all I've been through!"

The two helped you inside to get taken care of, and they were with you for every step of the way. Several hours later, you held your daughter in your arms. She clutched onto Aziraphale's finger, causing him to smile wider than you had ever seen before. Crowley stood behind the angel, trying to look like he wasn't paying much attention and clearly failing. You offered to let him hold the baby, and he accepted without a moment of hesitation. As you watched him carefully cradle the little girl in his arms, you figured this would be the perfect moment to propose the idea you've been harboring for the past month. "I've been thinking about how much you guys have helped me. I don't know where I would be if it wasn't for you two. So, I was wondering if maybe the both of you would like to make our little family official by being the godfathers?" Aziraphale gasped, eyes widening. He excitedly looked to Crowley.

"Oh, my dear! Did you hear that? Us... godfathers!" Crowley didn't reply. He just froze for a moment. A tinge of worry went through you. You didn't even consider the possibility of him not wanting to be a godfather. You and Aziraphale shared a look before continuing to stare at Crowley.

"Ngk," he sniffled, "don't look at me. Here, angel, take the kid." Crowley passed the baby off to Aziraphale before furiously rubbing his eyes. You sat up a little more.

"Are you... crying!"

"No!" he said with a defensive hiss. "Okay, maybe I am... just a little... You seriously want me to be a godfather? I can understand him. He's a literal angel, but I'm a demon why would you want me?" You sighed, leaning back into the pillows.

"Crowley, you were the one who was there for me when I needed someone, and you were the one who took me in when I had nowhere to go. Of course, I want you to be my daughter's godfather. I couldn't think of anyone else."

The demon sniffled for a few more minutes before finally composing himself. He watched the infant be placed in the bassinette and smiled. A true, genuine smile. Crowley gently touched the baby's cheek, leaning closer. "Don't worry. I'll try to be a good godfather. If it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure you have a good life, okay?"

~*~*~

Godfathers Tag List; (might be missing some, there was a lot of you lmao)

@justcallmecinammon​

@sdavid09​ 

@lokis-sunshine​

@spookyconsultingcriminal​

@dabbingintoart​

@sirkekselord

@strangerthings14

Good Omens Tag List;

@kawaiiusagichansan

@fatbottomedboi 

@godhateskyleigh

@drhughgrection

@popbubblegumpop

@shirukitsune

@slithredn

@dabbingintoart

@groupies-do-it-better

Permanent Tag List;

@blitchen

@blitchen-fics

#good omens #ineffable godfathers #good omens x reader #crowley x reader #good omens crowley #good omens crowley x reader #aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #David Tennant #david tennant x reader #michael sheen #michael sheen x reader

[gilbirda]

The Bet

When two stubborn and dominating people like Chloe and Lucifer decide to pursue a romantic relationship, what neither expected was to get such a kick from their competitive spirit. It was simple: she had a vibrator inside on their date, she couldn't get caught and the devil could use any of his tricks to make her fail. What could go wrong?

Sequel >> [Read on AO3][Read on FF.net]

Chloe wasn’t exactly sure how she got convinced to do this. She was a responsible adult, a serious mom, a cop; and, most importantly, the only mature person in their relationship.

You see, being the Devil’s girlfriend should be serious business - maintain a power position, be the consort of the ruler of Hell, deal with the supernatural on a daily basis. Her father-in-law would be God himself. One might think starting a relationship with Lucifer meant more than dealing with his childish antics and keep her job in the process.

Or, in this case, not be in the risk of being caught with a vibrator on a public place.

Seriously. How the hell , pun intended, was she convinced to do this? She would like to appeal to her competitive spirit, and that Lucifer’s wording entailed an obvious challenge (“Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure this type of excitement is not up you specific alley”). No. It was that damn look when he came back from his bedroom to show her something he bought for her.

He was smiling like a child on Christmas, explaining all the fun functions the model had, the wireless connection and app for the phone, which he had already installed, of course, promising that it could be exciting to try it.

She wasn’t a stranger to vibrators, she had one back at home which had been kind of abandoned since Lucifer took it as a challenge to meet all of her needs; but she knew from the moment his excited smile turned devilish that what he had in mind wasn’t exactly the same she was thinking.

They had a date that night. He challenged her to not get caught, while he played with the different settings of the vibrator from his phone. The loser had to do something for the winner. Even a formal deal was made, handshake and everything.

She had never seen him so focused on something. He was sitting across from her on one of his designer suits, legs crossed, exuding that royal vibe of the King of Hell. In moments like this, specially when she wasn’t trying not to squirm too much on her seat on the diner, she wondered how she didn’t figure his identity out sooner.

“Don’t resist temptation, darling,” he purred lowly, doing something with his finger on the screen of his phone, and the damn thing inside of her started going crazy. She gasped.

“The only temptation I have is what I’m going to make you do when I win,” Chloe leaned towards him over the table, biting her lip when he did the thing with his finger again.

“Something tame, I’m sure,” he purred, looking down at his phone and touching something on his screen with that smirk she liked so much. The vibrator started to turn on and off repeatedly, making her jump in the seat. “I can almost hear it working from here.”

“Shut up,” the woman breathed deeply, taking off her sweater even if it was october and they were on an outside table.

“Feeling hot , love?”

“Paperwork. All of it,” she smiled at him. “And archive my cases for a month.”

He narrowed his eyes, tapping another setting. The vibrator went full power for a second. “And they call me the Devil. Wicked woman.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, forcing the shiver out of her system. “Desk work. How sexy. That way you could learn a thing or two about proper procedure for once.”

Lucifer bit his lower lip and touched something on the screen. The vibrator went low. She gasped. When he looked at her again she saw hellfire in his eyes.

“I think I know what I want. When I win, of course,” she snorted, but he ignored her. His index finger stayed put on the screen. “How do you feel about a vacation? Somewhere quiet and peaceful,” he moved the finger up and down, and with it the intensity of the vibrator. “I happen to own a private island. I could arrange it as soon as possible.”

“So far it sounds good,” she smiled like nothing was out of order when the waiter came to bring their food. Neither moved to touch it. “You are losing your touch with the retirement, dear. ”

“Uh-huh,” she almost felt his pianinst fingers slide over the screen. She stifled a moan. “The best part is I get to choose everything . Your clothes, your swimsuit, and the itinerary.”

Chloe closed her eyes. She trusted him not to go too far or harm her, but she was sure he could go way overboard without proper adult supervision.

This became too dangerous all of sudden.

“You won't win.”

Lucifer licked his lips, tapping something on his phone. “That’s what you think.”

Chloe bit her lip, this time unable to trap the moan inside her mouth. He heard it and smiled, delighted.

“The perk of having a private island,” he teased as he tapped the same thing on the app, “is that no one will hear your screams.”

She jumped in her place, but forced her hand to reach for the fork and stabbed her pasta with it.

“No one will see your pretty face when you come.” He continued tapping. She rubbed her thighs together.

Chloe ignored him, taking a bite of her somewhat cold food.

“No one but me, obviously.” Lucifer’s smirk widened as he slid his index on the screen, the thing inside of her going wild in the exact same moment she tried to swallow.

She moaned, covering her mouth with her hand when a elderly woman looked at her from a nearby table.

“The food is really good! Haha...,” she was not blushing as she tried to defuse the situation. “That doesn’t count.” The woman narrowed her eyes at her boyfriend when she looked back at him.

“Sure,” he licked his lips, uncrossing his legs and readjusting in his seat. Even if he tried to show a calm face he wasn’t unaffected by the way Chloe was starting to lose control of the situation, or how her cheeks were deliciously pink, or how he could feel her legs moving under the table.

He had to win and fast.

He saw his opportunity when she was distracted by her food, resuming her eating to finish the diner date and declare her winner for the night. Lucifer’s finger tapped the only setting he hadn’t touched yet, something that looked promising, and waited for the signal to kick in.

He could now clearly hear it vibrating inside of her (a thought that he tried to force out of his mind if he wanted to keep his hands over the table), and the table besides them probably could, too. Chloe opened her eyes wide in surprise.

“Luci-hng!” what she was going to say was lost in her throat, mixed with a half-aborted moan and intelligible words. She was close. “Wha-uh-ah...!”

The Devil smiled, sure of his success, and held the glare Chloe was trying to keep on him despite her trembling body.

“Do you yield?” he purred lowly, ignoring the looks from the elder lady, who was now suspecting something was going on between them.

“Fuck you.”

“Ah. That’s for later,” his voice transformed into the tone he usually used for interrogations. “Do you yield?”

She bit her lip, trying to control her trembling body, her eyes burning with a mix of fury for losing their game, and passion. She knew what she needed. She just had to take it.

Chloe slammed her hand against the table and stood. “You. The car. Now.”

She didn’t wait for him to agree, grabbed his suit and dragged him out of the seat and out of the restaurant, not looking back when he dropped some notes on the table.

At first he had been quiet, but when they were almost in the parking lot where they left her car, Lucifer decided to speak. “Not that I’m complaining, this is getting fun by the moment, but I take business seriously and I’d appreciate if you peacefully -”

“Shut up,” was her only warning before she slammed him against the door of her car and kissed him. She pressed her body against his, felt him over the layers of his suit, groaning at the fact that they were too many.

“Detective-,” he whispered when she let his mouth free briefly, attending the skin of his neck. She bit him, hard. “Chloe,” he corrected himself, “um, we are not exactly-”

“Get in the car.”

He shivered, but did as he was told. She followed him to the backseat and straddled his legs with her back against the grid that separated the front seat with the back.

Lucifer put his hands on her hips and looked up at her in adoration. They were so close, their hips grinding, that he could feel the still vibrating toy. He watched her reach for his belt but didn’t move to stop her.

“Are you sure about this?” Not the sex, he had stopped making sure she was on her right mind for desiring him a long time ago; he meant doing this in such a public place.

She growled softly making quick work of the belt, the button and the zipper. “If we are quick and quiet we won’t get caught,” her breath was labored.

“I should feel insulted about the ‘quick’ part,” he complained with a chuckle, but the truth is he wasn’t sure if he could resist for long.

“You can prove your skills when we get home,” her hand gripped his eager and ready member through the fabric of his boxers, her other hand cupping his face to kiss him on the lips. He jumped when she squeezed hard, moaning at the tiny bit of pain.

“Wicked woman,” he breathed on her lips, reaching under the really convenient skirt of her dress, pulling aside her underwear and removing the toy. Chloe gasped when she was released from the vibrating sensation.

She leaned in and kissed him again when she managed to free his cock, guiding it to her dripping entrance and getting it exactly where she wanted it without much preamble. They could have time for slow and tender later. Now, she just wanted this.

“Yes. Just like that,” Lucifer let his head drop back over the seat, closing his eyes to focus on the sensations.

As she started to move, he placed one hand on her hip under the fabric of her dress, helping her guide her up and down. Otherwise he let her do her bidding, unresisting and completely surrendering to her will. Sometimes it humbled her how much he trusted her, how much he loved it when she was on top. One would guess the Devil liked to always be in control, but Lucifer only made this delicious noises and grumbling and deep moaning when she was the one calling the shots.

Without changing the pace, Chloe leaned in and kissed his exposed neck, delighted when he sighed and became even more like pudding under her body. She rolled her hips, smirking when his chest vibrated with a grumbled moan.

“Quiet,” she whispered, putting one hand over his mouth. He whimpered against her hand when she rolled her hips again.

She quickened her pace, breathing hard and focusing on bringing them to their peak. She felt the hand under her skirt grip her with a little bit too much force, the only sign he allowed himself to make of his nearing release.

"Come for me, Lucifer," she breathed on his ear, earning another choked whimper as his body trembled in ecstasy.

She rode him through it slowly, enjoying the way his face lost all mischief and left the man she loved bare for her too see. She couldn't help but kiss him as he came down from his high.

"Darling," he gasped against her lips, recovering his breath, "you didn't finish."

His pout was too delicious not to memorize.

"I was enjoying watching you," she shrugged as if the shiver her words provoked on him weren't a big deal.

"No, no, no," with renewed energy, he managed to push her away from him and softly drop her on the backseat. "We must fix this."

She grabbed his hand when he attempted to sneak it between her legs.

"Home." It was an order.

Lucifer blinked slowly and shook his head as if his brain was restarting.

"Very well," he reached for the forgotten vibrator and put it in her hands. Then he searched in his clothes until he found the pocket-sized wipes he brought just in case and threw them at her. "Get cleaned and put it on. I'll drive."

"Sure." Her smile was too sexy not to kiss. So he did.

"By the way," he kissed her again and the air inside the car changed as he zipped his pants and turned to open the door. "I win."

Lucifer looked back at her with a cocky expression, resuming his usual dominant persona.

Chloe rolled her eyes but did as she was told. Her pride may be hurt for losing their bet, but she wouldn't complain about a vacation in a secluded island with her boyfriend. Who knows, she could test how much she could make him scream.

She smirked. "Sure."

The woman was delighted when his face turned wary. He didn't know what he just got himself into.

#lucifer netflix #lucifer morningstar #deckerstar #chloe decker #warning:lime #gil writes #fanfiction #fanfic #writeblr #lucifer #lucifer fanfiction

[prorevenge]

Abusive boss "acidentally" picks on his own boss and pays the ultimate price.

As I sit in a bar, enjoying my coffee, a story pops into my mind from 10 years ago of how I put a jerk down to the ground for venting his frustrations over to his subbordinates.

Let us begin with the back story, which is quite long, but necessary for you to get a feeling of what was going on at the time. It was just months before the financial crisis and I was working for the tech department in a very large company. It was quite a large department in which we handled electronics.

That department stood out from most of the company, as it was receiving a bit of a different treatment. The company thought if they create an extremely pleasant working environment there, they could get away with paying those stationed there with considerably lesser wages than they could be eligible for.

And it was also a "meritocracy". Your rank and station was based on what you were capable of, not how long were you in the company. I say that because just after two years, I was running the whole department! The reason for that was that because aside from being a computer technician, i also had skills in electrotechnics, electronics, programming and online advertising, which the company realized and put me in charge of the whole bunch. However before you question the validity of this story, you should know that while I had the rank, I made only marginally more money than the rest of the department, the only plus was the rank, and that I had half the working hours of the rest of the department. My only job was to make sure that everybody was at their best while doing their job and paperwork, along with comms and coordinating with the rest of the company.

I felt it was important that you knew the entire story because now I want to introduce you to Dick (fake name). Dick was a hard worker, but a sick, evil, miserable bastard who was at the company for over 6 years but couldn't get any higher up the ladder other than shift supervisor for the machinery boys because all he knew how to do. He was 2 ranks below me. Dick was an utter Dick. He constantly picked on his subbordinates, berating them, yelling at them, picking on the "coffee boy" (it was the rookie, bringing coffee was an initation ritual), essentially Dick being in charge of you was a very unpleasant experience.

At the time I didn't know this was going on, Dick was not in the group I ascended over and I dealt with that group over his superior. I didn't know was going on because I had my hands full with running the whole thing from an office halfway across the company building (big building).

Before we continue, you should know that my country has a law against workplace abuse called "bossing", in which, if there has been emotional harm inflicted, the person who performed bossing could even face jail time, and the company in question could pay massive fines.

To continue, suddenly I reveived an email from my superior, telling me there was an incident regarding Dick and that I have been scheduled for disciplinary action. Apparently there was a coffee girl in his group which he utterly destroyed to the point where she had a nervous breakdown, and as a department administrator I received huge flak for "not sustaining a pleasant working environment", which was department policy so that people wouldn't complain so much about the subpar pay they are getting.

Dick got me in so much trouble that I had to spend a week of constant damage control with my own superior. In the end, I was ordered to take appropriate action against Dick to prove that I was still "the man for the job".

Dick got me in a lot of trouble. Dick was going to pay. There was just one problem- there was no evidence against Dick. So I was going to have to be sneaky. I send a message to Dicks superior, notifying him that that they will be getting a replacement coffee boy from another group tomorrow... ME! I was going undercover to stick it to dick.

There is a saying: you see a guy in a suit and tie and you think he's successful, until you realize he's working for a man in jeans and and polo shirt. This hold true as dick is a suit and tie guy while I wear jeans and a polo shirt to work.

Its the day of revenge. I take no special preparations other than a hidden recording device, and I even wear the aforementioned outfit. I arrive at work and ask two security guards to go with me to wait just outside Dick's work area. I purposely wait until I am 5 minutes late, then enter the work area with Dick's people, greet everyone and go straight for the coffee pot. Dick notices my tardiness and starts ranting:

DICK: Coffee boy! What the hell do you think you're doing? Come late on your first day? Get your ass moving and serve everybody!

ME: Yes sir!

I serve coffee to everybody, but one of the techs recognizes me. I pour some coffee in his pot and tell him to say nothing because I am recording Dick. At that time Dick was across the room, insulting another employee for misplacing his tools.

After I finish serving coffee I go to "my" workplace and start working. I intentionally fumble at my work, as a rookie would, in order to get Dicks attention. It works and Dick notices me and races right towards me.

DICK: What the hell do you think you're doing boy? What is this mess you made? You are completely useless! I cannot use you for anything! I should send you to mop the floors and you will even screw that up!

I turn towards Dick, put my hands at my hips and lean fowards, going in dicks face. Dick presses his second and third finger against his thumb and starts to wave it my face:

DICK: Don't you get uppity on me boy, I am your boss, I know the administrator and I can get your ass on the street in 5 minutes! Do you want to go home? ANSWER ME!

ME: I am the administrator. SECURITY!

Both guards arrive, going to into full badass mode, grabbing hold of their mace pockets with one hand and fists clenched in the other. I swear, Dick immediately dropped a couple of spoon fulls into his pants.

GUARD: Yes, mr. OP?

ME: Escort mr. Dick to my office immediately for (I lean right into his face) SEVERE disciplinary action.

GUARD: mr. Dick, come with us.

Later in my office, Dick was sat down, and listened to the audio recording of the incident, as well as I made him read out loud an extract of the labor law concerning "bossing", then I go full cold turkey on his ass:

ME: mr. Dick, you have been caught severely abusing your employees, which is not only against department policy, but is also a criminal offense, punishable by jail time in certain circumstamces. Do you have anything to say in your defense?

Sweating, shaking, stuttering: DICK: I would, I, but I, I am...

ME: It's what I thought. Let me tell you what is going to happen. I have ebought evidence to pin the breakdown of coffee girl on you, which means that I have the power to send you to jail. (Not sure if true, I was bluffing). So your disciplinary action is going to be as follows. Firstly, you are to be demoted for at least a period of two months. Your previous group was lacking a coffee boy, I think you would be perfect for the job. Secondly. You are going to love it. Thirdly, your are going to send flowers and a letter of apology to the girl you broke down. But if you: #1, try to quit within the time allotted for your punishment, and #2, so much as look as your former subbordinates in a way they wouldn't like it and #3, not do your work with utmost distinction, I will send this evidence to the authoroties and use every scrap of power I have in this company to send you to a jail so bad that when you come out of it, you will be wearing diapers for the rest of your life, HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?

Utterly pale and defeated Dick: yes, mr OP.

To add insult to injury, I inform his group of Dick's demotion. I told them that he has absolutely no authority over them anymore, and that he is going to serve them coffee until a time I see fit to rejoin them, but only as a serviceman equal in rank to the group. Dick was also forced to clean out his office in front of the group, as the coffee boy wasn't even entitled to his own cubicle, let alone a desk.

Is this nuclear revenge? I disagree. I feel that he got exactly what he deserved. He is now going to have to lick the boots those he treated so badly before. I am but no means an angel, after all, I did fail to notice the abuse that was going on umderneath me, but to fair, nobody was brave enough to stand up to Dick in fear of losing their jobs due to the crisis looming overhead.

(source) story by (/u/-BigBadBeef-)

#prorevenge #by /u/-BigBadBeef- #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

[dudeandduchess]

Rating/Genre: Slight NSFW, Modern AU Characters: Rengoku Shinjurō x F!Reader, Mentions of Sanemi x F!Reader Chapters: 3/10 Summary: Shinjurō and (Y/n) are in a D/s arrangement, but he wants more so he tries to lay the world at her feet in the hopes that she would say yes to being his. Unfortunately, (Y/n) shoots him down every time, since she’s not swayed by his money or influence.But Shinjurō is more determined than ever to keep her, so he will stop at nothing to keep her for himself. Warnings: Angst, Language

NOTE: Thank you for the support, bbys! I really, really appreciate it. And I apologize if this seems a bit off, I’m just trying to present all the critical plot points early on so we can get to the good stuff later. 💜✨

***

“We have to talk,” (Y/n) stated firmly when she felt Shinjurō’s hands on either side of her waist.

Affectionately, the older man leaned down and peppered his lover’s shoulder with nips and kisses; trailing up to the side of her neck, before sucking another love bite into her skin. (Y/n) couldn’t help but tilt her head to the side and sigh in pleasure, even though it wasn’t really the time to get swept up in his sweet gestures.

“What’s there to talk about, baby? When we could be fucking…”

At that, the (L/n) heiress turned the stove off and transferred the pan of fried rice to an unused burner, so that the bottom wouldn’t turn too crispy for her taste. She then turned around to face him, before gently pushing him away with her hands on his chest.

“Getting me pregnant wasn’t part of our agreement, Shinjurō.” Her gaze flickered up to meet his, before narrowing into accusatory slits.

“It could be,” Shinjurō answered with a smirk, then moved to pull her hips flush against his own— where his erection rubbed against her stomach from beneath his sweatpants. “We have a house together, we both make enough money, you’re a consenting adult.”

(Y/n)’s heart began to race in her chest with every honeyed word that dripped from her lover’s tongue, but she held her composure as much as she could. There was no way that she was going to clue him in to the fact that she had thought of those things as well, because once he smelled the proverbial blood in the water— he would surely strike.

“How about the fact that it’s going to cause such a huge scandal that it would ruin both of us?” The young woman shot back, before sliding out of her lover’s grasp.

They might have had a Dominant and submissive relationship in the bedroom, but real life matters were different. For the life of her, (Y/n) did not like being told what to do; she was a woman who lived by her own word, and followed her own choices— that not even Shinjurō could sway her from that way of thinking.

Her answer effectively pissed the older man off, enough for him to scoff as he leaned his hip against the granite island counter behind him. “You were going to get pregnant with Shinazugawa’s bastards.”

“Don’t bring him into this, Shinjurō,” (Y/n) spat irately, as her upper lip curled in distaste at her lover’s underhanded words. He had flicked a switch inside her, and it made all of her anger bubble up inside her.

“Why not? I think he’s a great basis for me.”

“You always pull this shit when you don’t get what you want. I’m not falling for it this time. So either get your head out of your ass or I’m leaving.”

Shinjurō crossed his arms over his chest, then quirked an eyebrow at the clearly irate woman. He felt so incensed that he wanted to scream— as the status of their relationship had always been a hot topic between them— but he held himself back, if only to make her stay. “And you always get so defensive when I bring him up. Why is that, (Y/n)?”

“Because he’s not relevant to this conversation-” She couldn’t continue her argument, as the blond cut her off with a harsh laugh.

“He is, and you know it. You still love him, don’t you? Still want to ride that fucking bastard’s cock like you do mine.” His words were harsh and ringing with baseless accusations, but his style had always been to hit where it hurt the most. His companies wouldn’t have risen to the top if he were anything else.

Part of her wanted to bare her heart to him— to make him understand all the thoughts that were running through her head. But another, much more defensive and heartbroken, part of her wanted to keep things to herself, so that she wouldn’t have to open herself up to more potential heartbreak.

However, the more reckless side of her won out, and she found herself opening her mouth.

“I don’t. God damn it! You want to know the real reason?” (Y/n)’s hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, and she reigned in the urge to draw an arm back and deck him right in the face. “It’s because I don’t want you to fucking leave me like he did!”

Her breathing was heavily labored; coming out in short, angry bursts as she gritted her teeth. Tears also pricked the backs of her eyes, while her eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

Baring that part of herself to him had already taken a huge effort to do, and the shock that was displayed blatantly on Shinjurō’s features were enough to abate her anger— even if only for the tiniest amount.

“If he could leave me just as we were about to get married, then who’s to say that you won’t leave me even if I’m pregnant?” No matter how hard she tried to keep her tears from falling, the first one still rolled down her cheek in a hot rivulet— only to be followed by another, and then another… “We don’t even have a definite label.”

It wasn’t often that Shinjurō got schooled, and all the times that he had always had to do with (Y/n). She was the one rational voice in his life that he willingly— and unwillingly— listened to, so that situation that they were at was no different from all the other times that she’d put him in his place.

All the fight left him after that sentence, and the sight of her tears were also enough to make something in his chest stir.

He was all too familiar with the emotion, and his lips twitched in a self-deprecating smirk; as it had been so long since she’d made him feel guilty about anything. Not even his first wife could make him feel guilty about anything, so (Y/n) was in a league all on her own for inciting such a feeling from him.

“Then marry me, so we can have a definite label.” The words were out of his mouth before he could ponder further upon them. He’d been playing with the idea for a while, but it was the first time that he’d actually voiced it out.

To him, it was a perfect ‘cut and dried’ solution, but he didn’t consider the fact that it would be offensive to his younger lover. To her, his proffered solution was nothing but a band-aid to save face; something that was said as a last minute effort to get her to stay with him.

And that was insulting as all hell for someone who still believed in the sanctity of marriage.

Blatant anger shone in (Y/n)’s eyes, and it was clear that she wanted to rage at him judging by the way that her jaw clenched so hard that he heard her gnashing her teeth. However, instead of giving in to her baser instincts, she shook her head in disappointment before walking away.

She knew that arguing with him would be a waste of time, so she merely let it go with the hopes that he would be mature enough to realize his mistake by himself.

If he even realized them.

Masterlist

#rengoku shinjuro #rengoku shinjuro x reader #shinjuro rengoku x reader #shinjuro rengoku #kny x reader #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer #demon slayer rengoku #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #jen writes

[starker-stories]

Reversal of Fortunes

Created for @mcukinkbingo​ Also on AO3 Square Filled: Slavery Ship: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Starker Rating: E Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con Word Count:  9457 Additional Tags:  College Student Peter Parker, Slavery, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Rape/Non-con Elements, As in Slaves Can't Consent, Brat Peter Parker, Dark Richard Parker, Mechanic Tony Stark, Dark Tony Stark, Debt Slavery, Anal Sex, Inappropriate Type of Lube Used, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Role Reversal, Dark Fic, Dark Themes, Sexual Slavery Summary: From a distance, Peter saw olive skin, shirtless glistening with sweat. Muscular, but not grotesque. Finely crafted. Sculpted. Peter’s own body had broad shoulders but a nipped in waist. This man was solid all the way from shoulders to… oh my god… the most perfect round globes of his denim clad ass. The jeans he wore were tight around his thighs as well. Thick and muscular. The slave’s entire lower body looked like it was designed to provide incredible strength and stamina when he fucked. He looked like he could fuck hard. Peter whimpered again and touched himself through his khaki shorts. 

------------------------------------------------------

Peter was bored. Why his father insisted on taking him to these things, he never knew. Yes, he’d be his heir and should know how to manage an estate, but he planned on hiring an overseer for that. He had no interest in the slaves his father owned. Disgustingly voluptuous women who pranced around the house pretending to be servants when what they really were were his father’s fucktoys. Who his mother ignored in favor of staring at the bottom of wine bottles. The last thing his gay ass he wanted to see was another pair of tits.

“Dad, do I have to stay? God, don’t you have enough house slaves?”

“I’m not buying for the house, Peter. I know the nature of the house slaves you’ll keep when you inherit my estate will change. You’ll do that in your own time. But I’m buying laborers and field hands today. Even if all you do is stock the house with boys, you need to know how to judge a working slave’s value. Now stop sulking and follow me out to the pens.”

Peter huffed a sigh. At least they were looking at men. But big dumb hunks of muscle little better than the horse he rode when he played polo. That was an insult to Jax. He was probably smarter than a field hand. A tray of champagne wafted by, carried by a cute young man with a nice dick, and Peter followed. His absence was unnoticed by his father who was assessing the value of the meat.

The waiter was happy to follow young Mr. Parker into an alcove, as he was required to do. He was surprised at the young master’s request. Peter dropped to his knees and sucked the man hard, making sure to leave his dick coated with a thick layer of spit. Then he knelt on the bed. “Fuck me. I’ll tell you how I like it.” Peter directed the slave as if he were a dildo attached to a human body, making him give him all the pleasure he wanted, but ordered not to come from it. When Peter came, he zipped up and left the slave, hard and dripping, without a backwards glance.

His father was disappointed that Peter hadn’t stayed, but unsurprised. He drove them back out to their ranch. The auction was forgotten as Peter lost himself in socializing, riding, and generally being the spoiled only son of Richard Parker, owner of one of the biggest ranches in the state.

~~~~~

Slavery was technically peonage. Only the debt, once someone fell into it, could never be repaid at the “wages” a slave was required to be given. The economy was highly divided. There were the 1%, where Peter dwelled. The 24% where most free people dwelled. And the 75%, where they scrambled for pennies to keep themselves out of debt slavery. Most failed. The 75% served the other 25%, pretty much in perpetuity, with lip service given to their ‘technical’ freedom.

It was rare, but someone in the 1% could fall. Bad business decisions, embezzlement of their company’s funds, loss of market share, dozens of pitfalls awaited the 1% who weren’t vigilant.

Tony Stark was too busy drinking, fucking anything that moved, and spending his dead father’s money to be vigilant. His father’s best friend and his mentor, locked him out of his own company, arranging for all the company’s debt to look like Tony himself had personally accrued it through his mismanagement. Which is how one playboy, billionaire, genius, philanthropist wound up a sold to Richard Parker’s ranch. Richard was going to put him to field work, but then he recognized the worn, weathered man, who looked nothing like the Tony Stark he knew from magazine covers. It didn’t matter. He was a slave and he belonged to the Parker estate. But a good mechanic could be put to more useful work than laboring in the fields. Tony was led to the garage and told to work.

Tony was effusive in his thanks to his new master. His previous one had indeed put him in the fields, where he was basically incompetent. His body was welted and scarred from punishment. Finally, after three years, his old master gave up on Tony and sold him cheaply. Richard got a bargain. He had nothing personal against Stark. It was later found out that his mentor sold him out and the company, also sold cheaply, was broken up and went to other owners. Tony’s debt was massive. He’d work for Master Parker until the day he died. Thankfully he never had children and wouldn’t unless his master chose to breed him. But he didn’t give a damn about that. Any kids born from him mounting a female slave weren’t his. No attachment. Tony didn’t make attachments. He hadn’t done so as a free man, why do it now, when an attachment could be sold the next day.

~~~~~

It was one of the hottest summers on record. Even the air conditioning couldn’t keep the house cool, and Peter was sick at looking at walking tits waving fans. He perched himself on a fence rail and watched… nothing. There was nothing of interest anywhere on the ranch. He leaned back and turned his face to the sun, feeling its warmth. When he looked down again, his eye caught movement in the big barn where the farm equipment was stored. He bit his lip and whimpered.

From a distance, he saw olive skin, shirtless glistening with sweat. Muscular, but not grotesque. Finely crafted. Sculpted. Peter’s own body had broad shoulders but a nipped in waist. This man was solid all the way from shoulders to… oh my god… the most perfect round globes of his denim clad ass. The jeans he wore were tight around his thighs as well. Thick and muscular. The slave’s entire lower body looked like it was designed to provide incredible strength and stamina when he fucked. He looked like he could fuck hard. Peter whimpered again and touched himself through his khaki shorts.

Peter’s lustful assessment didn’t even touch on the slave’s arms. He held a hammer and was beating a dented fender back into shape. His arms rippled and shone with sweat running over streaks of grease and oil. The slave turned to set down the hammer and pick up another tool. He couldn’t quite make out the slave’s features, but he had a

wonderful view of his chest. There was a light dusting of hair straight down the center. Muscles again but like Peter had never seen. He hated the over-built field hands. But he hated the soft, handsome rich boys like himself, too. He knew he was gay, but he’d never seen a man who did it for him. Until now. The slave was dirty and all Peter wanted was to be soiled.

Peter stopped touching himself and tried to will his erection to go down. At least some. He was free and it didn’t matter how he presented himself in front of a slave, but walking over hiding a full erection was just awkward. And would send the message that he was looking to fuck instead of get fucked. He turned away from the barn and watched some ugly hunks of muscle. That brought him right down.

He slid down off his perch and walked over to the barn. Okay, maybe swayed his way over to the barn. “Hi.”

The slave suddenly stopped what he was doing and put his tools down. “Hello, Young Master,” he said, eyes cast downward.

“Ugh. I hate that ‘young master’ thing. I’m twenty, not a child.”

“What shall I call you, sir,” Tony asked, hoping ‘sir’ was deferential enough until given something else to call him.

“Unless my dad’s near us, Master will do just fine.”

“Yes, Master.”

Now that he was close, Peter could see the scars crisscrossing the slave’s back. He even had some on his front and his arms. Peter reached out and ran a fingertip over the slave’s bicep, tracing one of them. “Were you disobedient?”

“No, Master.” Tony tried not to flinch when he was touched. Field hands were hardly ever sexually used and he hadn’t been, but he wasn’t a field hand anymore. He wasn’t keen on being thirty-eight and losing his ‘virginity’. Not that he’d have a say in it. “I was ill-suited to the work my former Master put me to.”

“Which was?” Peter asked, stepping closer. He could smell the sweat and grease.

“Field work, Master. I was a mechanic by trade before.”

Peter went from caressing with a fingertip to sliding his palm over the slave’s arm. “You don’t look like a field hand, thank god. Do you have a name, or just this number?” Peter’s hand moved up the slave’s arm to his neck, where all slaves were marked.

“I’m Tony, Master.”

“Tony.” Peter tasted the name on his tongue. It felt good there. “Stand still, Tony.” Peter’s hands went for the button of Tony’s jeans.

“Yes Master,” Tony said, holding himself tense.

Peter undid Tony’s fly and hefted his cock and balls out. “Oh my god,” he moaned appreciatively. He dropped to his knees on the barn floor. He took Tony’s soft cock into his mouth, sealing his lips behind the head, and letting his tongue dance. He balanced his hands on Tony’s thighs.

Tony sucked in a breath between his teeth and tried to keep from groaning in pleasure. Since he’d been sold, he’d had nothing but his own hand on his cock. He started to get hard instantly.

“Fuck Tony, you’re huge,” Peter moaned. He looked up at Tony’s face. “Are you able to come more than once or are you one and done, like most of the muscle on this place.”

Tony felt his face heat. “No, Master. I mean, yes, Master, I can come more than once. I need a bit of time between. I’m sorry, Master.”

“More than twice?” Peter’s eyebrows rose, hopefully.

“Occasionally three, Master.”

“God, you’re heaven. I might actually have to thank my father for something. I hate that, but you’re worth it.”

Tony was in uncharted territory. He was well known as a playboy. Fond of both men and women. A sexual athlete in bed. But always on top. He didn’t want to assume, but it seemed like that was what his Master’s son wanted. He snuck a glance at the boy as he sucked his dick. The boy was gorgeous. Just the type he would’ve bedded in the old days. He didn’t want to disappoint, so even though he’d been without for three years, he tried to remember his self control.

Peter looked up at Tony. “You’re not gonna shoot too fast, are you?”

“No Master,” Tony said, biting his lip.

“Good. I want you to come in my mouth. When I’m ready, I’ll do this…” Peter tapped Tony’s thigh three times. “Then you come. Can you do that?”

Tony considered it, only a moment. The skill had been in his repertoire. He hoped he still had it. “Yes Master.”

Peter licked a stripe down Tony’s cock. “God you’re filthy.”

“I could shower if that would please Master more.”

Peter gripped Tony’s thighs. “Don’t you dare! Fuck, it’s hot.” He nuzzled his face in Tony’s coarse hair. “You smell… god… you smell like a man.”

A smirk passed briefly over Tony’s face before he remembered he wasn’t who he used to be. He schooled his features.

He took Tony’s shaft in his hand, leisurely stroking it just to keep him hard. He looked up the slave’s body. “How long have you been a slave?”

“Three years Master.”

Peter chuckled. “Didn’t think it had been long. You have too much of yourself left.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Don’t be! I like that. God I’m so bored with everything. You’re,” he smiled, “something new.” They weren’t supposed to ask, but a Master did whatever he wanted. “What was your last name?” He saw a wince.

“Stark, Master.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, then his eyes went wide. “THE Tony Stark?”

“Yes Master. I’m Tony the slave now, Master.”

“Yeah, okay, but…” Peter grinned up at him. “Tony Stark had a reputation for fucking.”

The wince came again. Nothing he was then was what he was now. “Yes, Master, but that was a long time ago.”

Peter shimmied out of his shorts. “You’re not coming in my mouth,” he said excitedly. He bent over the dirty workbench, pushing tools out of his way. “Fuck me, Tony.”

“Is that allowed, Master? Your father…”

“Doesn’t give a damn what slave I let fuck me.” Peter looked over his shoulder. “But he does give a damn if they won’t.”

“I don’t have any lube, Master,” Tony demurred.

“You don’t have anything in this shop? I don’t care what you use. I want your dick up my ass. Now.” Peter snapped impatiently.

Tony found a bit of oil. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to use or not, but it’s what the Master asked for. And his back showed the cost of disobedience. He drizzled the oil down the crack of the young man’s ass. He fought to hide his reaction. The kid was perfect. His ass pale and white, his cheeks firm round globes. His Master’s son, Peter, wasn’t just the type he bedded, he was the type he kept around for a little while.

He took one of Peter’s ass cheeks in his hand, roughly, solidly, and pulled it open revealing the kid’s perfect little pink hole. With his calloused thumb he pushed the oil up into him. Then he thickly coated his cock.

“You like it rough or slow, kid?” Tony asked in a low growl. Someone like Peter… he knew the type well. His insolence might earn him a whipping, but he doubted it. “You wanna feel all this dick going into that tight little hole of yours all at once, or do you want that pretty little thing opened up a bit at a time? You think you can take all of me?”

Peter snorted. “You think that thing is good enough to make me come? You make me come on nothing but that cock, then when you can get it up again you come down my throat, and then I’ll consider where I want it for time number three, and I’ll make sure your life’s a whole lot easier.”

He bent over Peter and rubbed his cock along the crack of his ass. Not having been reprimanded for his manner of speech, he let himself go. “Baby, I’ve taken more boys like you apart than I can count. You just remember that my name is Tony. That way you know what to scream when I’ve fucked you brainless.”

Tony pulled away but kept one hand firmly on the boy’s back, just above the rise of his ass. He teased Peter’s hole with the head of his cock.

“Dammit, Tony fuck me!”

Tony chuckled. “Bet you’re used to slaves just standing there doing whatever you tell them to. Little dicks you rode like they were pieces of silicone. You wanna fuck Tony the slave or you wanna find out what it was like to be fucked by Tony Stark?”

Peter gave a little whimper.

“Thought so,” Tony said as he thrust his thick cock into the boy all at once. Hard. Fast. And there was the scream and cry, something between the pain of being opened and the pleasure of the stretch. Beautiful. A sound he hadn’t heard for three years. He reached up and grabbed Peter’s shoulder, pulling him back to meet his thrusts.

He started out with a brutal hard fuck. Peter’s cock was hard and the soft grunting moans that were forced out of him with the hard slap of Tony’s hips against his ass were signs of his pleasure. But Tony knew that was just a little rough foreplay. Not nearly enough to make the kid come untouched. Just a little… warming up.

“I’m not there yet,” Peter said smugly between his forced breaths.

Tony’s hand moved from Peter’s shoulder and tangled into his curly hair, grabbing a handful and tugging hard, pulling the kid’s head back. Peter cried out but pushed his ass back onto Tony’s cock, meeting his thrust and grinding in tight circles, pulsing around him. Tony registered the reaction. He had the kid’s number.

“I’m just starting, Peter.” His voice was gruff and deep. He knew the reaction it could cause. And the reaction that would come from hearing a slave say his name. He watched Peter fight back his whimpers by biting his lip. “I told you, I don’t come fast. Not even for a tight little piece of ass like you. I’ll get you there when I’m damn good and ready to get you there.”

He let go of Peter’s hair by roughly pushing his head away, as if he was done with his insolence. Reversing their positions. It was risky. It was all risky. Peter could decide after that he regretted the idea of letting a slave get away with treating him that way. But it felt so good to be able to be himself for even a little while. And the risk might pay off. The kid might not have regrets. A life of fucking that pretty kid and getting to pretend that he was still himself was better than what he was doing. Even though that was better than field work. He started to show off.

One hand firmly on Peter’s hip, the other on his cock, he thrust in at a downward angle, still hard, but slower on entry to drag the head of his cock over Peter’s prostate. Once he was past that spot about two inches in, he sped up his stroke until he was buried deep. Peter’s sharp moan and arch of his back was rewarding. So he did it again. Until the kid’s back was broken out in sweat and his moans were caught on quick shallow panting. One last time to make Peter scream then he went back to hard and fast and straight in. Peter’s cock was dripping a pool of precome on the garage floor.

“You all right baby boy?” Tony crooned. He covered the kid’s back with his solid muscular body. Letting him feel the weight.

“Tony, please!” Peter’s words were drawn out impossibly long on a high pitched whimper.

Oh that was rewarding. Having his ‘Master’ beg him.

“No. I’m not ready to come. You want it, work that ass on my dick, Peter. I’ll make you come just before I do. Gonna fill you up, kid.

“No you’re not.”

Tony chuckled. “That’s cute that you think you still have any say in this.”

He watched the shudder work all the way up Peter’s spine. The kid wanted to get fucked by a man and there weren’t any in his life, just simpering slaves and weak little boys like himself who pretended to be men.

Tony reached under Peter and wrapped his arm around his chest. He raised him off the workbench, halfway between bent and standing. He held him close, touching him with his body, running his hand up the kid’s chest to tease and pinch at a nipple for awhile. Before he ran his hand higher and shoved two of his dirty fingers into Peter’s mouth when he opened it to cry out to a sharp snap of Tony’s hips. Peter sucked on his fingers. Tony pushed them in deeper as he fucked into him. Peter sucked harder, drool running out of his mouth as Tony pressed his fingers down onto his tongue.

With his foot, he pushed Peter’s legs closer together, making him tighter around his cock. He widened his stance and fucked upward into the kid. The new angle hit his prostate more times than not.

“Fuck kid,” Tony groaned, long and low. “You’ve probably been fucked dozens of times, but never with a man’s cock. You’re so tight on me you almost feel cherry.”

He hit the spot again and Peter cried out his name, broken and desperate and needy.

“Wanna come baby?”

“Oh yes! Yes Tony! Please!”

Tony kept one hand high on the kid’s chest, the other he put low on his stomach, splayed out, warm and rough and dirty all over that soft pale white skin. He pressed in slightly as he started to fuck with an aim to sending the kid over. He always loved making guys come from nothing but getting their ass fucked. Being able to do that a lot… well… there was a reason he had the reputation he did.

“Tony!” Peter called out his name sharply as he painted the front of the workbench with his come.

He nipped at Peter’s ear. “Told you you’d remember my name,” he growled as he started to quickly work to his finish. Peter quaked in his arms. Shuddered. Whined. Riding the high of his orgasm. His cock still twitched and dripped as Tony fucked him through it.

“Got you all dirty,” Tony grunted. “Pretty baby.” He pulled Peter down onto his cock, burying in as deep as he could go. He groaned loudly as he came inside the kid who said he wouldn’t be allowed to do so. “Got you dirtier,” he said, kicking the kid’s legs apart so his come dripped out of Peter’s ass down onto his thighs when he pulled out.

Tony put his cock back into his pants and walked back over to his work. Leaving Peter there, holding onto the edge of the workbench, gasping, his shorts down around his ankles. His ass totally wrecked. He picked up the hammer and started reshaping the tractor’s fender.

“Stick around and look pretty for me and I’ll get it up faster for round two. Those lips will be sweet wrapped around my cock.”

~~~~~

Richard snorted a laugh. “It figures you would find him and make him fuck you. I appreciate the fact that you find the slave who had a reputation for being a good fuck and want to have him as your sex slave. But I need a mechanic on the ranch. He was the best in the world at what he did — both as a mechanic and as a piece of ass. You get him after he’s done his work. I’ll cut his hours from twelve to ten. Getting your ass fucked doesn’t take that long.”

“Maybe not the way you do it,” Peter muttered. “Twelve to eight,” he bargained. “And if I’m in the mood, he sleeps with me.”

“I don’t care if he sleeps with you or sleeps with you, but he will be woken up at four thirty to start his day like the rest of the slaves. I’ll give you eight, but I expect him to complete a full workload in those eight. You know what I do to slaves who slack off.”

“I don’t care about that, as long as I can have him from the time he gets done working for you until the time he has to go back to it.”

“Christ, Peter. How long does it take him to fuck you?”

“Hours,” Peter said dreamily. “He can go three times if he has enough inspiration.” Peter smiled wickedly. “I was inspiring.”

Richard snorted again. “Slaves always brag about their skills. I knew Tony Stark. He was more ego than anything. That’s when he wasn’t busy being the world’s most famous drunk who let a multi-billion dollar tech conglomerate be mismanaged out from under him. But if you think he’s actually any good… one use for a slave’s as good as another. I’d be a hypocrite if I kept you from using a piece of meat to get off with. You’re welcome to him. But the minute your play time interferes with his primary use, he’s gone from your bed. And the punishment he’ll get for having wasted my time thinking he’s gone back to fucking for a living is going to be severe.”

~~~~~

Peter liked him dirty. Fresh off the day’s work. Sweaty and with a strong scent. The kid was an absolutely greedy cock whore for him. Whining and whimpering and begging for it. He let him come on his face. In his ass, down his throat, splattered up his back. And he’d wear it from one go til the next. Sometimes even all night as they slept tangled together.

Despite being his owner, Peter was considerate of Tony’s schedule. He always got a good night’s sleep and in the mornings, Peter often woke up with him and showered with him and had breakfast with him. Which wasn’t the bland goop they dished out in the slave quarters. Tony tasted bacon and eggs and pancakes again. Just like he used to have at home. The good food and the good sleep made his workday more efficient. And the regular orgasms didn’t hurt it either.

Nor did the post-fuck affectionate come-down they spent together.

They’d been fucking for almost two months when Peter curled up along Tony’s side. “Tony?” he asked softly.

“Yeah baby?” Tony pressed his face into Peter’s sweat soaked curls. He’d just given the kid his first experience with multiple orgasms. Peter was glowing, his body still soft and suffering the occasional shudder still running through him. Raising them both together slightly, Tony reached down the bed for the soft duvet and pulled it over Peter before the kid got chilled. Tony was always too hot to be covered, but Peter ran cold. “What do you need, precious?”

Peter looked up at Tony. “You.”

Tony snorted. “You own me. That’s not a problem.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter said sadly. “I want you.”

“Baby, if things were different, you’d have me too.” Tony ran his hand down Peter’s back underneath the covers. “You’re beautiful. I always liked beautiful things.”

“Is that all I’d be to you?” He nuzzled his face against the solid muscle of Tony’s chest.

“I don’t know, Pete.” It was hard to keep off the kid. He’d touch and he’d kiss whatever he could get to. Peter was like a sweet, sweet wine and he wanted every drop. But he knew to keep his distance. Everything was at the suffrage of his owner, Richard Parker. A fucking mediocre chemical engineer who got lucky with a couple of patents and retired early to play country squire on a slave-run ranch.

“You wouldn’t want me?”

“Oh baby, I’d want you plenty. That ass of yours is fuckin’ heaven.”

“Oh,” Peter said quietly.

“Pete, I don’t know you. I don’t know if I would’ve wanted more than to keep you in my bed for awhile. I know I was looking. Fucking around was losing its appeal. Sort of ‘been there done that’ and I’d fucked my way through the best ass in L.A. It was getting repetitive. But would it have been you? Who knows. All I know is that it isn’t you now. I don’t get to make those choices.”

“If you did?”

Tony snorted. “Do you have any idea of how much Obie drove Stark into debt? I’d be a slave for a hundred lifetimes if they could make me that long. And after all that, he still lost my fuckin’ company,” Tony said bitterly.

“Speculating about ifs?” Tony continued. “That’s a free man’s game. My only ‘if’ is if you’re gonna get bored with me or if your father gets a better offer than my value and sells me. That’s my fuckin’ if. This? This is all playing games, baby boy. They’re fun games and I enjoy the hell out of getting to pretend that I’m still me. But it’s a fuckin’ game that a free boy gets to play with my body that he owns.

“So would I want to keep you if I was still free? What the fuck difference does it make in the world I live in now?”

“But I like you, Tony.” Peter said hesitantly. “I more than like you.”

Tony snorted again. “You like my dick up your ass. You don’t know me, kid. You have no idea what I was like, what I did every day, what my real work was, the way my mind worked, nothing. So you ‘more than like me’. How the fuck can you do that, huh Pete? Now, do you wanna fuck again or do you wanna keep playing with my head. You own me. Your choice.”

Peter rolled away from Tony and they both went to sleep.

~~~~~

“Get cleaned up and meet me downstairs in the lab,” Peter said when Tony came in after his workday.

So more head-fucking and less dick-fucking for the day. Tony went to Peter’s room, showered, and dressed in a clean set of work clothes. He went downstairs to the last place in the world that he wanted to be. He’d rather be out in the fields. Ever since Richard Parker recognized him, he’d been worried about this. The bastard earning money off of his real skills. He decided when he got noticed that if it ever did happen, he’d sabotage the effort. He’d let the fucker beat him to death before he let him earn a penny off of what his brain could do.

“Yes, Young Master?” Tony asked once he was downstairs.

“This is dad’s space, mine’s over here.”

It reminded him of how it was in Howard’s house. There was Howard’s lab and workshop, much bigger than his and separated distinctly. Apparently it worked the same for Richard. Though Tony hadn’t realized that Peter was anything but a bubble butt airhead spoiled rotten twink. Not that he had a lab downstairs with his dad.

“I’ve been working on this new adhesive threading. Woven together I think it would be useful in a lot of ways,” Peter explained as he brought out his notes and samples of his work.

“I wasn’t a chemist, Young Master.” Inside the house, they had to revert to putting the ‘young’ in front of the designation because Richard was often around. “Your work is outside my area of expertise.” He hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

“3D manipulation of the chemical model would help. I don’t have the means for it. I’ve tried every modeling software that’s out there. No one at Stark has been able to get into your AI and retrieve your work. You used to have a 3D modeling table. I saw pictures of it in a journal when I was a kid.”

“I had no idea you were a chemist like the Master, Young Master.”

“I dropped out of college. Dad was pissed, but as long as I’m working and being self-taught, he deals with it. I don’t work a lot. He drives me nuts and I hate being down here. If I lived on my own, I’d do more, but… he holds the purse strings.”

Tony swallowed back a bitter chuckle. He remembered those days. The struggle to get a dime out of Howard while he was at MIT. “Well, if they can’t get the 3D table design out, it must be for a good reason, Young Master,” Tony said, meeting Peter’s eye with resolution.

“They can’t get any designs out. They can’t even get your AI, JARVIS, to be anything other than minimally functional.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. He’d tried to blackmail Obie into saving his ass by locking everything he’d ever worked on tightly away. Stane was convinced that his engineering team would be enough to keep Stark afloat. It wasn’t. Rather than let himself follow Tony into debt slavery, he flew his plane into the Pacific Ocean. Stark Industries was broken up and sold. Including the brand name. His name. Before his sale, Tony sent JARVIS off to the far reaches. A bit here, a bit there, seemingly unconnected but actually very much connected. JARVIS was just as capable as he was three years ago. And he still kept all of Tony’s secrets.

“I need your help with this, Tony,” Peter asked. His voice had a touch of the pleading tone it did when they were fucking.

“That’s nice,” Tony said harshly. “You’re not getting it.”

“You have to.”

“Yeah, no. Go on. Tell your father I’m uncooperative. I don’t give a fuck. You get my body. He gets my hands. Nobody gets my brain. So fuck you, Young Master,” Tony said with bitter sarcasm.

Peter turned, smiling, and ran to Tony. He stood on tiptoes and hugged his neck. “I love you,” he whispered into his ear.

Tony blinked, confused. “Wha…?”

“You refused me. You. Tony Stark, not Tony the slave.”

He snorted. “Oh joy. I’m still me inside here. I’m sure that’ll be beaten out of me soon enough. You’re an idiot, Peter.” He turned away and headed for the stairs. “I’ll be sleeping in the slave quarters with the rest of the ones like me.”

“Tony, stop. Please.”

On the first step, Tony turned. “Why? You want me in your bed tonight instead? Sure. Whatever the Young Master desires. You want my cock hard, just put those lips on it. You can ride me until you get yourself off. You wanna find out what it’s like to fuck someone? Not like I can stop you.” He stepped down and strode menacingly toward Peter. “I have one thing. One thing. And no one is getting that. You or Richard or whoever can flay my back until there’s not a scrap of skin left on it. You. Don’t. Get. It,” he spat. “You don’t get me.” He stood there quivering with anger.

“Is there a problem, Peter?” Richard said, walking through the door. He glared at Tony.

“No father. No problem. You know the kind of thing I like,” Peter said, with a flirty smirk. He walked over to Tony and ran his hand up the man’s arm. “I like this kind of thing right here. Rough and dirty with an absolutely huge dick that fucks like a beast.”

Richard chuckled. “That is far too much information, Peter.” He looked around Peter’s lab. “Keep your toys where they belong and not where they don’t.”

Peter climbed a few steps to stand above Tony. He reached down and tangled his fingers in the man’s thick hair and gave it a little tug. He looked at his father with a smug smile. “C’mon baby. I’ve got a hot hungry hole that needs filling.”

Richard shook his head and went back to his own lab.

~~~~~

“Are you having fun, Young Master?” Tony asked, a vicious tone in his voice, once they reached Peter’s bedroom and the door was shut behind them.

“God Tony stop that. You know I like it when you call me Peter.”

“Whatever you command, Peter.”

“Stop!” Tears ran down Peter’s face.

“I don’t know what you think is going to come of this. So you got me to remember who I was. So you think you fell in love with that man, a man you never knew and never will know. What, exactly, do you think any of this changes!”

“I don’t know!” Peter swiped at his eyes. “I just want you to be you. I want you to go home and to have your business back and to have your life back. I want you to be happy. I want to have a chance to get to know that man you say I don’t know. I want you to have your work back. I want you to have your inventions back. I want you to have JARVIS back. I w…”

Tony laughed bitterly. “Oh that’s a good game, Richard!” Tony shouted. “I assume you’re watching from somewhere, you pathetic little social climbing nobody! Sending your son to be a cute little piece of ass to soften me up. Whimpering at me with talk of twu wuv. You don’t think I can resist a good fuck? That I’m as weak willed as you are, you fucking cheat. Wanna tell Mary how many free mistresses you’ve had on the string over the years in addition to your pieces of slave ass? I don’t let my dick lead me everywhere, unlike you. I wasn’t anywhere near the playboy and the drunk I was made out to be. You’re a bigger imbecile than I thought you were if you believed that. How the hell could I have done the work I did if I was always staring at the bottom of a bottle like your wife? I was betrayed! I will let you torture me and tear me into little pieces and tear those little pieces into littler pieces before you get a single line of JARVIS’ code!”

“Tony I…”

“Oh shut the fuck up, Peter.” Tony took Peter by his upper arms and pushed him back to bounce on the bed. “I’m tired of the damn game.” He looked down at the boy coldly. “You bore me.” He walked out Peter’s balcony door, down the outer stairs, and went back to the garage the kid took him out of.

~~~~~

“Tire of your toy already, Peter?” Richard asked him a couple of days later, noting the lack of late night sounds from his son’s room.

Peter rolled his eyes. “God dad, seriously.”

“Lover’s spat?”

“Would you please!”

“Peter, if you want Stark back in your bed, I’ll order him back in your bed. If you’re done with him, I’ll make sure he stays away and fill his days with so much work he won’t have time to even think about you. I know it’s easy to get little crushes on slaves, but you have to remember who you are and what they are. Not what they used to be. Keep everyone in their proper place and the world turns smoothly.”

Peter huffed and shook his head, pushing away from the table to head upstairs to his room.

“So what’ll it be? Your bed or the garage?” Richard asked.

“Leave it the fuck alone! That’s what it’ll be!”

“Peter, language,” his mother slurred as he disappeared from the room.

~~~~~

Peter spent every afternoon for a week sitting on the fence railing, watching Tony work in the garage. The man never once looked up at him.

In the early morning, he rode off on his horse to parts unknown, coming back just in time to take up his fence sitting. When dinner was called, he ate quickly then locked himself in his room.

“Can you prove it?” Peter asked, finally hopping down off the fence and standing in the garage doorway.

“Prove what, Young Master?” Tony asked. He set down his tools and obediently stood still, his eyes cast downward.

“That you were betrayed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Young Master. With your permission, the Master wishes this baler in working condition by tonight.”

“Tony, will you get over this? I’m trying to help you,” Peter said, stepping closer.

Tony didn’t move, but neither did he respond to Peter’s nearness. “I stand where the Master orders me to stand, Young Master. At this time, I am ordered to this garage.

Peter pushed himself to sit on the workbench. “Then don’t let me keep you from your work, slave,” he said, staring the man down.

They were like that until dinner was called. Peter watched while Tony worked, ignoring him. Peter went in and soon came back with a plate heaping full of food. He pushed back up on the workbench and resumed watching Tony as he ate. He heard a small snort of derision from the other side of the machine Tony was working on.

Four thirty the next morning, Peter was sitting on the workbench eating breakfast when Tony arrived to his duties.

“Kid, if you think a plate of bacon and eggs or roast beef is going to get you anywhere nearer to what your father wants…” he chuckled.

“Can you prove you were betrayed?”

“Gonna reopen my case?” Tony asked as he checked the schedule of work for the day. “How magnanimous of you. You think Richard’s gonna let you take one of his most profitable assets from him? Seriously kid, I don’t know what kind of game the two of you are playing now, but I’ve got work to do.”

Tony started his work and kept at it as he kept up his line of patter. “Don’t you have… I dunno… some high bred pretty boy to fuck you by now? Your father’s gotta be looking to marry you off to someone from a more socially acceptable family than that of a former middle manager at Dow. He’ll set you and your hubby up with a surrogate to produce the next Parker heir. Make you into a little boy-mommy.” Tony moved about the workshop, taking care of minor jobs. “And when he’s done stuffing his little dick up your empty hole and failing to make you come with it, you can go have a wank in the shower and remember what it was like to have mine, making you come so many times you were lying there, twitching, cock dry and still coming on my cock.”

Peter stormed out of the workshop.

“You shouldn’t talk to the Young Master that way,” the new slave, Quentin, who’d been bought to be Tony’s assistant, said. “Someone might tell the Master.”

“Get the fuck out of my workshop, Beck. I fired you once, I’m firing you again.”

“You can’t fire me, Stark. I was bought to work on the equipment, same as you.”

Tony threw a wrench at the other man’s head. “There’s a stalled tractor in the south pasture. Take that and get the fuck out.” The other man stalked over to him. Tony smirked. “You sure you wanna play that hand?” He got up in Beck’s face and marched him backwards out of the garage. Tony nodded to the door track in the floor. “That’s the line. Stay your ass on that side of it and out of my goddamn shop. Next time I won’t miss.” Tony picked up a tool bag and dropped it on the outside of the door-line. “South pasture. Tractor. If you think you can manage it.”

Tony doubted he could. Programming had been Beck’s field. Richard was stupid enough not to know, or not to care, about the difference between an engineer and a software engineer. There was a reason why Stark’s chemical division had taken a pass on Parker’s resume when it came across their desk.

~~~~~

The very latest model of tractor came with every bell and whistle imaginable. GPS, computer monitors, radio tracking, all the mod cons if a driver wanted to get inside, not that one was needed. They ran themselves.

Tony smiled once Richard took delivery of it and went back inside, leaving him to prepare it for work. Beck crossed the line to make a pest of himself.

“Get that tractor working yet?” Tony asked with a smirk.

“That’s more your line of work. The software on this is more mine.”

“Uh huh. Just how many Turing capable neural net artificial intelligences have you created? You can come back into my shop once you’ve got one under your belt. There’s a tractor you’ve been trying to get running for three days waiting for you.”

“It’s supposed to rain today,” Beck groused.

“Sounds like you’re gonna get wet.”

In the cab of the new tractor, Tony went to work. “Hello J, how’ve you been?”

“Fine, sir. Everything’s secure. May I say what a pleasure it is to hear from you again.”

“Same, J, same.” Tony dropped his voice to a low mutter. “Hear me like this? No earpiece?”

“Without difficulty.”

“Fine. You go silent. Display only. First order of business, you’re to cause a fault somewhere in this fuckin’ thing to get it in here every six to ten days, randomized.

~~~~~

“It’s back in the shop again?” Richard asked Tony.

“They’re fiddly things, Master,” Tony explained. “More advanced means more things to go wrong.”

“It’s because they’re controlled by computers, Master,” Beck volunteered. “More my field than a simple mechanic’s.”

Tony chuckled derisively. “Master, I don’t know what the auctioneer told you about this one… It’s a shame what they’ll do to take advantage of a good man. He lasted less than six months at Stark. Incompetent — he failed to complete one single project on time or under budget. Falsified education records — a UCLA drop out who never saw the inside of Caltech’s cafeteria, much less a classroom. But the kicker was that he was mentally unstable. Attacked three of his co-workers, Master. Without provocation. I hope that the thief who sold him to you sold him cheap.”

Beck looked apoplectic and about to prove the ‘mentally unstable’ accusation with one of his balled up fists to his former boss’ face.

“Thanks for that warning, Tony.” Richard said, looking Beck up and down. “As I recall, you were a computer expert as well as a mechanic.”

“A small skill, Master,” Tony demurred. “I’ll have this up and working for you before lunch.”

After a little over a month of continual faults, Tony convinced Richard that the best course of action was to bring the new, computer controlled tractor in for brief, once weekly, preventative maintenance. Scheduled for right before Tony’s workshift ended for the night, when there was no one around to see, or hear, what he was doing.

Beck never darkened the workshop door after Tony told Richard about him. And Peter too stayed away.

~~~~~

“You’re doing something, Tony,” Peter said, taking up his long-disused perch on the top of Tony’s workbench.

“Yes, Young Master. I’m cleaning the rust off the bumper of this 49 Mercury 8 Coupe the Master found under a tarp in the old barn.” Yeah, if the ‘old tarp’ was wherever the hell his cars had been sold, and this one left out to get all fucked up.

“No, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I’m sorry Young Master, I don’t presume to know what you think I know.”

Peter laughed. “That was yours.”

“Really,” Tony drawled. “I never would’ve known from the Stark 15 license plate your father ‘conveniently’ left in the trunk.”

“Richard’s a shithead.”

“You’d know best, since the apple never falls far from the tree.”

“Dammit Tony! How long are you going to…”

“Going to what? I’m not the one with the power to keep me out of your bed. Or in it.”

“You’re working on something.”

“Yes, Peter. I’m working on one of my cars that your father, or whoever had it before him, treated like crap and let the chrome blister and rust.” He clicked his tongue as he pushed a fruit tree pit off the hood. It left a acid-eaten flaw in the finish. “That was factory paint. Not a dent on her. Engine perfect. She’ll never be what she was. She’s worthless, no matter what I do to fix her. Not that Richard will know the difference.”

“What is it?”

“A… bumper?” Tony said, playing dumb.

“I could help you, you know?”

Tony snorted. “I heard that offer before. Come up with something original.” He paused. “Or are you still a boring fuck.”

~~~~~

“Dad’s worried.”

Tony crawled out from under the car and looked over at Peter, where he always was when he came to pester him. “‘Dad’?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Dad, Richard, whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s worried.”

“And this concerns me, how?”

“I think it’s bad, Tony.”

“As I said.”

Peter pushed himself off the workbench in a huff. “If the ranch goes under, you’ll be sold with the property!”

“And, as I said, this concerns me… how? I’m a slave. Of course I’ll be sold with the rest of Richard’s property.”

“This is your fault!”

Tony chuckled. “You have amazing faith in my ability to do anything from my position.”

“It is!”

Tony pushed himself back under the car. “If I’m sold off for Richard’s debts, I won’t be the only one, Peter.”

Peter pulled on Tony’s feet, yanking him out from under the car again. “Do you hate me that much?”

“To hate someone, you have to care. I don’t give a damn about you, Peter, one way or the other.”

~~~~~

“Nice to see you back, Mr. Stark,” the oily, obsequious man who welcomed him into the auction house said.

“You never saw me before. I never bought slaves.”

“I merely meant…”

“I know what you meant.” Tony brushed past the man.

“Someone who didn’t have a taste for it, yet here you are.”

“Looking for more lab rats for your failed experiments, Killian?”

Tony went to the bank of auction agents. He whispered in the woman’s ear and left just as the auctioneer called out, “Parker Estate, lot one.”

~~~~~

“You were working on something,” Peter said from his position, his ankle chained to the foot of Tony’s bed, when the man arrived home.

“A bumper, as I recall.”

“How?”

Tony undid his tie and started to undress. “A fatal mistake.”

“What was it he did?”

“Aren’t you an insolent little slave, asking all those questions of your master.”

“I wouldn’t be a slave if it wasn’t for you.”

“Really,” Tony said in that same slow drawl he did the last time he saw Peter. “You’re a bright boy, baby. If you figure it out, I’ll fuck you and instead of fucking whatever boy I bring home from the party tonight.”

“It’s why you got rid of Quentin,” Peter said with a sly smile as Tony came out of the dressing room, changing into his evening clothes.

“I got rid of Beck because he pissed me off. Again.”

“Maybe. That wasn’t why though.”

“Do tell, Peter, why did I get rid of Beck?”

“He was the only one other than you who knew computers.”

“I’m sure you know your way around a keyboard.”

“Well duh. But I wasn’t out in the workshop.”

“You were out there too much,” Tony said, continuing to change his clothes. They were a few years out of fashion — almost four to be precise — but black tie didn’t change much.

“Yes, but I hardly took interest in Richard’s new, computer controlled, tractor.”

Tony’s lips quirked up as he fastened his watch on his wrist. Worth more than what Peter went for. “So I had computer access? How did that help me? It wasn’t connected to the internet.”

“Oh please, Tony. It had GPS. Satellite connections. All you had to do was aim the GPS at a different satellite. Like one that Stark Industries used to own.”

“Hmm. Still don’t see how that…”

“JARVIS. God, Tony. I had Richard convinced I was an idiot. I didn’t think I had you convinced.”

“Well, it wasn’t like you had me with you to show off your scintillating conversation skills. You had better things to do with your mouth. Which I look forward to finding out if you’re as good at when you’re not the one in charge.”

“Well?” Peter asked. “Are you coming home alone?”

“You have the method, but how?” He propped his foot up on the edge of the bed to tie his shoe. “It’s some whoeverthefuck’s birthday. Producer. Fond of pretty young men. Sure to be plenty to choose from for me to bring home. Maybe I’ll let you suck him off while I fuck him.

“Gotta go. Happy’s going to swing me by Audi to pick up my new car. Seems like they love having me promote them again.”

“Did you get Stark Industries back?” Peter asked.

Tony laughed. “Of course.”

“All of it?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you got every bit of it back except the chemical division that Richard bought cheap.”

“I did make the others better offers,” he admitted. “But Stark Chemical is back in the fold now, since Richard’s play at country squire failed. I even own your father, pet. I never ran Stark on slaves, not when so many need work. But even at a good salary, it’s always hard to find tank scrubbers. And I don’t have to pay a slave haz-mat pay.”

“What happened to mom?” Peter asked, a little quietly.

“No fuckin’ clue. Don’t care.” He heard Peter sniffle. “Yeah, she was your mom. She also beat the hell out of a kitchen slave for breaking a plate. She had a mean hand with a cane, and because she was drunk all the time, her aim sucked. The girl died. So spare me your fuckin’ tears. You’re lucky you have a tight ass and are cute. That wouldn't have gone well for you if I hadn’t taken a liking to your mouth.”

“You started out with JARVIS working from the outside in,” Peter said quickly, answering the ‘how’. “First, set up a dummy corporation in the name of someone you trust who wasn’t more than an employee. I expect Pepper Potts is the new CEO of Stark Industries,” Peter continued evenly. “Name brand came cheapest. Gotta get your name back first and foremost. Divisions, cheapest inward.

“No.” Peter stopped. “That’s wrong.” He looked around the room. “You wouldn’t have had to go cheap. You had assets never disclosed. Swiss. Hard, not currency, not electronic. Gold. Gems?” He looked at Tony sideways. “Oh yeah. Pretty sparkly things. Rich dad like yours musta spent a fortune on his trophy wife. Gold and gems. JARVIS gave Ms. Potts the number. Now the buyback is fully funded. But that’s not going to get you your freedom. You were forty billion in debt. What was left of Stark wasn’t worth anywhere near that much.” Peter closed his eyes. “Your patent files, those were bought back in your scheme, but now owned by the dummy, unable to be used. Work in progress at the time of your sale… sure. That might get you a little, but there was no guarantee to whoever funded you that your plan would work and it wouldn’t be a worthless investment because you’d still be a slave.”

Peter laughed. “You sold the only thing you wouldn’t give up. Him.” Peter nodded up at the ceiling where he’d heard the disembodied voice when he was brought in and chained to Tony’s bed.

“Not exactly, but close enough. His brother, TADASHI. Not quite as versatile or intelligent, but enough. Look for a new interface on the next gen i devices. Of course the next Stark devices will make those obsolete before they hit the consumer as I downport some of JARVIS’ most basic functions, but give them his brand name, that everyone knows is my personal creation. Sorry, J.”

“That’s entirely fine, sir. The proliferation of my code through hundreds of thousands of devices…”

“That’s enough, J,” Tony said warningly. “So I guess I’m coming home alone tonight, Scheherazade.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I suck at storytelling.”

Tony chuckled. “Good thing you don’t suck at sucking. Ever get your face fucked, baby boy?” Tony shrugged into his jacket. “Just a little something for you to look forward to when I get back.”

“Two last questions,” Peter called out just before Tony left the room.

Tony smiled. “Make them good.”

“The fatal mistake.”

He laughed. “Letting my car get ruined.”

“Seriously?”

Tony shrugged. “It was the one I never drove. I drive all my cars. Even the Shelby. But that one had less than a hundred miles on it. Showroom. And it was pristine. One hundred percent factory condition. Much like Richard claimed, it was found under a tarp in an old barn. So yes. That was your father’s fatal mistake.” He paused. “Question two?”

“‘I wouldn’t be a slave if it wasn’t for you’.” Peter quoted himself.

“Not exactly a question. And its answer self-evident in the previous.

“A car. For want of a car, I’d be free.”

“People have been sold for less. I was always going to regain my freedom and my company. Once Obie was dead, there was no reason to stay a slave. I just had to survive long enough to get the pieces to fall into place. Get sold to the right person. One who would recognize me. One who would let me work at what I’m good at.”

“You had this all set up?”

“‘I had Richard convinced I was an idiot. I didn’t think I had you convinced’,” he tossed back. “Have a lovely evening, Peter. Your chain reaches the bathroom. Be clean, prepared, and naked when I get home.”

“When will that be?” Peter asked.

“When I walk through that door ready to use your body however I see fit, slave.”

#starker #Von writes stuff #mind the tags

[thaisibir]

La Vie en Rose (Bede and young!Opal time travel fic)

La Vie en Rose (Life in Pink)     Rating: T (for character deaths and language)     Chapter 8/10 - Searching For Pink (length: ~7k words)     Summary: Bede doesn’t get why that loony old bat Opal wants him to be the next Fairy-type Gym Leader. To help him understand, Opal has Celebi take Bede back to the time of her youth.

(For other chapters, look up the tag “pokemon la vie en rose” or go to my profile)

When Opal returned to Ballonlea Town to bury Roger and Jasper, she didn’t take time off from her Gym Leader responsibilities or close the theatre. She kept both open, showed up promptly as she always did, and carried on as if she didn’t carry the weight of grief on her shoulders.

Bede knew, however, that her facade fell apart every time she stepped foot inside her house. Her smooth brow and stiff upper lip would crumple, then her Pokemon would run up to her so she could hold on to them for support.

“The hardest part of the day is coming back to an empty house,” she whispered to them.

Empty as in no more Roger and Jasper. The Pokemon were always around, but she would no longer see her husband working on scripts over the dinner table, or hear her son’s laughter fill the house.

“I suppose I better get right on to clearing out their things,” she said, and at that, her eyes filled up with tears.

Opal emptied the closet of Roger’s ties and suits, Jasper’s little shirts, sweaters, and pants. Boxes of toys and picture books became boxes destined for donation. Bede wanted nothing more than to help her—just as he had done for a much older Opal when she desperately needed to clear up the clutter in her house—but being a traveler from another time, all he could do was stand by and watch helplessly as frequent pauses to collect herself and choke back sobs kept Opal from working as efficiently as she could have.

She didn’t clear out everything from the house. She couldn’t bring herself to toss out Roger’s incomplete scripts. Instead she kept them in a plain, unlabeled binder which would sit next to her mother’s manual on Fairy type Pokemon. She stripped the nightstands, counters, and walls of framed snapshots of her family. Pulling the pictures out of their frames and compiling them into stacks, without regard for any sort of order, Opal tucked them away deep in the attic. Bede knew that she wouldn’t be seeing those photos in a long, long time, until he would stumble on them by accident.

“She’s cleaning up the evidence,” Bede said to Celebi, “like she’s trying to wipe out any sign that Roger and Jasper were ever here.”

He wasn’t speaking out of judgment. He knew where she was coming from. When his parents fell behind on their debts, and literally couldn’t afford to support him anymore, they dumped him at the orphanage. The hand-made clothes they left him, their attempt to give him something to remember them by, were insult to injury. The first thing Bede did was chuck his clothes in the dumpster, so that the caregivers at the orphanage had to give him new ones, and he did not talk to anyone for a week.

Once Opal ended the taxing, thankless task and ruefully rubbed at her aching back, she went outside to spend the rest of the night smoking from her armbench. That became her new evening habit. Smoking. No more reading bedtime stories to Jasper. No more bouncing ideas with Roger as he labored over writing a new play.

Holding Celebi’s hand, Bede was taken through a sad, bleak timelapse as Opal sank deep into her smoking habit, burning through up to three packs of cigarettes a day, all from her armbench, and contributing significant weight gain to her Weezing, which ate up the smoky air she’d make. Bede sat down beside her, and though he wouldn’t call himself a hugger, he wanted to give her one now. A frown seemed to set deep into her face, like etching on a stone, and her hooded, unfocused eyes didn’t register the forest’s charm and beauty surrounding her.

One early evening, Randall arrived at her house by car—the same car she had taken to see him at Wynwall. His arrival took her by surprise, but only for a moment, and her eyes returned to distant dullness.

“Evening, Opal.” He tipped off his tophat to her in greeting, then knelt down to her sitting level and took her hands. “How are you doing?”

“Randy, what are you doing here?” She didn’t answer his question. Trying to dodge either an obvious lie or the hard truth, Bede guessed.

Her twin brother made a small smile. “I thought you ought to be the first one to know. Rather than giving you a call or sending you mail, I ought to tell you in person.” The smile lingered on his lips, like good news sat on the tip of his tongue, and when he paused for effect, Opal beat him to it.

“You have a date for the wedding, don’t you? And I’m invited?”

Delight lit up his face. “Why, yes. Sharp as always, Opal. I figured you would know.” Guilt flickered in his bright blue gaze as he turned it from her face to her hands. “I...I almost didn’t want to tell you, because...well...” He trailed off as he stared at the healing scar on her right hand.

With her left, Opal gripped his shoulder. “Congratulations, Randy. Really. All my best wishes for you and your fiancee. I appreciate you coming to tell me yourself. Whenever that wedding is, I’ll be there. What kind of sister can’t come to her own brother’s wedding?” Her smile told Bede of a brave, sincere attempt to muster happiness for Randall despite the grief she wallowed in.

He stood up and turned to sit on the bench beside her, and Bede was quick enough to move out of the way. “There’s something else I need to tell you, too. Marion wants me to move to Kalos with her after we get married. I...I’m thinking of selling the family estate in the process. I wanted to run that through you before I do that.”

“You’ve been in charge of that place for the past five years now. My home is here in Ballonlea, not at Wynwall. Not anymore, not for a long time, anyway. You don’t need my approval.” She tilted her head at him. “I feel like there’s another reason you’re thinking about that, even without your fiancee’s conditions.”

Randall nodded. “The Rose family gets more rich and powerful with each year,” he admitted. “They’re talking big plans—renovating Wynwall from the ground up, mining the region for new sources of energy, and of course, repurposing the Gyms for Dynamax battles.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard,” Opal said. “My Gym’s next for reconstruction soon.”

“It’s just me against an entire family of businessmen, philanthropists, and entrepreneurs. I can’t keep up against them,” Randall went on. “Better to bow out now on friendly terms than go on to become bitter competitors and fight a losing battle. Besides, I fall in love with Kalos more and more every time I visit. It’s time to set my sights on a new land and a new life.”

“Your heart is leading you somewhere else. You should follow it.”

He smiled at her. “I’m beginning to understand why you left Wynwall and came here all those years ago.”

“I wouldn’t trade Ballonlea Town for any other place in the world,” Opal murmured. She stared off in the direction of the trail leading to the cemetery, where her spouse and child were buried.

Randall followed her gaze for a few moments before he went on, “I didn’t come here alone. When I released all the servants from my service, I made sure that they found work or retirement. Most chose to be transferred to the Rose family estate, but there are exceptions.” He gestured at the car, and Bede recognized the elderly gentleman who stepped out.

“Winston,” Opal exclaimed.

He bowed at her, then straightened up with an awkward tug at his collar. “My apologies, ma’am. No longer being a butler will take a considerable amount of adjustment.”

“Winston wanted to move to Ballonlea,” Randall said to Opal. “Proper retirement doesn’t suit him quite yet, so he’d like to work at the mart in the Pokemon Center, or at the inn, or the Dancing Impidimp. You know, somewhere that would benefit from his services. I approved the idea wholeheartedly. I thought you might appreciate having a familiar face around here.”

Opal didn’t quite smile at Winston. Having her family cruelly ripped away had also taken away her ability to properly smile and laugh for five years now. Despite that, fondness for the former butler still showed through her tone. “You are more than welcome to stay. I’ll look forward to seeing you wherever you’ll be working.”

Randall rose from the armbench, tucking the tophat under his arm. “Well, Opal, I’m delighted to hear that you’ll be coming to the wedding.” He froze midway in turning around, and returned to face her. “Ah, I almost forgot. I...” He cleared his throat. “I visited him in prison. He’s wondering if you’ll...” Randall trailed off, unable to finish.

Opal shook her head. “No,” she said in a low, tight voice. “I don’t know if I ever will.”

“I see. I’ll give him my regards the next time I see him, then.”

Bede was sharp enough to figure out that they were talking about Kestrel, who wondered if Opal would ever come visit him. The way they dodged about uttering his name told of how cut off he still was from the family. It had been five years since Roger and Jasper died, so Kestrel was halfway through his sentence. Bede doubted that Opal would ever want to see him around Ballonlea Town again, if he would be released in the next five years.

With a gentle hold of Bede’s hands, Celebi pulled him forward in time to the day that Opal and Randall bid each other farewell at the Wynwall airport.

Randall’s newly wedded wife from Kalos, along with his Pyroar and Boltund, stood respectfully to the side as the siblings shared a tight, long hug.

“Will you really be all right by yourself?” Randall asked.

With her chin on his shoulder, Opal mustered a smile. “I’ve already told you a hundred times, Randy. I’m not alone. I have my Pokemon. They’re—”

“Your family, I know.” He pulled back to hold her at arms’ length and return her smile. “I’ll try to call and write to you as often as I can.”

“Likewise.” Opal beckoned at Randall’s wife to come up, and she held their hands. “Go make the most of your marriage for me, okay? I know I already said this at the wedding, but I want you two to love each other with each day to the fullest. Smile at the smallest things and laugh at each other’s corny jokes. Never go to bed angry. You never know when you’ll wake up and find that it’s too late to say sorry.”

Grief and loss had given Opal weighted wisdom beyond women of her age. Looking at her brother and sister in-law, she was probably trying her hardest to recollect her own newlywed giddiness with Roger. She tried to end on a happier, more hopeful note. “If you ever plan on starting a family, I want to be the first to know.”

Randall pulled her into another hug, tears thick in his eyes. “My big sister, always leaving behind advice more valuable than pearls and golden nuggets.” He chuckled and wiped at his tears. “This is the best advice you’ve given me so far. Every other one was about warning me to stay out of trouble.”

“You better keep a close eye on him, Marion,” Opal said as she winked at his wife. “He used to be quite the troublemaker when he and I were little. He didn’t listen to me about shaving all the hair off our father’s Pyroar, and that earned him a spanking of the century.” She chuckled in what must have been the first time in a long time as Randall sputtered in embarrassment, and Marion put a hand to her mouth in mock horror.

Bede didn’t get to hear more of the conversation as he felt Celebi’s fluttering touch and warm light.

#

Brought back inside Opal’s house, he jumped at the sound of something scattering all over the floor. Something like heavy papers. He peeked into the kitchen to find that Opal had swept a stack of mail off her table. They fell like dead autumn leaves. One letter she had unfolded trembled in her hand, then it crumpled under her grip and she flung it down.

“Are you kidding me?” She burst out. “They could’ve told me in person, or at the very least with a phone call. Not through fucking mail!”

Bede flinched and pressed himself against the wall as she paced between the kitchen and living room swearing up a storm. At Celebi’s prompting, he crept over to the scattered letters and lowered himself on all fours to peer at the one Opal had been holding.

It was legible, and not too crumpled, for him to make out the fine print addressed to Opal from the Wynwall Correctional Institute. He pulled back in shock, almost hitting the back of his head against the tabletop right behind him. “Kestrel hung himself in prison.”

There came a loud, heavy crash as Opal flipped over the coffee table in the living room. Bede ducked under the dining table, hugging Celebi to his chest. He wasn’t alone in his fear of this unhinged Opal. Her and Roger’s Pokemon nearby made no effort to hide it. Alcremie ducked behind a partly open kitchen cabinet door. Mawile fixed its large jaws on the legs of a wooden chair. Togekiss hunched over the sofa, its white feathers puffed out and eyes scrunched shut. Mightyena and Obstagoon pulled back their ears and let out strained growls.

Opal knotted her hair into both fists and sank into the living room sofa with a scream. Her hands slid down to cover her face and she went silent for a while. Finally she lowered her hands to reveal wet cheeks, and horror plain in her eyes, as she took in the mess she had wrought in her house and the Pokemon cowering before her.

“Oh...oh, my darlings, my dears...I’m so sorry.”

Togekiss was the first to approach her by settling into her lap and pressing its soft weight against her. The other Pokemon were quick to join in as Opal held out her arms to welcome them into her embrace.

“I’m terribly sorry to give you all such a fright,” she murmured. “I never thought I’d trash the house and act out like this. I feel like Roger and Jasper took away the best parts of me when they died. You have the misfortune of dealing with the mess I’ve been.” Opal tightened her arms around Togekiss, pressing her cheek against its white feathers. “I was supposed to visit my brother today, you see, but just before I could, that letter from the prison came. Back in Wynwall, when Randy told me that Roger and Jasper had died, I told Kes that I would kill him. And I did.”

Something in her must have snapped that day. That news of her brother’s death was the straw that broke the Camerupt’s back. Since that day, her Gym challenge became a merciless one-sided Gym throwdown.

Bede remembered Opal being always consoling and encouraging to challengers who would lose against her. But here and now, in the darkest time of her life, she would do no such thing for any kid unlucky enough to set foot in her Gym. She spared no time nor mercy for the challengers whose Pokemon were beaten to the ground and League dreams were dashed. She kept a stern tightness about her face and posture, both hands clenched and white over the handle of her parasol. She would make no move or show of sympathy to tears of defeat and humiliation. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Matches against Opal lost their entertainment value. They became plain painful to look at. Rumors and gossip spread like wildfire among spectators.

“Poor kids. They run out of this Gym absolutely crushed.”

“Poor Opal. She’s being like this to the kids because she lost her husband and son.”

“That’s terrible, don’t get me wrong. But if you ask me, I don’t think she should be running the Gym with the way she is now.”

“I can’t watch these matches anymore. No one’s having fun.”

“I heard that the League’s going to do something about that. About her.”

Something or someone had to step in and correct her streak of ruthlessness—Bede hated to admit it, but he had to agree. She was showing no signs of stopping herself, no signs of veering off the self-destructive path she was blazing on. He saw himself, his own pain and rage, in Opal. He wanted to be the one to reach out and stop her before she destroyed herself.

“Of course, in the bid for regional championship, you give it your all and show off your true strength,” Opal once told Bede over tea and scones. “But as a Gym Leader facing challengers with stars in their eyes and dreams flying to the moon, there’s a fine balance between testing and nurturing their potential. You don’t want to be a pushover, but you don’t want to be impossible, either.”

“Sounds tricky,” Bede had said, and that made her smirk behind her teacup.

“It’s an art, my boy, one I know you have what it takes to master.”

Bede had the benefit of coming from the future to know that Opal would return to the art of being a good Gym Leader again. But how?

His question was answered when a black-haired teenage boy stepped up to challenge Opal. Though that boy wore the neutral-colored jersey, he was ablaze with boldness and determination as he sent out an entire team of Fire type Pokemon against her.

The fall of his Arcanine, Torkoal, and Ninetales left him with only Centiskorch, but this didn’t seem to deter him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Opal, but your reputation doesn’t scare me,” the teen declared. “You’ve been giving plenty of challengers a hard time. I’ll do my best to turn the tables on you!”

She didn’t respond with a jaunty smile and a witty comeback, as she usually did during matches. While the boy’s eyes were alight with the thrill of battle, hers were dark with bitter anger. She too was down to her last Pokemon—something that Bede and the audience hadn’t seen in a while. Her tightened lips only loosened as she barked orders at Alcremie to attack.

“Alcremie, use Draining Kiss!”

“Here it comes, Centiskorch. Counter with Fire Lash!”

“Alcremie, Acid Armor! Take whatever move’s coming next and get that health back with Draining Kiss!”

The Gym challenger put up a good fight. He set the whole stadium on fire with his tenacity and spirit. Bede could feel it singe the tips of his hair and his skin.

In the end, however, Opal’s experience won out. Against her Alcremie bulked up on its defense, plus her favorite move, the health-sapping Draining Kiss, Centiskorch couldn’t last. Its long body hit the ground with a heavy, undulating thud. The boy took his defeat hard. He sank to his knees and his gaze dropped to the stadium floor. A rousing applause from the spectators jerked him out of his stupor. He staggered to his feet and blinked in a stupefied daze at the show of support for him. Of all the Trainers who challenged the Ballonlea Gym since the loss of Opal’s family, this scrawny kid came the closest to defeating her.

He probably didn’t know that, though. He continued to look glum as he emerged from the Gym after a change of clothes. He was still crying, and he stopped every few steps to wipe his face on his sleeve.

He was about to cross the bridge that connected the Gym to the rest of Ballonlea Town when a slide of the automatic doors revealed Opal.

“You there,” she called to him, “remind me of your name again?”

He whirled around, then dried his face with one more wipe of his sleeve before replying. “It’s Kabu, ma’am.”

“Oh, I thought he looked familiar,” Bede exclaimed to Celebi. “I should’ve guessed from all the Fire type Pokemon he had.”

Opal approached him and jerked her head toward the path opposite of the cottages. “Come take a walk with me, Kabu. You don’t seem like you’re from around here. You should check out how beautiful these trails are. They’re the pride of this town.”

Kabu obliged, clutching at the towel about his neck while jogging up to her. Once he caught up, he matched her stride.

“I guess you’re from Hoenn?” She asked.

The look he gave her was wide with surprise. “How did you know?”

“My husband was from Hoenn. It’s the accent. That’s how I could tell.” Opal shot him a curious glance. “What do you plan on doing now?”

“I was thinking about heading back to my home region since I lost.” Kabu kicked a pebble out of the way, his eyes downcast. “I’ve grown to really like it here. I was hoping to stay in Galar.”

“You may have lost against me, kid, but don’t give up on your Pokemon League dreams just yet. You’ve got potential. Gym Leader potential.”

Kabu almost lurched to a halt in disbelief. “I-I have what?”

“You heard me right.” Opal looked him up and down. “You’re not the one I’m looking for. You’re not pink enough. No, you’re...red. A fiery, indomitable red. The kind of red that refuses to be extinguished, like a fire that doesn’t want to be put out. That was some match we just had back there. You almost gave me a run for my money, you know.” She turned her attention back to the trail ahead of her and resumed walking. “Do you always use Fire type Pokemon?”

“I try to, even though it’d make more sense to have a balance of types. Still, I want to be a Fire type specialist.”

“I see. Then I’ll put in a good word for you to Oswald, the Gym Leader in Motostoke.” She aimed a smirk at him. “He’s hard to impress, but I know that you’ll win him over with your passion, plus a little help from me. I hate to see talent being wasted. You’ll put it to good use through training with good old Oswald, I’m sure.”

“You...you’re endorsing me even after I had lost?” Kabu bowed low at the waist before her. “Ms. Opal, thank you very much for your support.” He lifted his head and tears dotted the corners of his eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

She smiled. “You already have, Kabu.”

Opal returned to the Gym stadium, which had been cleared of spectators since she had finished her match with Kabu. With both hands propped more loosely over the handle of her parasol, she took in the space and silence of the empty stadium.

“That was quite the match,” boomed a man’s voice from above. “You had me at the edge of my seat, Opal.”

She looked up and smirked. “Oh. It’s you.”

Standing not too far away from her, Bede gasped. “Celebi, I know that guy!”

As someone who was hell bent on becoming a Champion, he had taken it upon himself to know about every past Champion of the Galar region. Of course he knew the man perched on the spectators’ bench. He had just never seen the man in his younger years.

Mustard, the reigning Champion before Leon, jumped nimbly into the arena, followed by his two Urshifus. He straightened up to his full height, which turned out to be a head shorter than Opal. Nonetheless, the strength and confidence emanating from him was palpable to Bede.

Opal quirked a long dark eyebrow. “You didn’t come just to watch things heat up in here, did you?”

Mustard stuffed both hands into the pockets of his green jacket. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I’m here on League orders. You’ve sent enough kids running home crying to get the League’s attention, and not in a good way. I was supposed to warn you if you didn’t let up.”

“Warn me of what? Of being relieved from my Gym Leader post?”

Mustard put up his hands before returning them inside the pockets. “Hey, the committee takes care of all that stuff. I’m just the messenger.”

She smirked. “You were going to warn me with a battle, weren’t you?”

He winked at her. “You know me so well.” He cracked his knuckles. “I don’t talk things out—I fight them out, with my Pokemon!”

“Oh, so you want a match now?” Opal’s hand flitted to the Poke balls strapped to her belt. “Very well. I’m having my best winning streak yet. Maybe this time I got a shot at knocking the Champion off his pedestal.”

Mustard belted out a hearty laugh. “Don’t count on it, Opal. I don’t plan on breaking my winning streak, especially to you.” He chose his rapid style strike Urshifu to take on the first Pokemon Opal sent out: Weezing.

With its telekinesis, Celebi pulled Bede up to safety on the spectator benches. The stadium became alive again with the clash of opposing Pokemon and their attacks. Bede realized that at this point in time, forty something year-old Opal was like the Raihan of her day—a force to be reckoned with, the best among the Gym Leaders, and a worthy rival to the Champion. She was good, but not good enough to beat Mustard.

Despite the type disadvantage, and half the amount of Pokemon, Mustard ultimately won the upper hand and defended his Champion title. Even at Gigantamax proportions, Opal’s Alcremie fell in defeat to blows from his single style strike Urshifu. She withdrew her fainted Pokemon into its ball and handled her loss with a graceful nod.

“You still got it.”

“So do you,” Mustard said. “This is the closest match we’ve had yet.”

Opal hooked the ball containing her ace Pokemon back to her belt. “You know, Mustard, fighting that kid Kabu today reminded me of why I love being a Gym Leader. Finding kids with talent, and lifting them up to fulfill their potential, is a reward in of itself. I used to live for that, but I lost sight of it after Roger and Jasper...” Opal looked away. “Losing my son that young...he was only five. He never got the chance to turn ten and become a Trainer and have his own Pokemon. Meanwhile there are kids running around the region, set loose by their mums and dads to go on all sorts of adventures. Those kids probably don’t know how good they got it, how lucky and blessed they are to just be alive.” Her eyes grew wetter the more she blinked. “That felt so unfair. I would get so angry when I think about it. I took out my anger on all those poor kids coming to challenge my Gym. They didn’t deserve that. I want to tell them sorry for being a bad Gym Leader.”

Mustard closed the gap between them in a few strides and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Opal, you’re not a bad Gym Leader. You’re a damn good one who’s been through hell. I’ve never married, never had kids, so you’re going through pain I can’t even begin to imagine. What I do know is that sometimes it helps to take a step back and take a breather for a bit. Get a few days off from the Gym. Get some rest.” He cracked a wry grin. “You might think that I train myself and my Pokemon by punching rocks all day. But punch that rock too many times and too hard, and you’ll come away broken and bleeding.”

The Champion left Opal with that, and she seemed to consider his last remark as she stared after his retreating back.

#

Since her match with Kabu, and with Mustard, Opal relaxed the standards of her Gym challenge and her own battling style—not enough to be a walk in the park, but certainly not the approach that had steamrolled on the hopes and dreams of children, either.

She cut down on her smoking habit significantly, and forced herself out of the house more often to go on walks with Mightyena, to the grocery store, to the Gym, anything to get her moving.

Through that, she seemed to forgive the world for what it had done to Roger and Jasper. And she seemed to forgive herself, too, for what she had done to Kestrel.

For the first time since the funeral, Opal visited Roger and Jasper at the Ballonlea Cemetery. Though there was no third headstone, she left an extra bouquet of flowers for her unborn, unnamed child. Instead of standing over and before the burial sites like most people would, she would sit down and lean her back against the side of the headstone, and talk aloud as if her family was still alive to hear her.

“Another day gone by with no successor chosen,” she said with a sigh. “The next Gym Leader after me was supposed to be you, Jasper, darling, when you got older. But I suppose we can’t do anything about that now, can we?” Opal reached out with one arm to touch her husband’s name etched on the headstone. “I’m holding auditions, just as I did with you, Roger. I’m not just fighting the challengers, but testing them to see if any of them have what it takes to be a Gym Leader of Ballonlea Town. So far I’ve had no luck. Do you suppose I should lower my standards?” She paused, as if listening intently to a reply Bede couldn’t hear. Then she chuckled. “No, I better not. I’ve never been one to settle for less. That’s how I roped you in to act and sing at the theatre, after all. Speaking of ropes...” The smile died on her face. “I wonder if Kes is with you now, wherever you are. He left a note addressed to me in prison before he...” She couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence. She started another: “The prison sent it to me, but I haven’t opened it yet. I don’t know if I ever could.”

She let out a shuddering sigh, closed her eyes, and fell into a somber silence, which was gently broken when a young red-haired woman approached the graves on soft, tentative footsteps.

“Oh, I didn’t know you’d be here,” the newcomer remarked.

Opal opened her eyes, briefly startled by the voice, but that was quickly replaced with a smile. “Mag, long time no see.”

Magnolia had grown up to cut a smart figure in the white lab coat. No longer the girl Bede had last seen, she now looked every inch the Pokemon professor everyone remembered her to be.

Magnolia bent down to add her bouquet of flowers to Opal’s. “I come every month to leave these,” she said. “I haven’t seen you around until now.”

“Yes, well, this is the first time I could bring myself to visit them.”

“I don’t blame you at all,” Magnolia said with sympathy. Opal continued to lean against the headstone, while Magnolia knelt down and removed her glasses to dab at her eyes. “I think of little Jasper every day. Sometimes I wish I could have visited you all more, be a better godmother for Jasper...”

Opal clasped Magnolia’s hand. “Don’t feel bad, Mag. You’re a very busy woman doing important research and good work for the region. I always appreciated it when you could drop by for a visit and play with Jasper. He absolutely adored you.”

The younger woman dropped her gaze to the burial sites just past her knees. “I still feel guilty. I can’t help but look back and think of the what ifs and should haves.”

Opal closed her eyes and her voice softened to a murmur. “I’m with you there. Sometimes, on the worst nights I can’t sleep, it’s not from nightmares, but from wishing that I had gone with Roger, Jasper, and the baby, so they didn’t have to leave me behind.”

Magnolia returned Opal’s grip with a squeeze.

Opal clearly tried to steer the conversation to a lighter note as she said next, “How’s your family doing back at Wedgehurst? Your daughter’s about to turn four soon, right?”

“Good memory. Yes, I’ve got to plan her birthday party when I get back.”

Opal rose to her feet and brushed bits of grass off her skirt. “Before I forget, come with me to my house so I can give you some of Jasper’s old toys. I say old, but they’re still in excellent condition.”

“My daughter would love that. Thank you.”

Opal and Magnolia left the cemetery together, and as Bede tried to follow them, Celebi led him with both hands not just through the cemetery, but through the currents of time.

Now, instead of Opal leading Magnolia into the house, Magnolia was leading Opal out of it.

“Just tell me already, Mag. Where are you taking me?” Opal asked. “What could be so important?”

“You’ll see when we get there,” the younger woman teased.

Opal’s show of anticipation and impatience made Bede crack a smirk. “She did the same to me. Got a taste of her own medicine back then, huh?”

Bede trailed after them, in the dark as much as Opal was. That is, until he realized the route he was taking. His eyes went wide as he weaved through the dense undergrowth. “Celebi, I think we’re—“

The time-traveling Pokemon nudged him further in the direction Magnolia and Opal had taken, then drew away from him and danced several figure eights in the air.

Bede frowned. “Huh? What are you trying to tell me?”

Celebi pointed after the two women.

“Okay, follow them. And then?”

Celebi didn’t make any more gestures. Instead a brilliant light engulfed it, and was gone in another blink of an eye.

Alarm spiked in Bede’s chest. Where the hell did Celebi just go? Did it just travel in time without him? Did he just get left behind in a time he didn’t belong in? He always had the Pokemon to guide him. Now what? He tried to take in deep, long breaths to calm himself. Celebi made it pretty clear to stick with Magnolia and Opal, but didn’t indicate anything else after that.

All he could do was trust that Celebi would appear to him again, whenever that was. Hopefully soon.

Bede tailed Magnolia and Opal for several more minutes, hoping with each minute that Celebi would come back for him. The two women stopped at a clearing. A clearing Bede recognized, because it was ringed with yellow mushrooms.

Opal looked around with uncertainty instead of familiarity flickering in her pale blue eyes. “Mag, where are we? What’s so special about this place?”

Magnolia didn’t answer Opal’s questions. Instead she produced a handful of cheri berries from her bag and held it out. A few feet before Magnolia’s extended hand, an orb of light materialized out of thin air. And from that light, Celebi appeared.

Everyone in the clearing reacted differently. Magnolia greeted Celebi with a warm smile, Opal gasped, while realization hit Bede like a clout to the head. Celebi traveled through time to meet up with Magnolia and Opal! When it had been accompanying Bede, it remained invisible to Pokemon and people of the past. Now it was present in that past, really present.

Opal evidently struggled to get over her shock. “I-I’ve only heard about this Pokemon in stories. Could this really be...”

Magnolia looked over her shoulder. “Yes, this is Celebi, the Pokemon that travels through time. While conducting research over Dynamax energy in Ballonlea, I stumbled upon this charming, elusive creature. After much convincing with cheri berries and my promises to bring it no harm, Celebi was kind enough to let me study its abilities. It does more than time traveling. It can show you timelines that have yet to exist, or never would. In other words, it can show you the future that could have been.”

“It can really do that?” Opal breathed. She tread on light feet closer to Magnolia and Celebi, who was eating the berries out of her hand.

“Opal, you must have lots of questions,” Magnolia said softly. “The what ifs and should haves. Celebi is here to help you answer those questions. But only if you’re okay with that. I brought you here so you could have the chance to see, but I don’t want to cause you more pain and grief if you’d rather not.”

Opal looked away for a few moments, then back at Magnolia and Celebi with conviction. “I...I want to know. I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if that day had been different.”

Finished with Magnolia’s offering of berries, Celebi flitted up to Opal, who reached out with a trembling hand. “Celebi...please show me the future that could have been,” Opal whispered. “The future that will never be.”

“Bi...” Celebi peered down at the puckered, star-shaped scar marring the palm of Opal’s right hand. It touched the scar with its small hands, tickling Opal as her fingers twitched in response. Celebi raised its hands to touch the dark hair of her temples. It pulled back to draw out a shimmering stream, and flung its hands upward to open that stream into a pool hovering above everyone.

In the depths of that shimmering pool were glimpses of faded images, voices in faded echoes. Kestrel steered his Corviknight, without a drink beforehand, safely to Wynwall. Randall greeted everyone happily at the family estate instead of the hospital. Jasper grew up, and on his tenth birthday, received his first Pokemon: a Togepi. He was showered with hugs and kisses from his parents before embarking on his adventure as a Pokemon Trainer. More years passed. A teenage Jasper won the championship tournament, but chose not to defend his title as he returned to Ballonlea Town homesick and wanting to spend more time with his mother and father. While working at the theatre and learning the ropes of managing a Gym, Jasper met an up-and-coming actor, who he fell head over heels with. A colorful, flowery wedding followed soon after that. There were smiles all around the house when Jasper and his husband proudly presented the baby girl they had adopted. More years passed, more grey found its way into Opal’s hair, and the baby girl grew up into a woman with curly blonde hair and violet eyes.

Bede’s hair and eyes.

“Whoa, what?” He blurted out. “That’s my mum.”

He didn’t care if he sounded like an idiot talking to himself. The pool kept shimmering and unraveling the nonexistent future. That woman, his mother, got married and had a baby of her own. Opal, now white-haired and stooped but still quite spry, was delighted as she got to hold her great-grandchild for the first time. Roger, looking even more wizened and elderly than his wife, leaned in for a better look. She pulled back the blanket to kiss the top of the baby’s head. That baby was Bede himself.

The pool stopped shimmering. It thinned and trickled into a river that ran down between Celebi and Opal to vanish into the grass. No one said anything for a long time. Tears had run unchecked down Opal’s face as she had looked upon a future when the lives of her family were allowed to run their course. When a tragic accident hadn’t cruelly cut them short. Finally, as if broken free from a spell, Opal stirred and wiped a sleeve over her face. Magnolia rested a hand on her shaking shoulder.

Opal lowered her arm to meet Celebi’s large, ringed eyes. “Thank you for showing me all that,” she murmured. “And thank you, Mag, for bringing me here. Some people might’ve not wanted to see a future that can’t be theirs, but I...I feel more at peace now that I’ve seen it. Now I feel like I can move on. Move forward to try and make my own long, happy future.” A thoughtful expression made her brow furrow a bit. “Those people who came into our lives...who’s to say that they won’t exist someday? Maybe I might run into any one of them in a different way.”

“You’re right, Ms. Opal,” Bede said softly. “You’ll see me again.” He noticed how young she still looked at this time, when her hair hadn’t even turned grey yet. “It’ll take you a while, but I know you’ll wait and wait for as long as it takes until you and I find each other.”

Celebi departed from Magnolia and Opal with a flash of light, and with another, it reappeared before Bede. It reached out to touch one hand to his face, and he realized that he too had been crying. Bede sniffed, hiding a small smile behind his sleeve.

“I get it now, Celebi. What she meant by her story becoming mine. Our paths have crossed before. We’re connected way beyond accident and coincidence. Ms. Opal and I...we are so alike. We’re meant to be each other’s family. And I’m meant to succeed her as the next Fairy type Gym Leader.”

“Bi!” The Pokemon nodded in affirmation, happy that the journey through time, as long and difficult as it was, led Bede to this understanding. It made a wide sweep of its arms, as if drawing out a rainbow, then offered its hands.

Bede tried to figure out what it was saying. “We...we’re going back now? Back to the present, I mean?”

Celebi nodded again. Before taking its hands, Bede snuck one last glance at Opal, who stared up after where Celebi had disappeared from her sight. The smile on her face may be faint, but it brimmed with hope.

It was time to head back where he belonged, where he and Opal would see each other again.

Notes: Musical inspiration (especially the future scene): “Time” from Inception. This wraps up Bede’s blast to Opal’s past. On to the final stretch in the present!

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