#''do you need another golden plaque?'' GOD.

[asexual-levia-tan]

5 seconds later:

ive been trying to find this scene forever

these two are so funny. alberu like "no right now i can only deal with you as a coworker" and then as soon as cale says something he likes, switches to doting big brother mode. and cale just goes along with it whichever way.

[simonisferal]

view me as a god — self aware (yandere) wanderer x gn reader

warnings: self aware au, reader is viewed as the player, reader is obsessed with genshin in the beginning, codependency (aether and wanderer), wanderer develops a victim mentality, traveler is a goat, aether is he/they (you'll know what I'm talking about)

notes: wanderer lore spoilers to those who haven't read, that one event in 1.6 spoilers to those who haven't played; if my account were self aware, i'd actually kms — the characters don't need to see my bio 😭 / i didnt know what team to put him with so i used my own / congrats king on your second rerun 🙏

it was never intended to be taken this far. this little game you've played for years without end had begun to take your social life away and left you in the dark, the only light you saw was the one on your screen.

the sweet voices of the characters , the beautiful scenery and designs, and the story of the fictional world was so alluring you barely slept. thank god your career had the option of working at home so no other potential coworker could've said something about your disheveled hair or your unpleasant smell.

your life was as perfect as can be as long as you see a picture or anything related to your video game! codependency? what is that? shh, you can survive an hour without it!

fuck. once in his many lives, he had never felt so cold. what was wrong with him?

with every name he gained, another tie to his joints tightened its grip on the wanderer, trapping him from the pleasant feel on calmness but the name the traveler gave it felt so pure and warm like a toasty fireplace during the snow. the puppet hadn't felt any warmth in his body since niwa's irreversible death as his still-beating and bleeding heart has been put inside the chest of wanderer. but now it was gone, just like the other feelings of happiness and sweet childish dreams.

"traveler? why'd we stop?" xiangling asks as she helped bennett sit down beside the anemo statue of seven in windrise to heal his injuries as quickly as possible. layla helps the poor boy eat something she packed into her inventory.

the traveler could only stay silent before letting out a small whisper as the wind slows down, the statue of seven only shining so dimly, not like it does when it feels something — someone greater. "i don't feel it anymore." they sit down on the broken stone steps leading to the statue.

"feel? feel what?" layla mutters, laying her head on the globe she keeps near as she rests her eyes. the traveler doesn't respond as they look through their bag for something. they obviously panic, their chest falling down and rising up quicker than a rabbit's. their golden chest plaque dims ever so slightly, just as the windrise statue's light. "the, uhh... uhm, the wind."

of course the idiots fell for it, wanderer thinks as he hears the collective agreement from his party. he doesn't bother setting down his hat as he sits beside a totem near the staircase, not bothering to show his respect to the anemo god or his peers. they're just there to help him please them, to eliminate any obstacle in the traveler's way as their form of appreciation for what they've done for their accounted nations. but they, not the traveler but they weren't pleased.

is that the reason wanderer couldn't feel their warmth? he didn't attack fast enough, hit hard enough, dodge quick enough? was he not enough for the person behind the stars? the dweller who called "earth" their home?

"why are we in windrise, if i can ask?" layla sits beside the traveler. her curls curl around her while her golden accents let out small hymns. "to... to uhh...heal bennett. i do feel very bad for him with his bad luck and all..."

wanderer knew it was a white lie. sure, bennett had been hurt badly even with layla's shielding and guoba's defensive demeanor towards the poor child and his bad luck was only getting worse with the amount of constant traveling the party did but really, all the traveler wanted to do was rest and wait for that feeling.

the feeling of being monitored, not as a prisoner but as a fragile thing, to be cared for and used as a hollow doll—no need to lift a finger unless told to and loved for their hard work—the work they didn't even do. to be drowned in affection, suffocated with praises, and shot with care and pity. something that the wanderer despised so much but craved so badly.

not by anyone, no. no one, no mortal or god could make him feel this way, but something hidden, someone hidden behind a mask, the stars, and celestia itself was waiting for him, wanting him, caring for him like he was.

when he couldn't dodge an attack, he was healed instantly. when he had no energy, it was replenished right before his eyes. when he wanted to be stronger, he became just that. it was a complicated choice between his morals and integrity or his selfish desires and temptations.

bennett didn't heal as fast as he does when the greater person behind the screen is there. he blames it on his bad luck but both the traveler and wanderer know what's really wrong. his pale face slowly turns back to his tanner complexion as time moves forward and everyone decides to rest up a bit before the night ends.

it's been too long since the feeling went away.

"[wanderer]! is it okay if you're on watch duty?" that name. it felt like a childhood lullaby, something the elderly women of tatarasuna would sing him to sleep when he was awoken by nightmares. that name was his, something he held to with genuine pride, not like his other disdainful names that were given by cruel people or joking jesters.

"alright." there's no sigh, groan, or remark afterwards to everyone's surprise. it only happens once in a blue moon and you know damn well that they took it to heart.

layla and xiangling slept beside bennett while aether sat where he was with his eyes closed. there was a moment of silence where it was just beautiful.

the crystalflies didn’t hide from the characters, an anemo one landing on layla’s nose and on the top of the wanderer’s hat. the wind blew ever so softly and for a moment, the wanderer could feel that warmth again.

“what’s up with you?” the traveler asked. his eyes stayed close but they were attentive like always.

“nothing.”

“liar.”

wanderer frowns and slightly turns his head to see them. a smile grew on their face and they sat up, opening their eyes and looking directly at him. “you felt it, didn’t you?” the wanderer looks away.

“do you always ask dumb questions?”

the traveler beside him stifles a laugh. “they’re not dumb,” they pause. they have a visible frown painted on their face now. “you know, don’t you?”

“what? that there’s some being out there controlling us, that the world shifts to their liking, or that you can practically see their face written in those damned stars?”

they stay silent. how’d he even know? was it that meteorite from long ago? “yeah, i guess.”

the wanderer scoffs at his companion's vagueness. “i’m tired of being a vessel.” that was obviously a lie. he can’t remember the last time he actually enjoyed serving someone, let alone helping if it wasn’t for his own personal gain. it felt nice being used (which is something he never thought he’d ever think).

aether sighs, leaning on the totem. they closed their eyes, "wake me up later then."

the wanderer scoffed. "i'm not your alarm," he says but he doesn't complain any further, simply watching over his teammates, the ones you assigned him, with a faint frown on his face. just where were you?

you quickly sweep your phone off of your desk once you come back from an errand. it was only a few minutes but still! you need your game to thrive at work, remember?

it had been days to them. they were at windrise, where you left them, your whole team. thank the gods. everyone was awake and ready to be used as characters.

you continued what you were doing prior to your errand, collecting crystalflies and flowers for your characters' ascensions.

wanderer didn't tell anyone he felt your warmth.

he shouldn't, he couldn't—wouldn't. no one else had suffered like him, it was unfair for those who didn't deserve it to bask in the sweet feeling of your muse. everything bad happened to him; nothing ever bad happened to anyone else.

nahida was right; he needs help!

your help. you were the only one who could help him, help the poor wanderer who had cried and groveled at your feet centuries ago, begging for a god greater than the gods to take care of him and help him—you!

you put him through all this pain to help him in the end, right? to free him, make him truly himself and not part human or puppet but himself again.

his salvation wasn't leaving him; he wouldn't let it happen.

[bitchinbarzal]

Sunday | M Barzal

summary: sunday is your favourite.

-

Sundays were soft.

Sundays were spent at absolute bagels to get the exact order you had got every week.

Sundays were spent holding Mat’s hand while he whispered sweet words to you.

Sundays were spent in Central Park, eating bagels with the love of your life.

You loved Sundays, you loved them more with Mat.

The sun was warmer than it had been in previous weeks, early March was showing a glimpse of what spring in New York had in store.

Mat needed this, you knew that. It was getting closer to the seasons end and the islanders weren’t in a position to clinch yet.

Mat knew he had to put the effort into this team, he didn’t want to let them down.

“You know we didn’t have to do this today, I know the guys are doing a voluntary practice” you mumble, pressing a kiss to mat’s shoulder.

He smiled softly “And miss Sunday in the park with my girl? Absolutely not!”

You laughed “Another Sunday to convince you my bagel is the best…”

Mat rolls his eyes, poking at the breakfast sandwich in your hand “No! It’s not! This-“

He holds his bagel up

“This is the best!”

“I’m just glad they don’t do the Barz-agel this side of the river”

“Hey listen your boyfriend is so famous he has a bagel named after him, you’re a lucky woman”

“Har-har” you muttered, biting into your bagel “The best!”

Mat rolled his eyes again, just smiling this time at the way you smirked still with food in your mouth. Even now, you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

Your bagels were finished, with one more argument about whose order was best you took his wrapper and headed towards the closest trash can.

On route back to where he was standing you stopped

“Oh my god, mat have you ever noticed this?!” You screeched.

Mat frowned, walking over to see what you were looking at.

The two of you stared at the golden plaque on the park bench, leaning closer to read the inscription

“Oh that’s so cute! To my beloved Sammy… Mat they were in love” you exclaimed, watching him walk to the next bench along to read that inscription.

“This one says ‘they love this walk, this park but most of all each other” he read and you pout

“That’s so sweet! Can you imagine someone buying you a bench? I wonder how much it costs..” you wonder aloud, pulling out your phone to google it.

The two of you start walking again while you google “Ten grand! Holy shit!”

Mat laughs softly at your tone “Maybe if you’re really nice to me I’ll buy you one”

“Hmm does that mean I have to agree with your bagel choice?”

His eyes brows raise “Well now you’ve mentioned it…”

You smirk, pulling on his hand “Buy me a bench and we can talk!”

“Daddy come on!” Mat chased after the little girl through the park

“Woah slow down princess you’re gonna get lost!”

She turns to look at him with that cheeky grin “Not if you catch up”

He rolls his eyes as her sass “What are you even running for?”

“Look! The seats have words!” She exclaims, pointing to the park benches golden plaque.

Mat crouches down beside her, on her level “yeah? What do they say?”

He watched as she narrowed her eyes, standing closer to be able to read it “that one says a dirty word!”

She Saunders along the benches, reading them all one by one.

She stops abruptly and gasps “Daddy! This one has your name on it!”

Mathew smiles softly, walking to where she is “Yeah?”

“Yeah.. look! It says I love Sunday with you - Hey! That’s my name!”

Mat smiles, kissing the side of her head “It sure does babygirl”

She cocks her head to the side “Daddy read it for me, please?”

“It says, Y/N I love Sundays with you forever, Mat”

She looks at her dad, matching the sad look on his face

“Hey daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that mommy’s bench?”

“It is, that’s mommy’s bench” He nods, squeezing her hand.

“Can I sit? Be with mommy?” She points to the seat with sad eyes.

He nods “Let’s sit together baby, we’ll eat our bagels” shaking the bag.

Sunday smiles “mommy’s bagels!”

Mat rolls his eyes “My girls and their bad bagel choices…” pulling her up under his arm while she delved into the bag of breakfast food.

With the bagel in hand she looks at mat sadly “Daddy… I wish mommy was here”

“Yeah me too babygirl, me too”

Sundays were soft.

Sundays were spent holding Mat’s hand while he whispered sweet words to you.

Sundays were spent in Central Park, eating bagels with the love of your life.

Sunday was the only thing Mat had left of you.

[chronicbeans]

The Oath

A "Tales from the Iolite Hospital" story

TW: Hospital Setting/Doctors, Mentions of Chronic Illness

I look up to the large wall in the break room. The ringing of music from my chest and the clicking of my gears is the only sound in the room. As such, the golden words on the wall seem to glare down at me with such intensity that I cannot look away. My robotic joints move on their own accord, approaching the plaque on the wall. The plaque was, supposedly, written by humans long ago, then sent to our world by accident.

"I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgement, this covenant.

I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow.

I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism.

I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.

I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery.

I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.

I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick."

I stop at the last part, feeling an odd, uncomfortable feeling swell in my chest. I cannot help but remember the look on Aluminum's face after our last appointment when I read the line "I will remember that I do not treat fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being..." We may not be humans, but I feel like I have done something wrong, either way. His words were cruel, but I feel as though they were, in some way, deserved.

I hear the door open and shut behind me. Turning, I see the face of my colleague, Nurse Angel, staring at me. Her voice Pierce's the silence of the room, making her presence known. "Dr. Cogsworth, what are you doing? Your patients are waiting."

I wish to move, to go see them, but I feel I must ask this question. The burning in my chest increases as the words leave my mouth "Are we doing something wrong?" "What do you mean?" "Each patient is different. We treat them almost exactly the same. Patients with a specific GI disease go through the same medications and such, regardless of their differences in other health areas."

She crosses her arms "You must be crazy, questioning that. Look... here's how it works: patient comes in. Patient is sick with say... gastroenteritis. Treat gastroenteritis the way every other case of gastroenteritis is treated. It has been proven to work, after all! Patient is cured. Patient goes home happy. Any differences in treatment are due to outside forces, like allergies or such. Doesn't that make sense?"

I slowly nod my head, explaining "What about the patients that never get better? The chronically ill? Like-" "Like Aluminum?" I hesitate, before nodding again "You are letting his case get to you. I have never believed you could truly care for a patient. Let me tell you something: I never have. You get too close, Dr. Cogsworth, and I never expected you to even be able to feel anything. That robotic expression of yours tells nobody anything."

Nurse Angel takes a deep breath, before continuing "You are letting one patient get to your head. You already know the protocol for chronic illness here. Treat them how their chart says to. The only reason why Aluminum skipped to dupilumab was because he can't swallow pills. When you tried to give him pills, he choked. The liquid slurry was skipped, too, because the creators of dupilumab wanted more EoE patients to experiment with. If this is about him, you know how to treat his case. His condition is still not well-known, so we need to experiment as we please with his case. So, just follow protocol, while asking administration for changes as you see fit with him. The protocol has been proven to work. There are only healthy and sick people in the world, our job is to cure sickness. The chronically ill should just be seen as a lifetime job." With those words, she leaves.

I look back to the plaque one last time. That burning in my chest is spreading to my face. Before I know it, I feel liquid running down my cheeks. I bring a few stiff, shaking fingers to my face, before looking down at them. A clear liquid, which I know as tears, covers the tips of my fingers. I don't know why, exactly, but I am crying.

I am crying and all I can think about is the upset faces of my patients, as well as the words of frustration they have said to me.

[aphrodites-feet-in-heels]

Somewhere between Earth and Hell part 4

“What’s the D.O.L.?” Rixi asked, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer

“It stands for the Den of Lust.” Maya answered, taking a breath before continuing “It’s where we send young lust demons before they can control themselves. They can’t hurt anyone by feeding if they’re all feeding off each other, and it keeps it quieter in the residential zones.”

Maya took off down a hallway out of the breakroom, and Rixi had to scurry to keep up.

“And why do we have to go through it?” The goblin asked

“Because the devil-forsaken express stairs are *still* under maintenance. Here we are.”

Maya stopped them in front of another nondescript black door with a brass plaque that read “D.O.L.” She carefully opened the door, making sure no horny teenage demons would come spilling out, and when none did, she stepped inside.

Rixi stood on the threshold of the doorway, and what she saw almost broke her mind. Demons of all shapes and sizes were spread out across the landscape. Demons with breasts bigger than their heads and erect cocks longer than their arms were being ridden by fat demons with sloppy wet cunts; thin effeminate demons with tiny dicks were being filled from behind by demons with tentacles in place of their genitals; mouths and cunts and asses were being stretched by toys and flesh and body parts Rixi had never considered to be sexual. The goblin stepped forward onto the ground, and almost fell to her knees because as soon as her bare feet met the floor in the Den of Lust, she felt incorporeal tongues lapping at her soles, and slipping between her toes. The air itself seemed to grope the nearly nude goblin, teasing her bare nipples, squeezing her tits, pressing against her underwear, which -if it hadn’t been soaked by sweat before- was now soaked with other fluids. The sensation within the Den of Lust was so great, shudders wracked Rixi’s body. The tongues lapping at her feet sent shivers up her legs, the invisible hands of the wind on her tits made her stomach burn and growl with need and want, she couldn’t move to touch herself, but somehow she also knew that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to cum. The Den of Lust would not give her that relief.

It Could have been hours or days that Rixi stood frozen a step into the D.O.L. She had no way of knowing, but eventually deep purple eyes met her own golden ones.

“Gods and Devils, I didn’t know it would affect mortals this way. I’m very sorry, Rixi.” Maya muttered

Rixi barely heard, she saw Maya’s mouth moving, and if she’d had control of her body, she would have mounted those plump lips and rode them for all she was worth, regardless of how Maya felt about it, as it was Rixi just shuddered and her tongue lolled out of her mouth as she panted.

“I can get you out of here, Rixi, but it will require I pick you up. I will not do that without your consent, especially not here.” Maya said, her calm voice staring to break through the haze of need and want

Shakily, Rixi jerked her head up and down in an approximation of a nod, which was enough for Maya, because she wrapped her large hands around Rixi’s torso, something Rixi *definitely* wanted to happen again, and cradled her as she ran to the other side of the D.O.L.

First Part - Previous Part - Next Part

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Steve Rogers, The Man On Fire

Hey y'all, as Pride month draws to a close I would like to post this fic. It's been in my drafts for a month and I finally today found the motivation to finish it. This is special to me for many reasons, one of which being that I'm proudly a part of this community. Some of the anger written in is my own. I think a lot of people will resonate with it. I really hope you all enjoy this and happy Pride Month <3

This was based loosely off a headcannon and once I re-find it I will credit!

Synopsis: Steve is freshly thawed, queer, and pissed | A.k.a. Steve's experience in 21st Century America

Characters: Steve Rogers, Mentions of Bucky Barnes, (loosely a Stucky fic but Steve thinks he's dead here)

Warnings: Angst but not bad, Steve Rogers being volatile and chaotic (we love), poorly written accents (I literally read this with an accent in my head), literally a 2k monologue

Word count: 5.1k

Steve Rogers came out of the ice angry.

No— not angry— Steve Rogers came out of the ice fuckin’ furious.

He came out of the ice with his hands curled into two fists, with his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were liable to snap, and with a bone to pick with every damn reporter and historian and too loud opinion on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He came out simmering— no, erupting— like the serum in his blood couldn’t keep his body from hibernation all those years ago but it sure as hell won’t keep him from setting the entirety of New York on fire now. He’ll burn it all down if he has to and rebuild it the way he remembers it— the way Bucky would have remembered it— and at the end of it all no one— not the bigots or deniers or the homophobes that seem to be the only thing that came with him from the forties— will be able to say that Captain America can’t love whoever he wants.

No one will be able to say that Steve Rogers didn’t love James “Bucky” “the man I’ve loved since twelve years old” Barnes with everything he had and then some.

No one.

So he starts with the museums in Washington— because sure it isn’t New York but where else would a relic like himself belong more?

He still has hope when he enters the building. They didn’t make them like this when he was a kid— they had science fairs in the town hall and culture fairs in the backstreets near the docks but never anything this grand. No tall marble pillars or enough stairs to make him wonder if he would have been able to climb to the top when he was half the size he is now. It’s strange. It’s kind of wonderful. Yeah, the Smithsonian museums make Steve Rogers feel small for the first time in a very long time and that gives him hope.

That hope doesn’t last long, though, because soon he’s wandering through the halls, following the signs that say Captain America: The First Avenger— what the hell is an Avenger? Is that what they’re calling soldiers these days? Now he feels small and old.

Turning the corner is like landing on another planet, one devoted entirely to him. His picture is everywhere he looks, his name is in lights, even his damn uniform has been replicated and presented on a little stage and he hates it. The rage is back, sparking at his fingers— he’s a match and lucky for everyone this building is made of stone because if it wasn’t he’s sure it would be reduced to nothing but ash by now.

It only worsens as he begins reading through the plaques and the paragraphs flashing across screens on the walls— he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. The more he reads, though, the more he wonders if the stone is really, truly safe from the fire in his blood. He doesn’t think it is.

He surely isn’t at least— he feels like he’s going to explode. This isn’t him— none of this is him. War hero. Martyr. Golden boy. He has to stop reading that plaque— clearly no one did their research. Clearly no one dug up his medical files— or his police records. Brawls at the pub, disorderly conduct behind Mr. De Luca’s sandwich shop, public nudity at the beach that one time— thank you Bucky for the best night of his god damn life. Golden boy— ha.

Golden nobody with the black eye and broken hand is more like it.

For a moment he thinks he’s fine— he thinks it can’t get worse than this. Then he gets to the early life section and for an even longer moment his tongue tastes like gunpowder.

Steven Grant Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his friend James Buchanan Barnes—

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence— not when they already got the most important part wrong. Friend. Friend? No, no, no. No! There are a million words in the english language that Steve could use to describe Bucky and ‘friend’ will never be the first one.

How about best friend?

How about partner in crime?

How about soulmate who loved Steve so much that every night for the past forty-eight days since he woke up in an era that Bucky doesn’t exist in he’s cried himself to sleep with the same cherry cola taste of his ‘friend’ on his tongue.

It’s the final straw— Steve loses it.

“Anyone got a marker?”

The museum is quiet before he speaks but when his voice— steadily rising and taking on that New York headiness that his troops used to jazz him about— cuts through the exhibit— his fuckin’ exhibit— it’s silent. It’s dead, almost as dead as Buck— Nobody dares move a muscle as he rips his ball cap off his head and throws it at the statue of himself. Everyone knows who he is— everyone is going to know who he is so help him god.

“I said—” he tries again— “does anyone have a marker?”

It takes a moment for the people around him to pick their jaws up off the floor and he allows them that moment with a smug grin starting to tug on the corners of his lips. Finally— they’re starting to get it.

He’s not a hero; he’s a supernova of every scrawny, queer kid who’s ever gotten beaten to a pulp for kissing who they want.

Maybe then it’s fitting that the marker— when it’s finally produced and placed in his waiting palm— comes from a teenage girl with a shaved head and a blue, pink, and purple denim jacket and a busted lip. She doesn’t say much— only a mumbled here you go— but her eyes say everything that her words don’t. Give em’ hell, Cap. For the first time since waking up he flashes a genuine grin back— yeah, this one’s for you kid.

Steve wastes no time uncapping the sharpie— he’ll look that one up later— and scratching out the error. The blasphemy to his unholy name. It takes him a little longer to decide what to write in its place. There are a million words, sure, but somehow none of them feel right at this moment. None of them are enough. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though— how much nothing feels like enough anymore without Bucky.

Finally Steve settles on a word and he scribbles it as neatly as he can given the fact that he hasn’t had to write anything in eighty years. When he takes a step back, feeling alive for the first time since waking up, he beckons over the girl with the shaved head and points to the place where he’s taken it upon himself to correct history.

“Hey kid, why don’t you go ahead and read that outloud for everyone here.”

He allows another moment— this time because she deserves the time it takes for her eyes to light up and the smile to stretch across her bruised mouth.

Steve laughs— a rusted, croaky laugh; another first in forever— when her head whips around, facing him as she loudly proclaims: “It says boyfriend. Steve Rogers grew up in the streets of Brooklyn alongside his boyfriend Bucky Barnes!”

“Damn right I did—” he mutters to the kid before taking a step towards the crowd of gaping mouths. “Did you all hear that? Don’t worry if ya’ didn’t— I’ll say it one more time. Boyfriend. Bucky was my boyfriend and if he was here today he would be my husband. If any of you have a problem with that then feel free to take it up with me. I took on half of Brooklyn for that man and I’ll do it again.”

When no one says anything Steve nods, turning to hand the girl back her marker and to thank her— he may be angry but he hasn’t lost all his manners— but when he looks at her she doesn’t look back. Instead she takes the same step forward that he had, one of her hands balled into a tiny, shaking fist at her side and the other wrapped around a cell phone that’s pointed towards the crowd. He doesn’t understand the mechanics but he thinks she’s recording.

“You hear that?” She parrots the super soldier with a wavering but fierce voice. “Captain America likes men! And none of you can deny it!”

This time it’s his mouth that drops, watching as she shakily turns the camera off and spins back around. Before Steve can say anything, though, she’s talking again, this time hastier, and he can’t help but think that she sounds so much like him. All flushed and scrawny and pissed.

“I’m sorry, I’ll delete the recording if you want but, I jus’ know these bigots are gonna’ try and cover everything up and that would be a fuckin’ shame. I don’t know if you know how many kids need to hear this. I did— and I think they should too. Only if you want, of course.”

He doesn’t answer right away— he can’t. It’s like looking at himself at fifteen. Suddenly he’s back again, his feet hanging in the water as his boyfriend paces behind him, asking if he’s ready to have him look at his knuckles yet. He didn’t get that many good punches in— the scrapes are mostly from the pavement— but Buck always worries too much so it doesn’t matter. The protective idiot.

Steve shakes his head, blinking away the sunset lingering behind his eyes. “Bucky woulda’ loved you, kid.”

The next time he loses it— the next time he turns into more flame than man— is after he saves the city he’s been trying to burn down for three months.

It isn’t long after that day in the museum when Nick Fury decides it would be best for everyone if Steve goes back into the field. Of course, no one really asks him what he wants— they pretty much just shove a new suit into his hands and tell him to get training, Captain— but what else is new?

No one really comments on his outburst besides that either. Can you really call it an outburst when you’re just trying to reclaim the parts of you that have been stolen? Sure, the press gets a hold of the story and, true to what the kid had said, tries to twist it into something more digestible, but no one actually addresses it up with Steve. Apparently when someone saves the world as good as he does no one cares that they kiss men.

Or that they don’t wanna’ to actually save the world anymore.

See, in those three months— between the training and training and even more training that Steve Rogers begrudgingly obliges— he has time to catch up on the world. More importantly, he has time to catch up on what the world thinks of him. He scours a plethora of documentaries, scholarly essays, and whole books of information about his time as Captain America. Well— his time as Captain America when it mattered. In all his scouring he learns one thing: everything written about him is wrong.

It’s all so fuckin’ wrong.

Just why the hell would he want to save a world so bent on destroying who he is?

The Smithsonian exhibition was nothing compared to what’s been written in the eighty years he spent in the ice. Better yet, nothing compared to what hasn’t been written about him. They’ve taken an eraser to every part of his life that doesn’t fit with the golden image that they constructed for him. A.k.a. every part that matters. His relationship, his past, every little thing that made him supposedly perfect for the role he was given. Gone. Erskine told him he was a good man— apparently he was the only one who thought so.

Apparently being a good man isn’t good enough.

They only wanted the perfect soldier. Yeah, well, they had one and they fucked him over too. Don’t even get him started on what they did to Bucky— Steve doesn’t want to think about what Winnifred— Winnie for short— Barnes would do if she saw the history books erasing her baby’s Jewish roots. Or his relationship. It wouldn’t be pretty, that’s for damn sure. If ever there was someone more protective than Bucky it would have been his mother. Not that there’s a damn note about her in anything either though.

Maybe that’s the final straw that does him in this time— watching the place that Mrs. Barnes loved more than almost anything else in the world crumble, while also knowing that the world no longer gives a shit about the two people she loved more.

“Mr. Rogers, this is where you grew up, is it not? Is there anything you would like to say about what took place here in your home city today?”

Maybe he pretends not to hear the last part— maybe he really does only hear up until where the reporter asks him if there is anything he wants to say. He’s been around quite his fair share of explosions; it would make sense that his hearing is a little off. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, though.

Scratch that— he definitely doesn’t care anymore.

And why the fuck should he? He does have something to say and propriety be damned he’s going to say it.

Steve stares into the crowd of faceless reporters and flashing cameras with a scowl on his grimey face. Around him stand the other Avengers— his ‘team’. The last time he had a team the historians screwed up the history for every single member. Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Sawyer, Juniper, Pinkerton. Barnes. All of them were brave men with families and sacrifices and all of them were treated like jokes by ‘reporters’ just like the ones in front of him now. He really doubts there’s a difference between old and new journalism.

The only difference is that now he’s here and this time he’s not going to let them write anything but the damn truth.

“It is—” Steve muses, brushing the sweaty hair from his forehead— “I’m surprised you know that though.”

The reporter cocks his head, clearly confused, and it makes the super soldier’s blood boil. “Come again, sir?”

“I said I’m surprised you know where I was born, kid.” This time when he says the word— kid— it’s derogatory. “Ya’ know, considering how you all seem to know nothing about me otherwise.”

Steve almost smiles at the way the crowd tenses. He actually would if it weren’t for the white hot rage coursing through his veins, mingling with the last of the adrenaline leftover in his system. It gives him an extra kick— not that he needs it. Even when he was just a runt from the wrong side of the tracks he needed nothing more than an offhand comment to raise his fists. Fighting to Steve Rogers has always been intoxicating— the aftershocks of winning the battle just makes it more thrilling now.

Who knew, right?

“Sir I asked—” The reporter sputters and Steve simply holds a hand up, silencing him before he can start again.

“Yeah I know what you asked, alright. You want me to talk about the battle here in New York today and how I am more than happy to have risked my life to save it. But I can’t do that, kid. Because I didn’t save it for you. I didn’t save it for any of you.”

Steve feels his team tense— maybe were it any other time he would stop talking. He would just leave it, let the issue go, because Bucky would tell him too. They aren’t worth it, bruiser, he would say, they aren’t worth your blood. Maybe he would listen to his boyfriend because usually he was right. Bucky was always right. So yeah, maybe he would list—

Who is he kidding; he knows he wouldn’t.

Not then and certainly not now— not when Bucky isn’t here to defend himself against everything Steve has been reading about. That’s exactly why he doesn’t stop talking. Someone has to defend him and who better of a person than him? So, yeah, he keeps going, even when he hears footsteps behind him.

“You wanna’ know who I did save it for? James Barnes, that’s who I saved it for! You see, just around that corner there is a bookstore. Rickley Books. That was my boyfriend's favourite bookstore. You know, the man who gave his life to stop a train in Austria from reaching the enemies? Yeah that was him. That train was filled with supplies. Had it reached their headquarters, who knows if we’d be standing here today. If there would be a New York at all. Not that you would know that. But who cares about that dead sergeant from the 107th, right? There’s plenty just like him.”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly— a move he picked up from the very man he’s speaking about— but he spits his words at the reporters with enough venom to cancel out any peace that the action brings. That’s his own move.

He keeps going. “You know who else I saved it for? His mother. Yeah, his mother Winnie Barnes. Wonderful lady. She used to run a soup kitchen a couple blocks from here. Kept the rift raft like myself from going hungry most nights— I was a brawler, you know.”

A couple of reporters in the crowd laugh at that and Steve flinches, his vision tinting red as he cranes his neck, seeking them out.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you? You think I’m joking? I’m not. You ever been backed into a corner, son? Had people hurl slurs at you that I can’t even repeat today? Ever been beaten up for loving your best friend? No, I bet you haven’t. You weren’t a queer kid in the thirties. That’s hard— that’s borderline impossible actually. I only made it because of people like Winnie Barnes. That woman was a saint but nobody talks about her either.”

Steve has to take a deep breath, clearing the rasp in his voice that rises as he dwells on the woman he called his second mother for so long. She wasn’t just a saint, she was an angel. He can’t cry here though, not now. Not even as his throat begins to tighten.

“Winnie was the type of lady who didn’t let anyone walk over the little people. She used to sit me down and say Stevie you gotta’ fight for what you want because ain’t nobody gonna’ give it to you. She told me that I shouldn’t have to but that there were going to be people who would try to tear me down just for being me. And she was right— just like her son— because that was the era, you know? But now, here in the twenty-first century, you’re all still trying to tear us down.”

A hand lands on his shoulder, small fingers tugging at where his suit has begun to tear. Natasha Romanoff. He meets her gaze quickly, neck craning to stare down the red head, and in the few seconds their eyes meet it’s like Bucky is next to him. Somehow the blue in her irises catches the falling sun just like his used to. Steve can hear the gruff of his voice in the depths of his mind. Back down, bruiser. The sentiment is echoed across Nat’s face.

Steve shakes her hand off him, turning back to the reporters— don’t they know that he can’t?

“You all say you care about me, huh? That I’m a hero? You know nothing about me— you don’t want to. Before I was a soldier I was a kid. A queer kid. I said that already but let me repeat it. Queer. Did you write that down? None of you certainly did before. That’s how I know that you don’t care— because in an age where being queer is infinitely more accepted you still don’t bother to write it down.”

He pauses for another breath, shutting his eyes against the blinking red lights of the cameras. They’re like little demons, always watching his every move. Recording. Everything’s always recorded these days. Will he ever be used to that? Bucky was the technology guy, not him. Not then and not now.

When Steve picks up again— eyes open and shoulders freshly straight— it’s on a new note— a clear note.

“You don’t care about me— you certainly don’t care about the real heroes of the war because if you did you wouldn’t erase our history. Do you know how much it would have meant to Bucky to see our relationship accepted? The man who died for you? How much it would’ve meant to his mother? You can’t just pick which of our stories and our sacrifices are worthy and which aren't.”

He hasn’t spoken this much since he’s woken up, not all at once at least. Maybe he should have, though— maybe if he had then he wouldn’t feel like ripping the heads off everyone in front of him right now. Call it fight or flight. Call it revenge. Hell, call it whatever you’d like because it doesn’t really matter. Either way he feels like a kid again— again— backed into a corner behind the deli with his fists up and his teeth bared.

He feels feral again.

“So now you just want me to save the world like I did— like Bucky did— all those years ago— or maybe jus’ New York— as if that’s any better— and you don’t even bother to write a proper article about me? Hell, I never even asked for an article, let alone a whole exhibit! I’m just a soldier— and before that I was just a kid. If there’s never another article written about me I’ll be grateful. But now that I’m here, standing in front of you, I’ll say this—”

Just as Steve’s voice is cresting into a shout that would no doubt be heard regardless of whether or not the microphones were in front of him, Natasha tries one more time, her fingers slipping between his.

Her voice is a dull buzz compared to his, only reaching his ears by sheer will. “C’mon Stevie— we gotta’ go now.”

Like before he’s stunned but this time instead of seeing Buck— instead of hearing him in his head— he hears Winnie.

You fought good, honey. You fought good for us. You can rest now.

It’s jarring and it’s not lost on him the handful of awkward seconds that it takes for him to respond. That’s just the effect Winnie had on people though— still has, apparently. Steve shakes his head— I know, mama. But I gotta’ finish this fight.

“No, Nat— I’ve got to say this.” Steve mumbles— voice just beginning to waver despite how hard he clenches his jaw— before sneering at the crowd one last time.

“If I ever read an article from any of you that discredits Bucky Barnes, our relationship, or myself just know that I’ll come for you. I’ll come for this city. Don’t you ever forget who I saved it for. James Barnes, Winnie Barnes, and every queer kid who’s ever felt erased because of people like you. The bigots in the forties couldn’t stop me. The Nazis couldn’t stop me. Not even the Atlantic Ocean could stop me. So don’t think for a second that any of you could either. Have a good day.”

With that Captain America turns, marching off the impromptu stage and beginning the trek back to his apartment. He doesn’t bother looking at his team as he passes them— he can imagine their stunned faces well enough on his own. No doubt he’ll be getting another assignment from Fury soon enough to make up for this ‘outburst’ too. Still, he feels a little bit better. There’s an ache in his shoulder, and one under his ribs too, but he still smiles as he passes Rickman and Sons Books. That must mean something good.

The last time Steve Rogers burns he doesn’t burn the way he’s expecting to— he doesn’t vandalize his own name or blow up at a reporter. No, the third time— the final time— that Steve Rogers burns it’s with nostalgia— and with a damn good cup of coffee in his hand.

“I had no idea this place was even here.” The girl across from Steve muses, tiny hands shifting the steaming cup back and forth.

Her name is Ellie, he learned that back at the museum after asking for a copy of the video she took. He barely knew how to use his phone back then, let alone his email— hell, both still confuse him more often than not— but she had been patient. A little awestruck and a little riled up too but he took it in stride— easily. It’s not hard being nice to the spitting image of him.

“I’m glad I’m good for something other than making the news.” Steve chuckles and this time he means it— there’s no malice or ill intent, only humor. “O’Malley’s ‘s been here longer than I have. Looked a little different then—” he takes a moment to let his eyes wander the old coffee shop and it’s new appliances— a moment to feel his age catch up to him— “but I guess I did too.”

Ellie’s laughter joins in there and it’s strange— strange that he hasn’t laughed with another person in seven, almost eight, months; strange that her laughs sound so much like Bucky’s when they were younger; strange that Bucky isn’t here to hear. Here to laugh, too. Because he would have.

He would have called Steve an old man, would have wrapped his arm around his shoulders, would have asked— no, demanded— that Ellie try the plum cobbler. They always made the best cobbler. Bucky always had the best laugh. All grit and breath and him. Steve feels warm just thinking about it.

“Well thanks for letting me in on the secret, I’ll make sure to guard it carefully.” She even has Bucky’s warm sarcasm.

Maybe it’s not so much like looking in a mirror as it is looking at what he wishes he and his boyfriend could have been back then.

“And thanks for letting me interview you—” Ellie continues, setting the cup down but not before nodding at it, her eyes wide— “wow. You weren’t kidding about the joe, huh? Anyway— thanks for scheduling this. I know you’re probably super busy— and that there are more well established people you could have gone to.”

Steve sets his own mug down too— if he hadn’t there’s a possibility it would be more puddle than porcelain. “Well established means nothin’, kid. Not when you don’t have heart. They’re parasites, all of ‘em. The press couldn’t care less about me.”

Ellie nods, lifting the lid of her laptop. It’s a little bit dented and slathered in stickers, not quite the newest model— he would know, he has the newest one and it’s still sitting in his apartment in the box. Yet another testament to how little the people around him truly know him.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, can I get you a side of classism with that commercialism?”

Now she sounds like Winnie too.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you’re funny?”

She shrugs, tilting her head, a lopsided grin glued to her face. “Once or twice— I never know if they mean it or if they just want me to shut up. I never do so I guess we’ll never know.”

Steve sputters out another laugh because; “I guess we’re the same then— never give them a moment, kid. That’s the best advice I can give you.” He pauses— again— he supposes it’s going to be a day of pausing— he supposes it’s about time he pauses— before adding, “Bucky would’ve scolded me for saying that.”

Ellie’s fingers, swift and deft over the machine— Steve hadn’t even seen her begin to type— pause too as her smile softens. “What would he have said instead?”

Her question shouldn’t catch off guard— this is why he asked her to meet him; to finally, properly write his story— their story. Still he pauses— Steve’s empty hands feel hot, his shoulders warm; bare— what would he have said? It doesn’t take long to hear his boyfriend’s voice, not there but somehow loud in his ear all the same.

Just relax— they aren’t worth it. It’s too nice out to care about anything but the water— are you coming in or not? Summer doesn’t last forever, you know?

It’s impossible but Steve can feel the sun on his back and on his ears again, like he’s there— like he’s back, sixteen and on fire. Those were the days where everything made him cold. The days where his skin burned no matter the season but especially in August which was when the ocean was warm enough to swim in. It never stopped him from joining Buck— nothing could have stopped him. His cheeks warm, too, at the thought.

Steve blinks, his own smile— perhaps a little lopsided in it’s own right— shaping over his mouth. “He would have told you to relax— and to try the plum cobbler. It’s fantastic.”

With another giggle— and a reiterated comment— has anyone ever told you you’re funny, Steve?— they fall into a conversation, just a kid and a relic, about life. It’s not an easy conversation— but then again those kinds never are. It’s real, though, and unedited. Unfiltered. Just the way Erskine and Winnie and Bucky would have liked it— the only way Steve wants it. It’s not perfect but, hell, Steve has never been perfect.

He’s never wanted to be.

Maybe Steve doesn’t know everything his boyfriend would say— and maybe he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t blow up once or twice after today— but he can confidently say that he gave Brooklyn a run for her money— twice— and lived to tell the tale. He can say then when it mattered, he burned. That he still burns. That he will until he doesn’t— until he’s extinguished.

But, hey, though Summer doesn’t last forever, not even the Atlantic could extinguish the flame that is Steve Rogers.

That’s what he writes— in Sharpie— on the card he writes to Ellie— the one attached to the computer he knows he’ll never use.

[siren-dragon]

After Eight -- The Cat Returns fanfic:

So... I had a Ghibli movie marathon recently and remembered my old childhood OTP of Haru and the Baron. Then I read a few fanfics by @catsafarithewriter and landed in another fandom abyss, lol. And that later spawned this au one-shot from a prompt I read. Anyway, this is my first time publishing anything for another fandom so hopefully it’s good. Enjoy! ^_^

AO3 story link

Human AU -- “I need to finish my term paper and you’re the only 24-hour internet cafe open. Help me.”

===========================================================

The front door of their small flat closed with a soft click as Haru shrugged her backpack higher onto her shoulder and soon hurried down the corridor and out onto the streets with a determined step. To be fair, Hiromi and Tsuge did try their best to accommodate her as she stared helplessly at her computer screen within her bedroom while they giggled and chatted on the sofa. And though Haru managed to continue through her term paper despite the late hour; her concentration quickly began to wane while the tell-tale sounds of snogging managed to reach her ears despite the closed bedroom doors. So, she rather quickly decided to pack up her supplies and laptop, stuff them into her school bag, and exit the flat in an attempt to find somewhere quiet.

Of course, she didn’t really consider the fact that a) it was 10 in the evening on a Friday and b) she would need wifi if she were going to try and continue her paper.

“There has to be somewhere open…” she groaned, having passed another bar filled with her fellow college students enjoying the beginning of their weekend. “Why are there so many bars everywhere?!”

After traversing the streets for a good 20 minutes, all the while debating if she could chance stealing the wifi from a late-night McDonalds, the brunette soon found herself pausing to stare at the building her feet seemed to have led her to. It was a rather quaint building, reminiscent of European cafes with it’s white and green paint and black sunshade. Written beside the glass and wooden doors was a simple plaque with the words The Cat Bureau scrawled across in dark lettering. However, it was the petite sticker smacked boldly on the corner of one of the windows with a drawing of a cat on a laptop reading “free wifi” that nearly made Haru weep tears of joy.

“Oh, thank God; an internet café!” she beamed with delight before hurrying inside.

If she thought the outside was charming, the interior was spectacular. Alongside the windows were various tables with off-set white tablecloths and a small flower vase as a centerpiece, while opposite sat a wrap-around wooden bar complete with stools. The entire room was bathed in a warm, golden glow from the hanging antique light fixtures and Haru couldn’t help but be captured by the small café. “Wow, this place is beautiful…”

“You are too kind Miss,” an accented voice chimed, causing her to swivel to the source.

Standing behind the countertop was a man, perhaps a few years older than Haru herself, offering her a kind smile with a rag in hand. Though Haru was practically half-asleep due to exhaustion and the creeping energy withdrawals her last study-snack tried to prevent, even she couldn’t deny how attractive the man was. Slightly tousled tawny locks and vivid green eyes stared back at her with an intensity that caused her face to take a distinct pink tint. His attire was a bit formal, what with the crimson vest and collared shirt with a bowtie- though his black apron and rolled sleeves didn’t undercut the professional appearance.

“Erm, I’m sorry- were you closing soon? I can leave if you want. It’s just that I saw you had free wifi and I needed a space where I could finish my term paper…”

The man gave a gentle laugh, “no worries Miss, this is a 24-hour café; stay as long as you like. The Bureau doesn’t often receive customers on Friday evenings, what with many preferring venues that serve alcohol.”

Haru grinned, “you’re a life saver. And this place, I’ve never seen such an amazing café before.”

“Thank you, and please sit wherever you like. Make yourself at home. Is there anything you would perhaps like to order?”

Taking a spot at one of the tables near the window, Haru immediately glanced at the menu resting upon the table, looking over the pamphlet for something cheap that would keep her awake. She was rather impressed by the modest selection- ranging from teas and beverages to cakes, sandwiches, and even a few pastries. “I’ll just have a cup of the house blend tea, please.”

The man smiled, “as you wish.”

If the food wasn’t going to bring her back here, the charming waiter certainly was- though as quickly as the thought crossed her mind Haru prayed her internal feelings didn’t make themselves known with the reddening of her face.

Quickly pulling out her laptop and research materials, in an attempt to finish her work and not stare at the handsome waiter, Haru set to work on trying to finish her paper. The quiet atmosphere gave a rather calm and ideal setting, allowing the brunette student’s work to continue at a steady pace. On occasion Haru would steal a glance to the waiter as he set about making her order, humming a gentle tune under his breath before returning to her paper. It was only when the cup and teapot was set gently beside her did Haru startle from her concentration while another plate- this one bearing a slice of angel food cake with whip cream and strawberries found it’s place beside her tea cup.

“Oh! Um, but I didn’t order-“

“On the house,” the man smoothly replied. “Besides, nothing goes better with tea than some angel food cake.”

Haru giggled, saving her work before closing the laptop and setting it aside for the meanwhile. “Thank you very much.” Pour a dash of milk into the cup, she raised it for a tentative sip and blinked in surprise. “Woah, that’s got to be the best tea I’ve ever tasted.”

“You flatter me with your kind words, Miss.”

“Wait, did you make this from scratch?”

The waiter laughed, “indeed I did. That’s my own personal blend, though it tends to be a little different each time so I’m afraid I can’t guarantee the taste.”

“Well, it’s certainly better than the school’s local Starbucks.” Haru complimented, making the man grin. “Did you make the cake as well?”

“Unfortunately, no. While I am no stranger to the kitchen, that particular cake was made by our resident chef Muta. He has a penchant for sweets which has earned quite a following from the locals.”

“I don’t blame them, if the cakes are as good as the tea- I don’t think I’ll be able to go anywhere else.”

This time the man gave a teasing smirk, “and here I thought it was the free wifi drawing in customers.”

Haru laughed, “well, it certainly did help. I’d take a quiet café with wonderful tea over my small flat and a roommate making out with her boyfriend any day.”

“Well, that certainly would cause a bit of a distraction to a working student. If that’s the case, feel free to stay as long as you like Miss.”

“Haru,” she answered back. “My name, it’s Haru.”

He gave her a soft smile that made Haru’s stomach do nervous flips as bright green eyes met her own warm caramel irises. “Humbert von Gikkingen, at your service but please; call me Baron.”

Now it was Haru’s turn to give a small smirk. “So, Baron… this teapot looks like there is enough for another cup or two. Maybe, you would like to share it?”

This time it was Baron’s turn to flush the faintest pink before giving a rather delighted grin and retrieving another cup from behind the counter and taking the seat across from her. “I would be honored. After all, nothing makes a cup of tea better than sharing it with a rather fetching young woman.”

If Haru’s face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now- and judging from the slight mirth dancing in Baron’s eyes, the warmth of her face was easy to spot.

 =========================================================

“I didn’t even know we had a 24-hour internet café near the campus.” Hiromi commented in confusion, “must have been nice since you didn’t come back till after midnight.”

“Hey, I was giving you and Tsuge some space so I could work on my paper.”

Hiromi grinned, “uh huh, then why were you frantically typing this morning in an attempt to finish it? Maybe you got distracted on your little night excursion.”

“Yes, by tea and cake.” Haru answered dryly, trying to keep calm and prevent a tell-tale blush to creep up her face. “Trust me Hiromi, you’ll love the place.”

“Alright Haru, I- hey is this the place?”

The two girls stopped in front of the familiar white and green painted café, same black sunshade up though this time there were a few tables set up outside and a few more customers than the previous night. However, this time, a waitress with white-blonde hair and a pink ribbon around her neck was serving customers outside while inside a tall and thin black-haired man clad in the similar formal attire Baron wore yesterday tend to the waiting patrons. Yet she couldn’t hide the small frown at the lack of Baron’s presence, wondering if perhaps he only covered the evening shift.

It was then did she finally hear Hiromi’s laughter, when the chestnut-haired brunette pointed to a sign on the door. “Haru, you did read the sign before you went in this place last night, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

She merely silently pointed to the hours of operation, which clearly stated that the café was only open from 09:00 AM – 10:00 PM, with it opening later in the morning on Sundays. Haru felt her jaw drop slightly as her face turned cherry red while Hiromi merely laughed louder.

Of course, she did get a slight just desserts when the two friends were seated inside and Haru noticed Baron nearly fly out of the kitchen, hastily tying his black apron before catching her gaze. The black-haired waiter was whispering frantically to him while Baron looked to be offering some polite apology. Though when he caught Haru’s eye he couldn’t help the knowing smile on his face while Haru gave a rather sheepish look as he approached the table to take their order.

“Welcome back, Miss Haru. I hope your paper was a success.”

“Yeah, it really was…. Especially after the extra 2 ½ hours I worked on it last night.” She said with an embarrassed groan. “I am so sorry for butting into your café last night. If I knew you were closed I would have left and-“

“Think nothing of it, you needed somewhere to work and I was happy to help.” Baron replied with a kind, though slightly tired smile from the previous evenings unintentional long shift. “Perhaps… I could suggest another cup of our house blend in the name of bygones?”

Haru gave a shy smile, “yes please.”

“Make it two,” Hiromi added. “And whatever pastry you would recommend.”

“Certainly. I shall return momentarily, ladies.”

As Baron returned to the counter, Hiromi waited perhaps 2.1 seconds before whirling upon Haru with a large grin reminiscent of a satisfied shark. “Do you think he’ll write his number on the napkin for you to take home?”

While Haru didn’t make a point of causing scenes in public places, she couldn’t help flicking a sugar cubes at her friend’s laughing face. Though judging from the laughter dancing in Baron’s vibrant emerald eyes and the tint of pink dusting his cheeks, she wouldn’t be complaining if that was the case.

[ladyfloriographist]

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

[internalsealpanic]

Love Through the Ages (Tim Drake)

Summary:  Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part two of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots.  Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans.  I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself.

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist. 

You watch the rusty green of the warehouse wall disappear behind a spray of orange paint. There is nothing more satisfying than watching paint make old things new. 

A whistle interrupts your reverie, making the can slip from your hand. You swear, the harsh syllables echoing in the empty air. The can bounces down the scaffold and lands in someone’s hands. Tim’s face gets sprayed with a mist of orange. He makes a noise and rubs at his face. You bark out a laugh and he grimaces at you. The begrudging fondness obvious on his face. 

He waves at you, eyes still stinging from the paint. Giddiness flourishes in your chest. “I knew I’d find you here!” He shouts in a dialect of Mandarin that you hadn’t heard in ages.

It takes you a moment to understand him. You’re honestly extremely rusty. It takes you another moment to realize that it made no sense for him to find you. “How?” You shout back in Romanian. 

Tim shakes his head, throwing his hand over his shoulder. “Open canvas.”

You snort, looking down at him. Tim’s breath catches as he stares up at you, your smile. You’re haloed by sunlight. You look like an angel descending from heaven.

Tim’s forced to pick up his jaw when he hears your voice again. You’re tapping your watch. The words are lost to him.

“What?!”

You shake your head, strands of hair coming loose from behind your ear. “I asked...” You shout in a coarse frawl. “... Isn’t it a bit early for you to be here?”

It was. 

He was only 30 minutes early. No big deal. 

He shrugs. “I just wanted to watch you paint.” He says, trailing off. Oh God, Tim thinks. Does he sound lovesick? Is Cassie right? He pushes the thoughts down, opting to look at the building instead. On the side of the building was an immaculate portrait of the Red Hood rendered like a saint, haloed in golden light and surrounded by your orange marigolds. It would look at home in any grand cathedral. Your talents never ceased to amaze him.

“Should I ask why you’re defacing a building?”

You turn back to the building picking up a can of yellow paint. You tilt your head. “It’s a massive improvement, yes?”

Tim looks around. The pavement is littered with wet trash mixed. The buildings were rusted. Everything else is covered in grime. “You’re rude…  but not wrong.”

You preen, electing to ignore the first half. You turn back to your canvas before Tim can get another word in. He knows he’s lost you. 

“So, why *the* Red Hood?” 

You look away from the portrait, setting the can of yellow spray paint. It sprays your sweatshirt and Tim laughs. You stick your tongue out at his face flushing. You liked this sweatshirt. He gave it to you the last time you had meandered into Gotham. “Why not? We’re in the Bowery. He’s like a saint here.” You snip, switching to Russian. Ok, that made sense. You toss your sweatshirt into Tim’s face. The fabric is lousy with the smell of paint and of 5-hour energy drinks. It was an improvement over the pungent odor of garbage. 

He tries to rub the orange paint on his face away before he tucks your sweatshirt beneath his arm. You’re still looking down at him, wry amusement on your face. “I’ll paint your beloved Red Robin when I get to China Town. Heard he was quite popular in those parts.”

Tim’s heart flutters.  He stutters out his next question. “Why are you using spray paint for this type of illustration?”

“Kon said I couldn’t do it.”

Tim snickers, “As if Kon could tell the difference.”

You frown only realizing your mistake. You curse under your breath. Tim doesn’t stop laughing at you. “Shut up!” You snarl.

Tim dodges the next paint can you throw but the next one hits him square in the face. You grin triumphantly. Tim raises a middle finger at you and you giggle in response. You feel bad, seeing him wince in pain. You’d buy him apology tea later but for now, you clasp your hands and call out to him sweetly. “Sorry, Timmers!”

Tim, equally as mature and well aware that you’re only half sorry, blows out a breath, muttering something colorful before shouting back: “we should get going if we wanna eat out after looting the museum.”

At that, you launch yourself off the scaffolding, your body feeling weightless as it falls. Tim drops your sweatshirt as he holds his arms out to catch you. He catches you easily. You two spin as you wrap your arms around him. 

“You are certifiably insane.” He laughs. His nose smooshed against yours. 

“And so are you.” You snort, hugging him. 

He hugs you back. You hum so softly into his hair that Tim wouldn’t be able to tell it from a breath if he were human.  Tim holds you close, hugging your waist tightly. He doesn’t really want to let you go. You don’t either.  You and Tim stand there for a bit when you hear his cell beep. 

“Why does your phone sound like a pager?” 

“Because Babs told me how to.”

“That literally explains nothing.”

“I’m not taking crap from the gremlin who had ‘Baby Shark’ as their ringtone for 12 months. WILLINGLY.”

You pout at him, your face so close to his. Tim’s only half paying attention to your defense. To be fair, it basically boiled down to ‘it isn’t that bad’ and ‘Bart’s ringtone is worse’. 

After a short shopping trip and a cab ride later, you arrive at the museum in fresh clothes and less paint on his face for Tim. 

“All the World’s a Stage. They botched it! The nerve! The barbarity of it all. It's just like when they botched ‘Words with Friends’ or ‘In Ice We Trust’ or even ‘Tomcat’. That last one was pretty much gift wrapped for them!” You say throwing up your hands nearly hitting Tim and whatever poor bastard was unlucky enough to be behind you. 

“For someone who isn't invested in modern media, you're getting fired up.” Tim chuckles, eyes flickering behind you. You had managed to miss the people behind you but you do have a rather conspicuous space behind you. 

“They had such good material to work with”  you say, gesticulating wildly. “And- and they butchered it.”

“You need a 5 minute breather?” Tim asks, resting a hand on your back. 

 “Shut up,” you laugh.

Tim grins at you as if he had no idea what this ultimate betrayal feels like. 

Determined to prove him wrong, you say : “C'mon, Timothy,  you ranted like this when they botched the star thingy.”

“It’s Star Wars, you heathen.”

“Star. Thingy.” You repeat, crossing your arms. 

Tim squints at you. You know he’s not gonna blow up at you but somehow that’s scarier. 

“You can pay for your own cab later.” He grumbles. 

“Star. Thing-Y.” 

Tim turns to leave. This always worked. Always without fail, you grab at his hand, lacing your fingers with his. Tim tries not to smile.

“Fine.”

“Was that so hard?”

“It was excruciating actually.”

“You're being dramatic.” He says, showing the woman behind the ticket counter your passes. 

“Excuse me, I left all my drama in the Renaissance.”

“Oh really?”

“Ok not really but admit that both Andromeda and Stars, Forgive Me have better writing.“ You bite out.

 “I- That’s unfair,” he says. You raise your brow in response. 

“...”

“Fine,” he sighs. “But admit that Andromeda should have been named ‘Space Whores’.”

You squint at him then smile. “Oh abso-posi-tute-ly.”

 “Have you seen this dirty old hockey mask?” You ask, tapping the glass as if the hockey mask would react if you just agitate it enough. 

 “What is that?” Tim asks, looking over your shoulder. His brows crinkles when he sees the mask. “How is that romantic?”

You hum. “Ask the curator?” You suggest, looking around. He was usually out and about. He could never sit still even if he tried. You lean down narrowing your eyes at the plaque. “Says here some dude called Jason terrorized 3 kids over summer.”

“That’s very romantic for our Jay to do.” Tim says, crossing his arms and switching to Cantonese. It was a weird habit but you knew why. Apparently for all Jason’s skill in languages he somehow could not get a handle on Cantonese. 

 “Not that Jason.” You say, smirking. 

“You sure?” Tim asks, leaning closer to you. 

You snicker,  “As in character as that would be...”

“True,” he says, edging closer and closer to you. You rock on your heels nervously at the proximity. “It’s a shame, I thought there would be a machete to match too…” You can feel Tim’s breath on your cheek. 

“OH LOOK AT THIS.” You say twisting away and pointing to a black and white photo. Tim’s hands leave his sides to grab for you, to pin you to his chest, but he has enough self control not to. Instead, he follows you.

“It’s just a man and a woman in business suits. Yanno something you can see in any metropolitan city.”

“Yes but,” you say, tracing a nonsensical pattern into the air, “I’ve heard a story about this, they were both extremely rich and heads of their companies, went from enemies to lovers - my all time favourite.” 

Tim looks closer at the photo of the man and woman with their backs to the camera just holding hands along the NYC sidewalk. It’s cute. “I thought your favorite was lovers to enemies.”

“Well of course, it is! The drama, the absolute tragedy. It’s better than any trope in existence. But I love that this is just black and white. You don’t need anything else to indicate they’re in love with each other.”

Tim is all too tempted to point out that that likely wasn’t intentional, that it was a limitation of the time, but the look in your eyes robbed him of his breath, so he swallowed his thoughts. 

Your eyes rove over the room frantically in search of something. 

“So is there any reason you wanted to go to this exhibit instead of watching lavalantula 10 in theaters?” Tim says, tapping another case. 

You turn to look at him, shock etched into your features.“10? We've seen lavalantula 1 through 9 in theaters? Why did I agree to that?”

“Cus you love me?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Probably not.”

Tim gives you a hurt look. 

You scowl at him. You have no idea why everyone thinks he’s the nice Wayne sibling. He is a manipulative little shit who plays you like a fiddle. And yet here you are falling for it. An absolute buffoon. 

You grumble an apology under your breath before continuing. “This is more cultural Timmers and lord knows we need more culture.” You wave sarcastically. 

“I think we've lived enough culture.”

“it cannot hurt to experience more Tim,” you snort. He rolls his eyes. You grab onto his arm and look up at him bright eyed. Two can play it at that game. “Please Tim....”

He scowls at you. “Fine-”

“Yes!”

“-but you owe me a movie marathon.”

“Fine. Fine,” you nod, “just don’t pick something dumb.”

“I just got the new star trek box collection.” He beams. 

“You could just shove me into a grave.” You sigh dramatically. 

Tim grins. “The Renaissance called-”

“Oh fuck you, Grackle.”

He snorts and you hate that you fall in love with him more every time he laughs. 

You cross your arms giving him a hard look. “Fine but we have to have an intermission of my choice.” You say, offering a hand. 

“Deal.” He says, shaking your outstretched hand. 

“Great, you've just agreed to watch the Great British Baking Show with me.” You say smug. 

Tim curses himself. 

"Are you still looking for that one painting?"

You tip your body back to look at him, your eyes wide and startled. It takes no time at all for them to shift to their usual angry shape. "Yes," you say quietly. It's Tim’s turn to be startled. Your hands curl into a fist. "It wasn't done and those bastards took it." 

Tim reaches out to put his hand on your shoulder. 

You cast your hands up to the sky dramatically.  "The barbarity of it all!"

Tim smiles, letting his hand fall to his side. You would be ok. 

You two walk on as Tim rants about StarGate  could have had a bigger fanbase if it hadn’t excluded so many people. You add StarGate to the list of things to not remember. 

You stop.

Your heart presses a bruise in your throat. 

Framed in  wood laden in ivy and marigolds is a painting that was painfully familiar.  Even unwashed, you can still see the bright reds of rose petals, the wild greens of the women’s skirts, the brilliant oranges of marigolds, and the blinding whites of cobble stones. The image was a practice in entropy made into perfection. The chaos of Valentine's day in a small town square reduced and captured in an infinitesimal moment.

Damian told you that people had started calling them Warsaw’s Faceless Sweethearts. You hated that.  A part of you wants to scream. You want to tell them that this wasn’t for them. This painting was made for one person and one person only.

You’ve been staring at it too long. Tim looks at you. You’ve known him too long to not know that he’s worried. That he’s feeling that stupid surge of protectiveness he always does when you go quiet. It’s in the cautious way he reaches out to you, slow and steady the way you approach a spooked animal. You want to lash out at him but he’s your Tim. Besides, too much of your mind is trapped in the painting, in the white gazebo, in between the couple who’s stuck in the moment before a kiss. 

Tim stands closer to you, his fingers lacing into yours with centuries worth or practice. He looks at the painting. “This painting looks familiar.” Tim says for the lack of anything better to say. It was yours. He knew that with only a few seconds of looking. 

“I… I don’t think so,” you say clumsily, “that’s definitely not the painting I’ve been looking for. Yup that one looks completely finished. Yup definitely.” You tug at Tim’s arm. 

He gives you a look, staying perfectly in place, before turning back to the painting. His gaze draws low. In a glass case sits scraps of paper lined with charcoal.  It takes an embarrassingly long time for Tim to realize that they’re sketches the artist did. Tim recognized the baker, the blacksmith, the seamstress, and even the constable. Most glaring of all he recognizes your marigolds.  His eyes drift to the sketches of the couple in  the gazebo. They were numerous, haphazard and unsatisfied. You were clearly frustrated with the groom’s face. Tim wonders who the poor guy could be. 

In the corner of the page in the center, he sees it.  “Wait… is that me?”

“NO!”

“Is that you?” He asks, pointing to the figure next to his. In the sketch, your lips are brushing against his. Tim’s lip tingles trying to replicate the sensation. 

You’re frozen stiff. You try to pull your hand away. You want to bury your face in them. Scratch that, you wanna be buried six feet under. Tim doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“That’s the umbrella you lost back in London.”

“I lost a lot in London, Timmy.” 

“Well...” Ok. Yeah, you did. Hence why he can’t get you to London even with the promise of letting you ‘improve’ Buckingham palace. But that isn’t the point. “(Y/n), this is gorgeous.” He says, turning to you. You look at him stunned and scared. He squeezes your hand.

You shake yourself out of his grip. Tim lets you. He knows when to back down. 

You step forward leaning on the rope separating you from your work. “I told you it wasn't finished.” You say, glaring at the painting as if willing the colors to move. 

“What happened?” He asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You bump your shoulder against his. “Warsaw.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That little town in Warsaw. It was kind of hard to finish the painting when soldiers were setting fires to houses. Ok, they didn’t do it directly but there was smoke.”

“Yeah kind of.” Tim agrees, smiling sadly. He looks back at the painting. “I want to keep it.”

“What?” You blink not quite following the shift in conversation. 

“Darling, I think we should have it. It’s ours after all.” Tim says holding your hand in his. Your mind is bouncing between too many things. He called you darling. He’s holding your hand. He’s smiling so sweetly at you. You’re addicted to that look in his eyes, pure unadulterated adoration. 

You cover your face with your free hand, feeling the smile on your face go uncomfortable wide. You feel something on your forehead, a kiss like a raindrop. It comes again and you feel like you’re going to collapse. 

“It’s yours..” He trails off hesitantly. “..if..” You look up at Tim, waiting with bated breath. Tim squeezes your hands. “...if you’ll be mine. ”

@batarella​, @anothertimdrakestan​, @lucy-roo​, @multifandomgirl-us​, @bungunz​, @birdy-bat-writes​,  @boosyboo9206​, @americasmarauders​ , @l-inkage​, @arestorationofbalance​ , @cloudie-skay​, @wunderstell​   @hyp-oh-critical​ @glorified-red​

[prettybiching]

jon ossoff + celebratory sex after he's sworn in?

Home To You

Pairing: Jon Ossoff x Senator!fem!reader

Read Part One HERE 

Warning: 18+ mature scenes, oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, swallowing cum, slight rough sex, angst, mentions of death, insurrection and angry mob. Let Me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 4,325 words

Note: There’s probably so many typos in this because I wrote this on a shitty laptop, sorry about that. Hope you guys enjoy teehee xoxo.

It's strange how quickly life moves. One moment you were in bed, with a man you were head over heels infatuated with, tucked in safely beneath his arms and the next, you were running for your life, ducking behind pillars, holding onto your breathe inside the United States Capitol. 

Jon had almost begged to take an earlier flight out to DC to be there with you as you tried to process the horrors of the day you had experienced. You, however, insisted he stayed back and continue with his original schedule.

Yes, you did want him beside you during these difficult times. When you'd wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat because your mind had replayed the events of the insurrection, the gunshot you'd heard, a narrow miss from the mob, all the moments that would be embedded in you forever. You wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, safe and secure, far away from the horrors of what you had experienced. You craved to tell him just about everything you had come to realise while in your moment of terror. 

You knew Jon would not hesitate to fly down to DC for you, but you knew you couldn't be selfish, not when the country's government was already in a fragile state, divided to its core. Jon already had a storm waiting for him when he'd take office, and you weren't about to give the Republicans any more ammunition. You weren't going to allow Jon to suffer as you had done when you came into office.

The two of you remained in close contact throughout Jon's transition period, mostly because the insurrection had invoked a new burning flame for the both of you. 

Jon had grown worried sick, knowing that you were inside the building, knowing that the violent mob wanted to kill you and they wouldn't hesitate if they spotted you. Every time the media reported an injury, a gunshot, he held onto his breath, praying it wasn't you. Unlike other lawmakers who were able to stay in contact with their families throughout the lockdown, your phone had died, merely minutes after you texted Jon and your family.

In case I don't make it, I need you to know you've meant the world to me.

You hadn't told him, so as not to encourage his bid to fly out to you but you'd thought about Jon, for so long when a Capitol police officer escorted you and Senator Booker to the safety bunker. When your brain had finally received enough oxygen to think, your mind could only form images of the moments you had spent with Jon. 

Never in a million years had you expected to be so infatuated with him when you flew down to Georgia for the runoff elections. You'd told yourself not to bat an eye every time he smiled at you, made a charming comment or made you laugh. However, he had a way of making everyone fall in love with him. You were no exception.

Your heart clenched at the thought of never seeing him ever again. What if you died before telling him just how much he meant to you? You had to, at the least, tell him how proud you were of him and how bright the future ahead of him was. 

Life seemed so vulnerable at that moment. You wished you had hugged Jon a little longer, memorised his face a little closer, savoured the taste of his lips a bit more. You shouldn't have taken so long to act on your feelings. If you were to die today, the only memory you'd have would be of the night before.

Jon, he was all you could think about, his name calming your frantic heart just a little. God, you wanted to hear his voice, you wanted to hear him say your name, reassure you that you'd meet him once again that you'd get to love him just a little longer. 

As much as you wanted to spill your heart out to him, you knew you couldn't and would never do it over the phone. You needed him to be in front of you, free to feel and touch when you told him just how much you loved him. 

When Jon arrived in DC, the night before his swearing-in and the inauguration of Joe Biden, he knew it would be impossible for the two of you to meet as you both had crucial tasks at hand. You two would see one another in the Capitol on the morning of the inauguration. 

You felt jittery as you walked down the halls of the Capitol once again. The sound of your heels hitting the tiles echoed throughout the empty floor, your eyes were focused on the plaques hanging on the walls, carefully scanning them to find the name you were searching for. A proud smile tugged onto your lips as you spotted the shiny new golden plaque hanging by the mahogany door.

Your heart began to hammer against your ribcage as you racked your knuckles against the hardwood door. When the door was opened, you were met with Jon's astonished face, his brows at first knitting together in confusion before his eyes grew wide, his mouth hanging wide open.

You are unable to get a word out before he's pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, his hands wrapped tightly around your waist as if scared that you'd fade away from existence. A giggle escapes your lips as sink into his embrace. You couldn't help but nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, taking in the scent of his aftershave, enjoying the feeling of the short curly strands above his neck and the way he held onto you.

You swore you could've cried then and there.

"Jon?" you called out after a few moments, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He hums, making not attempt of pulling away. "I think we should move."

You don't mean to laugh,  but you do as he makes a noise of protest, only to tighten his arms around you, swaying your conjoined bodies sideways. You don't want to let go either, but there are so many other things you wanted to be doing with him as well. Not to forget his limited number of staffers were also inside his office, undoubtedly staring at the two of you in bewilderment.

"Okay..." you lift your head from his neck, tapping your hands on his back to make him move as well. "Jon?" you poked, the movements of your hands getting more frantic. "Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jonnnnnnn----"

"Okay, okay, I'm pulling away," he finally lets go of your waist, the action instantly filling you with coldness from the removal of his body heat. He feigns annoyance towards you, and you can't help but giggle. You'd missed his silly antics, but more importantly, you'd missed him.

You don't waste another second, grasping onto his freshly pressed baby blue shirt and pulling him down into a tender kiss. He's quick to respond, his hands finding their way to your cheeks, holding you in place as he moved his lips against you with fervour. You could feel the desperation in his movements. What had started as an innocent longing kiss was turning into a heated reminder of the two of you had been missing. 

You part your lips for a second, long enough for him to push his tongue into your mouth, eliciting a moan from you. 

As if a bell had rung in your head, you instantly pull away, your cheeks feeling as if they were on fire, your eyes blown as you attempted to catch your breath.

"Did-did I do something wrong?" he tilts his head in confusion, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. He's looking at you with those puppy eyes that you'd come to adore and you swear you're about to faint. 

"No!" you're quick to retort, extending both of your hands in front of you, shaking your head frantically. "We just--your staff is right there," you point inside the office where his young staffers pretended as if they weren't there. 

"Oh," is all he says, rubbing the back of his neck in realisation, his head hanging low, his cheeks flushing bright red. "Right."

Your lips split into a toothy grin, enjoying his flustered state. You want to continue this, but you know the two of you don't have much time. You would be required on the Capitol Hill balcony for the inauguration, and there you would have to act as if you aren't head over heels in love with Senator-elect of Georgia.

"What? You're not going to introduce me to your team?" you tease, poking his side. When he finally looks up, he's still blushing deep red, and the sight makes your heart flutter just a little more, to see the effect you have on him.

"Right, come on in."

You greeted the young staffers, some only a few years younger than you with a smile on your face, hoping to encourage them in their new venture. These people would help shape policies and pieces of legislation that would go on to shape the future of your nation. 

They took notice of the thick atmosphere, having witnessed you and Jon cross the boundary of being just colleagues. They were quick to move out of your way, leaving you both alone in his office. 

Wordlessly, you strolled through the room, running a hand along with his desk, taking in your surrounding. His office was structured almost identical to yours and the only thing making it seem different was the interior. "Nice office you got here," you smirked, tilting your head towards Jon who watched you with his hands stuffed inside his pockets.

"Thanks, I got it with the job," he laughed, taking a seat behind the desk. His suit jacket was left hanging on the coat stand by the door, and your eyes caught the navy blue patterned tie he was wearing.

You strut towards him, towering over his figure and instinctively his hands reached forward to thread his fingers onto yours. "I like your tie."

"What can I say? My girlfriend has good taste," he shrugs, pretending as if his words didn't just ignite a fire in you.

"Since when did I become your girlfriend?" you laugh, a stark contrast to the frantic beating of your heart. He squeezed your hands, and you liked how easily his palm fitted against yours. 

"W-would you like to be?" you have to bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from smiling, he looked at you with those big puppy eyes, a hint of nervousness underlying beneath. 

Untangling your hands, you lowered yourself onto his lap, careful not to crease your pantsuit and overcoat too much. His hands settled on your hips, holding you in place. You lean forward until both of your foreheads are touching, his warm breath fanning over your face, your eyes fluttering shut.'

"It's going to be very complicated," you murmured after a few seconds, your eyes still closed. 

"I'm willing to work for it."

You have no doubt about that. You'd walk through hell and back to experience your future with him, just like envisioned it during the insurrection. However, things weren't as straightforward.

"It could sabotage both of our careers," you retorted, lifting your head just slightly to meet his eyes. His eyes were looking at you with such delicacy, you didn't want to talk--talk about the consequences of your actions but just kiss him and keep kissing him until the world around you both disappeared.

"It won't," he answered firmly, squeezing your hips, your hands caressed his jawline, brows knitting together. "We will be okay. We can make it work--"

"We can't be selfish, Jon," you said, no matter how painful it was to say it. "We have a duty to our people, and if we do this we'll have to hide our relationship from the world, we would have to lie---"

"Do you want this?" He cut off your rambling with a simple question that had the gears in your mind turning. 

You did, of course, you did. You wanted nothing more than to be with Jon.  He was all you could think about when you thought you were going to die, when you heard those gunshots and when you were stuck in that bunker with all those Republicans. 

"Yes, yes I do," you answered firmly.

"Then let's just do this, for us. Forget about everyone else for now. It's only you and me. Okay?"

"Okay."

Then he's smiling at you in a way he had never done before, so bright, he could blind the sun itself, and it makes you giggle. You liked seeing him in this way, so unlike the public political demeanour, he carried with himself all the time. This Jon was reserved only for you. 

He leans forward, closing the short gap between the two of you, pulling you into a kiss. 

That spell is broken when your phone begins to ring in the pocket of your coat, making you pull away from him, both of you breathless and panting.

"Yeah, okay, I'll be out in a second."

"It's time to go," you tell Jon, helping yourself out of his lap before he pushes himself off his chair.

The two of you don't have time to utter another word as Beverly is waiting outside the door with two security agents. You're about to go your way when Jon calls out your name, making you turn towards him.

"I never got to tell you just how gorgeous you look today."

With that, he turns away, leaving you in a puddle. 

You enter the balcony first, with Beverly right behind you. Ignoring the cameras panning on you, you scan the area for some of your more favourable colleagues. You meet the eyes of Elizabeth Warren who beckons you towards her and just as you're about to move, you feel a hand slip into yours. 

You knew just who it was by the way his hands fit into yours, his touch so familiar. 

Your head snaps to the side, staring at Jon in bewilderment. Did he really just out the both of you in front of everyone. He's not even sworn in yet, and he's already gone crazy, you think.

"What the fuck?"

Jon dares to wink at you, walking alongside you with a smugness that you had come to familiarise yourself with over the past few months. "How can I not tell the world that I'm lucky enough to be with you?"

If it were any other time, you would've found yourself flustered at his comment, but now, you could only roll your eyes. He could really be one cocky motherfucker when he wants to be.

He takes note of your tensed shoulders and squeezes your hand, reassuring you. "Just relax. It's only you and me, remember?"

Sucking in a deep breath, you nod in agreement. At least there is one less thing to worry about now.

-----

With your relationship now out in the open, there was no reason for you miss his swearing-in ceremony. You joined your dear friend and colleague, Cory Booker as he escorted Jon into the Senate Chamber with Reverend Raphael Warnock and Alex Padilla beside him. 

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about Ossoff, Y/L/N," Cory said in disbelief. "I mean yeah, you two looked adorable during his campaign, but damn, I thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes, knowing he was going to bring it up every chance he got from now on. "It kind of just happened."

"Hmm. You're still not forgiven."

You're by the gallery with the two other spouses, a proud beaming smile on your lips---hidden by the mask. You have to stop the joyful tears from spilling, but you're just so goddamn happy as he's called in by Vice President Harris. 

He catches your eye as he's walking towards the podium, sending a wink at your way, making you erupt into giggles. He knew you were a blubbering mess underneath and he was going to make the most out of your reaction later on. 

You have to stop yourself from jumping on your feet when he's done taking his oath, and Kamala Harris congratulating him.

You run down from the gallery as fast as your heels allow you to move and you leap into Jon, him catching you in his arms with ease. He's laughing against you, his laugh resonating through his chest.

You pull back slightly, bringing your mouth near his ear and in a low, sultry tone you whisper, "Congratulations, Senator."

His grip around your waist tightens, squeezing your side as if warning you to behave. Ignoring him, you pull down your mask to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Just wait till I get you alone."

Oh, but you can't wait.

-------  

Despite Jon telling you to be on your best behaviour, he's the first one to break. As soon as the two of you are out of the public eye, his hands are all over you, his mouth trailing sloppy kisses onto your neck, attempting to push down the fabric of your crisp white shirt beneath.

"Have I told you just how sexy you look when you're acting all bossy and shit?" he murmurs between kisses, a slight moan escaping your lips. Your fingers tangle themselves into his hair, ruffling his styled locks back to its original form, just the way you liked them.

"Mhmm," your eyes are fluttered shit, your body supported only by Jon's hold on you. If he were to remove his arms, you'd drop down onto the floor in no time. 

"You better get used to it," you manage to word out, overwhelmed by the feeling of his lips all over you. He moves his mouth from your neck, up your throat, feeling your pulse against his lips. You notice as he places on longing kiss over that spot.

"I can't wait."

The two of you were in the lobby of your apartment complex, your humble abode just a few doors away. If anyone was to walk out of one of those doors, the sight greeting them would be anything but appropriate. You knew the right thing to do would be to pull away from Jon and wait until both of you are inside before continuing with your rendezvous. 

But he is insatiable, the spell he has you under in unbreakable, and the last thing you want is to be away from his touch, not when you'd thought you could never experience it again.

Your mind is foggy, his mouth still exploring every inch of your skin he's able to find when you're trying to unlock the door to your apartment. "God fucking damn it," you mutter in frustrating, making Jon chuckle against your skin.

As soon as you get the door open, presses you against the door, your head hitting the doorframe with a soft thud. His head falls back to your neck, planting sloppy wet kisses, between small bites. Meanwhile, your hands grip onto his suit jacket, attempting to pull it off of him.

"Take it off," you order as he kisses his way up your neck. 

He detaches himself for a second, following your command. You take the time to rid yourself of your overcoat, throwing it across the room. 

When the two of you meet once again, he finds your lips, pushing his tongue in your mouth, groaning your name. When he pulls back for air, your lipstick is smudged, staining his mouth and both of your lips swollen. His eyes are darkened with lust, the view giving you an idea.

In a fluid motion, you drop down onto your knees, your eyes landing on his hardened bulge restrained by his pants.

You bit your lips, your mouth water and you look up at him with big doe eyes. "You deserve a congratulatory gift."

His hands find themselves into your hair, gripping onto your locks enough to guide your movements. "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

With that, your hands dart to the zipper, undoing it in one swift motion,  pulling his pants down along with his boxers. 

Your hands wrap themselves around his shaft, you dip your head down, licking off his precum with kitten licks while looking at him through hooded eyes. 

He lets out a groan, throwing his head back the moment your tongue met his tip, sending a shiver down his spine. "God...you know just how to work your mouth don't you?"

He reaches his hands forward to cup your jaw as you wrap your lips around his head, his thumb caressing your cheeks while you sucked swirled your tongue around his shaft. 

Your mouth left his cock, your hands still pumping and twisting him, keeping him in a state of euphoria while you turned your head to the side, kissing the palm of his hand. 

"Did you miss me, did you think about my hands wrapped around your cock like this?" he moaned at your words, watching you intensely, his lustful eyes worshipping you as you licked up his pointer and index finger before sliding them into your mouth. You sucked on his fingers, tongue licking the pads of his fingertips before swallowing his digits until your lips grazed his knuckles.

Jon watched intently, his fingers going in and out between your lips and glistening with your saliva. He could feel the blood rushing downwards, making his cock twitch as if he wasn't already aroused. 

You felt him shift against you, making you smirk. You let go of his fingers with a sloppy pop and dive your mouth back onto his swollen length. You sucked and slurped around his girth with quick bobs of your head, hand stroking and twisting the rest, matching the rhythm. 

"Fuck...don't stop," he groans, the grip of his hands on your hair tightening, giving you light pushes down onto his cock. 

You moaned, swallowing him deeper with each push, letting his tip kiss the back of your throat repeatedly, going in deeper and deeper until your gag reflex kicked in and pushed him out. 

With your hand still rubbing and squeezing him up and down, you take a deep breath when you have the chance, gulping and swallowing the mixture of your drool and his salty precum all the while staring at him with large innocent eyes. He lets out a growl at the sight of your swollen lips.

Lewd sounds filled the room as you squeeze and jerk his wet length tighter with each pump.  He bucked his hips towards your face, you could feel his muscles tense up as he was getting closer to his release. His hand held you in place while he fucked you into his mouth with erratic thrusts. 

He lets out a groan before hissing at the feel of your mouth, "Open up for me, sweetheart---oh, fuck."

Pulling out a couple seconds before he cums, he pumps himself his tip on your tongue, his body shivering and twitching slightly as he shot his load into your mouth.  

His chest heaved as he watched you stand back on your heels while playing with cum on your tongue and lips.

"God, you're just perfect, aren't you?" he lets out a breath, staring at you with adoration. 

Swallowing everything in your mouth, you smirk, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his neck, planting a chaste kiss on his Adam's apple.

"Fuck me, Ossoff."

He doesn't need another word before he lifts you from the ground, carrying you to your bedroom and almost throwing you onto the bed.

He kneels in front of you as you unbutton your pants and he pulls them down, leaving you only in your white shirt. He parts your legs open, finding your soaking wet panties. In a swift motion, he rips them of you, making you gasp.

He slides his fingers over your clit a few times, spreading the wetness before he lays above you before holding his growing erection near your entrance. Without a warning, he shoves himself in, feeling your warm and wet walls clenching around him immediately. Your fingernails dig into the fabric of his shirt as he entered you.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're so tight..."

He doesn't give you much time to adjust, ramming his cock deep into you while holding you down on the mattress at your shoulders. With each quick, rhythmic thrust, a loud moan escapes your mouth.

"You like this, huh? you like the feeling of me deep inside of you?"

"Yesss, oh my god, yes," you whimper, your pelvic muscles tightening, making him groan animalistically.

"Turn around on all fours."

You turned around, crawling on all fours. Jon plunged back into you from behind, grabbing your hips against him, hitting your cervix. You keep on chanting his name in gasps. Meanwhile, his eyes never looked away from where the two of you met. The noise of your moans, the clapping of flesh and wet folds filled the silence.

He pounds into you, his movements sloppy as you feel his cock pulsate. The two of you are moaning loudly, your breaths coming out ragged and the coil tightened in your stomach, ready to snap any time.

'Fuck--Jon. I'm-I'm gonna cum," you cried out in pleasure.

Jon began playing with your clit, rubbing quick circles and that additional action along with his rough thrusts was enough for you to reach your climax. You screamed into the mattress tightening around his cock, while he still pushed in and out of you, only to spill himself inside you a few moments later. 

A few hours later when the two of you are tangled between the bedsheets, free of any clothing, you trace patterns onto his cheeks, a warm smile tugged on your lips as he watched you with endearing eyes.

"What's that smile for?"

You shook your head, your grin growing wider. "I'm just happy to be home to you."

[cuuno-moved]

Tommy's Perch (part 2)

Heyo! I know I said I'd do Hermitbur with Elytra next but this came to me so here we are. It's Tommy's turn with the Hurt/Comfort juice. 

Also Grian is here because they don't wanna leave Wil completely by himself just yet. 

Hope you like it :D

This is beyond weird. Tommy's seen plenty of weird before but this is different. Everything is so peaceful and normal. Where's the chaos? The drug vans? The fucking gods that look two years younger than him? Instead these people have massive fucking buildings and mini-games and capitalism (okay maybe that last one is cool). 

Wilbur seems to like it though. Like them. He's weird now too. Calm. He's almost like his old self again, which is kinda off putting. 

  The older one is currently trying his best not to drag his brother to where ever the fuck they were going. Some dude with rainbow feathers is with the pair for some reason. Tommy likes him. He's funny. The bird-man and Wilbur seem to get along so he approves.

  After a few minutes of walking (they tried to teach him how to use Elytra- let's just say it wasn't his thing) they reached a grey stone wall. It was tall, but not intimidating. It reminds the boy of L'manberg. Wilbur lets go of his hand to press a button next to the entrance and the door slides into the ground. Tommy can see the gold and green blocks pulling it down. Inside is a green field with a few buildings circling a small tower. From one building comes a smell of bread, another potions. It was homely. Familiar. Almost nostalgic, even.

  "Welcome to L’Symphony, Toms," Wilbur grins. The spark in his eyes isn't something the blonde has seen in a long time. It was like he was seeing his president all over again. His brother.

  Their companion spoke up, "Well, aren't you gonna show him around Wilbur?"

  "Yes! Yes, of course. Follow me!"

  There he goes grabbing his hand again. He doesn't remember him ever being this touchy before.

  Wilbur pulls him to a few shops. They start at a whole shack dedicated just to music. A few guitars on the wall, a drum kit, and even a trumpet laying in the corner. Tommy picked it up with a smile.

  "Hey Wilby!" he shouts with a mischievous grin. He puts the mouthpiece to his lips and blows. Disappointingly, no sound comes out.

  The musician bursts into laughter before meeting his chocolate eyes to Tommy's blue. "You're playing it wrong. You can't puff your cheeks," he explains, "you wanna keep the corners of your mouth tight- like this." 

  Wilbur makes what Tommy can only vaguely describe as a fucking duck face.

  "You look like an idiot."

  "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just trust me, okay?" 

  Tommy sighs and pulls the metal back to his face and blows again. A loud C rings through the room.

  "Yeah! Just like that!! Good job Toms!" Wilbur cries. There's that big dopey smile again.

  The pair continue on with Grian following behind them. The president continues to explain each building to the child. 

  "Hey Wil, you still have drugs?" The gremlin asks a little too loudly. Grian looks absolutely shocked, but what really surprised him was Wilbur's response.

  "Is that even a question?”

  Did Wilbur just admit to making drugs in front of a 16 year old? 

  Tommy curls over in laughter for a solid 2 minutes after seeing Grian's confusion.

  Before they realize it, the sun starts to fall. A golden hue is cast over the small country as the trio slow their pace. Wilbur turns to his brother with a much calmer tone than before.

  "Toms, can I show you one more thing?"

  The boy nods. Picking up on the sudden change in atmosphere, he slows his pace. Wilbur starts to fidget with his sleeve as they walk. It's a nervous habit that he’s had since Tommy was little.

  They make their way through the streets and fields of grass all the way back to the center of town. The leaves rustle quietly around them as the president halts. In front of them is the small tower Tommy noticed earlier. It's not very tall, nor is it decorated.  If Tommy climbed up one of the trees, he could probably land on top of it with ease. All that sits in front of it is a wooden bench and a jukebox. He was too far away to read what the plaque on the bench said. The part that caught Tommy's eyes though was not it's simplicity but what was used to build it: cobblestone. His favorite block.

  A hand is placed on his shoulder. The youngest tilts his head to see his brother standing beside him. His eyes are also on the structure.

  "This is-" he chokes, "this is Tommy's Perch. Its L'Symphony's center, it's heart."

  The boy feels his own heart stop. Tommy's Perch? As in- his? A stone tower made just for him?

  "Awww Tommy!! You can call me Wilby, Tommy. No need to be embarrassed."

  "Vice President Tommyinnit!"

  "I'm proud of you, Tommy. I'm proud of you."

  Look, Tommyinnit is a big man. The biggest of men! There is no one bigger than him (except Philza Minecraft). He does not cry. That's ridiculous!

  The water streaming down his face begs to differ.

  A few traitorous tears manage to slip down his face and he sniffles a bit. Wilbur made him a tower. A cobblestone tower! He didn't hate them (or him). 

  Wilbur panics. "Wait- shit. Toms- I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you cry! I can take it down-"

  "No!" Tommy yells, surprising even himself with his volume, "it's awesome, Big Man."

  The musician visibly relaxes. Tommy missed this so much. He missed when they could just laugh with each other. No fucking dictators or politics or wars or fucking bombs, so many bombs. Just a kid with some discs and a man with his guitar, making their mark on the world. 

  He doesn’t have to miss that anymore, ‘cause it’s right here. 

  The brunette smiles and opens his arms to the other. Tommy returns his grin and closes the gap. They both melt into each other's arms.

  "Tommy- I'm so sorry. For everything-"

  "I know."

--manifold's comment: oh.... oh my god... head in hands dude... oh...--

[chipper9906]

Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 6: No More Tricks

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 8,958

Overall Word Count: 57,236

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (6/?)

Chapter Preview:

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled.

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm.

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One of the (few) good things about the sprawling size of the TVA was that there were often parts of it with no one in sight. It was on one of these floors, where the files hadn’t been disturbed for so long that they were collecting dust, that the Gods of Fate had smiled upon them and opened up the Time-Door into. 

Mobius’s head was the first to peek through the Time-Door, looking both left and right down the miniature hallway. Once he had confirmed there was no one that had seen the Time-Door manifesting from nowhere, he waved both Loki and Sylvie through, before stepping fully back into his place of work. 

“This feels so wrong,” Sylvie complains as they walk, tugging at the restricting dress shirt around her neck. Loki regards her from the corner of his eye, scanning up and down her body as he takes in her new uniform. 

“It is a little weird seeing you without your armor.” Loki reaches out to tug at the lapels of her TVA blazer, grinning unabashedly when she smacks his hand away with a weak glare. “–But for the record, I think you look stunning whatever you choose to wear.”

“Oh dear God,” Mobius groaned dramatically in front of them, forcing Loki and Sylvie’s gaze away from each other and over to him. “Is your plan to just constantly flirt with each other to get me to find these files faster? Coz I’ve gotta say, it’s working.”

“It almost sounds like you’re eager to be rid of us,” Loki said, sounding almost offended. Almost. 

“You’re both probably bearable on your own, but the two of you together?” Mobius shook his head. “Nightmares, the both of you. An insane amount of people exist out there in the Universe – now made even bigger with this whole mess you’ve made – countless amounts of variants you could have run into, but no, you had to go and find versions of yourself and hook up with them!”

“First of all, are you telling me you aren't a little bit curious to know what another variant of yourself would be like?” Sylvie asked, bringing Mobius to a grinding halt and turning to face them.

“No, actually. I'm not,” Mobius said in disbelief at her question. “I could have happily gone on with the rest of my life without ever thinking that, thank you. And now I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

“Give it a try,” Sylvie said, throwing a wink in Loki’s direction that nearly made Mobius groan out loud again. “And secondly… no one understands you better than yourself. We have our similarities – a few Loki traits that seem to stick no matter what form we take – but… we’ve both walked different paths. Genetically different, souls the same; but whilst they were formed the same, they’ve been molded by our experiences. So, whilst we may not see things the same way sometimes, at the end of the day, we just…”

“Understand each other,” Loki finishes for Sylvie with a tender smile. 

“God, it really is like puppy love,” Mobius mumbled as he turned back around and continued onwards. “Feels like I’m watching a couple of teens trying to figure out how feelings work…”

“That’s… an apt comparison, actually,” Loki admitted as they both picked up the pace to keep up with Mobius, not wanting to get lost in the maze of TVA corridors. It was only occasionally that they walked through a section with a worker milling about the place, or saw an occasional Minute-Men either patrolling the area or simply passing through to wherever it is they had been ordered to go to. 

“Things seem calmer than last time,” Loki noted. He wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad that the TVA wasn’t still freaking out about the whole multi-versal situation they had on their hands. Every now and then, as they passed through different corridors, Loki would see a flash of that horrific statue proudly displaying 'Him' as he stood over all his subjects. At least they knew now that Sylvie’s guess of being able to select a previously opened Time-Door and return them to the same TVA was correct…

“Things seem empty,” Mobius corrected him. “This place is usually bustling with activity -- and now it’s a ghost town. If we’ve dispatched most of our workers out into the field, then…” Mobius sighed deeply. “Things can’t be doing too well…”

Mobius came to a sudden stop as they rounded a corner, nearly walking straight into a TVA worker who had also been rounding the corner. The man blinked in surprise at Mobius, not even registering Loki or Sylvie behind him. The man pushed his glasses back up his nose, frowning at Mobius before looking somewhere behind him. 

“Mobius? Where have you been? They’ve been looking everywhere for you, man. Judge Whittle’s about to blow a fuse if you don’t get down to his office stat.”

“Forgot I need to grab these guys,” Mobius lied smoothly, gesturing with a flick of his head back to Sylvie and Loki behind him. “They have some, uh… some research I asked them to collect for me that I think could be of some use.”

The man finally looked over to them, thankfully not looking too suspicious of them as his eyes darted between them both. “Right… Well, you better not keep Judge Whittle waiting. What with everything going on, I think he’s trying to hold onto some sense of time, and being late again might just snap his last thread.”

“That’s why I’m headed there now,” Mobius assured the man with a pat on his shoulder and a friendly smile. The man returned the smile, giving all three a respectful nod before walking past them and disappearing out of sight around another corridor. Mobius released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, fixing his already tidy tie as a force of habit. 

“I have to say, you’re an excellent liar,” Loki commended Mobius. “Are you sure you’re not a variant of us, too?”

“God, I hope not,” Mobius retorted, continuing to lead them forward once more. 

“Wait, hang on-,” Sylvie said, tugging at Mobius’s arm. “Did he say Judge Whittle?”

Mobius looked back to Sylvie with a confused frown. “…Yes?”

“What about Judge Renslayer? What happened to her?”

Mobius stopped outside of a stereotypical-looking office door, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “Judge who?”

Both Sylvie and Loki shared a look of surprise, strangely unsettled by the idea that Renslayer apparently didn't exist in this timeline. Or, at least, hadn't been taken from her life to work in the TVA. What other changes would they have to expect to come across in this timeline? And how much of an effect would each small change have?

"Doesn't matter," Sylvie told Mobius. "Just... someone we know from another timeline."

"And by 'know', do you mean 'have killed', or...?"

"Us personally? No," Loki answered. "But last we saw you — the other you — you were headed back to the TVA to give Renslayer our regards, so... we don't actually know what happened to her."

“Given my fighting skills? Nothing, probably,” Mobius guessed, yanking down on the handle and swinging the door open. It was only once Mobius had stepped inside and out of the way of the door that Loki noticed the little golden plaque attached under the little window, the name ‘M. Mobius’ etched into the metal. 

“Come on. I don’t know how much time we have,” Mobius called them into the office. “Considering I’m expected in Whittle’s office, we probably don’t have long until someone comes to fetch me.”

“You have an office?” Loki said in surprise, stepping into the room with Sylvie close behind. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The you I know never took me to his office,” Loki replied, glancing around the small space that had been allocated to Mobius. It looked… well, like everything else in the TVA, really: neat and organized, drab and boring; painted with soul-sucking colors that, at this point, reminded him of a prison. 

“Maybe he didn’t have one.” Mobius dropped down onto a squeaky office chair, fiddling around with the buttons on one of those ridiculously bulky-looking computer monitors until it whirred to life. “I can’t imagine every variant of myself is good enough at their job for—” 

“He was just fine at doing his job, actually,” Loki was quick to defend Mobius. Which was quite strange, as he was defending Mobius to… Mobius. “Managed to out-lie me a few times, which I can assure you is a tricky thing to do.”

“He was the only one of your bumbling workforce that was able to keep hot on my tail,” Sylvie joined Loki in defending Mobius, much to Loki’s surprise and… a little bit herself, if she was being honest. “I was able to stay one step ahead of him until he roped this idiot in—” Sylvie jabbed a thumb in Loki's direction. “—And he led you right to me.”

“To try and recruit you.” Loki now had to defend himself. “I wasn’t exactly a volunteer worker; it was work with them or be reset.”

“And here comes the old couple bickering…” Mobius mumbled under his breath. Before either Loki or Sylvie could point out that, whilst technically over a thousand years old, they were still considered young by Asgardian standards, Mobius had opened up some sort of application that brought up some virtual files in a holographic display.

Much to both Sylvie and Loki’s displeasure, these files were also accompanied by the cheery bright orange face of Miss Minutes. Sylvie barely restrained herself from unsheathing her sword hidden beneath her blazer and slicing the southern-speaking mascot in half like she desperately wanted to do back in the Citadel. 

“Well, hey there!” Miss Minutes greeted them, sounding as chipper as ever. “Ooo, new faces! Do we have some new recruits, Mobius?”

“You could say that…” Mobius answered, brow pinched in concentration as he swiped through the seemingly endless amount of files in the TVA’s database. 

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled. 

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm. “Is there something you needed my help with, Mobius?”

“Yeah, actually.” Mobius scratched across his upper lip, disheveling his neatly combed mustache. “I’m, uh… getting out new recruits up to speed with what they need to know about… about ‘Him’.”

“Have they had the talk yet?”

Loki wasn’t entirely sure why, but something about that question made him want to shiver off this layer of discomfort that seemed to coat him. At the same time, the last time someone had ‘the talk’ with him, he was unable to look his mother in the eyes for a good few days. 

Mobius’s eyes flickered up from the monitor to Miss Minutes. “Yeah, they’ve had the talk; they know why they’re here.”

“Well okay then!” Miss Minutes chirped, crossing her arms behind her back with a gleaming smile. “Anything in specific you need me to find?”

“Yeah, any files we have on His TemPad,” Mobius said, wheeling himself back a bit from the desk and yanking open one of the drawers. 

“Bit of an odd request,” Miss Minutes commented as she began flipping through the holographic files in front of them. Mobius continued digging through his desk, searching through different folders with a look of concentration. For a moment, Mobius’s hands stilled over something, but Miss Minutes' overexcited voice stole away their attention. 

“Alright, here we go!” Miss Minutes flicked the holographic file through the air, and both Loki and Sylvie wore matching frowns as it disappeared from sight. The question of where it had gone was answered as Mobius pulled his TemPad out from his desk drawer with an “Ah-Ha!” of success, proudly waving the TemPad in their direction. 

“Anything else you need me to do for you?” Miss Minutes asked, sounding both polite and… terrifying. 

“Uh, no -- this’ll do.” Mobius returned Miss Minute's politeness with a smile of his own – even if it did appear quite forced and strained. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome!” Miss Minutes said before disappearing in a weird move where she seemed to fold into herself, all three in the room thankful for her absence. 

“I never thought a cartoon clock mascot would make me fear for my life,” Loki said, still staring suspiciously at the space where Miss Minutes had vanished from.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here…” Mobius muttered, fingers dancing across the TemPad as he brought up the files Miss Minutes had just sent him. His eyes scanned rapidly across the screen, skipping to what seemed to be the most important segments of information. 

“Interesting…” Mobius leaned forward against his desk, resting his head on his hand and tapping his index finger against his upper lip.

“What’s interesting?” Sylvie asked, not appreciating that she couldn’t see the information she needed, whilst knowing that it was right there in someone else’s hands. 

“Oh, just how vastly superior that thing on your hand is to this,” Mobius answered, waving his TemPad around like it was now useless. “For one, the efficiency on that thing? From what I’m seeing, it’s probably… four or five times more so than ours?”

“So, you’re saying that this TemPad can do more before it runs out of battery?” Loki asks, pointing to Sylvie’s hand. 

“Not that you even have to worry about that,” Mobius said with a disbelieving chuckle. “You noticed how that thing doesn’t have a port to charge it?”

Sylvie shot Mobius an annoyed look, crossing her arms across her chest. “Just how oblivious do you think I am?”

“Man, you guys really do find a way to turn people’s words into an insult against you,” Mobius noted, sounding almost amused by the revelation. “Is that a self-conscious thing, or…?”

Sylvie, on the other hand, did not look amused. “I’m good on the therapy session, thanks. You were saying about charging it?”

“Oh, au contraire -- I think therapy would be an excellent choice for you guys,” Mobius teased with a grin, which he quickly wiped off his face at the death stares he got in return. “Alright, alright. The thing about charging this TemPad is… well, that you don’t need to.”

“Come again?” Loki asked. 

“From the looks of things, His version of the TemPad kind of… recharges itself?” Mobius struggled to find the best way to explain what he had just read. “Well, not entirely from itself. The TemPad makes a connection, if you will, with its owner. Or… master, I think would be a better word.”

Sylvie raised her hand up closer to her face, peering down at the TemPad. Almost on cue did its surface come to life, emitting a soothing hum as power ran through its complicated circuits. 

“And… what does the connection do?” Sylvie asked, looking away from the TemPad back to Mobius. 

“It uses you as its batteries,” Mobius answers. “It recharges through you. Your life force, your energy, whatever you wanna call it.”

“Uh, should we be worried about that?” Loki asked, just barely resisting the urge to yank the TemPad off Sylvie’s hand and throw it as far as he could at the thought of it draining away her life. 

“Considering ‘He’ is still alive after eons of using it? No, I don’t think so,” Mobius assured them – although just barely. “At the end of the day, ‘He’ is human, just like us -- uh, well, me, anyway. Taking into account the fact that you guys are both demigods with access to magical powers, I’m pretty sure the TemPad will barely scratch the surface of your energy.”

“Then… how did it not affect ‘He Who Remains?’” Loki asked. “Something that needs that much energy… it has to take its toll.”

“Maybe you can ask him before you kill him,” Mobius suggests. “My best guess? ‘He’ probably needs to ‘recharge’ himself. You know: sleeping, eating; all that boring mortal stuff?”

“You say that like we don’t need to eat and sleep, too.” Sylvie retorts.

“Uh-huh. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re gods. I mean, how old are you guys again?”

“Point taken,” Loki conceded on both their behalf. “How long does the TemPad take to charge, then?”

“Depends on how drained it is,” Mobius says, turning his attention back to the displayed file. “It’s charging all the time, so as long as you’re not opening up Time-Doors left, right, and center, it usually has enough power that you don’t even have to think about it. If you somehow do drain the power enough that it’s nearly empty then… from ‘His’ experiments, it seems it takes a day or so to get it back to full power.”

“Experiments?” Sylvie picked up on the word. “What kind of experiments?”

“Well, ‘He’ didn’t always spend his time behind a desk organizing the strands of time. Before he created us, it was just him out there -- jumping from timeline to timeline, trying to bring some semblance of peace and order to the chaos.”

“About that–,” Loki interjected. “–The whole ‘jumping from timeline to timeline’ thing... Did ‘He’ jump between those timelines randomly?”

“Uh…” Mobius turned back to his TemPad, scrolling through the block of information it displayed. “Seems like it, for the most part.”

“So there’s no way to select a specific timeline?” Loki asked, casting Sylvie a down-trodden look. “No way to find a specific timeline?”

“We weren’t exactly designed for that,” Mobius replied, flicking away the information on his TemPad. With a few more presses of his fingers, the screen of his TemPad displayed a diagram of the sacred timeline -- if it could even be called that anymore. What he showed them more closely resembled a plate of spaghetti than the single straight line of the timeline. “See this right here? This is exactly what we were supposed to stop. We weren’t meant to travel between timelines, because the very existence of another timeline outside ours means we failed at our jobs.”

“But that’s what it was like before the TVA was created,” Sylvie pointed out. “Somewhere in there is the timeline we came from. We just need to find it again and travel back to it.”

“What for?” Mobius asks. “Why’s your timeline so important?”

“It’s the sacred timeline,” Sylvie answered, quickly continuing when Mobius opened his mouth to argue. “Yeah, I know, your timeline was also the sacred timeline, but it wasn’t until me killing ‘Him’ created all these different timelines.”

“Okay, sure-,” Mobius said with a nod. “That still doesn’t explain why you want to go back to that timeline. You killed that version of ‘Him’ in that timeline, didn’t you? Why else do you need to go back?”

“Because that timeline contains a few people that could be useful in defeating the other versions of ‘Him’,” Loki answers. 

“And… how do you know that?”

“Because they were the only versions of themselves that were able to kill another mad ruler,” Sylvie says, glancing at Loki with her face softened in pity. “The only being who was destined – and able – to kill us…”

“Oh…” Mobius cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure whether to continue scrolling through his TemPad or keep talking. “Uh… I don’t know if this is inconsiderate of me to say, but… maybe it would be worth getting that guy to join your team? Since he was able to kill you, maybe they could-,”

“No.” Loki didn’t even need to give a reason why he was against that idea. The tone behind that one word said more than any explanation he could give. 

“Fair enough, scratch that idea-,” Mobius made the smart move and returned his attention to his TemPad. “Selecting certain timelines, selecting certain timelines… Ah, here we go! Seems it’s… huh.”

“What? What’s huh?” Sylvie asked. 

“There is a way to select a specific timeline. Kind of,” Mobius answered, standing from his chair and making his way around his desk to them. “Could you hold up the TemPad for me?”

Sylvie did as Mobius asked, holding out her arm in front of her so the TemPad was on display. 

“You remember what I said about the TemPad making a connection with the user?” Mobius asked, getting nods from them in return. “Well, the connection goes deeper than that. So much so that… only the person who has been designated as the leader of the TVA can use it.”

“What?” Sylvie splutters. “I’m not the leader of the TVA-,”

“Tell that to the TemPad,” Mobius returned. 

“Sylvie… I think he might be right,” Loki said, getting Sylvie to snap her head towards him. “He wanted us to rule the TVA, remember? Someone to take over his job. He offered us the position, took off the TemPad, and then-,”

“But I didn’t accept it!” Sylvie argued, looking more and more horrified with every passing second. “I just-”

“Took the TemPad,” Loki cut her off, filling in what she was about to say. 

“Far as the TemPad is concerned, you’re the leader now,” Mobius told her. “You see those gold lines running across the surface?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got do with anythi—”

“They’re not just for design,” Mobius answered before Sylvie could finish. “Those lines? They’re actually timelines.”

Sylvie blinked in surprise, glancing first over to Loki, then down to the TemPad. 

“You see, ‘He Who Remains’ wanted to make sure he could return to his timeline whenever he needed to,” Mobius continued, nodding to the TemPad. “Mostly to make sure none of the other variants of him were wreaking havoc on his timeline, but also… just to return home, I guess. Do me a favor and run your hand along its surface, would you?”

Sylvie shot Mobius a curious look, but did as he asked anyway. The surface of the TemPad shifted, the squiggly lines running along its surface passing by in a blur of movement. Then, it seemed to settle on a certain design, displaying the usual bright gold line with branches coming off of it. 

“That right there?” Mobius began, looking between the two of them, and then down to the TemPad. “That’s your timeline, Sylvie.”

Sylvie’s head shot up at that, feeling her heart clench at his words. It was… it was impossible. Her timeline didn’t exist anymore. Judge Renslayer and her Minute-Men had made sure of that. 

“Now see, if I try and select a timeline-,” 

Mobius’s hand moved towards the TemPad, and almost on instinct did Sylvie pull it away from him, holding it protectively to her body. Mobius let out an exasperated sigh at the defensive action, dropping his hands back to his sides and shoving them into his pockets. “Really? Isn’t trust supposed to be a two-way system?”

“From what I’ve heard,” Sylvie said as Loki unconsciously tried to move closer to her. He had done this a few times before, and this time, she found herself moving closer to him, too. “Not sure your argument works when you clearly don’t trust us, either.”

“Can you blame me?” Mobius asked, getting you a genuine huff of laughter from Sylvie. 

“No. If anything, I respect you for it,” Sylvie said. 

“Good form of self-preservation, really,” Loki added. 

“Fine. I won’t touch it.” Mobius turned around on the spot, strolling back over to his side of the desk. “Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“What would have happened?” Even if Sylvie didn’t want Mobius to touch it, that wasn’t to say that she wasn’t curious as to what he was trying to show her. 

“Nothing,” Mobius answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “It wouldn’t have responded to me -- because I’m not its owner.”

“But… why would He have just given it up like that?” Sylvie asked. “I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.”

“‘What’s the worst that could happen,’“ Loki mimicked He Who Remains’s words. “Either we took over, or an infinite amount of Him manifests into existence and fights to get back to where He was. No matter what option came to be, he no longer needed that TemPad.”

“Still seems strange to me that he just… gave you the TemPad,” Mobius thought out loud, placing his hands on the desk and resting his weight on it. “That is what I saw, right? He just… took it off and slid it across the desk to you.”

“Yeah… He did,” Sylvie’s face pinched into a frown, slowly looking up to Loki. “Loki, did you ever notice how… he seemed almost excited at the idea of me killing him?”

Loki mirrors her frown, thinking back to what felt like a lifetime ago now. “In what way?” 

“He was looking at you guys kinda funny during your big fight,” Mobius said, drumming his fingers across the desk. 

“Was he?” Loki asks. “I was a little too distracted at the time to notice.”

“He even looked strangely invested when you guys, uh…” Mobius trailed off awkwardly, hoping they would fill in the blanks for themselves. When Loki and Sylvie only stared blankly back at him, he hung his head with a dejected sigh. “Oh, for the love of… When you kissed, for god's sake…”

“Oh…” Loki was surprised to feel the flush of heat to his face. “Again, a little distracted -- which, I think was your plan.” Loki cast Sylvie an annoyed look at that last part.

“Already said I’m sorry–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah -- how about we move on from that.” Mobius hurried them past the miniature bickering session that was likely to start. “Or… no wait, let’s go back to that.”

Loki and Sylvie looked to each other at the same time, like they were somehow able to communicate through eye contact alone. “Let’s go back to… us arguing?” Sylvie wanted to clarify. 

“Yes! But, no, don’t actually argue—” Mobius somehow made this all the more confusing. “What was it that He said to you guys? Something about trust, or… being unable to trust—”

“He asked me if I could trust Loki.” Sylvie, of course, remembered this. She knew she’d never forget. “And… if I could trust anyone at all."

Mobius nodded to himself, staring down at his feet as he thought. “Why would he say that? If he wanted you to work together, to lead the TVA together, then… why would he plant those doubts in your head?”

“It almost seems like he was trying to get us to fight,” Loki said to Sylvie. “Maybe… he never really wanted us to take over.”

“You think he wanted to die?”

“I think he wanted to be reborn,” Loki corrected Sylvie. “I don’t think he was just tired; I think he was bored. After countless years of writing everyone’s stories – himself included – I think… I think he wanted you to open up the multiverse, to live an infinite amount of lives outside of his own script.”

Sylvie shook her head with a bitter laugh, her lip curling in disgust as she looked down to His former TemPad. “My whole life, I only had the thought of watching His life drain away to get me through the day… And now, it turns out I did what he always wanted, anyway.”

Sylvie reached out a hand towards the TemPad, the glow of its timelines reflecting in her shining eyes. She ran a finger softly across the timeline – her timeline – watching as the TemPad slowly moves with her finger, displaying the different branches that come off of her timeline. 

“Is this really my timeline?” Sylvie doesn’t look away from the TemPad. 

“It’s what the files say,” Mobius tells her. 

“How is that possible?” Sylvie tears her eyes away, looking up to Mobius. “My timeline was pruned.”

“Exactly. It was pruned,” Mobius says. “But now we have this whole mess of branches, forming into a whole mess of timelines.”

“So?”

“So, somewhere out there is a timeline where you were never picked up by us,” said Mobius, looking pointedly to Sylvie’s TemPad. “Oh, right -- it’s that timeline right there.”

“A timeline where the TVA never interfered…” Loki says in wonderment, turning wide eyes towards Sylvie. “Your timeline never would have been pruned…”

“My family…” Sylvie whispers, finding herself frozen in shock. “My home… my life…”

“So… we’re on Sylvie’s timeline now?” Loki asks Mobius. “How would that work when we, apparently, don’t exist…?”

“This isn’t Sylvie’s timeline,” Mobius said, scooping up the TemPad he left laying on his desk and tucking it into his jacket. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. When you grabbed the TemPad and opened a door here, it should have opened up into a TVA on your timeline. But… it didn’t.” 

Mobius took a seat on the edge of his desk – despite the perfectly fine chair right there in front of him – crossing his arms against his chest with his back partly turned to them. “What were you doing whilst you were opening the Time-Door? Was there any interference?”

“Oh, um…” Sylvie glanced awkwardly to Loki, whose raised questioning eyebrow quickly dropped into a look of realization at her pointed look. 

“Ah…” Loki drawled out slowly, scratching at the back of his head. “Would us, uh… touching be classified as ‘interference?’” 

“Oh, you were–” Mobius cut himself off with a burst of laughter, slapping at his knee. “You opened up that Time-Door whilst you were kissing, didn’t you? That explains it…”

“Does it? Feel free to pass on that explanation to us -- you know, if you feel like it.” Sylvie didn’t appreciate being the recipient of Mobius’s ridicule. 

“The TemPad was trying to open up the Time-Door to your specific timeline. Problem is… it didn’t know which one of you to focus on. Can’t open one door into two separate timelines, so, it had to compromise. Instead of opening up a Time-Door into either one of your timelines…”

“It opened up into one where we don’t exist.” Loki guessed correctly. 

“You both canceled each other out,” Mobius tacked on. 

“And what about the others?” Sylvie asked.

“The other… what’s?”

“The Apocalypses we jumped to,” Sylvie clarified. “Were they… were they my timeline?”

“If it was just you touching the TemPad? Then yeah, it would have been your timeline.”

“That must have been why it was different,” Loki said in realization. “Those attackers… they came earlier than they were supposed to, didn’t they?”

“One small change can lead to a whole ton of butterfly effects.” Mobius slowly made his way to the side of the desk, sliding the drawer closed as he went. “Some of those changes can be small, like… like someone speaking one word on one day differently. And then the other changes…”

“Can breed a multi-verse ending conqueror,” Loki finished grimly, getting a shrug of agreement from Mobius. 

“So… we know we can get to my timeline. Is that the only way we can select a specific timeline?”

“Right, the uh, the other sacred timeline,” Mobius mumbled, scratching at the back of his head as he thought. “Well… you came from that one, right? You made a connection between that timeline to this timeline when you shoved Loki through that Time-Door.”

“But we’ve moved on since then,” Loki pointed out. “If Sylvie touches the TemPad, it’ll display her timeline, won’t it?”

“If that’s the one you select, sure. But–”

“But the TemPad saves previously opened Time-Doors.” Sylvie already knew where Mobius was going with this. “That’s how we got here in the first place. I opened up a Time-Door I had already opened before, back in the Citadel.”

“Which is the timeline currently on display,” Mobius said. “All you’ve gotta do is follow that timeline back… and it’ll connect to the timeline you came from.”

“Hang on…” Loki turned his attention back to Sylvie, his brow furrowing in thought. “What about my timeline? Would… would that have been re-created too?”

Sylvie placed a comforting hand on his arm, giving his bicep a kind squeeze with an understanding smile. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Loki looked genuinely taken aback as she unwound the TemPad from her hand. For a moment, she simply stood and held this greatly powerful device in her hands. She kept her eyes locked with his, a note of understanding passing between them as she slowly held out the TemPad for him to take. 

Loki didn’t take it. Not right away. “It might not work. Not just because my timeline might still remain erased, but… what if the TemPad can’t have two owners?”

“’He Who Remains’ made it clear he wanted both of us to rule.” Sylvie pushed the TemPad into his chest. She grabbed hold of his hand, pulling it up to the TemPad and curling his fingers around it. “Besides… we might be two separate beings, but our souls exist as one and the same. If it works for me? Then I know it’ll work for you, too.”

“You are very confident,” Loki noted with a small smile, his weak grip on the TemPad strengthening as he finally took the TemPad from her. 

Loki couldn’t bring himself to look at the TemPad as he slid it onto his hand, experimentally flexing his fingers to get used to the feeling of the cylindrical object sat atop his hand. Sylvie nodded at him in encouragement when his eyes landed on her, letting her hand slip away from his arm to make sure they were no longer touching. 

Loki finally dropped his eyes down to the TemPad. Sylvie’s timeline continued to blink up at him, just waiting for its new owner to press his touch into its surface. Loki let his hand hover over the TemPad, a moment of shaky hesitation passing before he swiped his finger across the flat surface of the TemPad. 

In the blink of an eye, the surface began to change. Billions upon billions of timelines flashed before his eyes as the TemPad searched for his timeline, and for one heart-stopping moment, Loki wondered if it would simply be searching forever, his timeline removed from all of existence. 

And then it stopped. It stopped, and Loki and Sylvie could only stand and stare at the brilliantly gold streak of lightning that stared back at them. Right there was Loki’s timeline. Right there was a universe where none of this had ever happened -- an unlimited expanse of possibilities his life could have taken.

And that’s when Mobius held the pruning stick to Sylvie’s neck. 

Loki knew it was foolish of him to let his guard down, even if in the presence of – who he supposed – was a friend. But it wasn’t his friend. This Mobius might have been witness to the events that led to their friendship, but he didn’t experience them. And that was made all the difference, it seemed. 

One second, Sylvie was right there next to him, looking at the TemPad just as he was. The next, she was just… gone. Loki’s head snapped up in a daze, taking in the sight of Sylvie struggling vehemently as Mobius wrapped an arm around her neck, keeping her pinned to him as he held the glowing end of the pruning stick much too close to Sylvie for either of their comfort. 

Sylvie looked more pissed at herself than she did at Mobius. Just like Loki, she had made the foolish mistake of letting her guard down. The entire time she had been here, she had every possible guard up and alert, just waiting for the moment this all went to shit. And then… and then Mobius had told her that somewhere out there is the family she knows, the family she never got to grow up with, and she had stupidly returned back to the state of that little princess of Asgard who had no reason not to trust anyone. 

“Don’t struggle.” Mobius’s words did not come out as a command. Not that he wanted them to sound like it. It was more a word of advice than anything. “I don’t want to accidentally catch you with this thing.”

“Then why are you holding it to my neck?” Sylvie forced out through gritted teeth, continuing to struggle despite Mobius’s warning. She kept her gaze focused on the pruning stick Mobius had snuck out of his desk drawer, her hands dug into the arm around her neck, tugging uselessly at them to get his hold to loosen. Except, every defiant pull to his arm only resulted in the pressure against her neck tightening, coming dangerously close to cutting off her air supply. 

“Mobius, what are you doing?” Loki spluttered out, yanking out his dagger from his jacket pocket in a flash of metal. 

“What I have to.” Mobius took a cautious step back away from Loki, dragging a very uncooperative Sylvie with him. “And don’t you think about going for that sword, Sylvie. The moment I feel your arms move anywhere down, I’ll prune you before you can even come close to touching it.”

Sylvie laughed mockingly at that. Loki stood in a battle-ready stance, looking very much not amused by Mobius’s words as Sylvie had. “You’re not used to the whole ‘threatening demeanor’ thing, are you?” Sylvie goaded him. 

“I’ll admit it’s not my forte.” Mobius carefully maneuvered himself back around the desk, placing it between him and Loki. Loki slowly moved forward with him, coming to a stop just in front of the desk. “Especially when I don’t want to be doing this.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Loki hoped his pleading tone would get through to Mobius in some sort of way. 

“Because it’s my job,” Mobius forced out the words with as much authority as he could muster. 

“You’ve seen the truth!” Sylvie grunted, still fighting against Mobius’s hold. “You know what He did to you! To all of us!”

“That doesn’t change the importance of my work.” Mobius’s words make the weight in Loki’s chest sink heavier. “Or the importance of His work. I agree with you that this whole thing ends with Him; I just don’t agree with your method. I think… I know that the strands of time are only safe in His hands. Only He can untangle and sort out those strands and ensure the timeline runs through to the end without any problems.”

“Mobius, no–” Loki desperately hoped he could get through to him. “If that was the case, then we wouldn’t be right here, would we? You wouldn’t have existed if that was the case. Sylvie and I wouldn’t exist. But that’s what's happened, whether by His deciding or not. If we just sit back and let him rise to power once more… what’s to stop this from happening all over again?”

“And what if your version of Him isn’t the one that comes out on top?” Sylvie asks Mobius, lessening her struggles now that Mobius held the pruning stick even closer, buzzing away mere inches from her face. “Somewhere out there is a variant of him that isn’t interested in pruning the other timelines. Instead, he only wants to rule over them all.”

“It’s up to Him to decide what we’ll do about that,” Mobius replied, much to Loki’s dismay. 

Mobius sighed lightly, ducking his head with his eyes clenched shut. “Please, just… do as I say. I meant it when I said I don’t want to be doing this. I think… I think you guys could be of some help to us–”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sylvie groaned. “You’re trying to recruit us now?”

“Not right now,” Mobius corrected her. “I know you won't right now in this moment. But… you’ll see. You’ll see that this is the only way. Now, please, if you’d just… hand over the TemPad. I promise we won’t reset you, or put you in a time-loop -- nothing like that.”

“Mobius–” Loki tried again, only to be cut off by the man in question.

“It won't be long before someone comes into this office. I can’t guarantee they won't do something drastic if they come in and see you like that with your weapons. But if you come cooperatively–”

“We’ll be slaves to the TVA, just as you are?” Sylvie asks, voice soaked in disgust. “No thanks -- I’d rather take my chances with the pruning stick.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s a good point,” Mobius mumbled, much to Loki and Sylvie’s confusion. “You… you voluntarily pruned yourself, didn’t you? The both of you were pruned, and you made it out…”

“We did,” Loki confirmed, taking a single step closer, feeling the wooden panel of Mobius’s desk pressing into his knees. “And we both took down the creature He himself tamed and weaponized to devour timelines whole.”

“In other words… do it,” Sylvie spat at Mobius, giving one last attempt at breaking free that yields no results. “You know as well as we do that that’s not a threat to us. Not really.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Mobius agreed. Seeing Mobius deactivate the pruning stick briefly filled Loki with a surge of hope, wondering if maybe, just maybe, they had found a way to deescalate the situation. That hope prompted surged out of him, however, as Mobius flipped the pruning stick around in his hand, now holding the pointed, sharp spear end of the stick against Sylvie’s neck. “You might be able to escape pruning… but can you come back from a blade in your throat?”

No. No, they could not. 

“Mobius, please,” Loki begged one more time, holding out a dagger in front of him. “Stop this. You’ve seen reason, I know you have. I don’t want to do this as much as you don’t–”

“Then just hand over the TemPad,” Mobius said like it was a no-brainer decision. Loki felt his muscles coil in anticipation as the very tip of the spear pierced Sylvie’s flesh, clenching his jaw hard when he saw the small trickle of blood slip down her neck. He had to make a decision–

“You know your magic doesn’t work here,” Mobius reminded him with an almost pitiful expression. “This is it, Loki. No more tricks from the trickster.”

Loki decided. 

“No. There’s no magic,” Loki agreed, holding out his dagger like he was about to drop it in surrender. 

Loki dropped his hand down in a flash, connecting with the surface of the TemPad, just as he had seen He Who Remains do back in the Citadel. Mobius blinked, and then Loki was gone. He startled, not even having time to ponder over what had happened before Loki blinked back into existence behind him – not that he could see – and slid the dagger he held in his hand right in the small of his back. Mobius jolted at the searing pain that erupted from his back, barely able to get out a gasp of pain as his body locked up. 

“–But I still have your technology,” Loki completed the rest of his sentence before yanking the dagger out from Mobius’s back. 

Sylvie took advantage of the slackening of Mobius’s grip, forcing an elbow back hard into the side of his ribs. Mobius had completely let go at this point, but she still spun around on the spot, bringing up her leg and kicking Mobius hard in the chest. Mobius went down without much resistance, slamming into the wall behind him with a pained grunt. He slid down to the floor, leaving behind a trail of red against the wall as he went.

“Huh…” Mobius’s eyes were unfocused, staring blankly to the ground in front of him. “You know, I… I could have sworn I heard you said to that other me that… that you were done stabbing people in the back.”

Mobius dredged up just enough energy to raise his eyes up, meeting Loki’s agonized ones. There was… nothing in his eyes. No blame, no hatred, no fear. But… there was nothing good there, either. No forgiveness, no kindness he’s seen from Mobius plenty of times before. It was just… blank. He was blank. 

One second, Loki's staring at a man whose heart was still pumping, whose blood still circulated around his body. Then, he was actually able to see the moment the life drained away from him, like a candle being blown out. Any semblance of the man he knows disappears from Mobius’s eyes, his head dropping down to his chest before he slowly slumps down to the ground, staring without seeing. 

The weight of the dagger in Loki’s hands had never felt as heavy as it had before. His shaking hands lift the dagger up, the buzzing fluorescent lights of Mobius’s office reflecting off the shining surface of the blade. The dagger had served its purpose, had done what it was designed to do. And yet, as Loki stared down at the offending item and took in the sight of Mobius’s blood coating the once perfectly clean metal, he wanted nothing more than to cast it into the eternal flame and watch it melt into nothing.

How many times had he done exactly this? He was far from inexperienced in battle, and far from inexperienced in hurting those he cares about for his own gain. So why, this time, did he feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat? Why, this time, did his hands shake so hard that he let his trusted weapons drop to the ground? Why, this time, did he find himself stumbling down to the ground, breaths coming short and fast as he stared at the corpse of the only friend he’s truly ever known?

“Loki…” Sylvie’s voice sounded far away and muted, as if they were underwater. In the back of his mind, he registers that she’s moved in front of him, blocking him from seeing Mobius’s corpse. Her concerned face fills his vision, blurry as if his eyes were filled with tears. Wait… were they? It would certainly explain the stinging sensation he felt in them, and the wetness he could feel rolling down his face. 

Her hands cup his face, desperately trying to bring him back to himself. Just like Mobius, his eyes had gone scarily blank. “Loki, it’s not your fault. It’s not, okay? That’s… that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Mobius -- not really.”

Something flickers back to life in his eyes. They shift around, searching across her face as if he was finally seeing her here, still with him, sat right in front of him. He swallows hard, his gaze drifting to where he knows Mobius’s corpse lies behind her. 

“I know.” Simply hearing Loki speak out loud helped to lessen some of the fear that had been constricting her chest. “But… it also is.”

Sylvie didn’t even know what she could say right now that would be of any comfort to him. She had never really had to comfort someone before, or had someone comfort her. Except… well, she supposed that Loki had attempted to comfort her a few times: back on Lamentis when it seemed like the end of the line; or in ‘The Time-Keeper’s chambers when they realized the Time Keepers weren’t real. But then, even if she did know how to go about comforting him, this certainly wasn’t the place to do it. Not with Mobius’s body sat right there behind her, and not in a place where they could be locked up at any moment. 

Sylvie turns her head towards the office door, just waiting for the sounds of rushing footsteps to echo down the hall. A part of her thinks it would almost be better than the silence they found themselves in -- apart from the repetitive tick of the clock hung in the top middle section of the wall Mobius was slumped by.

She needed to get Loki out of here. She didn’t care where, or what timeline it was, it just had to be not here. Sylvie brushed her thumb tenderly across Loki’s cheek, wiping away a stubborn tear that clung to his skin. She dropped her hands away from his face, turning to Mobius’s body with a grimace. Avoiding looking the corpse in the eye, she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the TemPad he had stored in there, trying her best not to disturb his body too much. 

“Sorry, Mobius,” Sylvie whispers as she moves away from his body, casting him one last regretful look before straightening herself into a stand. The TemPad in her hands was at least familiar, and yet… it felt wrong to use, now. Shaking her head, she flipped open the screen to the TemPad, letting out a breath of relief that it was fully charged. She entered in the information for the Time-Door without much of a thought, its manifestation enough to force Loki’s gaze away from Mobius’s body. 

“We need to go,” Sylvie reaches out a hand towards Loki, grateful that his eyes follow the movement of her hand instead of settling back on Mobius. Loki nods, hesitating for a moment before he picks his dagger back up from the ground. His TemPad clad hand clasps onto Sylvie’s, taking her offered help as she pulls him up to his feet. She doesn’t let go of his hand, even when he’s stood back on his feet, and when Loki squeezes her hand in thanks, she knows she's made the right decision. 

“Don’t look.” Sylvie moves in front of him, forcing his eyes onto her. Loki does as she asks, forcing everything in his vision apart from her to go blurry and out of focus. Sylvie slowly starts walking back towards the Time-Door, pulling Loki with her as she goes. 

What Loki and Sylvie didn’t know was that, after they stepped through that Time-Door, someone did come into Mobius’s office. But it wasn’t just a group of Minute-Men. Nor was it Judge Whittle. 

Deep purple robes brushed against the floor as the figure stepped into the room, calculated dark eyes scanning across the room before falling on Mobius. The man sighed, more in irritation at not having caught the intruders red-handed than in the sadness he should have felt for having lost such a devoted worker. 

“They found their way in,” The man calls out to the security detail stood post next to the door. “Get someone to retrieve this body once I’ve looked over it. We need to check for any cross-contamination.”

The man waited until one of the security detail had hurried off to carry out his orders before stepping further into the room. He strode over to Mobius’s body, crouching down onto one knee with his head tilted to the side as he looked him up and down. He reached out, grabbing Mobius’s arm and rolling him over onto his stomach. Immediately, he took sight of the dark patch of red soaked into the back of Mobius’s jacket. With careful hands, he pried the jacket off of the body, followed shortly by the now stained white button-up shirt. 

The man clicked his tongue, resting an arm on his knee as he looked to the open wound that had been carved into the center of Mobius’s back. There’s a tentative knock to the office door he had closed behind him, looking over to it as it swings open. The Minute-Men he had requested filed into the room, standing at attention and ready for orders. 

“You—” He points to one of the Minute Men in line, who somehow manages to stand straighter now he had been singled out. “—Come here.”

Obediently, the Minute Man hurries over to the man, nervous eyes fixed dead-ahead as he waits for further orders. 

“I want you… to take a look at the wound,” The man instructs him, folding his hands behind his back and nodding his head towards Mobius’s body. “Look at the shape of it… the size of it. Do you recognize the weapon that inflicted it?”

“Um….” The Minute Man stammers out, voice trembling with nerves as he kneels down by Mobius’s body to take a closer look at the wound. “It… it seems like a small blade, Sir.”

“Hmm… I’d have to agree with you on that one.” The man places a hand on the Minute Man’s shoulder in what should have been a comforting gesture, but was far from it. “A small blade, expertly wielded, by someone who is… intimately familiar with the weapon in question. And… considering the placement of the wound, I’d have to say familiar with this analyst, wouldn’t you?”

“I… I suppose so, Sir.”

“You suppose? Okay, well, I’ll give you my final theory.” The man’s grip on his shoulder tightens, feeling the trembling of the Minute-Man underneath his hands. “I think… the damage done here was by a dagger. Do you know what that means?”

The Minute Man remained frozen under his hands, wisely letting the man monologue away instead of actually answering. 

“It means it’s them. It means that they’re finally starting to make a move… It means that what I saw, and what I heard, was true. It means… it won't be long before they start hunting down me.”

Next Chapter - - - >

[artificialqueens]

Shining Just the Way I Like (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: Denali works as a roller-skating waitress, and Rosé catches her eye.

A/N: So I saw Denali’s runway, and then gnesis0204 posted about a fic based on it, and somehow the inspiration hit me and this happened today. It’s very fluffy and I really hope you like it!! A million thank you’s to Writ for beta-ing and FaceTiming me to scream with their full reaction. Title from Levitating by Dua Lipa.

The West-Burner Best Burger diner has a sprawling parking lot big enough for dinosaurs to roam, and each of the carhop spots is full, beat-up cars and fancy show-off ones alike all waiting for the golden fries and juicy burgers and thick milkshakes made by the cooking staff inside the brilliant red—well, Denali just has to trust Kahmora that it’s red, due to her slight color-blindness—and white diner. Denali readjusts the red plastic tray, checks for any maniac drivers, and pushes off across the lot, her skates gliding.

The owners, Nina and Tina, are sisters who love a good vintage vibe, and it’s why Denali is roller-skating across the blacktop, her red-and-white striped dress fluttering around her. Being a waitress—let alone one on skates—isn’t always ideal, with the customers who complain that what they ordered is somehow not what they want, or take the dress as an excuse to hit on her, but it pays more than typical waitressing jobs because of the skating factor. Not to mention most customers give her good tips—usually out of pity for the goosebumps on her arms on cold days, or awe over her getting the food there smoothly—and it’s extra skating practice before she can hit the ice for her real skating practice. Not ideal, but not horrible either, and as the sun warms her skin and she skates away from a minivan full of screaming kids with a five-dollar bill tucked in her apron, today feels like a good day.

She rolls inside the back door, nodding a thanks at Symone for holding it open. The inside of the diner is full with the lunch rush, the mix of indoor seating and carhop spots–the only ones around since that Sonic closed–meaning that Nina and Tina have one of the most successful restaurants in the state, with the polished plaque of excellence by the door to prove it.

“Hey, Denali!” Kahmora waves from the kitchen door, quickly catching herself before the water in her hand spills. She’s part of the inside wait staff; Denali’s attempt to teach her skating had only resulted in both of them going down in a mess of skates and scrapes, Nina pouncing on them with her first aid kit.

“Hi, Kahmora.”

“There are so many good-looking people in here today!” she says, cheerfully walking over to Denali.

“Besides me!” Symone calls from the door.

Kahmora rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’ve flirted with two different tables so far. I’ll be getting that coin today.”

“And maybe a phone number,” Denali says.

“God, I hope.” Kahmora grins and crosses her fingers, and then she’s off, turning to a table with her wide smile shining.

Denali grins. Kahmora is excellent at charming customers, and it works to her advantage as she rakes in the tips. Denali doesn’t have much chance to do that part at the carhops. She just brings people their food and waits for them to give the tray back; there’s no twirling her hair around while she waits for them to order, no drawing hearts on the napkins. It’s straightforward, and it leaves room in her brain to run through her skating routine.

Nina hands her another tray, and Denali glides outside. The feel of roller-skates over blacktop is nowhere as smooth as sharp ice skates over fresh ice, and the loud chatting in cars she passes is a far cry from the quiet ice rink, but Denali can’t resist a little twirl here and there like she’s on the ice, relishing in their perfection even if she doesn’t have to be perfect out here.

She pulls to a stop by a black car, Lady Gaga trickling softly through the open window. There’s a woman in the passenger seat and one in the back, but Denali can’t look away from the beautiful driver. She has soft pink hair and bright eyes that look green one second and hazel the next. She smiles, and Denali almost drops the tray.

“Wh—what can I get you?” Denali asks, because that’s the first thing that pops into her brain.

“Um … I think we already ordered?” The pink-haired woman says, and Denali remembers that she’s quite literally holding a tray with their order on it.

“Right. My bad.” Denali stammers as she slips the tray through the window, cheeks as pink as the woman’s hair.

“No worries.” There’s that smile again, and Denali’s knees wobble like they’ve forgotten the steadiness years of skating gave them. “I get flustered around pretty girls too.”

“No kidding,” mutters the brunette in the backseat, reaching for her food.

“Eat your chicken tenders, Jan,” the pink-haired woman snaps.

“Well, if Lagoona didn’t steal my honey mustard like she stole my shirt last week—“

Denali holds in a laugh as a packet of sauce is launched into the backseat, with a snarled promise that the brunette will get her damn shirt back.

“Don’t mind them,” the driver says, a warm pink clinging to her cheeks too.

“Of course.” Denali pauses as her heart skips a beat, grasping on to any bit of courage she has. “What was that you were saying about me being pretty?”

“Actually, I was saying that I’m pretty and I don’t blame you for being flustered.” The woman in the passenger seat makes a gagging noise, and the driver elbows her before giving another smile, glint in her eyes making Denali flash her dimples. “But you’re pretty too.”

“I know.” Denali grins as she twirls brown hair around her finger, because why not? Those hazel-green eyes are locked on her, the driver leaning forward so far she’s almost out the window, hanging on every word Denali says.

She laughs, and Denali would do anything to hear it again.

“I’m Rosé.”

“Denali.”

“Denali,” she repeats softly, and it sounds nicer on her lips than on Denali’s own, like Rosé is treasuring getting to say it. “So, you—you really skate and stuff?”

“Yep.” Denali flexes her ankle, modeling her skates like she’s on the ice, even if Rosé can’t see. “I’m an ice skater, actually.”

“Wow.”

Denali snorts. “Yeah.”

“Are you—“

“Do you work here? I need more ketchup, and don’t think I won’t call a manager.” Denali spins around to find the source of the noise: an angry woman stalking over to Denali like a lion cornering its prey, her minivan door still open.

Denali winces, and Rosé’s face softens in sympathy. “I better let you go,” she says sadly, passing over the tray. “Good luck with her.”

“Thanks.” Denali sighs.

“Oh, and this is for you.” She hands Denali some folded bills with one last smile. “I’ll see you, okay?”

“See you.” The woman’s lion jaws are about to snap around Denali, and she quickly leaves the car and intercepts her. She doesn’t even look at the tip Rosé gave her until she’s on break, and is shocked to find fifteen dollars. A fifteen dollar tip on a twenty-five dollar order is–well, Denali can’t do math but she knows it’s a lot; it’s more than she’d get from four cars put together. Not to mention the brilliant smiles Rosé kept giving her, worthy of being a tip themselves. It’s definitely a good day, one clouded over with cotton candy pink hair.

—-

Days go by, and Denali is so busy scanning the parking lot for any hint of pink hair that she actually trips on a rock and falls one day. Luckily there’s no food in her hands, and she brushes off everyone’s concerns, commanding her brain to focus on work instead of women with pink hair.

Maybe Rosé thought about it and decided she doesn’t like Denali after all, will do anything she can to avoid the diner. Maybe it was all just a joke from the start. But Denali doesn’t think so. Rosé’s eyes never left her, even with the chaos in her car, like she didn’t want to miss a moment of Denali. So when is she coming back? When will Denali see that smile again?

It’s been a week, and Denali’s about to skate into the breakroom when Nina corners her, a strawberry milkshake in one hand and a chocolate in the other. “Denali, can you bring these out to number two quick?”

She doesn’t want to turn down Nina, so she just nods. Number two is the only carhop spot filled, so there’s no chance of other customers chasing her down. It’s 3:00, that calm period in between the lunch rush and dinner rush, with just stragglers now and then stopping for a snack or shake. The car’s window rolls down to reveal the pink hair that hasn’t left Denali’s mind in a week.

“You’re back!”

“I’m back.” Rosé’s smile outshines the sun, and Denali grins too.

Her warm palms might melt the milkshakes, and she hands them to Rosé. Denali notices finally that the car is empty, and confusion sparks in her. Why did Rosé order two milkshakes for herself, and why is she sitting there holding them both, opening and closing her mouth like she wants to say something?

“Two milkshakes for you?” Denali asks. “I’m not judging, just–”

Rosé bites her lip. “Actually, one is for you.”

Denali’s mouth hangs open, and as much as she wants to fly to the passenger side of the car, her legs are a bit too jelly-like to support her.

Rosé’s eyes widen with worry. “Shit, you like chocolate, right? I just guessed. I mean, who doesn’t like chocolate–”

“I love chocolate,” Denali says, heart melting at Rosé’s sigh of relief. She rolls to the passenger door and slips onto the seat, and she’s so close to Rosé. There’s no car door in between them anymore. Instead, they’re both in this car together, and Rosé smells like vanilla and her eyes are even brighter than Denali thought, and she never wants to leave this car.

They clink their plastic cups and sip their drinks, and Denali spends each second of her break taking in all she can of Rosé, from how she loves to sing and was born in Scotland, all the way to how she slurps up every last drop of her milkshake and always keeps her hand close to Denali’s.

When Denali’s alarm goes off, telling her to get back to work, she chugs the last of her shake and sighs. “This was really nice,” she says.

“Yeah,” Rosé agress. She raises an eyebrow. “I think it needed to be longer, don’t you?”

Denali’s heart flutters. “A lot longer.”

“Does this Saturday at seven work? It can be as long as we want.”

Denali doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s a date.”

[gstqaobc]

🇨🇦🇬🇧🇨🇦STOP THE PRESSES🇬🇧🇨🇦🇬🇧

STOP PRESS: We thought you'd be delighted to hear that, thanks to members’ generosity, our first advertising about the League for many years in La Belle Province appeared today in the leading newspaper of Quebec City, Le Soleil. If you would like to receive a pdf copy of the ad, please request by return email.   ECOMM 8.5.21 A JUBILEE BLESSING...OUR THANKS... LEAGUE FLAGS - again available LEAGUE TARTAN SCARF - update and last but not least A SPRING SALE OF MONARCHICAL ITEMS PLATINUM JUBILEE MEDAL Our thanks to the many members who told us they have contacted their MP and the Prime Minister’s office to express their support for the issuance of this Medal in the Canadian tradition.  We look forward to hearing of replies any of you may receive; and we ask you keep up the chain of advocacy by thinking of friends to whom you can send our original message, and urge then to participate in our efforts. A BLESSING ON THE QUEEN IN THE IROQUOIAN TRADITION A member of the UEL Association who is a Kanienkehaka Embassador at Large, wrote to the League as follows: Please remember our Mohawk members, who would like to express our good wishes and thanksgivings to our Sister. You may be familiar with our ceremonial blessings, and the thanksgiving address to be offered before all matters; it is an Iroquoian custom:

Next year marks the 70th Anniversary of The Queen’s reign. Our Monarchy has never before seen a Platinum Jubilee! Thus the occasion calls for celebration, thanksgiving and above all, a sense of gratitude and unity. LEAGUE FLAGS NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER AT DISCOUNTED RATE With hundreds of new members in recent months, the League has received a number of requests as to when we will re-issue the League Flag. Part of our Armorial Bearings, it bears a Royal Crown by personal permission of Her Majesty The Queen. Produced for many years by our friends at the Flag Shop, it is ideal for your den or boathouse, a kid's bedroom, college dorm - with grommets so it can if you wish also be flown on a flag pole outdoors Its dimensions are 24 x 42 inches, and it is made of 200d nylon.  We order and keep only a limited stock, so as not to tie up funds in inventory, as it is a specialty item. PRE-PRODUCTION SPECIAL: $85 INCLUDES POSTAGE LIMIT: TWO PER MEMBER If you wish to reserve a Flag (we should receive it in around three weeks) kindly access the League’s online store at https://store.monarchist.ca/en/products and make a “Fighting Fund” donation for $85.  We will know your purpose, and get a Flag right off to you once we have received them.   THE LEAGUE’S TARTAN SCARF Progress Report Thanks to our friend Matthew Rowe, who runs the Prince of Wales-patron Campaign for Wool in Canada, we have located a UK manufacturer who is willing to manufacture scarves in a small quantity by commercial standards. The fine Tartan chosen by you, and designed by our member Carol Martin, will be woven of  wool, sized 180cm (app 70 in) X 30cm (app 11½ in) with tassels of 7cm (app 2 3/4 in). We will approve the cloth material this coming week. It appears a custom label may be expensive given the quantity required - we will do our best to resolve that issue and deal with somewhat tiresome but important details remaining, such as the method of shipping to Canada and potential duty and taxes. It is our hope to come up with firm pricing in June, and shortly after to solicit pre-orders within the price range acceptable to the several hundred members who expressed interest in a scarf.  All of which is to say - we are on track, and look forward to producing and getting to you the League’s first - and long overdue - piece of apparel suitable for both women and men!   AND NOW.... WHAT (SOME OF) YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR... OUR SPRING SALE! These monarchical souvenirs, for one reason or another not suited to our annual Silent Online Auction in September, have been donated to the League in recent months. Many would be suitable for young people to interest them in the Monarchy and history. IF YOU WANT TO PURCHASE AN ITEM/ITEMS, PLEASE CONTACT US FIRST TO MAKE SURE YOUR CHOICES ARE STILL AVAILABLE. WE WILL THEN CALCULATE THE POSTAGE APPLICABLE TO YOUR ORDER, AND GIVE YOU A LIMITED TIME TO PAY ONLINE VIA THE LEAGUE STORE, THE ONLY FORM OF PAYMENT FOR THIS SALE, BEFORE MAKING THEM AVAILABLE TO THE NEXT MEMBER REQUESTING. 1) THREE CORONATION 1953 MAGAZINES The Sphere, Illustrated, and The Illustrated London News, lovingly used condition, each telling the story of the Coronation as only the British can do!  The advertising is fascinating, too. These will be enjoyed as living images and texts describing the beginning of a glorious Reign! $20 2) SIX ROYAL SOUVENIR PUBLICATIONS Maclean’s magazine’s tribute to Diana on her death; Pitkin glossy colour booklet Charles and Diana’s Wedding day; The Queen’s Silver Jubilee Pitkin-sized booklet; another similar-sized booklet by Ronald Allison: The Queen - The Life and Work of Elizabeth II; Illustrated London News Royal Year 1986; Illustrated London Newscoverage of The Marriage of Princess Anne, 1973. $25 3) HMY BRITANNIA POSTER Sized app. 16 x 20 inches, a glossy photographic portrait (2002) of The State Rooms aboard Britannia.  Especially appropriate now that the Yacht is, in a way, to be replaced by the HMS Prince Philip. In a tube with Britannia-watermarked tissue paper and a gold Britannia seal, we suspect it was sold at the resting place of the ship, now a tourist attraction. Some water stains. Will need to be dry mounted to remove creases from rolling, after which it will occupy pride of place in a den, a kid’s bedroom or a man cave! $25 4) A CRAZY FUN ITEM: COLOUR RUBBER 3-D DIANA KEYCHAIN You will never lose your keys with this app 1 3/4 inch high rubberized moulded Diana key chain! We’ve not seen anything like it previously. You might well use it - or display it as a sure conversation-starter on a shelf, perhaps next to a bobbling Queen! $20 5) SILVER JUBILEE MEDALLION & CHARLES AND “LADY DIANA SPENCER” WEDDING CROWN Both 1 1/2 inch diameter. Gold-coloured Souvenir medallion bears profile of The Queen, 1977, with a  surround referencing the Jubilee. The Crown, encased in a plastic holder by the Westminster Bank, is official coinage from 1983, with the usual image of The Sovereign on front, and verso, a profile of Charles and Diana with a surround referencing the occasion and year. $25 

(the mark on the Royal Arms is not a defect, but a seller's sticker that is not on our plate)6) UNUSUAL, RATHER-MODERN IN DESIGN, SOUVENIR PLATE FOR SILVER JUBILEE - BY WEDGEWOOD A heavy 10" plate produced by Wedgewood in 1977, respectful and colourful, but, in our view, not really “traditional” and thus of special interest. A deep blue silhouette of Thhe Queen in centre, surrounded by the Garter motto, with tne lancets extending which depict Heralds, Guardsmen and elements of the Household Cavalry and one Royal Shield surmounted by the Crown. Many decorative flowers, Rim references the Jubilee and states “God Save The Queen.” Crimson tracery surrounds the plate. Condition: as new $35   (The picture is the Van Dyke etching of the King, whose image appears in the framed print offered below)

7) A CANADIAN-FRAMED PRINT OF KING CHARLES ENGRAVING After the original by Van Dyke, the engraving from the original owned by the Earl of Pembroke, it is unusually but attractively framed, we believe in pine, ready to hang, with modern “Art handmade Plaque Canada” sticker on back. The entire object is app 10 x 13 inches, with the engraving proper about 5 ½ x 10 inches. Condition - engraving darkened by age but distinct; frame: excellent; print: slight water-stain foxing at bottom adds authenticity rather than detracting from the overall appearance. $50 8) BOOK: CHARLES & DIANA VISIT CANADA Vivid colour pictures, hardback, published by Collins, and covering many moments from the Royal couple’s 17-day first visit to Canada in 1983.  Condition: excellent. $15 9-14) LIVING HISTORY: DRY-MOUNTED ROYAL PHOTOGRAPHS From the collection assembled by the federal government in Diamond Jubilee year, these are terrifically “usable” as, hard mounted without “frames” they are light in weight - and ready-to hang in your den, or child’s room, or to fill a wall with multiple pictures! All are app 10 x 14 inches b&w unless noted otherwise. We will advise you of the postage cost at time of your inquiry, as this varies considerably depending on your postal code.  If anyone wishes to purchase all seven of these at a favourable price, please contact us immediately. 9.    In colour: Prince Edward in his late teens, a broad smile on his face as he leans against an oak and relaxes on autumn leaves with his Labrador Retriever.    $15 10.    Front cover of Paris Match depicting The Queen returning in the Golden Coach from her Coronation, Orb and Sceptre displayed, and Prince Philip by her side. $20 11.    Princess Elizabeth on the telephone in her office at Buckingham Palace, 1946.        $15 12.    In colour: The Good King, George VI of late, happy and beloved memory, wearing a tan jacket - a reflective portrait on the grounds of Buckingham Palace.    $25 13.     The Princesses Elizabeth & Margaret Rose, probably just after the war, looking ready to go out for an evening in lovely beaded formal dresses. $20 14.    Our favorite of this tranche of pictures. Colour shot of the Royal Family, shortly after the War, in the Palace Gardens. The King, The Queen and the Princesses are seated on wicker chairs - with Elizabeth’s dog beside her. This happy family - “we four” - exemplifies the bequest of a happy, close family life that made our Queen such an extraordinary person. $30 15.    Colour 3/4 length study of a beaming Princess Elizabeth, hands clasped in front, on her 19th birthday.    $25 16.    The shade of the Abdication not yet visible, this 1936 picture shows the future King and Queen as Duke & Duchess of York at the door of their Piccadilly residence, with a serious-looking Elizabeth holding her Mother’s forearm. $25  

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE BEING A PROUD MEMBER OF THE MONARCHIST LEAGUE OF 🇨🇦 CANADA 🇨🇦 

💜🙏🏻🙂✝️💟PG💟✝️🙂🙏🏻💜

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦🇬🇧🇦🇺🇳🇿

[funnywiccan]

Night at Black’s Manor (a Father Brown fanfiction) - Chapter III

Kembleford’s police station was nestled in a building made of the same yellow bricks of the others. It stood out for his main entrance painted in dark blue with a sign where the name and the function of the building were written in white; near the entrance there was a shiny brass plaque that stated to ring the bell. Outside there was a pole with a notice board, both painted in blue, and an old telephone box, also blue, one of those once used to call the police in the past century. Rosie approached it immediately, exclaiming excited: -Oh my God, is it real?? It’s exactly like “Doctor Who”’s one!!- She read a memorial plaque drived next to the box: “The last cabin in service at Kembleford – March 18th 1996”.

Sid chuckled, looking at her while she was taking some selfies in front of the old thing under the serious glance of the policeman next the main entrance. When Rosie finished her shoots, the same agent let the two youths in, judging them harmless.

Into the station time seemed to had stopped. If it wasn’t for some modern elements, like the computer on the big desk that was encumbering the already modest hall, a visitor could have had the sensation to have been transported at least seventy years back: the walls, painted in a gloomy and dull bright blue, were occupied by pieces of furniture made in dark wood and benches in the same material, slightly brighter; oak panels with papers and notifications hanged up on alternated with windows in toughened glass. Metal card file cabinets coloured in pistachio green were at the agents disposal whenever they walked back and forth the offices behind the hall’s desk. A narrow hallway on the left brought to a more reserved area, and Rosie supposed it was the prison cells one.

-Sergeant Goodfellow?- asked Sid, and the man behind the desk, who was busy at the phone, raised his glance and gestured towards the guy to wait a moment.

Rosie studied the man for a moment: he wasn’t too old, his thin dark blonde hair was the victim of a merciless baldness and some wrinkles signed his face, that together with his bluish green eyes transmitted a natural politeness. His black uniform showed his sergeant grades and was impeccable in all its folds.

After a minute, more or less, the man ended the call and sighed towards Sid: -I’m sorry, it was a nuthouse the whole morning. What do you need?-

-I was looking for Valentine.- Carter gestured to Rosie to get near: -My friend here want to talk with him.-

-He’s in the interrogation room. And he’s a little nervous, father Brown get involved again in his investigations.-

-Father Brown?- repeated the girl, curios.

-He is Kembleford’s priest. You’re not from these parts, are you?-

-No. Or better, I was born here but I came back just today.-

-Well… Welcome back. Sergeant Goodfellow, miss…?-

-Rosie Black.-

A confused yelling coming from a room on the right of the hall confirmed the words of the sergeant: a voice above the others sounded really upset, while another one was trying to calm down the first voice owner. A moment later a short man, with a more evident baldness and with a pair of dense brown moustaches, entered the hall slamming a door behind him and grumbling: -If only there’s a law that allows to throw in prison all the meddlers…!-

-Are you okay, inspector Mallory?- asked Sid, mocking the man.

Rosie looked better at the newcomer: he had stains of black powder from head to toe and seemed tired as well as angry; the shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows was ragged and the knot of his tie was loose, so much that, with the weight of the golden tie pin that was failing to keep the accessory at place, this one bounced rigidly and ridiculously at every movement of the inspector.

The man turned to Sid with an angry glance: -I hope you’re here to get away father Brown, Carter!-

-I didn’t vene know he was here. What happened?-

-Ask Sullivan, I am fed up!- With a fast and stiff walk he closed himself in an office slamming again the door behind him.

-He is Mallory, Rosie. And this is just a taste of his terrible personality.-

-I will remember it.-

Another man came out, more calm but giving a heavy sigh, from the room on the right.

He was the exact opposite of Mallory: his dark brown hair was perfectly combed with the line on the right, well shaved and his clothes were flawless, from the starched collar of his shirt to the end of his trousers. His light brown eyes were watchful and revealed a certain exasperation.

Rosie noticed that when he entered the scene Sid changed his tone, becoming more cheerful: -Hello, Sullivan!-

-Carter? I was about to call you; it’s for father Brown.-

-What did he do?-

-I can’t give you the details, but… He put his nose again in the police’s affairs.-

-Robbery? Homicide? Kidnapping?-

-He will tell you everything later. Just to let you know, Mallory flying right down in a coal storage.-

-Ah, that explains his shabby look.-

Next to the inspector an older man appeared, dressed like a priest and with a black umbrella hanging from his arm. He was rather high and sturdy, and his round and chubby face made Rosie smile a little; it reminds her some sort of full moon. Behind a pair of glasses with the golden frame there was a pair of lively light blue eyes. The priest putted on his head a really vintage black hat with a large brim and apologized with the inspector for the hustle he caused.

-The next time you want to secretly enter in a property be sure that nobody sees you; there’s always a snoopy old lady in the neighbourhood that calls the police when she spot something strange.-

-Uh, words of wisdom!- said Rosie.

The two men looked at the girl, like she was invisible until that moment; Sid introduced her immediately: -Rosie Black. A dear friend of mine, more like a sister, just came back in Kembleford.-

-Nice to meet you.-

-Father Brown, nice to meet you too Rosie- said the priest with a smile and a little bow with the head, while Sullivan shook her hand with a courtesy smile, a little forced but just for his tiredness.

-I’ve heard the name of Rosie Black?- Another male voice came from the room, and a fourth man appeared with an amazed expression behind the priest. High like this last one, he was near to his sixties, wrinkles of expression signed his face and forehead; the short grey hair was well combed and hid light blue eyes almost opened wide seeing the girl, that smiled in recognizing him: -It’s been a while, chief inspector Valentine.-

-Yes… A lot of time.-

-I must admit that it makes me feel so old looking at you right now, Rosie.- Valentine let Rosie settle in the chair in front of his desk, and while talking he did the same in his office armchair: -I still remember when I brought you here that night. You were exactly where you are now. Your feet didn’t reached the ground!-

-Yes, it’s true.-

-How are you? And your parents?-

-Good. Dad has been transferred here for his work, so I think we will stay in Kembleford for a long time.-

A strange silence fell, that was mixing embarrassment and awareness from them both that their respective thoughts were addressed to the past.

Valentine would have never forget about Rosie. Like he had never forget about every single child that in his career he protected from a world full of monsters without scruples, or about those who he must had and wanted to do justice, even if it was too late.

Those moments where still well impressed in his memory: he and another agent that broke down the door of Black’s manor, the crazy old lady in the hallway that was screaming, shabby like a terrible crone and with a kitchen knife in her hand, and a frightened to death Rosie, shaking of fear and cold, soaked of water, that in her father’s study was hold on tight to a teenager Sid like a castaway would have hold on to his only handhold.

Rosie, instead, would have never forget about Valentine, of that policeman that, in her child fantasy, like a knight fought the horrible witch that tried to kill her and saved her and Sid, picking up her in his arms and brought her in the safety of the police station while she was crying desperately. Not only, he was by the side of her family for the whole legal phase of that affair. Growing up the girl started to disrespect authorities, but she learned to respect people like Valentine, that not only work a job but believe in what they do.

-So… Chief inspector, uh?- she tried to say to break the silence, -Do you still hunting criminals or you’re stuck behind this desk?-

-I do still chase them, but in a different way. We must keep up with the times.-

While the two were talking in the office, in the hall Sid told briefly to father Brown and Sullivan that the Black family was momentarily guested at Montague Hall*, and that lady Felicia recommended him to, if he had meet them, to tell them that she would organized a welcome dinner.

-I would never refuse an invitation from lady Felicia- smiled the priest, while Sullivan looked at his wristwatch: -I have a mountain of papers and reports that are waiting for me, but… Maybe I have the time to go home, after my turn, and give myself a refresh. If I go back to work immediately.-

-Don’t your eyes cross, reading all those paperworks?- joked Carter.

Sullivan ignored the provocation. He just looked at Sid with the expression of someone too in a hurry to talk more, and saying goodbye to the other two he concluded: -See you this evening.-

Carter looked at him while he was walking away, tempted to gave the inspector one last pop, but to the thought didn’t followed an action, because Rosie exited from Valentine’s office and while closing the door she repeated with more enthusiasm the same greet of Sullivan: -See you this evening!-

Walking along Kembleford’s streets Rosie made a lot of photoshoots, followed by Sid and father Brown, who tried to start a conversation with the girl while carrying by the handlebars his black bicycle: -So, Rosie: the village is like you remember it?-

-More or less. In thirteen years some things have changed. That building over there, for example.- She pointed at a little house which facade was decorated under every window by rectangular vases full of flowers: -All those plants weren’t there before.-

-Really? What a good memory you have!-

-And she’s right- said Sid, -When the old owner died his daughter came to live there, and she is a lover of flowers.-

-Anyway I am curious, father.- The girl took another picture before turning back towards the old priest: -There was another priest here before you. Father… Bohun, I think?-

-Not exactly. The Reverend occasionally visited St. Mary’s church, and sometimes he covered my predecessor for some days. Did you know him?-

-No. Let’s just say that when mum was able to drag me to the Mass I saw him there. What happened to him?-

Brown sighed, shaking his head with a desolate face: -He committed a terrible crime, and he’s still paying the consequences.-

-Seriously?-

-Oh yes, father Brown himself discovered that he was the culprit- said again Sid, lighting up a cigarette, -Valentine didn’t know who to put in jail.-

-So… You’re a detective, father? I’m surprised.-

-He solved a lot of mysteries! Even the police chief gave him a commendation.-

-But we can talk about this at the dinner; we’re arrived at the church.- The priest mounted the bicycle and gave two pushes on the pedals to do a little slope, waving the two youths: -See you at Montague Hall! I will bring Mrs McCarthy too!-

Rosie tilted her head, confused: -This father Brown is really peculiar. He doesn’t seems like the other priests.-

-And how are other priests?-

-Dunno. I haven’t been in a church in years. I even didn’t do catechism.-

-Oh, don’t say it in front of Mrs M, you’ll give her a heart attack.-

-Who?-

-Mrs McCarthy. She’s the priest’s housekeeper of the St. Mary. All of us call her Mrs M. You will meet her tonight.- He took a puff from his cigarette and gave the girl a pat on her shoulder: -Let’s go. There’s a place we need to see before going home.-

-Retrieving the car, maybe?-

-No, another one.-

The other place Sid was talking about was a wide playground, built on an emerald green lawn, where a big slide made of wood and iron and another one in coloured plastic were at the centre; around these there were rocking animals, a structure to climb made in iron and painted in blue and swings of different heights. The area was empty; maybe the children were still at school.

Rosie smiled: -It’s still the same!- She ran immediately to the biggest slide and looked under the metallic part, looking for something. And even if it was a little faded by time there it was: a scribble that she and Sid made when Rosie was still a child, that represented one of the teachers of her primary school; a parody of an angry face with a big mouth open, distressed eyes and a phrase in a comic cloud: “If you don’t study I’ll punish you!!”, something she said regularly.

-Aah, miss Jasper… How many frogs I put in her desk drawer!-

-Now she’s Mrs Wollen. She got married around seven years ago.-

-Do she still live here?-

-No, but really near, at Gloucester. She’s still a teacher.-

-I bet she’s still tormenting poor children with her sleepy maths lessons.-

Sid laughed, while Rosie walked to the swings and sat on one of the seat; the chains didn’t creaked under her weight, only the hooks emitted a keen sound when she dangled a little pushing with her feet on the ground: -A lot of things from the past are coming back in my mind. Eh. It’s so dull said like this.-

-Rosie, listen…- Carter leaned with an arm to the swing structure: -Are you sure you’re okay?-

She tightened her grasp around the chains, looking down: -… Sid, can you keep a secret?-

-Sure.-

-You know why mum didn’t want me to meet Valentine?- She barely dangled again: -Because since dad told us that we would have come back here I had terrible nightmares. I hadn’t had them in years.-

-Nightmares… On that night?-

Rosie nodded: -But there’s something strange. A sensation. Like...- She suddenly stood up, letting the seat dangling messily behind her: -Never mind. It’s getting late.- She turned to her friend and get back her smile: -And I’ve promised mum that I would have look pretty tonight.-

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Come Alive

A huge thank you to @kiragenta for letting me write a fanfiction based on their incredible art! 

Masterlist, Kiragenta's art that inspired this fic (please go check it out and give it some love!), Kiragenta's Tumblr;  passerotto means little sparrow: someone who is learning how to fly

This was honestly the most fun and probably one of my favourite pieces to write. And, with their permission, here is one of the two panels that @kiragenta​ did!

Percy Jackson leans his head against the rough stone wall of the coffee shop and sips the café con leche he had taken to go. The streets of Rome are just starting to wake up and people rush around each other and into various shops. It seems a Friday morning in the city is a hive of energy before the slam of the weekend. Yet something inside him feels uncharacteristically dull. In fact he has felt like this since the beginning of this trip and frankly it is starting to piss him off. Nobody should be able to make him feel like this. And especially not his dick of a father who decides when and where to drop into and out of his life without warning. It was a new low to abandon him in a city he knew nothing about but to his credit he's only a little surprised.

Now he drains the rest of the coffee and chucks the cup in a trashcan nearby, punching the air when it lands inside with a rattle. The cobblestones under him press into the soles of his shoes as he picks a direction and starts down it. He doesn't have a destination so whichever way he goes he'll land up where he needs to be. Or at least that's what's supposed to happen. So far his wanderings have led him to a dried up fountain, a little cottage on the outskirts of town with more vines than wall, and just yesterday a café that admittedly sold delicious gnocchi and unbelievable coffee, but was not a life changing venture as he had hoped.

The flowers spilling onto the sidewalk from the outside of every shop make him want to become a florist, just so he can spend his days amongst them. He stops in front of a box of daffodils and brushes his fingers against their soft petals. Gods he loves flowers. He loves their colours, and how two flowers on the same branch don't even look the same but they're both gorgeous nonetheless. A woman comes out with warm brown eyes and a kind smile.

"You like them?"

"They're beautiful," He nods.

"Then you must have one,"

And before he can protest her hands are already reaching for the bloom and gently breaking the stem. "When people look at my flowers the same way you do," She hands him the daffodil. He puts it behind his ear. "Their souls are made of sunshine."

A tiny kernel of gold unfurls in his chest. "How do you know that?"

Her smile is warmth and sweetness and full of compassion, "Only the people who care about things that do not serve them can have that look."

"Thank you," He touches the flower tucked behind his ear, "For everything."

"Something is going to change to day passerotto," She looks into him then, her molten brown eyes staring into his ocean green ones, "The winds of the sea say so."

Percy would have called her crazy but for some reason he believes her, can feel it to. He just nods trying to wrap his head around the day and the conversation and, and, and...

"Come back for coffee this afternoon. We have the best americanos on this side of the square."

"I will," He promises preparing to head off in his destination-less direction, but something stops him, "Do you—" He swallows, "Can you recommend a place I should visit?"

"Have you seen the Grazia Salvatrice yet?"

He shakes his head, intrigued.

"Walk a ways, past the fountain in the square and over the bridge. There is usually a big crowd there but it should be relatively empty at this time."

"Thank you," He smiles, bright and hopeful for the first time in a while, "And I'll come back at the end of the day."

"Goodbye Perseus." She gives a motherly pat on his cheek before disappearing into her café once more.

It's only when he's past the fountain that he realises he never told her his name. But suddenly he's standing in an archway and there's a group of people excitedly chattering near him and he feels like he's known the world since he was stardust. He feels...alive.

He moves out of the archway and into an open space with little else save for the statue and small orange tree, just starting to ripen. He makes his way around until he can see the statue in all its glory. And gods is it glorious. It's as if someone draped a blanket of stone over a person. It looks so real. He looks real. A strong jaw and a fierce expression. Fists clenched like he's ready to fight, or holding back. And shoulders that look big enough to carry the world. Percy wants to know everything about the statue. Wants to know why it’s there, who it is, why they chose that gorgeous grey stone instead of bronze or brass. He wants to know the story. The group of people who were cooing over the statue moments ago now disperse until only a couple stood there, hands joined and eyes looking hopeful as they stare at the hardened expression.

He sits down on the bench and watches them, not expecting much.

But then one of the ladies drops a flower at the statue’s feet and he finally notices the small pile of brightness collecting there. Curious still, he looks at them and watches with wide eyed fascination as she swipe a thumb over the cool stone of his chest and then gently, ever so gently, place a kiss to his lips. The other girl does the same ritual and then they giggle and kiss each other.

His feet are moving before his brain has time to think and suddenly he's standing in front of them.

"Hi," He waves, "Sorry to interrupt."

"Hello," The girl with dark brown skin and braided hair grins at him, her black eyes sparkling. "How are you?" American, he deduces.

The other girl, tawny skin with white patches across her chest and on her cheeks, looks at him inquisitively but offers nothing but a smile.

"I'm good thanks. I just—" He looks past them at the statue, which was so much closer now. Close enough that he felt the strange warmth it emitted. "I just wanted to ask why you left a flower and kissed the statue?"

"Oh," The American girl laughs brightly, "Apparently if you leave a flower the statue will grant freedom. If you swipe its chest you will be granted love. And if you kiss it you will find home."

"And you can just do all three?"

"According to my girlfriend here," She points to her right.

"It is true." He can here the girl is native Italian. "Many people have found what they are looking for at the Grazia Salvatrice." She nods deftly.

"Okay," He offers them a smile and hopes it doesn't reflect the butterflies racing through his stomach. "Thank you."

"Bye," The American says before lacing her fingers through her girlfriend's and tugging them both away.

The little area is weirdly quite, save for the coo of a few birds and the bustle from the street there is nothing and no-one. He takes a deep breath and turns to the statue. There's something about its eyes he cannot get over. It's the way they burn. No that's not right. They almost...... crackle. It reminds him of electricity, lightning, storms. And the air around the stone is charged, makes the hair on his arms stand up. His eyes graze over the piece and catch on the clenched fist. He wants so badly to unfurl those fingers and interlace his own with them. 

He's surprised by his reaction but something is drawing him to this ancient stone that he cannot, will not ignore. Taking another deep breath he steps closer until his hoodie brushes against the greyed chest. He doesn't even care about the dust that marks the blue fabric because suddenly the world disappears and the only thing he can hear is the crashing waves of an ocean and the rolling thunder of a storm. Slowly, carefully, he takes the daffodil from behind his ear and drops it by their feet.

"For freedom." He whispers.

And then a shaky brown hand is reaching up and he swipes a thumb over the stony chest.

"For love."

He looks at the sculpted cheekbones and sharp brows and reaches up to touch the perfectly styled hair. He wishes he could run his hands through it. Instead he let's his hand fall to the statues neck, cradling the back of its head softly.

"For home."

And then Percy Jackson sears his lips to the stone and light bursts from his chest. Rays of sunshine radiate from their bodies, but his eyes are closed and he is lost to the world. The statue moves beneath his fingers and he pulls it to him. He doesn't want this to end.

The stone is soft under his palms and he tugs at the warm skin to get them closer, together. This kiss will last for—

He jumps back with a gasp. The stone moved. The stone is moving. It is soft. And moving.

He collapses to the cobbled ground as he watches the statue come alive. The rays of light spilling from his own chest go unnoticed. Slowly the grey tinge bleeds away to reveal golden skin, and faded black pants, and hair that he is sue is spun from sunlight, and eyes the colour of topaz, of brooks, and oceans, and the sky.

"What the—" He splutters, "Who— How—"

His brain is on fire, underwater, buried alive. This is not real.

"Hello," The voice is gravely, naturally or from disuse he doesn't know.

"You were a—" He gasps, "And now you're a—"

Words. He needs words. What's language? What's the alphabet?

"Where am I?" The statue— no, boy—asks.

Percy cradles his head in his hands and tries to form a coherent thought, any thought.

"I'm sorry," The golden boy mutters, staring at the buildings and streets and everything. "Could you help me? I don't know where I am?"

"Yes," He answers rawly, "Apparently neither do I."

"What's going on?" He can hear the frown in the boy's voice.

"You were a statue, about one minute ago. And now you're... well a human?" He chokes out.

"I was what?" Those eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Yes. See that stand there?" Percy points to the empty block of polished bronze with a small plaque on it. "You were standing there a few moments ago, as stone."

"I don't understand."

"Welcome to the club." He groans, running his fingers through his already messy black hair. "What's your name?"

"Jason." He whispers, staring at the space he once stood in disbelief, "Jason Grace."

"Hello Jason, I'm Percy Jackson. And I just made you come alive."