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littlefreya · 4 years

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The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse, foul language and lots of angst.

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog. 💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering. There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed.

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh; what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain.

He hates it.

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit.

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt.

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together.

There was no her in his plan, to begin with.

The Devil never had a queen.

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart.

He doesn’t have one anyway.

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note.

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone.

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand.

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase.

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.”

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie.

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA.

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away.

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer.

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.”

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would.

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse.

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints.

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...”

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met.

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair.

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face.

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe.

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica.

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right.

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.”

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away.

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief.

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue.

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her.

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest.

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul.

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress.

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme.

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.”

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker.

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers.

“Break her, until she talks.”

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door.

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature.

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet.

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her…

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange.

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot.

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,” August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away.

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity.

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain.

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot.

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face.

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve.

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly.

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away.

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk.

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw.

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory.

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material.

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him.

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”.

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts, We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down, United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will.

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

#henry cavill #august walker #henry cavill fanfiction #august walker fanfiction #littlefreya’s fiction #mission impossible fallout fanfiction #august walker x ofc #mission impossible fallout

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starculler · 3 years

Text

Whumptober 2021: Day 6

Word Count: 2271 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Emotional Hurt

No violence. Only ✨emotions✨

Obi-Wan woke in a room not his own with the smell of blaster-fire and charred flesh in his nose, tasting it on his tongue so clearly that it nearly made him sick. He exhaled one long, slow breath that did nothing to purge the lingering traces of his nightmares, and opened his eyes to thick, black darkness. His brows furrowed, frowning as he struggled to clear the sleep-haze from his mind, a task that had grown considerably harder over the years. He spared a brief, token effort on remembering what he might have done, or where he’d gone, the day before to find himself in a stranger’s home, but only shrugged it off when nothing came to mind.

Perhaps, he mused with only a touch of sardonic humor, the suns’ heat had finally gotten to him and he’d broken into some poor farmer’s home. Whose, he hadn’t the faintest idea considering he only really visited one and this was, most certainly, not the Lars’ farmstead. He would know, he’d been inside once after all — a week spent in a guest room as he’d delivered little Luke to his aunt and uncle. Any subsequent visits had been … difficult.

Luke looked so much like his father sometimes.

He sighed, shoving the thought forcefully away, and focused once more on the room, straining see a little better. The walls, he noticed first, were bare except for a few occupied shelves whose contents he couldn’t even begin to guess at. A single window peered out into the world, tinted black by a light-blocking feature he remembered using … Before. The floor was much the same: spartan, with only a low table in one corner with a cushion to sit on and the bland bed roll he’d woken on. A bitter tang of nostalgia crawled up his throat, lodging there like a bottle’s stopper, and he struggled to swallow around it.

Shoving that away too, he clambered inelegantly to his feet — noticed he still wore the rattier robe and tunics he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eschew along with everything else — and made his way to the room’s singular exit. The door opened with barely a brush of his palm over the panel next to it. He made to move out into the home proper with a steadying hand laid on the frame’s cool metal. And froze.

“Anakin?”

His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost too soft to carry across the larger living space to the spitting image of the little boy he’d raised, failed, and left behind, burning on a bank of churning magma on Mustafar. He couldn’t breathe, lungs seizing and stuttering as they refused to work. He gripped the door’s frame harder, knuckles white and fingers little more than pricks of insignificant pain where they dug into the sharper edges. Anakin’s screaming roared in his ears, violent hatred and pain alike with faint echoes of the single plea he’d let slip from his lips somewhere in between before Obi-Wan had turned his back and waled away.

Anakin — oh Force it was Anakin — twisted around on his cushion, one hand braced on the long, low table in front oh him while the other lay flat on the floor, when he heard his name called. Obi-Wan’s gaze caught on his Padawan-braid, so short still that it barely brushed the boy’s — a boy. He was just a boy now, younger than twelve and a picture-perfect replica of the child who lived only in Obi-Wan’s memories and Luke’s shadow — shoulder.

“Master!” Anakin flashed him a bright grin, his blue eyes practically glittering with the strength of his joy. “You’re awake! Finally,” he said, excitement turning to a familiar teasing tone that tore Obi-Wan’s heart to shreds. “I almost thought you’d sleep for forever, and then who’d help with my lessons?”

The boy’s nose scrunched, his distaste for his lessons made clear in the way the word dropped from his mouth like a particularly foul piece of rotted food. Obi-Wan swayed where he stood, mouth suddenly drier than Tatooine’s desert as he stared. Then, faintly and feeling all too much like the very words he spoke had stolen free from him without permission, he said:

“Master Windu would, he’s told me so many times himself. He does so enjoy your company.”

It was a joke, one of several he’d indulged in often after having noticed Anakin’s distrust of the Council. A reassurance as much as something to make the boy laugh. Mace Windu had never told him he’d help with any of Anakin’s lessons, but Obi-Wan had never once seen the Master turn a youngling down when they asked him for help. Oh, he thought with a painful pang in his chest, Mace had loved the younglings, from the tiniest initiates in the Crèches all the way to the padawans, no matter what his severe countenance might have portrayed. He’d tried so hard to show that to Anakin, to teach him that Jedi — even and especially the Council — were, at their core, kind and compassionate. Had his Padawan ever truly known that, or was it another failure to be laid at Obi-Wan’s feet?

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, and I’m a heard of Bantha,” he said with a snicker. Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched despite how he wanted to be sick.

“You certainly smell like one,” Obi-Wan replied by rote, more of a murmur than the steady sarcasm he’d once thrown at his Padawan. Anakin squawked regardless, all faux-offense as he puffed himself up for a comeback, but deflated suddenly to squint at him instead.

“Are you feeling alright? You look…” Anakin floudered for a moment and settled on a bland, hesitant, “not good.”

“I,” Obi-Wan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “No,” He admitted, slow. Reluctant. “No, Padawan, I don’t think I am.”

The trembling in his hands hadn’t stopped and his chest still hurt and his stomach had managed to twist itself into nauseating knots as he stood there, still in the open doorway to the room, he realized, that had once been his at the Temple. Anakin’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet, anxiety flowing off him in sharp, erratic waves that only further soured the bitter, ashen taste in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“Do you need a healer? Are you hurt? Kriff, uh, should I— I mean— I’ll go grab someone, Master, I’ll be right back, okay? Real quick, I—”

“No!” Obi-Wan winced. He hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t meant to put that hurt, wide-eyed look on his Padawan’s face. He’d just —

Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s familiar, blue lightsaber cut through another Jedi, horror curdling in his stomach. It was all he could do not to be sick, but he forced himself to continue looking at the security feed Master Yoda had found. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t be blind to this any more than he could turn back time and undo it. So he watched, ill, as his former Padawan, his friend, his brother, cut down Jedi after Padawan after Initiate until none at all remained in the place they had both called home.

“No,” he croaked, softer, blinking back the stinging heat in his eyes. He lifted the hand not helping keep him upright, clammy and shaking much more obviously than before, and made as if to reach out but stopped short. “No,” he said again, so low he barely heard himself, pulling his hand back to clutch at the fabric over his chest and wondered if he’d suffocate on his feet.

“Master?”

Anakin sounded so scared even as he took a tentative step forward, his hands fisted into the hem of his tunic. Obi-Wan wanted to rush to his side, to comfort him as he’d once done so many years ago. He wanted to run, to flee from the face of this apparition — the ghost of a boy who’d chosen to become a monster because he’d failed as a Master. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep: for this boy, for himself, for the scores of Jedi massacred to mark the end of an unjust war. For the galaxy being crushed under a Sith’s oppressive thumb. For the children of his former student, who would be called upon one day. Who would lose friends and family alike as they worked to dismantle the bloody legacy left to them.

He almost didn’t notice when his legs gave out, choking on his own ragged, wet breaths as Anakin cried out, alarmed, and ran to his side. Obi-Wan flinched away from those small, calloused hands when they reached for him, curling into himself as he struggled to breathe, but his Padawan was nothing if not determined.

He gasped when Anakin’s fingers brushed his arm, searing his skin through three layers of worn fabric. Whined when they traveled up to his shoulder, and hissed, a pained and wounded sound torn from him when Anakin pressed the palm of his hand to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. Slowly, with a care he’d rarely seen in his Padawan, Anakin maneuvered himself in front of him, hunched and twisting as the hand on Obi-Wan’s neck pulled until he’d knocked their foreheads together.

How long had it been since he’d sat so near another sentient being he trusted? Since he’d been touched so familiarly? Kindly? Luke, perhaps. Little more than a toddler, freely affectionate with the man who’d carried him across the stars and sands to the home he’d remain in.

Obi-Wan didn’t settle. Didn’t calm. His breathing hitched and every inch of him shook so hard he thought his bones might rattle right out of his skin. The stinging bite of fresh tears lingered in his eyes and every limb was weighed down with the same deep exhaustion that had dogged him since he’d left Luke with the Lars’ and lost the only source of immediate responsibility he might have distracted himself with. He did, however, reach forward. Brushed his fingers over the front of Anakin’s tunic and felt the rough material, caustic and abrasive against the suddenly sensitive digits.

“Are you—” Obi-Wan swallowed painfully, his own saliva turning to grains of coarse sand. “Is this real?” he asked, whisper soft and broken. “Are you real, Anakin?” His padawan pressed harder against him in response, puffing out an incredulous breath.

Obi-Wan wondered if he’d melt from the heat of his brother-friend-Padawan’s touch, as skin-crawling as it was a burning, aching comfort for all it seemed to set him further on edge.

“I’m real,” Anakin said, voice strangled. Obi-Wan could taste his fear. Felt it soak into his skin and curl around his heart. “I’m real, Master, I promise. I’m here. I’m real.”

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice cracked on the name as a sudden desperation washed over him, urging him to reach out further. To pull and clutch and hold his Padawan as close as he could, breathing raggedly against his short, brown hair as Anakin hid his own face against his neck, letting a few tears soak into the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic. He rocked them both, letting Anakin hold on to him as to him as fiercely as he did his Padawan.

An eternity might have passed there between them as Anakin cried and Obi-Wan babbled — apologies and reassurance and a half dozen other words he’d meant to tell his Padawan over the years tumbling clumsily from his tongue — until the intensity eased, leaving them tired and tangled up together against the room’s cool wall. Obi-Wan let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment. Let himself soak in his brother’s presence, young and bright and much too old to be held like this, half asleep and slumped over him. But he didn’t let go.

He brushed his fingers over Anakin’s hair, short and bristly except for the bundle tied back into a short nerftail, and breathed in the citrus scent of the hair products his Padawan had favored those first few years in the Temple. Leaning his head back against the wall, he let himself drift into his thoughts. Into the Force. Out past the confines of the room, through the halls, and across the Temple, jaw clenching as he felt the bright, living presence of hundreds of Jedi. Thousands. So many his head spun.

His breathing hitched, and he wrapped his arms a fraction tighter around his Padawan. Strained to squeeze his eyes closed harder until he saw blurry, red shapes dance across the darkness behind his lids.

It felt so real.

This. His Padawan. The sights, smells, sounds, even the taste of the Temple’s chill air. Anakin had said he was real. Obi-Wan had squeezed him, had him currently in his arms safe and close and whole. He shuddered, exhaling a wavering, wet breath.

Perhaps, he let himself hope as he drew back to himself, it had been a vision. A warning from the Force — a life lived in the span of a few hours’ sleep. He let the thought comfort him, burying his nose in his Padawan’s hair as sleep slowly claimed him.

Obi-Wan woke in a room he recognized, the sweet, tangy scent of citrus thick in his nose, so vivid he could practically taste it. He exhaled one long, slow breath, letting himself savor it for a moment longer, and opened his eyes to bright light, sandy-colored walls, and the sweltering, suffocating heat of Tatooine’s long, dry days. His fingers curled into the rough, thin, ragged bedroll he’d all but tossed himself into the night before. Alone. Utterly and completely alone.

For the first time since his family were slaughtered at the hands of his student,

Obi-Wan wept.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #touch starved #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #fic #emotional distress #my fanfic

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oristromboli · 3 years

Text

If You Be Our Star, We’ll Be Your Sky | 3

Chapter 3: Straw Dogs

Childe cocks an eyebrow, smirk barely melting into a snarl. “And what would you know? You stay behind the scenes while the rest of us do real work.”

Scaramouche's slow smile is poisonous and laced with contempt as he hisses, “You should know there is a Liyue saying that goes ‘Heaven and Earth are impartial, treating all creatures like straw dogs.’ When the sacrifices have fulfilled their purpose, they are discarded because there is no more use and care for such worthless objects. Didn’t dear Morax tell you of this philosophy himself, Childe?”

(Smut this chapter: Zhongli/Childe)

In your dreams, you hear maniacal laughter ring around you. Somehow the emptiness begins to oscillate, reaching towards you with endless gnarled limbs and bloodshot eyes that won’t stop watching. You back into a wall that wasn’t there before, unforgiving edges all but flaying the skin on your back as you try to escape.

They’re coming.

You turn and run. There’s a golden light beckoning you, so you urge your legs to go faster, but the light never gets closer. If anything, it grows more distant. This path will end in madness.

They’re coming.

You decide a new route to traverse before those twisted hands seize you. When was there water? Is it water? It grows thicker, warmer, rises to your knees, your chest, your throat. You can’t breath. You’re drowning.

They’re coming. And you’re alone.

---

You feel a hand on your shoulder gently shaking you awake, fear seizing your throat in a silent gasp as you try to orient yourself. You’re okay, you’re okay, just breathe, you’re okay. When you look to your right, Aether’s golden eyes meet your own as he stands near your bed with the Seelie fastidiously hanging by his side. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his pupils are blown too.

Neither of you say anything as you open your blanket and he crawls in to join you, tucking against your side to hide his face. Each night spent chained to this world you witness a new side to Aether as he comes undone at the seams.

He and Lumine were inseparable. She shouldered all his secrets, as he did hers. When they rescued you that night so many centuries ago, you promised to safeguard the two of them while they covered each other. You did not need to know everything that happened between them and before your arrival, just as they did not ask for you to fill all the holes in their understanding of you.

This night – the night immediately after facing a fallen god’s wrath – you both hug each other tightly. Is this how it felt to be on the other end of the heavens’ sword? Though Zhongli left Liyue to fend for themselves as a test, you still cannot help but feel angry with the silence of your own people as you were both abandoned without care.

Realization dawns through that cracked armor about how broken you both feel without your divine powers. How cold without that eternal light, Lumine. What did she feel in her last moments, what hatred for the skies?

Still, this is enough. Sorrow needs a place to sleep, needs hands to hold its delicate shape and say it is alright. It is not always loud, nor sharp, nor clean. Sometimes, it just needs a place to rest until morning.

“I miss her,” he mumbles, barely audible above your own heartbeat.

“Me too.”

This is enough.

---

Xiao turns his head, heeds the all too familiar calls of a nightmare. Just call his name Aether, just utter it once and he’ll be there. When silence is all that greets him, Xiao instead follows that smokey trail until he comes upon the inn’s room. The fight with Osial is fresh in his mind, so he imagines the same must be said of Aether and yourself. Both of you hold the other tightly, blissfully unaware of the vigilante keeping watch.

Xiao wants to lean forward, to brush Aether’s hair out of his face and say it’s alright, but he refrains from encroaching more than he already is. Instead, the adeptus leaves an offering of herbs that relax the mind on the windowsill for their discovery.

When the morning arrives, Aether is the first to wake and finds the gift left behind. Even if there’s no name attached, he knows precisely who left it. A boyish smile breaks on his face as he leans out the window to smell the fresh air and, admittedly, try to catch sight of the adeptus. “Thank you, Xiao,” Aether murmurs with the full force of his sincerity, pure and golden. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but come to me whenever you can’t sleep either. Maybe I can sing you a lullaby.”

Do adepti even sleep? Aether shakes his head at himself, but he doesn’t stop smiling. He hopes that one day, the yaksha will take him up on his offer.

On the inn’s rooftop overlooking Liyue Harbor, Xiao’s heart flickers with hope.

---

Childe flexes his arm, raising his fist back and forth to test the ligaments and muscles. They work fine, but he still feels that dark electricity pulsing; in some ways, he feels as though he’s the marionette being strung along. The Foul Legacy Transformation always collects its toll, and each day Tartaglia fights, he fights to gain the strength to beat back that beast that lingers in his peripheral.

He wonders if each time he transforms, a bit more of his soul returns to the abyss, how soon the day will come that the Harbinger is dragged back. Though, if the Tsaritsa ever catches wind, he’s sure the ever-curious and macabre Dottore would become his new best friend. How nice. If that’s not depressing, he’s not sure what is.

“Childe,” Zhongli calls. He snaps out of his reverie and an easy smile slides back into place, fitting perfectly with his wayward good looks. The ex-god is staring at him, gripping his bowl of noodles and wielding his chopsticks with a deft precision Childe knows he’ll never achieve.

He wonders how many people have been killed by those hands.

“You appear lost in thought once more,” Zhongli rumbles, stare becoming more intense.

“Ah! Forgive me, I am just reflecting on my trip with Teucer. Took a bit out of me, ya know,” he replies, shrugging genially. Best not to dwell on the negatives. Though it took many long hours of meditation – he still remembers his frustration at just trying to sit still because who the fuck does that willingly – at Zhongli’s suggestion, no less, Tartaglia finds it easier to manage his impulsive thoughts before they follow the most practical (cynical) route. After all, he’s trained warrior and follows one rule: ‘Don’t let the enemy see you bleed.’

“I see.”

Well shit. Broke rule number one.

The pair are sitting at one of the tables at Liuli Pavilion at the god’s behest; it’s been a handful of weeks since the… incident, and barely one since Teucer decided to surprise him. They’ve met more often than perhaps the last months leading up to the fateful encounter at the Golden House, especially with Childe’s time in Liyue coming to a close within the week. Each spare moment is split between the Travelers and Zhongli. At first, Childe admits, he dragged the former Archon along to properly size him up, try to understand where exactly he fucked up his estimations of his character. Though he’s been called back to Zapolyarny Palace, Childe notes that the order recalling him does not say to stop observing Zhongli.

So he does just that. It’s for the Tsaritsa, he tries justifying to himself, nothing more than selfish curiosity. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Not for the first time, Tartaglia ignores this… intensity in his chest, burning traitorously bright and intense and passionate when he sees the god. Childe thinks back to his journey of how this came about: orders turned to curiosity, turned to attempted manipulations, turned to genuine fondness and betrayal and – and –

As though reading his thoughts, Zhongli puts down the bowl, his full attention on Tartaglia now. Great. “It is more than Teucer and your injuries. Did you truly recover?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m always getting stronger, remember?” Right?

Amber eyes narrow. “Did you recover?”

Ah.

“Mm, yeah, still trying to figure out how you managed to guess so easily that I would resort to summoning Osial to get to you.” They both know he’s lying through his teeth, but Zhongli thankfully plays along this time.

“To be fair, your character is straight forward.”

Childe laughs, bright and genuine for the first time this conversation. “I, Tartaglia, am the Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui! The Vanguard of the Harbingers. How dare you say that I am so easy to read, when I have always been the first sent to initiate bloodshed, as according to our many long and boring schemes.” The last parts of his sentence fizzles out as his nose curls in distaste. Show no weakness. “Well, in any case, you know I never enjoyed that stuff anyway. Take it head on or don’t at all.”

Zhongli nods, understanding his meaning. Childe maneuvers his head to find amber eyes and raises his eyebrows, suggestive and giddy; he saw in Zhongli an intelligent man before, but now? Oh, oh! A battleworthy opponent. Maybe the god picked up on his not-so-subtle hints for a fight?

“I am still not going to spar you.”

Worth a shot.

“Ah, well, I tried.” Childe reaches for a pair of chopsticks and tries again. When both men watch as the Fatui manages to pick up a piece of meat without trouble, there’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere, warm and nostalgic. It settles deep between them.

“You know…” Childe starts, looking at Zhongli, really looking at him, soft eyes reflecting something foreign in those ocean blues. “I appreciate your consideration for me. Really. You won, fair and square, checkmate and all. I hope to one day be able to manipulate the battlefield as excellently.”

Zhongli returns his smile, and Childe ignores the something that falls in his heart. “Understanding your opponents is half the battle, both literally and figuratively,” the god laughs, clearly amused at his own play on words. He joins in, if only to indulge the silly man.

Another silence. He looks around them and releases a deep sigh. Yeah, okay, he can admit privately that this is nice.

“Do you ever feel bad about it?” he asks suddenly, surprising them both. Now, where the fuck did that come from?

When he thinks of you, Childe feels something else, something cold settle beside his confusion, a sensation he hasn’t felt in a long time. Guilt. Of course, his companion understands the unspoken implications, eyes falling to the ring Childe wears. Both men still remember vividly how violently you three reacted, all teeth and pain and fury bared. He has long since made peace with you, but…

He looks to the boats on the ocean, swaying back and forth, back and forth. His heart moves with them. Something feels unsettled, unsaid… A loose thread. Childe’s heart squeezes at that thought. Fantastic.

“I have no regrets,” Zhongli replies, tone firm and final, clearly choosing his words carefully and mindful for any straining ears. “I did what was best. Moves and countermoves. All things can be bargained in the end, and Liyue won its right to be independent that day.”

Blue eyes narrow. “Bargained? You mean bought?” He rolls the word around his tongue, tasting it. Yeah, no. Tastes like shit. “You think people can be treated like that so easily?”

Neither of them needs to say it, but both know of the lingering bitterness towards the Tsaritsa. Childe adores her attitude of achieving harmony at any cost, including war, but the underhanded nature of being used himself makes him feel less like a general and more like a pawn. Even there, in Liyue’s hot climate, is her frozen heart felt. However, Zhongli narrows his own eyes. “Are you not the leader of the Northland Bank?”

Childe scoffs and is the first to break the impromptu staring contest. “That’s different, people knew what they were getting into. They didn’t. I… I made a mistake and apologized, but still. It feels… Wrong. I feel wrong.”

“Because you feel as though you sunk to the Tsaritsa’s level?” Zhongli’s soft voice tugs Childe back into looking at him, and he immediately regrets it. Oh. Oh man. He’s very… intensely feeling something for this man. What is it? Everything and nothing. Fondness, yes, warmth, yes, but nothing of that garbage in those cheap romance novels his sisters love to read. Nothing… fuzzy, because truly no, that’s not right either, doesn’t feel right. Childe swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” he croaks. Wow. Really pathetic, but whatever, all pretenses are gone now between them. Right? “We’re good now, yeah? We’re being honest with each other? Have been? Will be?” Childe winces lightly at how quickly he rattled those off like he’s trying to reassure himself more than Zhongli. In a way, he is.

“We are, have been, will be,” the consultant responds, voice lighter and taking Childe’s heart with him.

“Cool.”

A beat.

“But you still didn’t answer my question. Do you really think of us mort- people so low?”

Something else emerges, not unfamiliar when he thinks of the god. Frustration, irritation. Nothing new, but again, not right either.

Zhongli tilts his head, not unlike a cat with golden pupils in slits. Ah, he’s cute, cute in the same way the furry little creatures are before they leap at their prey. The god rolls his head briefly like he’s trying to shake his own thoughts out, untangle them.

From what?

“Do you wish for my response as a mortal, or as my… previous station?”

Ah. Choosing between which face to use. Tartaglia understands this intimately and finds another piece of common ground to stand with the old god.

“Both.”

“Mortals fascinate me, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am afforded the luxury of… Walking as one. Experiencing life as they do.”

“Wait wait wait wait – “ Childe is shaking his head and holds up his hands. “You say that as if being… you is so different. Is it?”

“In a way, it is,” Zhongli nods. “As someone of my age, knowing of the limitless future, there is no need to attempt to comprehend anything beyond the next battle, the next project for my people. What time wounds will be mended by time once more. If we are being honest –“

“We are.”

“I never cared for understanding the inner workings to life. I could not during those days, I stood as the stone shield to protect my companions. Instead, I faced my problems head on, relentless and straightforward and precise. Actions and emotions were separated; one could not reflect upon the other during times of conflict.”

Childe huffs in a half-hearted laugh. He always pitied the unfortunate souls caught in Zhongli’s spear. “I think I’m starting to see your point Zhongli. Our once-gentle Tsaritsa understands this reality intimately, especially now that she declared the world her enemy to achieve peace.”

“In essence, for the Cryo Archon believes gentleness and humanity to be weaknesses these days.”

“I hear a ‘but’ somewhere in there, though.”

“My friend… Guizhong, she… She understood mortals, encouraged me to watch them and learn, sought for me to unlock what she claimed was true strength. Many weaker gods have passed, their spirits barely a whisper and their memories all but forgotten. Stronger deities, such as Osial, will never truly depart but just slumber for the opportunity to rise again. Even some Adepti linger if they do not choose reincarnation. So then, what did she mean by ‘true strength’? I did not understand.” Zhongli’s voice cracks briefly, so Childe’s hand reaches across the table to grasp the other’s. He offers a comforting smile, a rare sight on a Harbinger’s face, but he regards Zhongli as a truly rare companion worthy of his undying loyalty.

Zhongli returns it and Childe’s heart flutters. He knows that he’s just a mortal, what can he do to protect the God of War? Still, if he can at least stave off some of those bad memories, then it’s worth it. The man rubs slow circles on the god’s hand to ground him to the present.

“As the years passed, I observed. In the end, we are all the same. I have found that a singular purpose guides each individual and drives their spirit to fight, to linger, to be born anew and try again. Understanding that guiding desire is the key to establishing proper contracts.”

“Mm, so, basically, there’s an order to life?” he responds, poking fun at Zhongli’s motto to lighten the atmosphere. Childe’s shit-eating grin grows wide at Zhongli’s dry, unimpressed look that crosses his face. Still, there’s a hint of fondness and gratitude, if Childe squints hard enough. Hey now, he can’t be disappointed in the Fatui’s little jab considering the absolutely dad-styled joke he made earlier.

“Indeed. Gods, adepti, and people can therefore be bought. All things can, even an Archon’s gnosis. We are all equal in that respect.”

Childe nods and retracts his hand to stab a piece of meat with his chopsticks. Nothing threatening, he just needs a way to guide his thoughts. There must be some dubious psychology, though, in deciding his brain is the piece of meat he just committed casual violence against.

The Fatui can’t help but wonder if Zhongli is still missing the big picture in deciding that life can be simplified to a series of contractual choices, even if it eases the immortal’s pain of losing the things he values most over and over again. Then again, does Childe even know what that picture looks like himself? “I get debts, but this feels different, y’know? I understand the value of connections and people more intimately than most, but… People aren’t things. You can’t completely own them for the sake of having them.”

(Morax, the glaze lilies around him whisper, you cannot hoard people.)

“Then,” Zhongli says, ignoring the voices of times past, “What do you call your collection of these valuable people?”

Childe laughs, full and bright and roguish. “Give and take, my friend! Give and take. All things must be equal in the end as you said yourself, no?”

---

“Why him?”

The Tsaritsa’s icy gaze pierces his own, and Zhongli’s lips quirk up, the only indication of any betraying thoughts lurking behind that stony visage.

They both know he allowed her to the courtesy of witnessing it.

“Your other Harbingers all lurk within the shadows, but from what you describe, Tartaglia wields them like a weapon. He is a refined tool for chaos. No one else is mad enough to summon a long-dead deity.”

“Whatever I ask of my Harbingers, they will bring. Signora can summon Osial all the same. So, I ask again, why him?” Her eyes challenge him, demonstrating her confidence in front of the oldest of the Seven.

How arrogant of her.

“Two Archons already lay their claim on him, do they not? Vision and Delusion,” he replies.

“Moves and countermoves.”

“So why not him, Tsaritsa?”

Her biting laugh suddenly rings out, bouncing against the ice around them. “Morax, you are indeed cruel for nothing to escape you. Perhaps he is perfect for your plans, then, as malleable as that boy is. Very well. I will assign him to Liyue.”

Zhongli’s fists curl behind his back. So little regard for the mortals under her charge, so little care.

The Tsaritsa waves her hand dismissively. “It is merely coincidence that the boy is favored. He just embodies the valued qualities of our nations, I assure you. You will find him most agreeable.”

One eyebrow arches. “Whether I find him agreeable is irrelevant. As long as he fulfills his designated purpose, I am content.”

She looks at him, studies him. “Indeed.”

---

“Why him?”

Zhongli looks to Ganyu, curious and gentle eyes flickering between his. They stand on Mt. Tianheng, watching the harbor rebuild. It’s been a few hours since his lunch with Childe, and he agreed to meet with one of his most loyal – and oldest – friends afterwards. Ganyu is one of the few adepti who have, presently, seen him physically outside of gifted visions and dreams. He was always fond of her company, even if the young qilin has an unwavering habit of napping precisely when it was most inconvenient.

“You have taken many lovers over the years, participated in contractual commitment, as per customary of your gifts. Never with someone so impish, though. Why him?” Her questions are not frigid, imperial, challenging; no, she asks out of genuine concern and care for his wellbeing. Always the soothing soul.

He smiles at her. “It is because of his impish behaviors I find him so interesting.” Turning back towards the harbor, he pauses for a beat before continuing. “This is not the first time I have courted and taken lovers, and eventually, he too discovered my real identity. All of my lovers understood precisely who they were engaging themselves with.”

Her eyes follow his to the harbor, lost in thought. Idly, she reaches for some leaves in a silk flower shrub to her right, tempted to pluck its leaves to eat. A nervous habit. “Yes. But none were so disrespectful.”

Zhongli chuckles, rich and true, no longer burdened with maintaining appearances. “You are correct. His treatment of me did not change after learning of my identity, the first mortal to dare such behavior. No, he still treats me as his equal, not as a god. He cared for me at first as an enemy, but now, his heart pours generosity regardless of old wounds and without expectation of anything in return.”

Give and take. Childe is breaking his own rules once again.

Soft lips curl around your name, Ganyu’s questions endless now that it has been unleashed. “What of her? Why? She is the first immortal you have been enamored with since the glaze lilies wilted.”

Zhongli crosses his arms and closes his eyes, contemplating his answer. A distant and wistful expression breaks, though Ganyu cannot see it. “Because the Travelers are most curious beings. They have shared in burdens similar to my own, and I find it comforting to know that there are others who understand deeply what I feared to be alone in ever since she left.”

The waters of time have worn away his stone heart, and yet… He feels renewed, like spring has finally arrived after leaving him so many lifetimes ago.

“Celestia’s burdens are now put to rest, Ganyu. Where before I did not end my duties for fear of a lack of purpose beyond that point, I realize now that I am free to pursue what I could never have. Serendipity would have it that I have found attractive companions to walk it with. Perhaps this is her final trial for me.”

“But, Zhongli… She is not Guizhong.” The unspoken warning lingers in the air.

(Do not dishonor living company with the memories of those long dead.)

“I know.” Soft leather creaks as his fingers tighten.

(I won’t.)

She fears for her master’s softened soul, though she remains too loyal to speak.

Ganyu’s lips purse and she thinks once again of those reflective blue eyes, of Tartaglia’s fierce dedication to duty and love of battle, of how he cares only for the satisfaction of the next victory. She thinks of a younger Morax, tall and proud as he led their people to glory with jade shields and obsidian spears.

What, then, is Tartaglia trying to protect?

How interesting that this mortal mirrors so much of the deity before her; the birth of one, the death of another.

“The timing is interesting for your mortal paramour as well; do you not agree?” She hesitates, attempting to choose her next words with, perhaps, greater care than she does for the Qixing. “How she falls from the heavens, how he walks into your life now that you are free to explore it.”

Zhongli waves his hand dismissively before he catches himself. “Merely coincidence.”

Ganyu narrows her eyes this time. “You do not believe in coincidence.”

He doesn’t respond.

---

Ajax sits in his bed, flipping his dagger around and around, vulnerable and alone in his thoughts. The new moon gives way to a blanket of stars, distant but lingering nonetheless. When the man looks to his left, the chopsticks Zhongli gave him those many months ago rest undisturbed.

He grins then, uninhibited delight gleaming. “Well well well, anything can be mastered, right?” It’s not like he’s going to be able to sleep anytime soon with the way his mind races. Ajax groans as he reaches over to grasp the utensils and stands, stretching out the day’s stress.

He has time to prove Zhongli wrong, he can master these infernal sticks or he doesn’t deserve the title of Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui. At the very least, he wants to eat a full meal with the man without resorting to just stabbing his food because that’s just downright pathetic. The Harbinger looks out his window again to the sky, a twinkle in his eye, before turning around, set on finding some leftovers to practice on.

The stars certainly appreciate the ensuing clumsy entertainment.

---

Another day, another meal. Come on, Childe tells himself, this is it, this will be the one-

The noodles slide out of his chopsticks’ grip, and he sighs, tossing his head back and running his left hand through his orange locks. “Pretty sure I’m just cursed at this point…”

He smiles when he hears Zhongli snickering with at least some decency to try to cover his mouth.

“You know, the Travelers have no issue applying themselves to those tools, so why do you?” Childe snorts, but only kicks the other under the table.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her, you know,” he starts casually. Zhongli looks at him, eyebrow quirked, but a smirk emerges nonetheless.

“Oh? Is this another one of your jokes, Childe?”

He laughs, shaking his head with a mischievous expression to match. “Nah. It’s okay, you know, I don’t mind. Our little… Stress relief is not exclusive.” At that, Zhongli’s eyes narrow. He slowly leans forward and steeples his gloved fingers, resting his chin on them, deep in thought. Was it… Did Zhongli not believe him? “ ‘m being honest,” he says as he raises his hands in a show of peace.

“I know you are. Which is why I’m curious.”

Childe gulps, suddenly very aware of the scrutiny he’s put under. He has nothing to hide, but Zhongli’s boring into him like the man grew a second head. “About what?”

The god leans back and picks up his chopsticks, apparently having decided on whatever it is that Childe just blurted. He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders shake with contained laughter like he’s in on some inside joke, and oh, the asshole. “Hey, don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. About what?”

Amber eyes flick up at him, amusement just rolling off of him in waves. “About why you did not pursue her yourself. You are not the only observant one here.”

Whatever happened to don’t let them see you bleed? He winces and starts a plastic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. Why does the old man never pull any punches? “Ah, well, y’know…” A gloved hand waves around pathetically, trying to somehow grab the words out of thin air to explain for him. “She’s just so distant. And angry. And strong.”

“Like that ever stopped you. As a matter of fact,” Zhongli purrs, “I recall that exciting you.”

“Har har, just don’t go around telling everyone about my kinks, alright? Besides, we started this little thing of ours before that whole fiasco, but don’t get me wrong, this is just all pent-up tension. She isn’t afraid to fight me, like you. Gotta get my sick kicks somewhere else,” Childe grins, eyes daring the other to take the bait.

“Mm, I am not fighting you, comrade.”

“Damn it.”

“But you are simply proving my point, you never back down from a challenge. So why then?” Shit, he has a point. Why didn’t he? Childe only grunts and reaches for a dumpling, intent on trying again and thoroughly exasperated that Zhongli is just deflecting his own curiosity.

“You tell me,” Childe drawls, long and sarcastic. “I thought dear Morax always got what he wanted?” Zhongli sighs and closes his eyes, frustration bubbling forth. Yeah, okay, Childe was being immature, he’ll admit it. Zhongli can go screw himself though, the guy was being annoyingly spot-on.

“Funny how an equally possessive man accuses me as such. I suppose… it did not feel right to start something that is – as you describe it – ‘stress relief’ after the incident. Not with her,” Zhongli’s jaw tightens before he resumes eating, adamant at leaving it like that. Still, Childe nods sagely and without irony this time around. Yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. His feelings for you were no different than his own towards Zhongli, but it was also… Not the same. Your name tastes different in his mouth, left his heart twisting differently, tensing differently.

Otherworldly.

“Gonna have to wait for the bird to want to fly back into the nest this time around after we angered the Travelers, huh?” Yeah, ‘pretty bird’ is probably Childe’s greatest stroke of playful genius, the name seems to suit you in every way he can think of.

His companion grumbles something under his breath before gracing him with an indignant response. “Do you best understand these delicate matters only in terms of the bloody hunter and frightful hunted?”

“You got me there, Zhongli.” With a wolfish grin, he grabs the bottle of baijiu and pours a drink for himself. Oh, how he misses Fire-Water… Soon, Childe reminds himself, soon. “You were right that day, you know. I don’t like losing control over what’s mine. We always tried to win some battle with each other, and we knew what we were doing, even when it was playing the Tsaritsa’s game. The amazing sex was just another aspect to our business relationship in finding the enemy’s weakness.”

Zhongli snorts into his cup. “Do you sleep with all of your business associates?”

“Fuck off, you know you wanted it too. But her? Not all the bargaining chips are on the table. She keeps it pretty close to the chest, and I try not to walk into enemy territory blind. Not always successful though, obviously.”

Zhongli hums along. “You can guess what my next moves are now that you understand who and what I am.”

“Yeah, and at least Aether and the stir-fry have the decency of telling me what’s going on in their head by being obnoxiously loud about it,” Childe grunts. “Not her, though. Not really. I don’t trust her ‘openness,’ nobody shows their emotions that easily. Even blondie and his pet gremlin try to hide some things, but I recognize the way she looks at them when they do a poor job. It’s how she looked at me when I tried to lie to Teucer.” Childe’s nose crinkles fondly at the memory of the loyal knight’s desperate attempts to protect his brother. “I’d say it’s a fair bet whether she would kiss me or kill me first and I wouldn’t be able to stop her. But hey, adds to the thrill of it all.”

“Your masochism will be the death of you one day. Do you have a single care for your well-being? Truly?” Zhongli’s deadpan words are purely rhetorical because they both know the answer.

“Hey! I listen to the doctor when I need to.”

“Mm, and do you pull rank on this Fatui doctor as well?”

“Well, who’s keeping track anyway?”

The god only smiles, affection radiating from his being. “My friend, I treasure our conversations. I will surely miss them.” Childe smiles and laughs with him. He feels good. Yeah. Zhongli makes him feel good. What he feels is thrilled, excited, electrified, but most importantly, genuinely welcomed.

(Welcomed, accepted, cared for. His heart lurches. No right word can describe this, describe how the strange not-humans from Teyvat and beyond took him in without question.)

He’ll miss this too, he concedes without a shred of shame, even if it’s a bittersweet feeling.

“Now then,” Zhongli coughs, before looking back up with the gall to appear sheepish. “About paying for our meal…”

“Oh, fuck you.”

---

Childe’s knuckles rap against Zhongli’s door before pushing it open, pleased but not surprised as the door gives way without protest. He steps inside and removes his shoes by the doorway before padding down the hall, the smell of bamboo shoot soup permeating the hallways. When he enters the kitchen, he finds Zhongli sitting at the table with a bowl already in hand.

“Aw, you started without me?” Childe pouts but steps up to the table nonetheless. Zhongli huffs in amusement.

“I heard you walking up the steps and took the liberty of beginning.”

“Of course you did,” the other replies while rolling his eyes. They finish their meals in peace with little banter flowing between them. After all, both felt the weight of this last night together. As Childe gathers the dishes to place in the sink, he mulls over his own decision for coming over to the ex-Archon’s den. Lust pools in his gut and his selfish body wants to taste Zhongli’s skin one more time. That’s all it is. Pure lust.

As gloved hands slide around his waist, slow and easy, Zhongli perches his head on Childe’s shoulder and rumbles deeply, “Lost in thought, are we?”

He snorts and turns around, tugging the other closer so their hips are flush against each other. When he adjusts himself to a better position, innocent eyes blinking, Zhongli gasps as his own body bucks forward, looking for more friction. “Mm, just wondering what I’ll have to do to get you to show me your hoard, comrade.”

The other man grumbles, but it’s half-hearted and disguises the increases sounds of pleasure threatening to claw out of his throat. “O-Oh? And what makes you think this will aid your investigations?”

Childe flashes his teeth wickedly as he leans down to nip at the other’s ear, all gentle foreplay gone as he immediately bites hard enough to draw blood with his canines. Zhongli groans as he grabs the other’s shoulders, squeezing with force shy enough to break bone. “Don’t underestimate my tactics, comrade,” he purrs. Zhongli looks at him, eyes hooded and panting before he keens when Childe’s hand slides down to cup his half-hard bulge.

At the insistent whining, Childe leans forward and captures his lips, shoving the other forward and off of him. Zhongli grunts but follows his orders obediently as Childe maneuvers them to the bedroom before he sits down on the bed, yanking the former Archon by the tie to his knees. He falls and leans forward, begging for another kiss as his eyes keep staring at Childe’s plump lips. The man obliges and delights at the speed he’s given permission to explore. Fuck, who would’ve thought that Rex Lapis would be such a bitch when you kiss him right?

He pulls back and smirks at the shivering mess before him that shuffles forward to nudge Childe’s straining bulge and lick along the clothess concealing it. “Look at you,” Childe coos, “you’re so pathetic, you want my cock that badly, huh?”

“Y-yes,” Zhongli rasps and moans brokenly when Childe’s hands snake into his hair to pull him up off his knees slightly, his own hands grasping Childe’s thighs for purchase. When the Harbinger ups the ante by reaching his right hand down the other’s pants to grab his leaking cock, hard, Zhongli nearly shouts as his face twists in pleasure. “Please, Childe, more. I want more – “ His voice cuts off into another broken moan when Childe gives a few leisurely pumps, blue eyes watching the other wickedly.

“You want? Comrade, just what do you think an interrogation is? You don’t get to want anything,” he growls and retreats, suddenly letting go of the other. Zhongli’s eyes shoot open as he falls down again. Fuck, the way his chest heaves as his face is flushed with blatant desire threatens Childe’s composure. No, no, that won’t do, Zhongli doesn’t get to command him like this.

He curls his lips as his boot moves forward, gently rubbing at Zhongli’s erection. The sob that erupts is thrilling, and Childe’s lust-addled ego rears its ugly head when he notices the other gasping incoherent praises between breaths. “Please, please, please, do not tease me like this on your final night Childe, please. Forgive me, but I want your cock, I need it.”

Childe’s characteristic laugh bubbles forth as he clutches the other’s throat to silence him. “My, you’re agreeable like this. Did anybody ever tell you that you get to be so chatty when you want to be fucked? Pathetic,” he whispers, but a cruel pleasure unfurls as he watches Zhongli come undone with each degrading word. “You really like that, huh? Who else has talked down to the great Rex Lapis like this, hm? Answer me.”

“O-only you,” Zhongli gasps. “Only you.”

“Good.” Childe’s smile grows affectionate and he releases his grip before kissing the other again. It would be chaste if not for the insistent pawing at Zhongli’s clothes. “Strip for me.”

The god obeys, immediately tugging his own clothes off. Still, even in the throes of pleasure does he perform every action so meticulously, so carefully; he folds his clothes and places them on a nearby chair, and Childe’s heart flutters with fondness. Of course this stupid man would be so fussy during sex, of course. But that thought only sparks another – oh, by the Archons, he’s going to ruin this man and mark him for weeks after. Let’s see Zhongli deal with that problem.

Who even cares that the god can probably heal his wounds in minutes? If anything, that drives the warrior further in his madness to make the other bleed.

Zhongli stands before him, bare and glorious, his throbbing cock pink and leaking driblets of shimmering precum. He’ll never stop being hypnotizing with how the Geo energy refuses to be contained, permanently staining Zhongli’s arms with bronze and gold. All that power lurking beneath the surface…

Childe smirks and tugs off his gloves, tossing them to the side before he taps his thighs. “C’mere.” Zhongli submits – a little too eagerly, Childe thinks, where’s the fun in that – and straddles him again. When Childe’s right hand takes the other’s cock while he leans forward to begin teasing his nipples, Zhongli’s curls in on Childe and settles his head on the other’s shoulder, shivering with pleasure.

Childe nearly laughs when he realizes the image is not unlike a dragon coiling around its prey. Oh, but this one bites; the Harbinger’s teeth sink into Zhongli, drawing blood again. The wanton moan in response just sounds so delicious, and Childe matches his noises as he begins pumping in earnest. Zhongli’s begins grinding his ass into Childe’s bulge, and hey, that’s cheating. Childe is the one who’s doing the torturing here, damn it.

“Oh fuck,” Childe heaves, “I can’t take this anymore, fuck, where’s your oil Zhongli?”

Or not.

Yeah, okay, the man would be hot with embarrassment at how quickly he broke, but the way Zhongli croons and obeys just for him leaves him as desperate. When he rises to look for the oil, Childe stands quickly and begins stripping with the speed of a virgin teen about to get laid for the first time. A string of Snezhnayan curses is grumbled when his pants get caught on his ankles, but he when glances up at Zhongli’s chuckling with a fist curled in front of his grin, Childe only flushes further.

“Shut up,” he mumbles but grins along. Now free from his clothes, he grabs Zhongli’s wrist and tugs him back into the bed, kissing him all the while. The action is… Kind. Sweet, if Childe was being honest with himself.

But he hasn’t been truthful before, why start now?

When he leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs, Zhongli takes the cue to once again perch in his lap holding the bottle of oil in his hand. “Look at you,” Childe murmurs, pitch lowered but still rough around the edges, betraying a deeper hunger. “You look so good for me, presenting yourself like this.”

“What happened to the fearsome Harbinger just now?” Zhongli questions, mischief dancing on his face.

“Mm, good cop bad cop. Obviously being rough with the God of War wasn’t doing much ‘cept making me realize how badly I want to be inside you,” he states matter-of-factly before tugging Zhongli down for another kiss. When he takes the bottle and gently pries it open, he pours some on his fingers before placing the rest on the nightstand. Amber eyes watch Childe biting his lips, boyish eagerness shining forth.

Ah. Still so young, Zhongli thinks, and so cute.

That thought is interrupted when Childe leans forward and begins kissing along his abdomen, but characteristic of the Harbinger’s bloodlust, also peppers his skin with bruises and bite marks sharp enough to pierce the pleasurable haze in Zhongli’s mind. Cool fingers begin to gently prod between his cheeks, a silent question for permission which is quickly granted when his hands reach back to pull them apart for easier access. He feels Childe’s pleased groan beneath him as a single finger massages the muscle open before sliding in, and oh fuck, he missed this.

“H-haah, h-how are you always so tight?” Childe asks, taking his unoccupied hand to once again stroke Zhongli. He’s not entirely cruel, he’ll ease the other’s tension where he can. Whether or not it’s also out of selfish desire to see Zhongli unfurl around him, shoving his ass further on his fingers and into his palm is glaringly obvious when Childe bucks his erection up to graze briefly and intermittently between his toned cheeks.

“Are you complaining?” Zhongli moans.

“You kidding me?” Childe laughs and eases a second finger in, then a third. Now then, where is it…?

Zhongli suddenly cries out, vulgar sounds tapering off into quiet whimpers. There it is.

He begins massaging the spot and watches how Zhongli rolls his hips, the slight trail of drool and messy hair downright pornographic and mesmerizing. When his ass brushes against Childe’s cock again, he moves forward to nip at the god’s hip. “Z-zhongli, be careful there or I’m not gonna last.”

“I would ra-aahh-ther you finish in me, Childe,” the other rumbles, “before you ruin my bedsheets again.”

“Gods damn it, that was one time, you will not let that shit go,” Childe complains, completely uncouth and disrespectful, before withdrawing his fingers. “You’re lucky you’re good at sex.”

When his grabs the bottle again to pour it on his own straining member, the cool sensation welcome against his throbbing heat, he hears Zhongli chuckle above him. “Is that all I am to you? A nighttime tryst?”

“Don’t say that like you don’t enjoy it,” he mumbles, grabbing himself to line it up with Zhongli’s entrance. When the other slowly lower his hips, they both groan as the head begins to breach. It’s not fair, it’s not fair at all that Childe can’t stay mad at Zhongli like this. Not when the other swallows his dick like an animal in heat.

He moans openly when Zhongli finally meets him at his base, and he gives an experimental hip-roll to the god’s delight. Zhongli’s breath shudders before he starts a steady pace, switching between rolling his hips and lifting them to slam back down. Childe chokes on his breath and digs his head into the pillows beneath him at the sensation of being used like a fuck-toy for the ancient god. When blue eyes watch the Archon, muscles flexing in a downright filthy display of power, he’s awestruck. Zhongli is almost, almost treating his cock as another thing to conquer with the way he’s being manhandled like all attempts at domination earlier were just jokes.

He’s not giving up that easily. Childe’s fingers dig into the other’s hips to urge him to stop, bruising grip going nearly unnoticed. “Z-zhongli,” his strangled voice calls, “Flip over.”

When he slides his hands higher on the god’s hips and begins lifting his own body, Zhongli follows his lead. Before long, he’s flipped on his back with Childe looming over him, immediately catching his lips in another kiss as the Harbinger slowly pulls back before putting all his honed power in the movement back in. Zhongli breaks the kiss to groan and bares his throat in a show of submission, allowing the mortal to mark the god with fervor. Childe laps up the salt pooling along his skin with due diligence, nipping haphazardly along the way.

His thrusts begin to angle, looking for that tender spot once again. It’s no surprise how the ruthless Harbinger finds it with lethal precision and begins slamming into him earnestly. Fuck, his hips stutter and grow frantic when he’s rewarded with Zhongli’s increasingly loud cries, how does someone so composed sound downright filthy like that? Zhongli has no right, no right at all. When he feels nails drag down his back to draw forth sticky warmth, he retaliates by leaning forward and fiercely biting. His moans mingle with Zhongli’s as blood pours into his mouth, lust tearing through him, urging him to lacerate and mutilate this god further. Is it possible for a god’s body to be such an aphrodisiac?

Electric pleasure begins creeping forward; he’s losing his mind, Zhongli is coaxing out atrocious amounts of gratification and raw, unapologetic gluttony. More, he wants more.

Childe’s nose is flooded with warm mountain air, the musk inhuman but comforting, nonetheless. It’s enough to ease the abyssal beast inside of him but leaves the man in him wanting as he looks for any skin left unmarked to ruin. Much to his satisfaction, there is little left.

He releases his jaws when he feels a slight tugging on his hair, so he pulls back and – oh no. Oh, no no, that something grows in his heart again when he sees amber eyes gazing at him lovingly. “Childe,” Zhongli murmurs softly, “Let me see you, let me see your eyes.”

His responding laugh sound fake, even to him, as the sudden anxiety pushes aside the passion. If Zhongli notices how his thrusts begin speeding up, chasing that elusive and traitorous pleasure to mask it, he doesn’t comment. Instead, callous hands cup Childe’s cheeks and urge him to look deeply. “Please, a-allow – haah - me to commit you to… to memory.”

“W-what the fuck are you talking about?” he stutters, swallowing thickly around a sudden lump. Stop it. Stop being so sensual, stop it, stop being so sentimental you naïve and old creature, stop it –

Zhongli only smiles, lips wrapping around the soft sounds and purrs coming from deep within his chest. Luminous eyes are watching him, studying him, and he grows hateful at how Zhongli seems to just know. “I y-yearn to remember, please, allow me this. You are beautiful like this.”

“Shut up,” Childe suddenly snarls, leaning forward to hide his face in Zhongli’s shoulder. The other’s noises intensify in response, seemingly in an attempt to soothe him, and he hates it. “S-shut the fuck up, don’t make this something it isn’t, d-don’t do this to me Zhongli. Stop be-iiihng, ah, so cruel, you liar, we agr-eed to stop fucking lying to each other.”

Zhongli turns his head to kiss along Childe’s jaw, each one leaving behind hidden messages of longing and affection. “We did.”

Damn him, Ajax thinks as he desperately turns his head to meet Zhongli’s to kiss again, and again, and again.

It’s no surprise that soon, his hips’ rhythm falters before he slams one more time into Zhongli, that familiar heat in his core spilling deep in the other. Zhongli moans and flutters his eyes shut, relishing in the feeling pooling in his gut.

Ajax is not cruel. He rolls his hips and reaches one hand down to grab Zhongli’s still-aching cock, drawing forth more pleasure from the former Archon with an unforgiving speed. Soon, his breath is drawn, and he shudders as his cum shoots across his belly and into the Harbinger’s hand. Ajax is not cruel.

Damn him, he thinks again as he kisses Zhongli, but there’s no more malice, no more pretenses or attempts to hide his endearment for the older man. When he pulls back, Zhongli’s eyes glow softly in time with the markings along his arms. It’s indescribable, Childe thinks, how the light dances across the obsidian bedsheets and shimmers back, reflecting the riches of Teyvat in his blood. Before he can stop it, a single word tumbles out: “Beautiful.”

Zhongli smiles and pulls him down for another kiss.

And another, again and again and again.

---

(Don’t let them see you bleed, don’t let them see you bleed, don’t let - )

---

The two men hold each other, and though neither say a word, the silence before them is comfortable. How many rounds did they go for? Childe is twirling Zhongli’s hair around his fingers while the latter’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is too shallow to be asleep. Exhaustion clearly is not an issue for immortals.

Hm. His dark hair is silky and fine, maybe he can…? Childe glances at the not-sleeping man in front of him and a mischievous smile twists his lips, all attempts to suppress it gone. Not like he’s going to get another shot at this anytime soon. Deftly, his fingers begin to braid Zhongli’s hair in patterns he remembers the women in Snezhnaya wearing.

Only, when he looks at Zhongli again, golden eyes stare back, torn between being unimpressed and blatantly amused. Childe laughs and grabs the other’s chin to give a quick peck. “Aw, don’t look at me like that comrade, I just think you would enjoy this more than bed head.” It’s an excuse because Zhongli always looks perfect, but let him just have this.

“Mm.” A deep exhale breezes across Childe’s chest, and lust sparks in his gut once again at the cool sensation tickling his open wounds from when Zhongli took his turn hammering into Childe, spearing him open unforgivingly. Some minutes pass, and – yeah, no, braiding isn’t his thing Childe decides. The braid is unorganized, hair falls out, and he’s pretty sure he accidentally tangled it somewhere. Zhongli chuckles and buries his head further against Childe’s neck. “You would make a fine weaver.”

“Asshole.”

They both smile, but when Zhongli looks to the other again, he knows there’s a question forming. He just knows it, but seeing those swollen and kissable lips bruised and knowing that he did that? Childe’s dick twitches traitorously, ready to go again.

“Childe, are you listening?” Zhongli frowns and Childe blinks, attempting to be coquettish. The other’s frown deepens.

“Sorry, sorry,” he grins. “What was that?”

“I asked if you believe in the red thread?”

Childe’s hands stop, and not for the first time, he wonders why the hell Liyue is so obsessed with the concept of destiny. He scoffs, mouth twisting and nose curling up. “Nah, I don’t. It’s a cute gesture ‘n all, but if you look closely, there’s a reason for everything, and it isn’t because Celestia or whatever decided it.”

“Do you say this because you did not have control over what happened to Liyue?”

At Zhongli’s inquisitive look, he holds up the mess of a braid he was trying to rectify. “You see this? This is the red thread. It’s messy. It’s artificial. There’s no such thing as destiny, Zhongli, everything happens deliberately, by us,” he huffs, irritated by the question. Childe was just trying to have a relaxing time, why did he have to bring that up now? The former Archon’s radiant eyes glow brighter, an impassive wall for the other to beat against. Somehow, though, that placid expression irks Tartaglia further and the words fall out before he can stop them.

“You think it’s destiny that I was maneuvered like that? That I began serving Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritsa? That I fe-“ Tartaglia, thankfully, has enough wherewithal to pause that statement before too much is revealed and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to center himself. “No, Zhongli, I do everything for a reason. Everything. My path is my own, all the titles and reputations and connections I possess were bargained for fairly. I dragged myself out of that cold and dark land by my own will.”

Zhongli knows he isn’t speaking of Snezhnaya, but says nothing regardless.

“I thought you of all people would understand that,” he spits, sudden cynicism surging through him like a tidal wave. “How many people have you controlled over the years? Pawns moved, strategic opportunities seized? You should know that nothing happens by coincidence, someone as old as you.”

A roaring tempest, changing and harsh and untamable, crashes against the rocky mountain that stands tall and firm at the center of the chaos.

Zhongli’s lips curve as he admits, “I do. Perhaps you and I have a different understanding of the concept of coincidence, then, though I do not disagree with what you say.”

“Did you not say that actions and emotions must be separate?” he replies, wry smirk back in place. He doesn’t miss the flicker of sentiment, and if he didn’t know the stone-cold god any better, he would be tempted to label it as almost melancholic. What was Zhongli thinking?

Childe sighs, all fight in him about this topic abruptly gone. Truly unpredictable. “Two sides of the same coin, huh?” he murmurs. “Let’s just… Not talk about that. Not on my last night.” He instead descends to capture the other’s lips in a vicious kiss, clearly an attempt to redirect his frustrations elsewhere.

Zhongli returns it with equal fervor and two pairs of hands grapple each other in possessive movements. They’ve long ago decided to be truthful with each other, and this is the most open they can be, unspoken words and feelings conveyed through touch.

When they break apart, Tartaglia’s ocean eyes hide how far below the boy in him is confined to the murky depths. As he nips at Zhongli’s throat, the god can’t help but wonder of their varying approaches to this concept of control. Tartaglia moves with aggression, uses his body as a weapon to get what he needs, to distance his emotions and thoughts further from the surface; Zhongli attempts to convey his desires and willingness to plunge into those watery depths, to drag him back through his own.

Zhongli won’t deny that their arrangement started as him humoring Childe’s lust, of allowing the other to believe in the lie that he had the upper hand all along, but the god has since grown genuinely fond of the tempestuous being.

However, Tartaglia only sees their passions as another battle to be won and the old God of War indulges him. If Tartaglia chooses to classify their relationship and letters as platonic, then so be it.

But… Is the Harbinger truly so far gone that he does not understand Zhongli’s blatant desire for him? How quickly did the young man latch onto this desperate understanding that their passionate actions are separate from the relationship they have built? What war is he fighting?

What happened to him to make him believe he could only rely on himself?

Zhongli hums. No matter.

The dragon already decided long ago that Childe is a treasure worth coveting, and hopes that one day, he will understand that Zhongli’s desires are not superficial. He has all the time in the world to find a love language that Childe will understand.

In due time, he intends to help raise the man above the Archons who dared to use him, dared to take away control over his hard-won destiny, dared to treat his mortal kin as worthless compared to the boy they raised.

In due time.

---

Ajax did not want to think about his carefully guarded feelings nor talk about it that night, lest Morax see him for how selfish and hungry his heart is. It is no secret how he lusts after power, and that night in the Golden House sparked a ravenous flame. Even if he could only convince one of the immortals to join him, it would be enough to challenge the rest of the Harbingers and begin his own conquest.

However, during his stay in Liyue, he could only ease his treacherous heart with one who surely saw mortal hearts as tradeable as gold. His own aches in resignation.

Is it because he is afraid of his own weakness? Or because he knows that when destiny pushes him back into that abyss a second time, it will be final and alone?

Don’t let them see you bleed.

Ajax trusts Morax with his life (strangely enough), but not with his soul. Not now. He wonders if you would be gentler. Kinder.

But a bird cannot survive a hurricane.

---

(The stars whisper fearful warnings that night - incessant in their dulcet tunes – hoping to shepherd these souls once more.

Nobody hears them. They have been absent from their duty too long. Nobody remembers.)

---

On the boat back to Snezhnaya, the Harbinger is leaning over the railing, twisting the ring around his finger in thought. A small smile graces his lips as he thinks of the last conversation he shared with you, of the promises of a rematch.

Cute. That’s all he thinks – fluffy, unreasonably angry, cute, so insistent on chirping and proving yourself a fierce opponent. No, you are formidable as he remembers his ass being beaten to the ground without mercy. A thrill shoots up his spine at the memory and his tender smile turns wicked. Formidable and sexy he declares with Her Imperial Majesty as his witness.

Maybe Zhongli was right, there must be something fucked up in his head for him to still think you’re cute as he nurses his wounds from the Golden House and the Teucer fiasco.

Chlide beams, completely enamored with the open ocean and its bare surface; the bright and open sun shimmers across the waves as tempting as jewels for the taking. One day, he wants to take his siblings out to the coasts beyond Snezhnaya’s eternally frozen waters where icebergs leave few paths for the boats to navigate. Though he’ll never admit it to the other Fatui, he always preferred the freedom to go wherever and do whatever he pleased.

Well, let’s be more honest here, it’s more or less already an open secret. After all, that’s why he’s the Vanguard of the Harbingers. Tartaglia is sent to be the first storm that wreaks havoc and flood enemy defenses while the others clean it up and claim credit.

Childe sneers because fuck Signora, that glory was supposed to be his.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, but pauses midway before lowering it and clenching the railing harder. Memories flood his vision as he remembers watching how you would rub your head whenever you were nervous, would brush Paimon’s hair and coo at its ephemeral patterns, would help Aether re-braid his after a particularly messy fight. During his stay at Liyue, he somehow picked up the tick himself after spending so much time watching you to try and find your own quirks in character. Chlide never intended to punch a hole in his own carefully guarded defenses.

So… Why did you reveal yourself like that? Childe mulls his options over. Either you weren’t aware of your actions - which is not possible, not with the way you move during battle – or you let him see to throw him off your trail, letting him think he figured you out. Hm. But that’s something Zhongli would do. Did.

Asshole, he thinks fondly.

Maybe you just… Maybe you’re just that open? Let your guard down around him because of – because of –

He closes his eyes, stifling that inkling of something again from creeping its way into his traitorous heart. Childe snorts, sardonic nature taking over because yeah right, like you would really let him in so easily. But then he sees it, sees how the blue glimmers with the light like stars.

If you trusted him because of a starconch, then you really were as stupid as he was afraid of.

And, well, maybe he is too.

How many stories did you exchange over warms meals and long nights? In all those little tales he shared, he showed a bit more of himself. After all, the best lies have truth in them; Zhongli knew this and reciprocated the efforts. In a way, that’s why he trusts Zhongli more – the former Archon already manipulated him and proved his suspicions right. Now that the betrayal has been seared into his memoirs, he understands all the more the man’s motivations, making him an easy target for Childe to predict next they meet.

His heart remembers the unexpected connection he made with Aether – the sacrifices for one’s family rings universal. It’s only when Teucer found his way into Liyue – the little devil – that he realized that somehow, along the way, it was Ajax that was laughing, Ajax that was helping Aether find Lumine, Ajax paying for Paimon’s egregious eating habits.

Childe’s thoughts loop endlessly as he tries convincing himself his mind is only consumed by you three (or one) because he can’t figure you out. You’re an eternal mystery and challenge, how could he resist?

He’s stirred when he hears the Fatui recruits call for him below deck and Childe’s easy nature slides back in. He promised them a proper Sneznhayan drinking game; it’s time to show these fresh-faced bumpkins what being a Harbinger is all about.

---

(Ajax did not see how Morax gazes at him, ferocious and protective. Only one mortal’s heart will remain immeasurable and incomparable to Teyvat’s riches, the scales will never be balanced.

Nor did Ajax witness the stars streak across the sky for him, incandescent and besotted, a promise of other immortals who would faithfully carry him to the heavens if he but asked.

A mountain of bodies filles his vision as he seeks to build a paradise above the carnage for his family’s dreams to be safe, so that they may never know what nightmare lies beneath the world.

He made a promise, after all.)

---

My dear Childe,

I suppose I am able to write the first of our agreed upon letters, as I am the one left behind with the luxury of free time while you journey to your own homeland.

Please note that, attached to the letter, are packages of various Liyue sweets that I am sure youth enjoy. Hu Tao has at least assured me of its quality. If your kin are anything like you, these will serve in sufficiently whetting their voracious appetites.

Also included are some artifacts that, I pray, will find a new home in Snezhnaya. Hopefully your siblings are as curious as you. Certainly, you can tickle Teucer’s desires for grand anecdotes with the enclosed miniature terracotta warrior. They once stood as guardians to tombs of emperors long past. Perhaps he can become a paragon of honor once more as sentinel to Mr. Cyclops.

Just be sure to not allow the statue to break. I must warn you that it contains a very real spirit. Children enjoy this sort of thing, yes?

I am glad we can remain in contact. I cannot begin to repay your kindness and generosity in this lifetime for treating me as a mortal; I never sought the continuation of Rex Lapis’ legacy in my assessments of Liyue. Instead, I find that having good company to walk with is enough.

I pray that your duty does not come into conflict with the Travelers. They have asked me to inform you that they will not attempt to establish contact, for they fear their own journeys will eventually threaten Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. They do not wish to endanger you or your family.

No one is at fault for attempting to complete their mission, but let it not distract you from why – and for who - you fight. As you described to me, baseless glory for the sake of it is no way to conduct oneself as a true warrior.

Do not be afraid to be the first to step on the path into unknown territory. Believe me, time waits for no one.

Your dutiful friend,

Zhongli

---

My dearest and most lively funeral consultant,

Don’t worry about my wellbeing; as I have said on our last night together, my destiny is my own. Her Majesty the Tsaritsa will have her seven stars, as I’ve promised, but they are not my stars nor my true goals. I believe you are right – I will have to venture into that dark night if I am to find what I truly seek.

I am pleased to report that Teucer is now sleeping with your protective clay warrior after naming him, aptly, ‘Mr. Dirty’ for the incessant mess that the dusty old thing seems to leave. My mother has certainly thrown a fit more than once for the dirt it leaves in his bed. Whether you have blessed this little thing with one of your tricks to always produce earth is a cheeky mystery I am sure you will never answer.

Zhongli, my friend, we must really educate you on what is and is not appropriate to gift a young child. I did not explain to him – nor my family, for that matter – why I insisted on wrapping Mr. Dirty in a very cushioned blanket.

Furthermore, Hu Tao was right, the candies were a roaring success. Quite literally, I might add, as my siblings tore at them with the ferocity of Snezhnayan wolves and howling battle cries.

I wonder who would win in a fight for the last sticky honey roast: my siblings or Paimon.

I understand fully their reasons and don’t fault them for it. If anything, they conduct themselves with greater care than I ever did in Liyue. Regardless, I will miss them dearly and hope that when we meet again in Snezhnaya, it is not for Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, but for myself. I did promise my honor as Harbinger to be the prize won.

With the letter is a package of a hand-crafted Matryoshka doll. I had asked for the crafter to paint each layer as different armor from Liyue’s history. However, at the center, you will find a doll with intimately familiar amber eyes.

This is, I hope, a suitable gift. To me, you will always be Zhongli first and foremost at your core.

You still owe me a fight for the right to reassert your divine status to me and rectify the slight against my character. Otherwise, you will find my insolence to become tenfold. I just hope you defend your honor before your short guard dog, Xiao, does it for you.

Your loyal companion,

Childe

---

Ajax walks along the beaches outside of his village. He’s been home for a few weeks on leave, much to the delight of his family; he welcomes their affection and returns in kind, even if when he embraces his father, he feels emptier after he pulls away. It’s funny. Growing up, Ajax adored his father’s stories of adventures. They seemed so thrilling and freeing, especially to travel the world outside of Morepesok.

Only, whenever he comes home, a bit more of his father’s image is broken away like ice. That’s all they were: stories. The Harbinger has massacred battlefields, left just enough in his wake that would churn most men’s stomachs as a brutal reminder for defying the Fatui. No, those stories are nothing to him now.

He keeps walking, stopping only to kick away some snow from his path. Ajax missed this; he’ll admit it. Too many times has he spent an extended period on Dragonspine to let the cold freeze him just to the brink of death, reminding him of Snezhnaya. Such a ruthless landscape to birth a ruthless warrior. As much as he adores travelling, home is where he’ll always return to, where he misses most when he reads each letter gracing his desk.

Ajax spots a shining object and immediately bends to reach it, but pulls away with only a blue stone and faint silver markings.

Not a starconch. Huh. His instincts must be slow for him to make such a rookie mistake.

As he tosses the rock over his shoulder, Ajax’s lips pull into a frown. Home is where the heart is.

So why does he feel empty?

---

Ajax looks out the window of his home as Tonia, Anthon and Teucer snore peacefully in his lap. They’re in front of the roaring fireplace and a thick blanket is wrapped around them all.

He very pointedly ignores the sharp Mr. Dirty digging into his side, and just… Why, Zhongli, why are you so stupid sometimes. Ah well, it made Teucer happy, so Ajax relents in his complaints for the time being.

Outside his window, he watches a family of snowy owls as they emerge from their nest. Some time passes before the youngest brave the howling winds, opening their wings to test the currents.

In a heart-stopping moment, all the children leap and exit his field of vision before quickly rising again, thriving in the winds of change. He watches as they flap their wings experimentally, fluttering around the tree before the family gathers itself. They eventually leave, heading to horizons unknown to explore as they flee the coming darkness of winter for their own safety. Despite this, the owls will return home when the chaos settles, they always do.

A stray thought springs into Ajax’s head as he looks down at his siblings.

---

When Tartaglia saunters up the alabaster steps to Zaplorny Palace, he remembers how awe-struck he was as a child listening to his father’s speak about the Tsaritsa residing within. Frost paints ethereal patterns into the decorations, constantly changing as it’s melted and regrown. The shimmering patterns no doubt rival the beauty of the skies, but also mirror them in the way that the stars are so far and cold themselves. No matter how many flames are lit, Zapolyarny Palace will always remain cold.

He wonders if the Tsasritsa’s frozen heart still has a flicker of warmth.

Before he turns down the next hallway, he is met with the sight of three other Harbingers. Oh boy, what a fucking party. “Ah! Forgive me comrade!” Childe chuckles as he shoves past Scaramouche’s shoulders to join them. “I didn’t see you down there,” he sneers, relishing in the murderous glance tossed his way.

“Childe. For how long you spent in Liyue, one would expect you to have learned some respect by now. I suppose it’s too much to ask for from someone of your limited faculties,” Scaramouche responds, tone light and casual but eyes burning regardless.

“Was your leave rejuvenating?” Pulcinella interjects, hoping to steer the conversation away from a brawl starting in the palace. Not that they have any doubts over Scaramouche’s self-discipline, but Childe’s was another matter entirely. “Signora here has informed me of your recent success in heralding the Gnosis from Morax. Congratulations.”

Childe raises one eyebrow, eyes dull and heavily guarded. He’s familiar with these political tactics and with how the Harbingers lace their words with patronizing intent. It’s all some bid to try to put others down, remind them of their place. What a bunch of idiots, don’t they know he only cares about what the Tsaritsa thinks?

As if reading his mind, Signora’s lips quirk upwards as she slithers in to join Pulcinella’s compliments. “Indeed. I have informed Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of your valiant efforts. This couldn’t have been done without you.”

Without your brash and impulsive tendencies.

“You know…” Scaramouche starts, crossing his arms and tilting his head back in a show of friendly submission. What the fuck is he up to now? “Some time ago, when I was in Mondstadt investigating the Jester’s little mission for me, I saw the Travelers again. They certainly grew more adept in commanding the elements, wouldn’t you say, Childe?”

The ginger-haired man’s airy laugh rings off the walls around them, the easy-going nature of Childe stepping forth before Tartaglia has a chance to strangle him. “Oh yes, I would certainly agree. Makes it all the more exciting to see what they’ll be up to next. Let me guess, you had a hard time dealing with them? I too heard the reports, dear Balladeer, of how they kept dancing just outside of your short reach.”

Pulcinella bites the inside of their cheek to keep the amusement from showing. Somehow, their favored recruit always finds a way to piss off the other Harbingers like it’s all some game. Really gives a good show too.

Scaramouche scoffs, allowing the jab to slide this time. “I let the fools go. My research was complete, I didn’t linger. But I did notice something… Interesting.” He raises his left hand casually, motioning his fingers in a light pinching motion as if he held something small and precious. “A single starconch hung from one of the Traveler’s journals. A rather curious sight.”

Childe’s smile grows wider, more placid. The lack of an aggressive reaction is, in itself, a threat. “Curious indeed.”

“Scaramouche, wouldn’t you say that was a stroke of genius on Childe’s part? He’s keeping them close and relaxed. I’m rather proud of you for employing our more covert tactics for once. That is, after all, your intent, is it not?” Signora smirks when she sees how Childe’s eyes flick to hers. Still no change in his expression, but he laughs and holds up both hands in a placating gesture. As much as she plays at knowing his tactics, it’s not very hard to guess where his chaotic actions will lead him. However, the motivations behind his more subtle behaviors remain elusive wherein only two can guess it correctly at any given moment: Pulcinella and Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself.

“You got me. They’re just so eager to help others, how could I resist that temptation of fucking with them?” Childe’s whimsical tone never wavers, not once. Pulcinella frowns. This is a dangerous game; they always caution against becoming attached to the unhinged Harbinger, but if the Travelers became strung along too much, then…

“Careful, Tartaglia,” Pulcinella murmurs, drawing all eyes on them. “Since your little betrayal of their trust, the Liyue agents report that our Fatui strongholds in the wild have steadily lost their footing. For every inch we gain, we lose two more.”

Childe pretends to look shocked, but he has his own ears inside the palace, he’s been aware of it the whole time. Little birds, he thinks affectionately, I’m nearly proud.

“Hmph, of course the idiots keep losing ground, they have no Harbinger guiding them,” Scaramouche says, frown deepening. “Even with Signora in Mondstadt, the diplomats were frankly imbeciles.” She tsks in irritation, but nothing more.

“Aw, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were complimenting me, comrade!” Childe says cheerfully. The Inazuma native’s face flashes with fury before quickly recovering.

“All I’m saying is that maybe we need someone to keep an eye on them,” he replies. “Since Mondstadt… They’re not what you think, Childe. The stars are a lie; none of it is real. I’ll bet you the Travelers know more about it than they’re letting on. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Childe cocks an eyebrow, smirk barely melting into a snarl. “And what would you know? You stay behind the scenes while the rest of us do real work.”

Scaramouche’s slow smile is poisonous and laced with contempt as he hisses, “You should know there is a Liyue saying that goes ‘Heaven and Earth are impartial, treating all creatures like straw dogs.’ When the sacrifices have fulfilled their purpose, they are discarded because there is no more use and care for such worthless objects. Didn’t dear Morax tell you of this philosophy himself, Childe?”

Tartaglia tastes blood as he bites his tongue to keep from summoning a blade then and there.

Pulcinella not-so-subtly coughs. “I believe our meeting is starting soon. Let us take this discussion there, for Her Majesty the Tsaritsa is currently informed of all developments. We will receive our next assignments there.”

As all four Harbingers walk in silence down the halls, Childe lingers in the back so that the other three don’t catch sight of his eyes darkening. He was right, damn it, the Travelers are hiding something.

However, a sadistic smile curls on his face. Though he’s sure that the others allowed Scaramouche to hint at what is surely classified information that currently only he, the Jester, and the Tsaritsa know the full scope of just to allow the shorter Harbinger to insult Childe, he enjoys the fact that the others once again underestimate him. They were likely not informed of Scaramouche’s findings either and this provided an apt opportunity for them to update their intel if their unashamedly curious expressions were anything to go by. Scaramouche’s lightning temper strikes again and illuminates the path forward, even if Childe had to bleed first to see it.

Oh what fun, fun, fun!

---

The Tsaritsa’s cold gaze peers down at Tartaglia as he kneels before her, not even daring to gaze at her feet. With the other Harbingers long-departed after the meeting, the only two remaining souls in her throne room are himself and the Cryo Archon; for anyone else, this would strike fear in their heart, but Tartaglia only croons at the thought. Finally, finally, she trusts him with a classified mission, one that she fears the other Harbingers might impede on should they discover the true intention.

He buries Scaramouche’s words deep below the surface, unwilling to allow his goddess to witness his burning desire to prove himself. For now, Childe will serve dutifully until the opportunity for him to topple the Archons’ thrones presents itself.

Littered around them are the eternally frozen bodies of all who made the mistake of striking too soon, their faces warped in perpetual agony as sick trophies. Are they still alive beneath that ice, like the creatures trapped atop Dragonspine?

“Tartaglia,” she starts, regal voice cutting clear through the air, “the Travelers defy the laws of this world and harness its ancient secrets with ease, something the other Harbingers have failed to provide me concrete information on. However, I understand that you have observed these phenomena yourself. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” comes the smooth reply, steady and betraying no weakness.

“Good,” he hears the pleased smile in her voice. “I have a new task for you.”

---

Dreams do not normally come, smothered by the abyss. But something is different this time. Ajax hears it.

A voice calls to him in a language that sounds of silvery bells. Another speaks in a tongue long forgotten by mortals.

notes:

childe’s pov has a lot of swearing (and will in future chapter) bc lets be honest, he probably would if mihoyo would let him

1) Childe flips masks depending on who he's with according to mihoyo's official forum thread on him. Pulcinella is quoted as stating that Childe is completely trustworthy for any job, but cautions against getting too attached/close (for unknown reasons)

2) One of Childe's voice lines expresses admiration for the Tsaritsa's warrior methods, but in another line, has massive disdain for the underhanded tactics of others. He also blatantly admits to being willing to take on the other Harbingers and overthrow the world with the Traveler if the opportunity presents itself, and doesn't care at all for their opinions on him

3) The terracotta soldier is referencing the Terracotta Army guarding the tomb of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China and Matryoshka dolls have multiple dolls inside one.

4) The Liyue philosophy quoted is a sentiment expressed in Chapter 5 of the Tao Te Ching that basically translates as Heaven treating all the people equally, neither with love nor hate aka nobody is special. It is what it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

5) Childe 100% spent so much time on Dragonspine with the video from yesterday (April 4th) from mihoyo featuring him walking around missing Snezhnaya

6) The multiple frozen statues are a ref to the White Witch from the Narnia series where she froze all her enemies and kept them in a room to look at. Yeesh.

7) and FINALLY (TL;DR at the bottom of this bullet point) (I wrote this chapter before “We Will Be Reunited” quest)

Scaramouche's line of "the stars are a lie" are a direct quote from the Unreconciled Stars event. A lot of veterans of mihoyo games think this references the theory that Teyvat is actually a bubble world either as a part of the Seeds of Sumeru (name also one of the regions in Teyvat) universe from Honkai Impact 3, a sci-fi game, or is just another world in the Imaginary Tree of mihoyo's overarching lore (aka multiverse). The symbol for the abyss and celestia being a tree support this too, plus the mythos of Gnosticism says that a rival divine made a false world to mirror the "true" divine (abyss/celestia?) with Archons ruling over 7 planets.

This is further confirmed in a dev video where one of the characters from HI3 is seen watching Dvalin on a computer screen, stating that Genshin exists parallel to HI3 and has the same rules where if mankind progresses too fast or too far, these beings called Honkai come and wipe them out to restart. Since I PERSONALLY would feel extremely discouraged if Genshin turns into something too sci-fi (takes away from the fantasy appeal imo), I'm taking this to mean that the MC travels multiple worlds exploring while the unknown god is stopping mankind from being too arrogant. The Archons know things about Celestia most don't (maybe why the Tsaritsa wants to rebel), and the MC's twin joined the abyss separately after seeing the cataclysm 500 years ago to probably help the abyss.

The abyss order are all but explicitly confirmed to be the fallen Khaenri'ah turned monsters and the advanced technology we see everywhere with the power to end civilization also belonged to them, if Kaeya's voice lines and item descriptions anything to go by. They used the abyss as a power source "away from the eyes of the gods" that is parallel to Celestia's power. Celestia is preventing any more disruptions to the great cycle by controlling mortals (one piece of lore on the wiki's timeline page directly describes how they used to walk among the earliest human ancestors in Tevyat long before even the gods we know today were born, but mortals are not meant to know that Teyvat's history is cyclical, starting and ending multiple times). I don't think the MC is aware of the fake stars because they're canonically just as confused as Paimon when Scaramouche says that the sky is a hoax. I'm taking my own twist on this for the fanfic with stars being "sentient" or artificially placed (maybe by Celestia?) since the meteorites that fell were someone's old constellation. There are separate stars that follow and affect the Travelers/worlds.

TL;DR: The stars in Teyvat are artificial but the MC canonically didn't know this, the unknown god is trying to prevent uprisings, mortals want to control the heavens instead, the abyss and celestia mirror Gnostic mythos about two divines and 7 Archons, and for the purposes of this fanfic the stars are both separate from and connected to the Travelers.

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fanfic #childe #childe x reader #childe fanfic #aether #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #genshin childe #genshin aether

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here-is-a-story · 3 years

Text

The Road Ahead (finale to the Prince and the Physician)

Once the Physician could kneels by the Prince and hold onto him, he did the first thing that sprang into his head. He held him tightly against his chest and hummed a familiar tune, a song famously sung by the Queen before her passing. Not many people knew of her talents or her past, but she grew up as a simple maid, working around the castle wherever needed, and eventually captured the King’s attention with her beauty. Everyday as she’d tend to her chores she could be heard with a tune, as if music just came from her core, and when she came with child, she would sing to him every moment she could. The moments before her passing at childbirth, she would sing the Prince her song, with a simple, “Remember our songs my dear boy. They will hold you key.”

The Physician himself was only a babe when the Queen passed, but even he could see the impact her music had on the castle staff. Even around the castle with the silence, it was like everything went dull. When they were older and after a day of training the Prince showed the Physician a treasure he’d found. His mother’s songbook with that same note to him. “Remember our songs.”

He picked the first song he could thing of, and hummed the melody, and with time, the Prince came to relax. But even after he’d relaxed the Prince was no where near being good enough to move. So he sat and waited, holding his Prince.

“My legacy means nothing anymore. This kingdom, this crown, all of it lays on bloodshed of beings who deserved better.” The Prince whispered when he regain his composure. His voice was fragile and airy, as if a ghost had sat in his lap rather than a man. “How am I meant to rule a kingdom and be a proud leader when everything we are is lies.”

The Physician looked down at the Prince and couldn’t speak. A display of magic so wild and terrifying, an inner storm and all he could think to say was, “We need to be moving, we’ll need a good enough story before the High Council comes for...whatever those things were.”

The Prince let out a dry laugh and looked up at the Physician, and behind those eyes was no man he’d ever known before. He was a shell of the man he knew, someone who was broken and suffered in pain, as if centuries of torment had filled his being. His face was covered in scratches, probably from going through the glass windows and being dropped into the cave. He stood and carried the Prince at his side, and slowly they walked into the sunlight. The

The Prince hesitated at the entrance, looking around and holding onto himself. He knew what he had done in a moment of anger, of pain. Magic was forbidden in this kingdom, and there was no one to help him. He was a stranger in his own skin, and deep inside himself he could feel the change of his core. He teared up and stepped back into the cave, a cold front quickly starting to take over the surrounding area. So the Physician moved quickly and pulled the boy into the sunlight, and hummed him the song again. He looked the Prince in the eyes, and after a moment he joined in. Together they went through that melody, the Prince singing the words from memory, and eventually the cold faded away. A warmth came forth instead and a gentle breeze came through the village. The Prince, with his eyes closed, continued the song, and in a moment of beauty, wildflowers swept through the air, swirling around them both. He opened his eyes and let out a soft smile, looking around him and feeling that power in him respond to his words.

Our Songs. It had all made sense now. Had his mother known what future lay ahead for her son. She left a songbook behind, but what if it was so much more. In a memory the Prince remembers wanting a music lesson, wanting to remember his mother in more than an old painting and stories. He was given the songs of their kingdom, of the wars and victories they conquered but his father forced him out of them after one lesson.

He was forced out of this recollection by shouting and the thunder of footsteps, for coming their way was a mob. They brandished weapons, swords and daggers, torches and pitchforks and they seemed angry. He could hear them from his spot, but then could feel something deeper. He could sense sadness and anger, then he heard them.

“Where are the foul beasts!?” Oh no. They were looking for him.

He grabbed onto the Physician ready to run, not many people this far from the square and kingdom knew the Prince’s face, and he didn’t exactly look dressed for the part. But when he went to run, he was met with resistance. He looked to the Physician, ready to make a protest, and could only see his face with an unknown expression. He then was grabbed and held tightly, being shoved toward the crowd.

“Witch! We have a Practitioner in our midst and he must be eliminated!” shouted the Physician.

The Prince’s heart went cold and he froze. No. No this couldn’t be. No we were taught stories of the evil of magic and witches but no, that’s not me. The Prince tried to speak but his throat just closed up as the crowd got closer and this betrayal held on. For while they had loved each other, known each other better than anyone, they’d been taught their morals. Magic was evil, it’s wielders were only worse. Corrupted by the forces that posses them, nothing but devils waiting to destroy the kingdom and create chaos in their wake. And that was all the Prince had done. Without even thinking it he’d killed a King and countless of the best warriors of the kingdom. Warriors who dedicated their lives to him.

In that moment all they could do was stare at each other. The Prince, heartbroken and betrayed. The only person he could trust having decided he would be better dead than a witch. And the Physician, with tears in his eyes, of hatred and anger, of fear and worry. All the Prince could do was stare, but he refused to fall apart, not again.

Remember our songs. But this was not his mother. From his core came something more, an echo of an ancient chorus. In this moment it was like he understood. People who had a connection with something greater, persecuted because of that. Inside of him was a history of tragedy and betrayal, treachery from humans who were scared of what they didn’t understand.

How right they’d be.

The Prince ripped himself out of the Physicians arms and turned toward the hoard that gathered a foot away and he opened his mouth. And in that moment it was like a door was opened. Within his mind was generations of ancient texts and knowledge, but none of it made sense to him. He was never much of a studier but instinct was best, and so he let out a cry. Of pain. Anger. Vengeance.

And at his call, the world responded. The earth beneath their feet rumbled and the winds picked up. What was a gentle breeze was suddenly a gale storm, and the rumbled soon erupted into just a nonstop quake. The Prince continued his cry and from within him came the cold again. The mob never stood a chance for what came next. The cold came at such force the villagers were frozen to the ground, crying out in pain at both shock, and feeling their legs break once they stopped but the ground didn't. Then came the monstrous hoard. Only now they came with true purpose. None of the villagers had even a moment to shout as they were torn to bits, their blood bathing the earth. His cry died down as he turned to look at the man he once loved, and laughed. He soiled his trousers. The Prince could feel nothing anymore as he looked at his Physician, the man who showed him love, who he opened himself up to, who he cherished more than anything. The man who was so ready to turn him over to a crowd ready to tear him to bits. He stepped forward and held onto his face, grabbing him by the chin and staring into his eyes.

That was his favorite thing about the Physician. How his eyes were a dazzling mix of sea green. When the sun would hit them at just the right angle they’d become just like the ocean, and after long nights together he would just stare and get lost in them. And in this sunlight here he was again. Lost in those sea green eyes. He opened his eyes and just let a tune ring out from him and he held onto the Physician. He held on as his eyes widened and he held onto his own throat gasping for air. He held on as water came from his lungs, falling and soaking them both. He held on as his eyes begged and pleaded for him to stop, as the fear consumed him. He held on until the love of his life went limp, and only then did he let go. He turned his back on the scene in front of him and stared at the forest surrounding them. Further ahead would be another village. Beyond that was his kingdom. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun and the creatures retreated within him once again, and he walked.

I will never forget our songs. And soon enough, neither will they.

#magic #love #fighting #lgbt #fantasy #story #storytelling #sad #sadending #angst

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uzumaki-rebellion · 4 years

Text

“Stark’s New Intern” Chp. 19

youtube

"When I first saw you You had a sparkle in your eye Like the stars at night High in the sky

How I wish That you were mine 'Cause to me You're one of a kind

When I look at you It seems so untrue How someone like you Can make me feel the way you do"

Cameo—"Sparkle"

"Erik, you here with us, man?"

Walter's keen dark eyes took in Erik's solemn face as they sat in a popular and busy diner on Pico and La Brea eating pancakes and thick cuts of Canadian bacon. Maria and his Aunt Shavonne shared nail care tips to prevent chipping as his Uncle Bakari cut up his food and ate with a contented face.

Erik pushed circles in the maple syrup on his plate and checked the thin cell phone near his half-empty cup of coffee. Devika still wouldn't return the ten or so texts he sent her.

"My mind is scattered, sorry."

Devika ignoring him, and Tony being cryptic had him on edge. He deleted messages from Giselle and Athena wanting another Ménage a Trois encore and looked Walter in the face.

"You still trippin' about earlier?" Walter asked.

"Nah. I'm over that. It's just…I was foul with that and I hurt my girl."

"Your girl? Which one?" Walter joked.

"Shut up," Erik said giving his friend a grin.

Walter's braided hair was pulled up into a palm tree bun.

"My dude, you've always been messy. Nothing's changed. You've leveled up though."

"Leveled up? I ain't never been with any questionable…"

He almost said hoes, but his Uncle was listening.

Walter leaned in closer and whispered.

"You did them both at the same time?"

Erik gave a subtle nod.

"Man…"

Walter chuckled and ate more bacon on his plate.

Erik glanced at his cell again.

"Expecting a call?" Bakari asked.

"Nah. Just checking for work messages. Sometimes Stark sends mass alerts. Gotta keep on top of stuff there. Even on the weekends."

"You look good. We're proud that you stuck with it," Bakari said.

"It turned out better than I thought," Erik said.

His stomach got tight and Maria glanced over at him. He caught her eyes sliding over to Walter.

"How's school man? We spent all this time talking about my internship, what's poppin' back home?" Erik asked.

"I quit."

Walter popped his last piece of bacon in his mouth.

"Walter!" Shavonne scolded.

"Why?" Erik asked.

"It's not for me. School was always your forte man, and I know my parents wanted me to be like you, but my talents are in fashion…textiles."

"Are you a designer?" Maria asked.

"Yeah, I am," Walter said holding her gaze, "I dropped out of SFSU and enrolled in the Fashion Institute. Going to start my own brand of sportswear. Merge tech and clothing together."

"Dope," Erik said giving Walter a pound.

"Call my parents and tell them that," Walter said.

"When we were in grade school, this fool designed bullet-proof clothing for elementary kids," Erik said pushing back his plate.

"A lot of shootings were going down, and I wanted to stay safe."

"That's, wow…that's kind of sad," Maria said.

"That's how it be in the East Bay sometimes," Walter said.

"Everywhere," Shavonne chimed in.

"I start in the fall and I have already lined up my own internship with Trekfit. They're new, hungry, and I can parlay my talents into maybe getting my own stuff out in three or four years."

Erik and Walter shared a joke in Korean and Maria watched them both.

"You speak Korean?" Maria asked Erik.

"Passable—"

"Barely," Walter said.

"Good luck with the educational changes," Bakari said. He stared at his watch, "Are we all ready to hang out at the pier?"

Bakari drove them all in a rental car, and Erik found himself sitting in the middle of a conversation between Walter and Maria. They had only been together for two hours but they already acted like an old married couple. Divisive opinions on anime, gaming, and sticky rice flew across his lap since he sat in between them in the back seat.

The weather was almost perfect, a little too hot as the temperature raised above eighty degrees, but Erik enjoyed strolling on the pier and talking with his Aunt and Uncle. Maria and Walter had paired off to ride the carousel and Erik kept checking his phone.

"Just call her," Bakari said.

His Uncle snacked on chocolate and vanilla soft serve ice cream as his Aunt Shavonne tried to shoot fake ducks for prizes with water guns.

"I saw how she looked at you when she stood at the door. I damn near had a flashback to your Pappy back in school. You actually had the same look on your face. What's her name?"

"Devika."

"You sure do like 'em grown," Bakari said winking at Erik.

"Everyone is older than me there, so I don't really have control over that."

"Walter is right too, those were some boss looking babes. The legacy continues."

"It is what it is Unc. But I didn't mean for that to happen. I was supposed to go see her last night and I just…messed up."

"Protecting yourself?"

"Always."

"Respecting them?"

"Yeah."

"But this Devika?"

"I got caught up and forgot to communicate with her. I wasn't expecting her to show up like that. I'm actually not supposed to be seeing her."

"Why not?"

"She's um…she's Stark's secretary."

"Erik…boy, I tell ya…"

Bakari ate his ice cream and Erik watched his Uncle's face.

The man was heavier in the face and body, and he was happy with Shavonne because it shone all over his face when he looked at her. His uncle treated his wife the way Erik's father treated his mother. Like they were one of a kind. And that was true. He learned how to treat women from his Dad and Bakari. His uncle raised him for six years a couple of years after Erik's parents died. Bakari gave Erik a foundation to rebuild his life when he floundered in the streets and foster care. His uncle begged his Grandpop to give him guardianship so Erik could leave Oakland and be somewhere that wouldn't remind him of the pain he suffered. It worked.

His aunt and uncle made sure Erik stayed connected to Walter and even his friend Shawn whom he met in juvenile hall. Flew them both out every summer and made sure they traveled to Martha's Vineyard for vacations and also allowed him to go to Brazil yearly to visit his cousin Marisol. They gave him life again, and he was eternally grateful. They also made sure to remind him of the special bond his parents had, and if Erik had the same romantic tendencies of his father, Bakari constantly reflected on honest communication.

Devika was beginning to feel special to him, and he couldn't understand how he could be so careless with her. All he had to do was call her and say he was spending some time with the other women and…

He had no real excuse or reason for his behavior. He did want to see her. Craved her even, especially with Tony Stark telling him what he couldn't have. But pitchers of Margaritas and pretty faces hemmed him up. The sex was everything, but now he regretted it.

"I like her Unc. She's been good to me the entire time I was here. She's fine. Smart. I don't know why I fucked up. Sorry for cussing."

"Young people make mistakes."

Erik put his phone away. He wanted to focus on his family.

The rest of his weekend was pleasant and he spent much-needed quality time with Bakari and Shavonne.

Walter spent quality time with Maria.

It was all good.

###

Erik picked out his best new blue suit to wear to Stark's office. Whatever was going down would happen with him looking his best.

He had a fresh line up and brand-new cologne. Eyes tracked him in the lobby of the Stark building and even Valentina did a double-take when she saw him walk past her on his way to the private elevator.

His confidence faded once he reached Stark's floor and he saw Devika through the glass office walls.

Damn that woman beautiful.

She wore thick wash and go curls all over her head, and her make-up was smoky and smooth like her skin. Erik took a deep breath and walked into the room.

"I'm here for Stark's eight—"

"Go in, he's expecting you."

She cut him off without looking at him. He stepped closer to her desk.

"Devika—"

"He's waiting for you."

"I don't have a good excuse. I'm sorry."

Her eyes finally took his in.

"Don't worry about it. We're good."

"It doesn't feel good. You wouldn't even talk to me this weekend."

"You were with family, remember?"

He chewed on his lip trying to keep himself from saying something smart ass to dig at her. He was shocked at how much he wanted her forgiveness. Anyone else he would be tossing to the side like, "Oh well", and then be on to his next conquest, but Devika snuck up on him emotionally. While he had been busy chasing after Giselle and falling in easily with Athena, Devika was just…there. Always there.

All the little things she did for him, the corny jokes they shared each time he was called up to see Stark…reminders to eat or drink water. The donuts to keep his blood sugar up when he worked late…she was a constant source of calm for him during the entire internship. He would be crushed if she iced him for the rest of his time there.

"Just tell me this, is Boss Man about to kick me out?"

"What are you talking about?"

"He called me after you left my apartment and told me my time in the internship was over."

Devika's nose crinkled up and her eyes were full of confusion.

"I haven't heard any talk about putting you out."

That made Erik breathe easier. Devika was the pulse of Stark. Right after Pepper, Devika knew the man better than he knew himself.

"Devika, have you heard from Stevens yet?"

Stark's voice came through on the desk intercom.

"He's walking in now."

She pushed him toward the door.

Entering, Erik was surprised to see Janine and two other upper-level suits sitting in the room.

"Take a seat," Stark said pointing to the only available chair in front of his desk.

Erik unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down with his legs wide apart. Stark fussed with a small touchpad and then finally stared Erik.

"How do you think you've done here, Stevens?" he asked.

Erik's eyes flitted to the other three people next to him and their eyes didn't shy away from his. No one looked down or fidgeted with their hands. Good sign thus far.

"Excellent." Erik shot back at him.

"Excellent? You sure?"

"Yeah. My last eval was stellar. Janine can tell you that. She wrote it up."

A smirk went across Janine's face.

"Do you want to add any addendums to that, Janine?"

Stark folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair.

"No, Sir. The eval speaks for itself."

"Good. Stevens, I'm pulling you from the internship and placing you in the Stark Fellowship starting today. The Fellowship runs for a year and at the end of that year you will be offered a position with Stark Enterprises—"

"Wait, I start M.I.T. next month."

"M.I.T. is willing to defer your entry for next year. You are still a full-ride scholar."

"I would take what he is offering, Erik," Janine said. For once her eyes looked gentle.

Erik sat back in his chair.

Stark's eyes regarded him with amusement.

"Every intern in this entire building would give me their first-born child for the offer I just gave you. And yet you sit here like a lump."

"I appreciate the offer. I just want some time to think about it."

"Think about it?"

One of the suits glared at him.

"Unbelievable," the haughty suit grumbled.

"There's a paid salary, so you'd have to get your own place. No more Oakwood. You'd work directly with me and there will be a lot of travel, covered by the company of course. You have been a stellar young man. The last person to have this opportunity now runs one of my satellite offices in Hong Kong. It's a great opportunity and I want you to have it."

"How much is the salary?"

Tony pushed a blue and silver folder across his desk. Erik picked it up.

"That much, huh? With benefits…health/dental. Paid gym membership…"

Erik's eyes read the offer to the very bottom.

Why not?

Take advantage of being at the side of one of the most powerful and influential men on the planet. Get paid for it, and get access to tech that could help him figure out the vibranium he had stashed in his apartment.

"I'll do it."

"Wise decision young man."

Stark stood up and held out his hand. Erik gripped it firmly.

"Welcome aboard, Stevens. I'll have H.R. get paperwork set up and we'll get you transferred over tomorrow. You'll report to me in the Cypress meeting room tomorrow at ten a.m. I need you to pack up clothing for a week because you are coming with me to Monaco after the Intern party on my yacht."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark."

"Janine, say your goodbyes now, I'm stealing him from you," Stark said.

Janine stood up and gave Erik her hand.

"Keep up the exceptional work," she said.

"If you'll excuse us, Stevens, I need to meet with these folks. We'll talk tomorrow. Clear out your things from Janine's and go see Happy in security to get new clearance."

"Okay."

Erik took the folder with him and walked out of the office.

Devika worked on her laptop and her eyes flickered over to his when he stepped back into the outer office.

"I was offered a new position for a year," Erik said.

A smile. A slight one, but he caught it on her face.

"Congratulations," she said keeping her voice cool.

"I have to go gather my stuff from Janine's floor."

He turned away from her.

"Erik."

"Yeah?"

Devika reached into the large bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bag of donuts for him. He took them from her.

"You worked your ass off all summer. You deserve this opportunity, Erik."

"Thanks."

They stared at one another. Her eyes took in his suit and there was a twinkle in those dark irises. All he could think of was that glorious weekend he spent with her after he got his ass kicked in her home.

He held the donuts up toward her.

"Thanks for this. You're always looking out for me."

"Better get going…get that desk cleared out," she said.

There was awkward staring once more.

What he would give to be brave and kiss her right there at her desk.

"He's taking me to Monaco with him…what was that look for?" he said.

Devika shook her head.

"What?" Erik pushed.

"Monaco is…well, Monaco is a place where Tony tends to get a little wild."

"Is it that bad?"

"No, but it's a playground for the ultra-rich, and the ultra-rich are very different from the basic rich. Put it this way. Millionaires are the double-wides of that set. Multi-millionaires are the working class. The lower working class."

"It's like that, huh?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Maybe you should give me lessons on how to maneuver that world."

"You don't give up, do you?"

He smiled at her and she rolled her eyes.

He walked away from her desk and took a big bite of a hot glazed twist once he was in the elevator headed down to his work-station.

His cell vibrated in his jacket pocket. Taking it out he checked for Stark Alerts. There was only one personal text.

"You are forgiven."

He didn't bother to text her back.

Rushing back up to Stark's outer office and Devika's desk, he grabbed her hand.

"Erik! What are you doing?"

Devika's startled face made him smile.

"Taking you to breakfast, and then we're going back to your place. I have some making up to do."

Chapter 20 HERE.

###

Tag List:

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@thadelightfulone

@allhailqueennel @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky

@raysunshine78 @the-illlestt @terrablaze514 @l-auteuse @amirra88 @jimizwidow @janelledarling

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@scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @bugngiz @stariamrry @honeytoffee @meilintheempressofdreams

@tyees @eye-raq @writerbee-ffs @chocolatedream30 @childishgambinaa @mygirlrenee @thewaysheis—awkward

#Stark's New Intern #killmonger fanfiction #killmonger fanfic #tony stark #black panther fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #uzumaki rebellion's pantherverse

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vegetacide · 5 years

Text

Whump●tober - Embracing Recovery

Veg-notables: Well it was a month in coming but i have finally drawn this whole thing to a close. It’s been quite the trip and the learning experience to boot. Somehow it all wrapped up in a nice tidy package encompassing several story lines into one world completely by accident by there you have it. Something just happen that way.

Many thanks to all those that jumped on this month long whump ride with me and many, many thanks to @gumnut-logic for putting up with me none stop pretty much for the whole duration. Your guidance and support has been very, very much appreciated.. And the mountain loads of candied ammo that was lobbed in my direction. I think I might have a cavity now…

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning: Revelations, hurt, comfort and a resolution of sorts.

Characters: Virgil, Scott, with a dash of Kayo, Gordon and Alan. V/K

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Part 1 Unconscious | Part 2 Shaky Hands | Part 3 Stitches | Part 4 “Don’t move”

30. Recovery & 31. Embrace

Enjoy…

oOo

The moment Virgil stepped foot into the lounge he could feel Scott’s eyes on him and he resisted the urge to roll his own.

“I’m fine, Scott.” He said on reflex as he crossed the space on his way to the stairs. He needed coffee stat and nothing was going to distract him from his goal.

Scott came around the desk, eyes narrowing on Virgil’s face as he headed towards him.

Virgil was well aware of what he looked like and how he felt, thank you very much. He was fresh from a shower, clean shaven and feeling for the first time in a while, well rested. The fact he required coffee to function on any given morning was nothing new and something that decidedly didn’t warranted the frown that was brewing on his brother’s face.

“You’re squinting.”

Now he did roll his eyes and he didn’t care if Scott saw it or not. Turning he trotted down the stairs, Scott hot on his heels.

“Scott, I’m okay. Stop worrying.” Virgil b-lined it for the coffee pot, one though in mind. Most obtain caffeine…

His brother’s hand landed on his shoulder, preventing him from reaching his target just feet from his destination.

“This is really getting a bit much, Scott.” He grumbled and cursed at himself internally for not taking the elevator all the way down the kitchen. Why oh why had he thought that stopping at the lounge on the way was a good idea? Hind sight and all that jazz was bullshit.

“Are you sure?” His brother’s voice sounded worried.

“Yes, it’s just the usual aftermath. Nothing new there, I am always a bit light sensitive for a few days after a migraine, you know this.” Virgil slipped out from under his brother’s grasp, stepped past him and snagged his favourite mug out of the cupboard.

“Any double vision? Blurriness?” Came the expected rapid fire questions as he stalked after him to the coffee pot.

Virgil sighed and didn’t answer right away and concentrated on pouring the aromatic brew. Let his brother stew for a moment, served him right for the mother hen and interrogation routine.

After their lovely discussion the previous morning, Virgil had retreated to his room again, only venturing out around sunset in order to obtain some much needed sustenance and to watch Kayo do her ninja thing on the pool deck.

Thankfully he’d managed to avoid Scott as he had been called away from the island and he’d only had to deal with his very perceptive Grandmother.

That had been an interesting exchange and not one he wished to repeat any time soon. He needed time to wrap his head around things, sort out his emotions and if that meant doing everything in his power to be on the opposite side of the island from everyone else.. So be it.

Except there was his very real need for coffee and due to that vice he had risked the trip down from his room. It was apparently evident that Lady Luck was so not in his corner this fine morning.

Satisfied that his cup had reached its maximum capacity, he lifted it to his lips and took his first sip of the day.

Scolding, hot and deliciously rich, the flavour flowed over his taste buds and sung the song of the caffeine addicted. A thrum of ecstasy fired up his neurons and the pleasure centre of his brain lit up like a Christmas tree. Oh sweet Baby Jeebus, he bit back on the joyful moan as his need was finally sated.

Then his brother’s tapping foot finally registered.

Drawing in a breathe to anchor is growing antipathy, he finally graced his overly anxious sibling with an answer. “No double vision or blurriness. Like I said, I’m fine. Let it go, Scott.”

His brother’s arms crossed over his chest, eyes still inspecting. Searching for any sign of deceit in his answer.

The trust they shared had been rocked and Virgil was well aware that this was the price of his actions. Something he was going to have to learn to deal with but right now… there was coffee..

Sipping away quietly for a few minutes, he let his brother continue staring at him, assessing the minutia of his movements and facial expression with a bored air of one well used to an over protective big brother filling in the very large shoes of their Father.

His patience lasted a lot longer than he thought it would.

“You look tired still, you get enough sleep? “

That did it, patience quota reached. Completely maxed out.

“Jesus… Scott. Stop it. I’m fine.” Putting his mug down with a little more force than he intended he marked off points on his fingers. “I have slept, done pretty much nothing but since I crashed out in Two. I have eaten enough food to satiate a small army. I am more hydrated than even the Fish right now and that is saying something considering he basically lives in the pool. There is no pain and my vision is fine. “

His brother looked like he was about to say something but Virgil put up a hand to stop him.

“No.” He sighed, hands on his hips as his head dropped down. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten to reign in his ire.

“Look, Scott…” He started, stalled out. Gave his doubt the middle finger and plowed on. “Globalmax was over a year ago and you can stop hovering now, I’m not going to break. Sure I get the odd migraine but that’s it. Pack it in, let it go

Scott’s face shifted, darkened. Eyes narrowed, he poked a finger into Virgil’s face. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“What…?” Confused all to hell at the change in his brother, Virgil’s brow furrowed.

“Kind of the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Scott’s temper flared and it had Virgil adjusting his stance to square off against the gale force that had surged into the kitchen. “You telling me to let it go when you can’t do the same. You act like I haven’t clued into what you’ve been doing the last few weeks ever since I put Gordon back on active duty.”

Virgil’s face blanched, his defenses suddenly evaporating in the face of Scott’s accusation and he stood dumbfounded.

“I…”

“You what?” Scott stepped up to him, all righteous anger and indignation but Virgil didn’t know how to respond. Caught off guard by his brother’s fury and being found out so easily, words completely abandoned him.

Scott seemed to catch himself and forced himself to step off, to back up. Temper radiated out of him in waves but he clamped his control down hard on it and closed off as he reeled himself in.

“Ya, just like I thought. You can preach to me about letting things go but I sent you in to that plant. I was the one that put you in harm’s way and we came damn close to losing you. Almost did had it not been for a fleet of stubborn ass doctors set on keeping your heart going.”

His voice hitched at the end and he had to put some physical distance between them, long legs taking him across the kitchen around the table and back again.

He paced a few more steps and stopped, the counter between them. “Just like you did sending Gordon in after Braman at the Calypso crash site.

The words hung like a stinking carcass in the air and Virgil’s chest heaved, breathing in the hot, foul stench of it.

Pulse kicking he tried to come up with excuses, tried to think around what Scott had tossed to callously in front of him but he couldn’t see a way around it. There was no avoiding it when it was strung up with flashing lights right in front of your face like some damn garish marquee sign at a theatre.

“You..you don’t understand.”

"Try it, make me understand.” Scott’s voice grew soft though his posture still screamed unrestrained agitation.

Virgil drew in a breath, thought a moment, blew back out again as his mind tossed out and rejected several responses. Finally he settled on one. “He’s my co-pilot.” As if that should be answer enough.

Like those three words could explain the whole of it. That Gordon was more than a passenger along for a ride in Two. He was his partner on missions, his back up when he was unable to take the controls himself, his goofy baby brother, his responsibility…

Virgil had been well aware of the dangers out here, all those feet below the ocean surface under all that atmospheric pressure of millions and millions of gallons of water but he’d still let him go. Even with the nagging feeling in the back of his head that something didn’t feel right but they were International Rescue so they did what their Father’s legacy dictated.

Even if just for a machine, an automaton that had been broadcasting on all their frequencies for hours on end. He let his baby brother go, and he’d nearly ended up dead.

Left to die at the bottom of the ocean, crushed beneath a mountain of a crumbled volcanic stack like his life meant nothing. Like he was just an irritant that needed to be swatted away and was done so carelessly and with such disregard for everything their family stood for. Everything they had spent the better part of their adult lives striving to achieve.

Hovering above the ocean waiting for some news, seeing the broken body sprawled unmoving across a med-bay gurney had torn a hole through Virgil that he hadn’t been able to fill in all the time since. An aching pit of guilt and despair that he had thought he could handle, hide away in some dark corner of his mind.

It had only grown and festered, like an untreated wound. Kept him up at night with visions of alternate outcomes. Of vaguely remember funerals, caskets draped in white flowers and the somber words.

Kayo had clicked into the fact that something was wrong months ago maybe Scott had too. The concerned etched on his face now mirrored her own every time he looked at her but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to burden them with this. So to throw Kayo off the trail he’d tossed something else at her feet. Hoping that it would be enough to waylay her.

The message from Bramen about their Father being alive. He hadn’t lied to her about his feelings but he hadn’t supplied her with the whole of it. The omission hadn’t been easy and the guilt of that had compounded all the rest, but he had stood firm in visage even though he was crumbling just like that stack on the inside.

As for Scott, he’d just closed himself off. Withdrawn and buried himself in work and good intentions

The stim-tabs had come in handy and as he looked down at his trembling hand he knew, he’d gone way too far with it. All Scott had to do was look back through all of Two’s records to see how far he’d fallen.

Scott had a right to be concerned and Kayo had a right to her tears.

Clenching his fist, he forced himself to answer no matter how painful it was. “He should never have been down there on his own. I should have gone with him.”

“So you could do what exactly?” Scott moved, settled on a stool at the counter, in for the long haul if that was what it was going to take. “Gordon knows what he’s doing better than any of us. He was WASP. He has more qualification for underwater rescue than all of us combined. He is always aware of the dangers every time he heads out there but he accepts it.

Scoot looked to the counter, his fingers playing through the cooling puddle of coffee left there by Virgil’s careless handling. “You can’t stop him from going out there, Virg... “ His words stopped short as the sounds of voices and stomping feet came thundering down the stairs.

Inane chatter about some video game or another bounced around the lofty ceiling and abruptly came to a halt when the aquanaut in question came up short at the end of the flight, Alan nearly running into the back of him.

“The fuck, Gordon? Why’d you sto….?” Alan’s inquiry drifted off as he took in the open air kitchen and instantly picked up on the heaviness that clogged the space.

“What’s up?” Gordon asked as two pair of serious eyes turned his way. One carrying more worry and guilt then it appeared Gordon cared for and the other, frustration at whatever was going on being interrupted. His own gaze darted back and forth between his older siblings with some trepidation. “Who died?”

Virgil turned away, walked over to the large, open patio and leaned his bulk against the thick clear blast door where it nested by its stationary counterpart.

Scott sighed, and Virgil pictured him standing with his hands braced on his hips and his head shaking back and forth is annoyance"Gordon.."

"What?"He asked completely oblivious to what his words had invoked.

Virgil listened to the exchange behind him with only half an ear and watched the play of light across the rippling water of the pool.

Gordon's oblivion question had been more poignant they he knew his brother had meant. It had struck the chord of the conversation and the image of his still, unresponsive body in Two echoed through his mind with a clarity that made Virgil shudder.

It was early in the day still so the oppressive heat this time of year usually drummed up hadn't yet settled over the island yet.

There was a breeze whispering through the fronds of the palms and rustling the long strands of ornamental grasses that boarded the patio in quaint little arrangements that Virgil knew his Father had installed as homage to the woman who so loved to garden when they were little.

The cadence of the conversation behind changed and his pushed his focus back inside to the room as Gordon's voice rose.

"Oh well..it looks like the adults are talking so we better run off and play like good little boys."

"Gordon,. That's not what I meant.".

"Than what did you mean?" He demanded facing off with Scott glare for glare.

When Scott failed to answer, the currently land bound human-fish bristled and turned his sights on Virgil.

Virgil’s mouth gaped a moment as he floundered but he didn't get a chance to respond as Kayo appeared at his elbow, her hand resting a moment on the base of his spine in a gesture of support before she slipped around him and over to Gordon.

Her voice was pitched in such a way that they could all hear her words. "I just got word that Lady P in inbound. Should be here soon."

Gordon’s attention was instantaneously redirected. “Penny’s coming here?”

Kay nodded, “About ten minutes out. Sad something about a reef project she is working on.”

“Ya, she mentioned that to me last week. I didn’t think they would move so fast on it..”

The distraction work and in short order Gordon was back up the stairs and out of the room.

Alan remained behind, gaze ping ponging between all those gathered in the familiar space. A little lost as to what to do and where to go now that Gordon was off chasing after her Ladyship. “Sooooooo…?” He ventured.

Kayo took pity on him, grabbed a bag of oatmeal cookies from the pantry and gave the pair of them a look, her eyes lingering on Virgil as she turned and walked back over to Alan. “Hey, why don’t you show me that new Zombie game you’ve been going on about?”

Alan blinked, shifted awkwardly on his feet as he absorbed the rising tension in the room again and was unsure what to do about it. It was obvious from his pinched expression that he was well aware that things were far from alright between his two biggest brothers.

“Everything okay?” He asked instead as Kayo came up to him.

She glanced back at Virgil as if she was interested in the answer to the question as well.

Virgil’s large chest expanded on an inhalation before he took the reins. “It’s cool, Alan. Don’t worry about it.”

Alan didn’t look convinced and neither did Kayo but she nodded in return.

There would be words later, Virgil knew but for now she would back off and leave them to sort themselves out.

“If you say so…” And the pair of them disappeared up the stairs.

The kitchen grew quiet with their absence, the only sound that of the wind through the palms and a few wild birds that called the island home.

“Listen,” Scott was the first to break the stillness and Virgil peered back over his shoulder so Scott knew he was doing just that. “All I am saying is that I understand where you are coming from. I’ve been there. Am there, every day. Every time a call comes in and I have to send one of you out there to do the impossible because it seems like no one else can, I’m right there where you are now. I have to live with that. Remind myself that not only did I pick this life but you all did too. You know the risks, just trust that they know the risks too and remember that you are not alone.

He came up to Virgil bumped his shoulder against his companionably. “And if things ever get too hard, too much there are those on this island that are more than willing to help and if not here,” His head inclined towards the ocean, towards the world at large, “There are plenty of people out there that owe us a few things and would jump at the chance to return the favour.“

Virgil absorbed what was being offered and finally for the first time in days, months really the weight on his shoulders lifted.

He chuckled slightly as a thought came to mind and just like that the tension was gone, the animosity and outrage and all the negative crap that went along with it up and left.

“What?” Scott asked a quizzical look popping his brow up in confusion,

“How in the hell do you put up with all of this? All of us?”

Scott grinned back, the devil in his smile. “Dad’s private stash of Scotch… lots of Scotch.”

The sun was shifting outside as it made its way across the sky and a spear of light bounced off the pool which made Virgil blink, that fact that nothing speared into his brain with the flash of light didn’t go unnoticed by him. Time took care of all things and it seemed the worst of everything had come to pass.

The band-aid holding everything back had been torn off, the wound free to breathe and hopefully to heal now that all those party to it existence had lanced it of the festering poison that was rotting away at its core.

The disinfectant that family supplied, was to be applied liberally and eventually all that would be left was a fading scar and life would go on.

His smile widened and grew broader as the future finally started to look brighter and he slung an arm over Scott’s shoulder, pulling him in for an unexpected hug which his brother reciprocated wholeheartedly.

“It might be early but somewhere in the world it’s not. Let’s go find that scotch.”

oOo

The End.

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

#whumptober2019 #whumptober #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds fanfic #no.30 #no.31 #Recovery #Embrace #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Kayo Kyrano #Gordon Tracy #Alan Tracy #virgil/kayo #the end is here #on to #fluffember

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 6 months

Note

AUGHHHH look I live laugh love Legacy but Childe got me thinking...

So you know how Legacy often hijacks Childe to do stuff when he wants out???

Childe hijacking Legacy because he wants to say "i love you too" back :')

And Legacy not even minding one bit because he desperately wants you to know that yesss that's what he means ToT

Wifi I am inconsolably in love with both of them :')

oh. my. goodness. comrade, i cannot tell you how this thought has wormed and nestled into my brain oh my god this is amazing

just imagine, you snuggling with Foul Legacy, your back pressed against his chest and his arms around your waist. it's a quiet, peaceful sort of cuddling, the type that needs no words except your drowsy mumbles that you love them; Childe and Foul Legacy. you feel Legacy's claws tighten slightly around you, nuzzling his face against your neck, and carefully you tilt your head back so you can cup his plated cheeks, looking at him upside down. with a sleepy smile and a content gleam in your eyes, you say that you love him, enunciating each word as clearly as you can, and you feel Legacy's wings begin to rapidly flutter around you as he chirps; once, twice, thrice

suddenly there's a poof and a shift in the atmosphere, the arms around your waist now considerably smaller and less sharp as Childe hums, his nose buried in your hair. he turns you around so you're face-to-face, leaving light kisses as random as his freckles on your cheeks and forehead. the soft pecks make you laugh in surprise, Childe wrapping his scarf around both of you so he can hug you even closer, a subtle sparkle in his usually dim eyes as he leans closer and presses his forehead to yours

"I love you, too."

a smile spreads across your face, cheeks warm, and you give Childe's hands a light squeeze, his fingers lacing with yours as he smiles back, bright as the sun. Foul Legacy purrs steadily in his mind, not at all angry, and the Eleventh Harbinger feels finally at peace

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #chit chat #darling mutuals #oh oh since they can sense each other's emotions if one of them is feeling really bad the other lets them have free reign over the body #usually so they can cuddle up with you #most of the time it's really funny though #a game of who can hijack the body quickest #you're considering keeping a tally at this point #short scenario #other's stuff #good evening :)

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pug-bitch · 5 years

Text

That’s not why I’m going (26)

Yass Kween, right?

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Drake Walker x Amara Suarez

Rating: some foul language, some extremely suggestive, and a steamy scene. This is absolutely NOT appropriate for people under 18.

Word count: around 4,900 (let me know if the ‘keep reading’ cutoff isn’t working well!)

Notes: This picks up pretty much where we left off, during first night in the cabin (yes I am taking my sweet time writing the happier parts, after everything our little guys have been through!), starting with Drake’s POV.

*****

Drake sighs wistfully. He can’t sleep, but not because he’s stressed out. On the contrary, he’s too blissful to sleep, and he didn’t even know that was an option. He looks at Amara, who is peacefully asleep next to him. They made love three times, once outside, and twice upstairs, in his bed. Suddenly, it dawns on Drake that he’d never had sex in this bed. Always at the palace. In fact, he’d never brought a woman back here. Too intimate. Now he’s grateful; it only makes this night more special. He pushes a strand of hair away from Amara’s face so he can see her better. He feels like a creep for a second, watching he sleep, but he just loves her face so much. And seeing her like this, relaxed and asleep, makes him feel at peace. No comparison with the nightmares she used to have. Or maybe still has, PTSD doesn’t go away like that. But at least it has calmed down.

Drake hopes her stress doesn’t come back running when they get back to court. He loves Portavira, even Penelope’s parents’ estate is quiet and beautiful, no frills. But he just wishes they could both stay here. Maybe they could, someday? It feels like such a pipe dream.

First, they have to get through the last week of the competition. Drake shudders, remembering the last competition, when Leo had to propose to Madeleine and then skipped town, wreaking havoc on everything. Would it be as bad this time? Probably. Ever since Drake was with Amara and had snapped at Liam several times, he had no idea what was going through his mind. No more late night chats, no more confidence. Did he miss it? Sure, but nothing he can do about it now. Liam had been a dick to Amara a few weeks ago, and even if he was a lot better, it still doesn’t excuse everything he’s said and done. Drake simply doesn’t know if he can just go back to normal. They would hopefully stay friends, if Drake and Amara played their cards right and announced their relationship in a timely manner. But best friends again? Probably not.

Drake feels a pang in his chest just thinking back on all the moments Liam had been there for him and vice versa.

No more, he thinks. This is not the time to turn this happy night into a stressful one. He’d deal with everything another day. Maybe it would be a catastrophe --probably would be-- but right now, all he wants to do is keep snuggling with Amara.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Shit, he thinks. Hopefully Amara doesn’t wake up. He grabs it and sees a text.

Amara is lovely, Drake. Well done. It was good talking to you today, you look happy. I love you.

His mom never said anything this nice, not anymore, not since Dad had passed and Sav had left, and Drake had closed himself up. He could tell how much his mom had taken to Amara. Of course she would, Amara is the Sun. Easy to talk to, smart, funny. Hauntingly beautiful. God, he loves her.

Insightful, too. She’d hit the nail on the head a couple months ago, when they had talked about Drake’s mom having remarried and how it had made him feel. He starts typing.

Love you too, Mom. Happy you like her. I like her too...a lot. Give my best to Barry.

His mom instantly replies, visibly excited given the speed at which she typed the second message.

Barry says hi too!!!!!!!!! We both want to see you soon!!!

So many exclamation points. Maybe because to this day, Drake had never acknowledged his stepdad via text, except for the odd text for birthdays.

He puts the phone down and starts closing his eyes, hoping to join Amara in slumber soon.

*****

‘You can’t sleep either?’ Maxwell whispers, approaching his brother in the family room.

‘Oh, Maxwell, you scared me,’ he says, startled.

‘Sorry,’ Max mutters, stifling a smile. His brother is wearing a burgundy satin robe, and matching slippers. He’s sitting on the couch, his back perfectly straight, his legs crossed in his tweed pyjama pants. As he sees Maxwell come in, Bertrand tightens the tie of his robe, and Maxwell realizes that there are gold tassels on each end of the rope. He chuckles on the inside, remembering the one time Amara had asked him if Bertrand sleeps in a Victorian nightgown. This is almost worse. All he’s missing is a pipe. And maybe 30 years added to his age.

‘Do you want to sit down with me?’ Bertrand asks. As Max sits, he wishes he could take a picture of the robe and slippers to send it to Amara.

‘Are you ok?’ Max asks, forcing himself to be serious again.

‘I’m fine,’ Bertrand smiles weakly. ‘Just...thinking, you know.’

Max nods. ‘I know. Me too. I’ve been thinking about Mom and Dad a lot, and… this explains many things.’

‘It does. I’m sorry for keeping this from you for so long, Maxxie.’

Tears threaten to fall from Maxwell’s eyes. Years since Bertrand had called him Maxxie. ‘It’s ok, I get it. You were doing this to honor Dad’s memory.’ What’s Max’s excuse for keeping the Bartie secret from Bertrand? He knows he promised Dramara to hold on until they find her and get her side of the story, but he longs to be close to his brother again. The secrets are driving an invisible wedge between them.

‘Still,’ Bertrand whispers. ‘I’m sorry, Maxxie. Can you forgive me?’

‘Of course. We’re brothers. The Beaumont Boys. Nothing can keep us apart!’

Bertrand chuckles. ‘We are not boys, Maxwell.’

Max eyes him from head to toe. ‘No doubt about that, given what you’re wearing.’

Bertrand dismisses him with a hand gesture. ‘Oh stop. How is Hana holding up? She seemed well at dinner.’

‘She’s fine. Brave. Relieved. Strong. All of those adjectives. I can’t wait til tomorrow when we get to go hang out at the Walkers’ cabin. You sure you don’t want to come?’

Bertrand shakes his head. ‘I can’t. I’m meeting with Liam, remember?’

Shit, Max thinks. He really isn’t being a considerate brother right now. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, there’s no need, really. I would like to see you for maybe an hour tomorrow morning before you head to Portavira though, to convene of a plan that I can relay to Liam. You know, weigh some options.’

‘Of course! We’ll get coffee and discuss it.’

‘Great. Also… I think maybe we should both let Albert go, when all of this is said and done. Together, you know. To strengthen the Beaumont name and show that we are both proud of our father’s legacy.’

‘Yass Kween,’ Max says excitedly. He loves that Bertrand thinks of everything, from every angle.

Bertrand looks at him, confused. ‘Qu...queen? You mean Queen Regina?’

Max bursts out laughing. ‘No, Bertrand, it’s an expression! I’m just saying ‘Yass Kween’ to you, as in I love your idea.’

Bertrand squints. ‘So...I’m the queen in this scenario?’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t get it, Maxxie.’

Max shrugs, grabs the remote, and fires up Netflix. ‘Oh well, since we’re both up, let’s just watch some Queer Eye, maybe then you’ll get it.’

*****

Liv wakes up in a sweat. She didn’t even realize that she had fallen asleep. She was awakened by a nightmare, the same recurring one for over twenty years: she’s a little girl, watching her parents disappear like holograms, unable to hold on to their hands.

She shakes her head and assesses her surroundings. Too much vodka last night.

She jumps at the sight of Rashad, sound asleep on her ottoman. So, they’d both passed out. Great.

She looks at the clock, it’s past 2am now. She gets up to pour herself a glass of water from the bathroom sink and shakes Rashad awake.

‘Wake up, Domvallier. We fell asleep.’

He jumps up, startled. ‘Huh?’

‘You’re on my ottoman. You should go.’

Rashad wipes his eyes, and slowly comes to. ‘Oh God, Liv, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your space.’ He gets up hastily, and her heart sinks a bit. So, he did find her terrifying after all.

‘Hey, don’t worry, we just got too drunk and watched too many episodes.’

He starts washing his dirty glass and putting away the blanket he was using. Liv can’t believe he’s tidying up.

‘Leave it, I’ll do it. Thanks, though.’

He smiles and nods. ‘Thanks for the company, Nevrakis. It was a thousand times better than dinner would have been. Good night.’

Before she has time to respond, he’s out the door. She locks it behind him, gets out of her dress, and into bed. A strange feeling invades her. What is that? It feels warm, oddly normal and comforting. Like a blanket.

What the hell is she thinking? A fucking blanket? What happened, did this whole photo leak turn her into a pathetic mass of feelings? Stupid.

Regardless, she had a good night.

*****

Amara awakens to the sound of birds chirping at the window. She turns around, and sees Drake still spooning her, half asleep.

‘Morning, Suarez,’ he mutters, still sleepy.

‘Morning, Walker!’

She plants a kiss on his mouth, and he lingers a bit, kissing her deeper. God, she loves his kisses. He pulls her closer, their lips firmly tangled together, until she straddles him. She feels his cock between her legs, and she instantly feels herself get wetter and wetter. He smiles at her through their kiss, and lets out a soft moan as she rubs herself onto his hard cock. She wants to take her time, though. Thoroughly enjoy the morning with him. Feel his naked body against hers, truly feel him close.

They make love lazily, tenderly, for a long time. When they part, Amara nuzzles in Drake’s arms, comfortable and happy. ‘Can we stay here forever, please?’

Drake chuckles, kissing her head. ‘I wish, babe. Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a fucking baby. I even had nice dreams!’

He smiles at her, and she feels like her heart might explode. ‘You did? What did you dream of?’

‘Just some nice sceneries, some beaches, a quiet lakefront, and...you.’

He smiles again, a bright smile that shines on her like a Sun. ‘I’m glad you’re comfortable here.’

‘Oh, I am. So comfortable. Thanks for having me, Drake.’

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I can honestly say that I’ve never been happier.’

As if on purpose, Drake’s phone aggressively vibrates, and makes Amara jump with surprise.

Drake frowns and glances at it, with no visible plan to pick up. ‘It’s Liam,’ he says, his voice void of any enthusiasm.

‘Oh…’ Amara says, unable to say anything else.

‘I’m not picking up.’

She nods, silent. She almost says that he should, just so Liam doesn’t get suspicious. But right now, she doesn’t really care. ‘I’m excited to see the guys, but I’m gonna miss our alone time…’

Drake kisses her lips. ‘I am too… It’s been really nice to be away from the world. But I guess I--nevermind.’

She sits up, curious. ‘No no, tell me!’

Drake puts his head in his hands. ‘Ugh, I’m so lame. I was gonna say that I’m kind of excited about um…’ He pauses, and continues in a whisper. ‘Entertaining.’

Amara’s face lights up. She loves seeing him like this. He told her, weeks ago, that his dream was to open a small restaurant, and she can see why. He beams when he’s making his own food. And it doesn’t hurt that his cooking is absolutely delicious. She strokes his hair. ‘It’s not lame at all, it’s actually really sweet. And Drake?’

‘Hm?’

‘I love you.’

He pulls her closer, until her head rests against his chest again. ‘I love you too, Suarez. So fucking much.’

*****

Liam didn’t sleep at all. Well, maybe a little bit. Not much. He thought about what Madeleine had told him, and about his lack of agency in all that. About his father, who would probably not be around for much longer. About Amara, who didn’t reciprocate his feelings. About Olivia, who probably fucked her bodyguard to spite him. And about Drake, his best friend in the world, whom he really needed right now.

He waited until a decent time to call. A few weeks earlier, he wouldn’t have hesitated to call him at 4am if he needed to talk. But not now. Why, though? What happened to them that they didn’t even talk to each other anymore? Drake had been supportive enough, but probably just the bare minimum for someone who was like family. Liam missed him.

So, he called him as soon as it was appropriate. He figured, since he was at Ramsford, he was probably up early, what with Maxwell being a walking alarm clock.

But Drake hadn’t answered.

He tried again, several times, but no luck. He hesitated a bit, and after a quick look in his bathroom mirror, he realizes he cannot just stay with his own thoughts all day. He needs to be with his friends, even if only for a few hours. He needs to be at the Palace in the early afternoon for some meetings, including one with Bertrand, and at night he has a one-on-one with Kiara. But he has a couple of hours to kill.

He dials his phone.

‘Your Highness.’

Bastien always picks up right away. ‘Bastien, hello. Could you please take out the car? I need to go to Ramsford.’

*****

‘Do you think we need to bring her any nail polish?’

Maxwell was in charge of packing Amara’s suitcase, but Hana had insisted on helping him out. She responds right away, ‘Yes, I think so. What if hers is chipped? We did our nails together a couple of days ago already, so she may need some. Pack her light gray one, and also a bolder color. Oh, and her remover.’

Hana was carefully packing Amara’s dresses into a small suitcase. Enough formal wear for Penelope’s estate tomorrow and the day after, and some casual dresses, jeans, and a sweater for downtime. Heels, and her Steve Madden slip-ons. Hana was used to packing all the right things. She was used to doing all the right things.

She closes the suitcase, after Max hands her the toiletry bag that he has just made up. She sits on the bed, taking a breath to think about the amazing friendships she’s made here. She definitely does not want to go home, not anytime soon. Maybe she’s ready to come out to her parents, but she does not want to be under their control anymore. She wishes she could stay here, with the Beaumonts, or with Amara. But after the competition, there is something else she needs to do. If she doesn’t, she’ll have regrets for the rest of her life. She’ll gather all the strength she has, and go to London to see if she still has a chance, or if she truly messed up years ago.

She is drawn from her daydream by Max, who is gently tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. ‘What’s on your mind, baby girl?’

She smiles and shrugs. ‘Nothing much… I’m excited about tonight.’

Max beams. ‘Me too! You’ll see, the Walker cabin is beautiful, and so quiet, you will love it so much.’

She nods, ‘I can’t wait. I also really want to see Drake and Amara again. It’s weird without them.’

‘You mean Dramara?’

Hana laughs heartily, ‘If you say so!’

They both go back downstairs, where Bertrand awaits them for brunch. As they are all seated on the patio, digging into their frittatas, they see Liam’s towncar pull up. Hana’s heart jumps in her chest, and she looks over to Max, who looks agitated. Liam thinks Drake and Amara are here, what is he going to think when he sees that they are both gone?

Liam gets out of the car, and Hana cannot help but think that he looks terrible. Has he been sleeping? He certainly hasn’t been shaving today, or washing his hair.

‘Good morning, friends!’ he says as he approaches them. ‘Sorry for barging in, I was hoping I could see Drake.’

Maxwell regains his composure and responds, ‘Good morning Liam, please join us for brunch! Unfortunately Drake isn’t here, he had to go to his cabin to deal with something.’

Liam nods, but Hana can’t tell if he believed Max. ‘Oh ok, that would probably explain why he’s not answering his phone. I’d love to join for brunch, thank you Maxwell.’

He comes onto the patio and takes a seat at the table. Max gets up to fetch him a plate. The Beaumonts had dismissed their staff for a few days after they realized that one of their employees must have taken Liv’s phone. They were planning to question them as soon as possible, and in the meantime, they were getting by without help. Bertrand’s frittata was surprisingly good, though.

When Max comes back with Liam’s plate, they all bid each other bon appétit and start eating again. Liam, visibly surprised, asks, ‘Oh, aren’t we waiting for Amara?’

Oh God, Hana thinks. She has to think on her feet, think of something, anything.

As she’s about to open her mouth and improvise, Bertrand chimes in, sounding incredibly natural. ‘Lady Amara is in her bedroom, she has a migraine. She asked not to be disturbed, she needs to be in complete darkness.’

Damn, Bertrand, Hana thinks. How did he think on his feet so fast?

‘Goodness,’ Liam says, visibly convinced. ‘That’s too bad, poor Amara. Well, I’ll see her in Portavira tomorrow I hope.’

Bertrand flashes a bright smile. ‘I sure hope so! Those intense migraines ought to go away after a day, I’m sure.’

They finish their brunch all the while making small talk, all carefully avoiding the main topics at court. No one is even remotely mentioning Olivia or Madeleine or anything like that. Just pleasant, completely phony conversation.

As Liam gets ready to leave, Hana offers to accompany him to his car, which he gladly accepts. Once they are alone, she asks him, ‘Liam, are you ok?’

He chuckles, ‘I look like shit, don’t I?’

Hana is surprised to hear him curse. He’s always seen him very prim and proper, except when he was propositioning Amara. This time, it’s different. He really doesn’t look well. Still, she lies, ‘No, you look great! You just seem… preoccupied.’

He sighs and looks her in the eye. ‘I have no idea what I’m going to do, Hana. Truly no idea.’

Hana squeezes his arm and says, ‘If you need to talk about it, maybe you and I could grab coffee in Portavira tomorrow? Just a friend date, so you can put all your thoughts out there.’

He smiles, ‘I’d like that very much.’

Once Liam gone, she heads back inside, where the Beaumonts are finishing up their coffee in silence. She can tell that Max is dying to ask Bertrand about his lie, but is containing himself. Still, Hana wants to know. She needs to be bolder, just like she has been recently. So, she asks, ‘Bertrand, can I ask you something?’

He takes one last sip of his coffee and says matter-of-factly, ‘I had to make something up. I couldn’t let Liam get suspicious.’

Hana’s jaw drops. ‘What--what do you mean?’

Bertrand smiles faintly. ‘I’m not blind, Hana. I see what’s going on. I just don’t think Liam needs to know right now.’

Max’s eyes are the size of cantaloupes. ‘What do you mean you know what’s going on?’

‘Come on, Maxxie. Drake and Amara. It’s obvious.’

Max shakes his head and asks hesitantly, ‘You’re--you’re not mad?’

Bertrand snorts, ‘Oh dear, do you really see me as a grumpy old man who can’t rejoice for two people in love?’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Plus, with all the crap that’s raining on us right now, it’s nice that at least two of us are happy. Yass Kween, right Max?’

*****

‘Drake, can you come here?’

Drake is setting up their lunch table in the backyard, when Amara calls him from the kitchen. ‘Coming!’ he says.

‘I can’t find the baking powder, could you point me to it?’

He smiles, and digs deep in the cupboard where the baking powder is behind a bunch of cans. ‘Here you go, babe. How’s the batter going?’

She smiles excitedly. ‘Great! I cut the pineapple in little pieces, and plus I found some coconut shavings in your pantry, so I’m adding that to the cake.’

He chuckles as he sees that her face is covered with flour. She must not be very gentle when mixing her batter. ‘Where’s your phone? I gotta take a picture of your face right now, it’s priceless!’

‘Oh come on,’ she says, attemting to wipe her face. ‘It’s over there, if you insist on making fun of me.’

He picks up her phone, and notices the multiple missed calls. ‘Um, Amara? Did you see this?’

‘Hm?’ she asks absentmindedly, adding the baking powder to her mixing bowl.

He shows her her phone. ‘Michael. He called you eight times, just today, and it’s only like 6am in New York.’

He hates himself right away for bringing it up, when he sees the cloud loom over her eyes. ‘I know. I’m just not ready to talk to him.’

Drake nods. ‘I get it. He texted you, too, you don’t want to at least read what he wrote?’

‘No,’ she says curtly. ‘I know he’s going to apologize, that’s what my dad said. I don’t want to hear it now, I don’t want to think about it. I’ll deal with it another time.’ She pauses. ‘I know what it must look like.’

He closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around her. ‘It looks like you’re hurting and I want to help you get better, because I love you.’

She nods, obviously fighting back tears. ‘I love you too. I appreciate you wanting to help me…’

‘Hey, you’re helping me find my sister. we have each other’s backs, ok?’

‘Fair. But the situation with your sister is promising. It holds hope. My situation with Michael is fucked. He will never see me as his sister ever again. I’ll always be the person who failed his entire family.’

Drake holds her tighter. ‘I hope you know that it’s not true. Remember what your father said. Forgive yourself.’

She nods and offers a faint smile. ‘I’m trying, Drake. I really, really am. But for right now, I think the best way for me to do that is to keep some distance between me and Michael. It hurts us both too much. Hopefully someday…’

She trails off, plants a kiss on Drake’s lips, and continues mixing her batter. Drake watches her intently, his heart aching for her. He wants to take away the pain. But really, he’s probably making it worse, comparing her situation to his own with Sav. Sav is alive, and Drake will, hopefully, see his little sister soon.

Amara will never see her brother again.

But Drake can’t help but think about what she had told him about her bond with Michael. That they used to be like siblings. He hopes that, one day, she finds this bond again.

‘Do you want a beer with lunch?’ he asks, trying to lighten the mood.

Without looking up from her mixing bowl, which should be completely mixed by now, she says ‘Sure, if you’re having one.’

*****

Amara doesn’t want to ruin the moment. No, on the contrary, these moments spent with Drake in the cabin are so special, so happy, that she wants nothing more than to enjoy them. But she has a lump in her throat now, that she can’t swallow just yet. Not Drake’s fault, not at all. He doesn’t understand completely, how could he? He’s lost people he loved, of course, but not by his own fault. Not in circumstances that he could have avoided.

He understands her well otherwise. She’s never had a connection like this one in her life, not ever. She knows what he’s trying to do, too. He wants her to reconnect with Michael and find the sibling connection that they lost along with Sergio. But she knows that she can’t force that. They both need the space, even if Michael isn’t aware of it right now.

She wonders for a second if something is truly wrong, and if she should in fact call him back, or at least read his texts before deleting them. She shakes her head. No, if anything was wrong, Dad would call. Amara had answered every single text from her dad and Nancy during her time in Cordonia. After her dad’s heart attack, she never took a chance with a missed call.

Once the cake is in the oven, she sets the times --that damn cockblocking timer-- and joins Drake outside. When she sees his face, she realizes right away that he feels bad for insisting earlier. Her heart melts a bit. She’s been too harsh, too radical with him. He just wants her to be happy.

She softens and smiles, kissing his cheek before sitting at the table.

‘You ok?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. Sorry about earlier. I get why you said all that, and I love that you want the best for me. Thank you.’

He smiles, visibly more relaxed, and kisses her hand. He holds on to it for a while.

*****

Madeleine checks her phone for an answer from the middleman. Finally, her screen lights up.

It is booked. Arrival Friday morning.

She suppresses a smile. Her idea was retained. She knows they have something else in store for her, something big and public apparently, but she thinks they need more ammo for this bitch. Something more personal. Something to break her.

Oh well, they’ll see on Friday.

For now, she needs to make nice with the others. She puts on her best fake smile, and heads to Kiara’s room, who she knows is getting ready for a one-on-one with Liam in a few hours.

‘Knock knock!’ Madeleine says out loud.

‘Entrez!’ she hears Kiara reply.

Ugh, she thinks. Why is this bitch constantly speaking French? Madeleine had always thought that French was a language for whores and peasants. But she has to keep that smile on. She can’t make all enemies. ‘Hi, Kiara,’ she says. ‘Want some company?’

Kiara is sitting at her vanity and she is putting on makeup. ‘Oui, avec plaisir!’

Madeleine comes in and closes the door behind her. ‘So, are you ready for the big date?’

‘Oh I definitely am,’ Kiara purrs. Madeleine can’t believe that Kiara has a date with Liam before her, but oh well. Soon enough, everything will be under control.

‘Do you know where he is taking you?’

‘I think he wants to go get a drink and take a stroll through the Capital. It should be fun!’

Madeleine nods, keeping up appearances. She and Kiara were close, once. When they were younger and probably more naive, full of dreams and hope. Before Leo fucked it all up and made Madeleine have to go get things on her own instead of simply sitting back and relaxing. Back when Kiara wanted to bone Walker, and marry a diplomat. And now that stupid bitch thinks she has a shot at being an actual Queen? Ha! If she could, Madeleine would laugh.

Madeleine responds, ‘Yes, you will have fun, I have no doubt. Now, is that what you’re wearing?’

*****

‘Babe, look at my cake! I think I didn’t fuck it up!’

Drake looks over his shoulder while he’s doing the dishes. ‘Wow, that cake looks fucking delicious. Well done!’

Amara beams. The cook of the house, complimenting her cake? She definitely is a decent baker, but it’s been a while since she has baked something, unless you count that apple pie competition at Applewood Manor, or as Drake refers to it, the ‘apple shit’.

She used to bake with her mom, back in the day, but of course she would only do the mixing and the bowl licking, and none of the oven business, she was too little for that.

‘Alright,’ she says, ‘now i’m gonna make a pitcher of margarita.’ As Drake opens his mouth to say something, she pursues, ‘Or maybe two. Two, right? It’s Max and Liv we’re talking about.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Drake chuckles.

Before getting started on the lime juice and tequila, she goes over to Drake and hugs him. ‘I’m so happy to be here with you.’

‘I’m happy too, babe. It feels right to have you here.’

As if on cue, there is a knock on the door. Amara can already hear Max and Hana joke around on the other side of the door. She kisses Drake’s cheek and goes over to open.

‘It’s us, bitches!’ Maxwell yells. ‘And we brought Olivia!’

*****

Taglist:

@andy-loves-corgis @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @jovialyouthmusic @mariahschoices @drakesensworld @thequeenofcronuts @notoriouscs @drakewalkerisreal @nikkis1983 @simsvetements @alesana45 @iplaydrake @emceesynonymroll @lily1999love @drakewalkerwhipped @drakxwalker @drakewalkerrosenberg @drakeswalkers @drakelover78 @silviasutton1989 @dcbbw @carabeth @furiousherringoperatortoad @hollygirl1269 @sirbeepsalot

Thank you for your encouragements, everyone! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

#that's not why i'm going #dramara #drake x amara #drake walker x amara suarez #trr drake #drake x mc #drake walker x mc #drake walker trr #drake walker #drake trr #trr #the royal romance #the royal romance fanfic #choices fanfiction

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pass-the-bechdel · 5 years

Text

Marvel Cinematic Universe: Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)

Does it pass the Bechdel Test?

Yes, once.

How many female characters (with names and lines) are there?

Five (29.41% of cast).

How many male characters (with names and lines) are there?

Twelve.

Positive Content Rating:

Three.

General Film Quality:

No matter how many times I watch this, I’m always surprised by how excellent it is. If any other future Marvel film wants to be ‘the best’, this is the movie it has to beat for the title.

MORE INFO (and potential spoilers) UNDER THE CUT:

Passing the Bechdel:

Natasha asks about the ballistics on the weapon used against Fury, and Maria responds. I’ve heard people argue that Natasha was not asking Maria specifically and therefore this does not count, but since Natasha clarifies a detail of Maria’s response (to which Maria responds again in order to confirm), I definitely think it qualifies. I have allowed a pass for far, far less in the past.

Female characters:

Natasha Romanov.

Peggy Carter.

Maria Hill.

Sharon Carter.

Renata.

Male characters:

Steven Rogers.

Sam Wilson.

Brock Rumlow.

Georges Batroc.

Jerome.

Jasper Sitwell.

Nick Fury.

Alexander Pierce.

Aaron.

Arnim Zola.

Senator Stern.

Bucky Barnes.

OTHER NOTES:

They start this movie by having Steve go for a jog and make a new friend, with a conversation ensuing that is by touches casual, light, humorous, insightful, serious, and sobering. It’s a pretty weird way to launch a much-anticipated superhero comic-adaptation action movie sequel, to be honest, but it’s also rock-solid character establishment - for the never-before-seen Sam Wilson, and for Steve Rogers whose mental state and coping skills in the modern era are kinda an open question at this point - and by getting us on level with Steve’s day-to-day (rather than Captain America’s, which comes after) they’ve immediately prepped us for a story in which this character confronts and reassesses who he is and what he stands for at a core level, and not just in a symbolic/legacy kind of fashion (a la Tony Stark). It may say ‘Captain America’ on the tin, but this is Steven Rogers’ story. This is a fantastic and well-condensed first three minutes of this film, before they fly off to deliver the action sequence we may well have expected to have received up-front.

Oh yeah, also this opening scene involves jogging around the Washington Monument, which is not a subtle detail, but I can dig it. If they’d had Steve draw attention to some Major American Landmark at some point in the movie and make a patriotic declaration of some kind, then I’d cry foul, but as-is the use of Washington DC as a setting is the hardest they bother to hammer the AMERICA button. The absence of self-fellating patriotism which I appreciated so much in the first film continues to be a virtue in this one. I do dig.

Remember how I really love it when people get hit and fly off the screen? Steve just kicked a dude off a boat and I made the dorkiest ‘hee hee!’ noise ever. Sure am glad the only reason anyone knows about that is that I just told y’all, and not because anyone actually heard me.

One day, we’ll stop getting these kinds of gratuitous butt shots of female characters in tight clothes. But it sure ain’t this day.

In a world of equal-opportunity sexualisation, this Cap-butt would be forgiveness enough for the aforementioned offense. But it still sure ain’t that day, friends.

Other reasons to love that opening scene: they low-balled Sam’s counseling skills to us by having him quickly identify the best way to speak to Steve and to engage with him (as Steve, again, not as Captain America; that’s the key), and that’s what allows Steve to bond with him enough that, put in a tight spot and not sure who to trust, he shows up on Sam’s doorstep later in the film. Really tight characterisation and dynamic-building.

ALSO, Steve’s adventure to the Captain America museum exhibit reminds us all of what he’s lost - specifically, Bucky Barnes - and contextualises his encounters with Sam Wilson within the emotional landscape of Steve’s desire for close male companionship, highlighting the need which compels the formation of that bond while also accentuating the sense of Steve’s present isolation and uncertainty, robbed of any understanding confidante (the bittersweet reality of having Peggy Carter still alive, but losing herself to Alzheimer's, really hits that one home). Again, Steve’s emotional landscape is actually a vital part of the story of the film on both character and plot levels, so there’s a LOT of great show-don’t-tell demonstration in the interconnections of all these scenes, PLUS they’re doing the good work for all the other characters involved AND reminding the audience of the score so that the film can continue to draw from the past as the movie continues, without losing any viewers for whom this might be the first foray into the Captain America story. This movie is just...really well put together, guys. It’s a little shocking, how good it is.

Winter Soldier intro is too cool. Not a pun.

Steve takes a chance and asks his neighbour out for coffee; she declines with a soft no; he accepts even-tempered and assures her he won’t trouble her any further, and she lets him know that he’s no trouble and there’s no hard feelings. It’s all a very painless and respectful navigation of boundaries, and taken on face value (ignoring the part where she turns out to be an undercover SHIELD agent, and everything which unfolds from there), it’s a welcome example of how easy it is to take rejection graciously. Guys, be the Steve Rogers that women want to see in the world.

I want a metal arm. I don’t want to not have my current arms, they’re fine, but in an abstract version of the world where you have things purely for cool points, I want a metal arm.

The fight choreography in this film is great. It’s good watchin’.

Also the soundtrack is top-end.

“...Specimen.”

The movie didn’t need a hetero kiss thrown in there, though. I sure wish there wasn’t a random kiss in there.

“The answer to your question is fascinating. Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it.”

Urgh, why Senator Stern gotta show up, be a pig about women, make his little Nazi declaration, and leave? The answer is, he really doesn’t gotta. You know what’s good shit? Not using misogyny and objectification of women to demonstrate that a bad guy is a bad guy, unless it’s actually a relevant part of the story. One day...

I can’t deal with how cool the Winter Soldier is. I’m almost embarrassed by how much the whole Silent Sauntering Assassin thing works for me.

Sam Wilson brings a tiny knife to a gunfight and still gets the upper hand because he’s perfect.

THE FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHYYYYY

The Winter Soldier is barely in the film in the first hour, and Bucky is referenced in the museum but not discussed by any of the characters, so there’s no lantern hanging on either the mystery of the Winter Soldier’s identity or the conspicuous reminder of a supposedly dead character (another reason why tying the memory of Bucky in so tightly with Steve’s present state of comfortless seclusion is important and clever). If you somehow managed not to be spoiled for it already, the Bucky reveal is a real kicker of a twist.

The degree to which I adore Sebastian Stan’s attention to detail in his performance has increased tenfold since The First Avenger. Dude has got nuances on his nuances.

The part of me that is emotionally susceptible to heroism is very moved by all the nameless SHIELD agents who stand up to HYDRA and die for it.

I join the rest of the world in being really disappointed that what appeared to be Jenny Agutter’s councilwoman kicking Strike Team ass was actually just Black Widow. Sorry Natasha.

The Winter Soldier shows up and murderises a heap of pilots, and the part of me that is susceptible to heroism finds itself in conflict with the part that is susceptible to the Winter Soldier’s ineffable coolness (which is itself at odds with the part of me that wants Bucky Barnes to be safe and happy). This movie got me good.

Rumlow talkin’ some shit about pain and Sam’s just like “Man, shut the Hell up,” and it’s perfect. I love him.

I love this film. I mean I really, really love it. Like, I mean this is one of my favourite movies in the world. Like, if we were playing that ol’ game of ‘if you had to pick ten movies, and those were the only movies you were allowed to watch for the rest of your life’, this would be one of my ten movies. That’s how much I love this film. There’s so much to get into here, so much to enjoy: it’s light and easily-digestible enough for when you just want to be entertained by something that doesn’t demand too much from you, but it also has serious depths for when you’re in the mood to dig in. It has well-crafted action scenes, but also a strong plot with powerful emotional currents. It has wonderful, charismatic actors playing intriguing characters, and most of them are good eye candy, but none of them are just eye candy - there’s a lot of complexity to unravel in the motivations and personal narratives of the leads. It’s a superhero movie, sure, but it’s also a political spy thriller. And, to top it off, it’s not only an excellent stand-alone film, it’s also a fantastic example of how to do a sequel right.

Sequel-making can be a fraught business; you’ve got sequels that are basically just pointless retreads of the original, sequels that are so different they hardly count as sequels at all, sequels that are so busy trying to be ‘bigger and better’ than the original they become ridiculous, sequels so busy attempting to capitalise on the spectacle of the original that they forget to have any of the same heart that gave the original meaningful impact, sequels that ignore that the original had a plot and themes and that maybe that stuff was relevant to its success, etc, etc...there are lots of great sequels in the world, certainly, but as Iron Man 2 and Thor: The Dark World already attested for the MCU, it is very, very easy for sequels to go wrong. For this film, I think it goes without saying that I feel they passed all of the above sequel-killing quality tests with flying (low-key red-white-and-blue) colours, hence my adoration. But, just for kicks, lets talk about how they did it.

For starters, you can pretty much guarantee that this isn’t gonna be a pointless retread of Captain America: The First Avenger, since this movie takes place seventy years later and there are certain essential world elements that have fundamentally changed, such as technology, characters, and the fact that WWII ended a good while previous. But, that’s exactly how they make this story work as a sequel: they use the nature of change to give the film its shape, thematically, politically, emotionally, and in doing so they assure that everything which is different in the present builds directly from the past. Steve Rogers has not fundamentally changed, and that’s a critical anchor, considering he’s the titular character and all, but he is in a state of flux due to everything else that has changed, and his doubts inform the narrative landscape. This is not the world he remembers, and yet, as the plot unfolds and he digs into the conspiracy at his feet, there’s plenty there that is hauntingly familiar, because this is a story about how the past is still alive and kicking in the present, it has just updated to keep with the times.

It’s worth noting that despite Captain America making the jump from the forties to the modern age without any stop-offs in between, the film doesn’t linger on or wallow in the differences in his world in any strict sense - even Steve himself (in that EXTREMELY well-crafted opening scene with Sam) is somewhat dismissive of the specifics, because he’s not dwelling on the oh-woe-things-have-changed, he’s just trying to get his head around it, adapt, and move forward (and the practical realities are easy enough, but the emotional facets? Yeah). The thing is of course, no one else shares this problem with Steve; they’ve all been around, variously, for the parts in between, and the story is still concerned with the context of the world which made all of its characters what they are, and particularly with the war that came after WWII, the war within which HYDRA reseeded and began to grow anew: the Cold War. In particular, it’s the ‘70s/’80s era Cold War, built into the political-thriller superstructure of the film itself and driven home most overtly by the Winter Soldier, heavily Russian-coded and steeped in the potent psychological horror of brainwashing, but there are other signifiers littered across the story as well. There’s former-KGB agent Black Widow, and the reference she makes to WarGames, and there’s Arnim Zola frozen in time by the ancient computer system which now acts as his ‘brain’, and then there’s the stroke of subversive genius in the casting of Robert Redford - the positively Captain America-esque blue-eyed-blond hero of many a seventies Cold War political thriller - as our primary villain, working within the United States government for the benefit of his secret European-originating agenda in true foreign-infiltration style. Of course, we can adapt all of this to fit the radicalised terrorism and technological paranoia of modern times (and those elements are alive and well in the text with the surveillance-state fears represented by the helicarriers), but the historical timestamping is important to the trajectory of the film; times change and things grow increasingly subtle and complicated, but the core dilemmas that call people out to fight are instantly familiar. In that sense, Steve Rogers hasn’t missed much at all.

The war that calls Cap to arms this time around may be more subtle than the openly-fought battlefields of WWII, but it is no less global or insidious; the new ‘improved’ HYDRA may not be led by a literal Nazi who peels off his own face, but the cold political calculations of Alexander Pierce are much more frightening for their realism (an aspect of the film which has become increasingly prescient for the modern era since the movie was released), and the fascist supremacist dogma that compels these villains to attempt to reshape the world with the blood of millions is drawn from the same poisoned well; this is an escalation of the same enemy that Captain America faced before, only much closer to home. And while the passage of time has benefited the old evils in allowing them to entrench and fester and craft re-branded, more socially-accepted versions of themselves, it has not been so favourable to the positive familiar things from Steve’s past: it has claimed Peggy’s memory, and rotted SHIELD beyond recovery. And then, there’s what it’s done to Bucky Barnes.

Fake-out character deaths are a major staple of the superhero/comic genre, and not one I love, since it tends to take the power out of apparent-death scenes and leaves the drama feeling contrived, and while the Bucky reveal is not entirely free from that cynicism, it sells itself well on delivery. For starters, it packs a wallop in additional drama instead of just neatly undoing that which already existed (Nick Fury’s ‘death’ and reveal, on the other hand, is more in the classic line of cheap and inconsequential), and it ups the personal stakes for Steve in exactly the same way as Bucky’s ‘death’ did in The First Avenger. Crucially, the fact that Bucky is the Winter Soldier doesn’t alter the wider narrative in any convenient way, such as providing Captain America with the key to stopping him or resolving the other conflicts of the plot through his connection; the Bucky reveal reconnects the story to Steve’s emotional journey, which is exactly where it started before Shit Got Crazy - there’s a good reason they spent the first half hour of the movie on charting Steve’s mental state. There’s a sharp division between Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier, despite them both inhabiting the same form, and it’s a mirror of the division between Steve Rogers and Captain America: regardless of all assumptions to the contrary, the two are mutually exclusive entities. ‘Captain America’ is not a person, he’s a symbol, and he’s manipulable in that way, he can be propagandised, his image and actions are a tool turned to the purposes of others at the expense of the human underneath; Steve recognises this (and has since the first film), and he holds this secondary persona at a remove and does not define himself through it. This is what Sam’s keen social instincts pick up so quickly in the beginning: treating Steve as Captain America is the wrong approach, it fails to connect, because Steve is not the uniform, Steve has doubts, Steve could give up the shield; Steve is a person. Bucky doesn’t have the same luxuries, in opportunities, in company, or in the cognizant ability to define his own identity, but even without the personal attachment of their history, Steve is uniquely positioned to understand the difference between the Winter Soldier and the person buried beneath the title. If it was not Bucky, specifically, the visceral emotion of the mirrored experience wouldn’t land quite as strong, but either way the Winter Soldier is the realisation of Steve’s deep-seated fear of being made a puppet, an unthinking enforcer too heavily indoctrinated into patriotic subservience to recognise the despotism that has replaced his idealism.

I said at the top that this is, ultimately, a Steven Rogers story to which ‘Captain America’ is an accessory, and not the other way around, and that’s a fact at the heart of what makes this film work - on its own, and as a sequel. The fore-fronting of Steve as a character in his own right and not just ‘Captain America’s real name’ was key to avoiding any cloying patriotism overriding the narrative of the first film, and it’s doubly important now as both Steve and the Captain America brand re-situate outside of their original context. It’s easy to strip back the specific trappings of Captain America and still have this movie function just right, because for all the action and intrigue, it is essentially a character piece about Steve Rogers figuring out his place in the world and reclaiming the moral compunctions which have been presumptuously attributed to the lofty symbol of his alter ego, and not the struggling reality of everyday life. Captain America is what he is and how he is not because it sounds good or because it makes for positive PR or because it’s nice to have legends from the good ol’ days; Captain America is the embodiment of scrappy little Steve Rogers’ grit and determination to live up to what he believes in, come Hell or high water or the gravest of consequences. Steve begins the film at odds with himself, unsure if there’s a place for his shameless idealism within the mess of modern life; he’s going through the motions of being Captain America, but he’s uncertain of what it means to him at this point, or where it’s headed. He finishes the film having gained something vital: a mission, but it’s not a professional job for Captain America, it’s a personal mission for Steve Rogers, and that’s much more important. Captain America is just an idea; Steve Rogers is the reason it matters, no matter what war, what time, what place, or what flag.

#MCU #Marvel Cinematic Universe #Captain America: The Winter Soldier #Bechdel Test #female representation

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