#And still not everything in my apt is friendly with my body

[cottoncandysecretlair]

I kinda just wanna talk about the importance of fat people accommodating themselves.

Like stuff made for our bodies tends to be more expensive, and that fucking sucks. But if you can swing it or save up just a bit longer to get something made for plus size bodies, it makes a world I'd difference.

And I know that sounds kinda obvious but like. As an example, if you work in an office, you get the same kind of office chair as everyone else, and no matter how nice they are they aren't designed for our weight or dimensions. We get used to feeling squeezed, or we internalize the embarrassment of causing more wear and tear to the chair, and we feel like it's our fault for not conforming. If it causes us aches and pains, we might blame ourselves further.

Heck, maybe you're not even aware that you can get furniture made for big bodies or with higher weight limits! I sure didn't! And then I put off actually getting an office chair that suited me because I felt ashamed of needing something like that, I was inflicting punishment on my body that wasn't helping either way because of that shame.

And when I finally gave in and got the plus size chair? It completely changed the game. I could be *actually comfortable* and I didn't get aches and pains, and I wasn't constantly reminded of being squeezed into a tight space. It wasn't just that it was physically better, it was dignifying and confidence boosting. And it's such a small thing but like... Sitting in comfort, esp if you work long hours at a desk, is so important, and we need chairs that take care of our bodies!

I had a similar experience with my mattress too. I've been fat my whole life, have only slept on standard mattresses, and I developed a lot of self hatred because of the mattresses getting sunken in and acting like "evidence" that my body was wrong. Course, that makes the bed even more uncomfortable, leading to more aches and pains. I developed back pain at age 15 because of my mattress!

And the shame and pain was only intensified when a family member gave me a hand-me-down mattress that was SUPER expensive and high quality, but had a lower weight limit than even your average mattress. So much pain, physically, and so much shame and self loathing because I felt like I big monster that ruined everything.

But then with the power of tax return and the right mattress going on sale, I swallowed those feelings and got a mattress made for plus sized bodies.

I'm genuinely convinced I didn't know what a comfortable sleep felt like before doing that. Less aches, less pain, I can actually sleep for a whole night instead of waking up after 4 hours because of my back!

And it's been amazing to see the stuff I buy just not degrade like I'm used to. These things are holding up, still comfortable, still supportive, and still feel like they were made for my body.

Like man even if you have body neutrality and body positivity and your personal goal is loads of weight loss, punishing yourself for existence won't help! You get less done with aches and pains and not enough sleep! If you're capable of it, get the things made for your body even if your body won't stay that way!

Cause even if your body does change a lot, that means you have a big spacious office chair or a really durable mattress at the end of the day.

Just man, if you can afford it, I can't stress how much of a game changer it is. People that aren't fat get this from any and all furniture, so there's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed

[anonymous-dentist]

A Little (bit of) Love

My piece for @tryzine !!

-

It starts deceptively simple: Cellbit and Roier are taking a walk together through the Favela at sunset, fresh coffees in their hands from Starbobby. Cellbit can’t stop staring at Roier. Roier can’t stop staring at Cellbit. Bobby is watching from above, probably rolling his eyes at how goofy Roier looks when he’s in love. 

There are two creatures walking a step behind Cellbit and Roier that Cellbit is purposefully ignoring. 

Roier’s shoe comes untied next to a recently-added flowerbed. Cellbit offers to tie it, Roier laughs and teases Cellbit, Cellbit hands Roier his coffee to hold as he crouches and takes Roier’s shoelaces in his hands. 

Just barely visible through the gap between Roier’s legs, Pulgoier looks blankly up at the flowers. They’re taller than it is, but just barely. 

?, the disgusting little thing, follows Pulgoier’s gaze. And then, horrifyingly, and entirely of its own accord, it reaches up and snaps a flower off at the base of its stem. It holds the flower out to Pulgoier, head ducked just slightly, almost bashfully; Pulgoier doesn’t smile, because it can’t, because it isn’t real, but it does take the flower. 

Frozen in abject horror, Cellbit doesn’t react as Roier annoyedly taps at his head and asks what’s taking so long. Why is he just sitting there, what’s wrong? 

And then Roier turns around and sees his Mini-Me holding the flower close to its chest and pressing a plastic kiss to ?’s cheek, and Roier gasps. 

“Aww, look!” he coos, fingers tangling in Cellbit’s hair excitedly. “They’re in love!”

And Cellbit feels nothing. 

-

Cellbit’s son is gone. So is a significant part of Cellbit’s heart, and yet he knows that he is still capable of feeling love. He’s alive, after all: he isn’t a religious man, but he likes to think that everything with a heart can feel love. Dogs love their owners. Lions love their mates. Crocodiles love the hunt. Parrots love to show off. 

The Mini-Mes? Notably not alive. They aren’t real. They’re plastic and felt and yarn and whatever-the-fuck electronics the Federation shoved into their fake little bodies. Their nerves are made out of copper. Their veins are filled with self-recycling machine oil. Their hearts are combustion engines that run off of the items that their islander counterparts provide them daily. 

Cellbit knows this. He’s cut his Mini-Me apart so many times that ? knows not to squirm on the dissection table. Every time he’s sewn ? back together, he’s made ? hold the roll of string so it doesn't roll away. He’s made ? bleed oil to the point that he once caught ? drinking gasoline when Cellbit’s back was turned. 

The Mini-Mes don’t feel emotions. They can’t. They aren’t real. They’re creatures, if one could call an inhuman amalgamation of wires and eco-friendly microplastics a creature. It’s more apt to call them robots. 

Monsters. 

Cellbit knows that the MIni-Mes were created for war. He watched the video at that conference, he knows exactly what the little assholes were made for. Now that they’re stolen, their purpose has probably been shifted by the Federation from fighting to spying. 

They can’t feel love. This much, Cellbit knows. They were created for battle, and now they’re just biding their time. Waiting. 

The fact that ? seems to be in love with Pulgoier is an outlier that should not be considered. They’re both just mimicking their owners, that’s all. Which begs the question of exactly how adaptive the Mini-Mes are; they can change appearance at the drop of a hat, but behavior? They’ve been robotic up to this point, what changed? 

Cellbit asks this to ? as ? sits in its cage staring at the oil-stained wall. 

?, of course, doesn’t respond. That’s good, Cellbit doesn’t know what he’d do if the little bastard learned how to talk. 

But, at the lack of a response, Cellbit inexplicably feels a sense of… God, is this bravery he’s feeling coming off of ?? Is that it? An attitude? 

Cellbit’s eyes narrow, and he leans in closer to the cage with a sneer. 

“Whatever you’re doing, I’m onto it,” he growls. 

? just adjusts its goggles in response. Its hand briefly dips into the Fear Room’s light, exposing a thin black line drawn around ?’s left hand ring finger. A ring. 

Cellbit is so surprised that he doesn’t even feel angry for a good moment. 

But then ? looks up at him as if asking, “And what about it?”, and Cellbit finds himself standing and kicking the cage so hard that it falls over, sending ? toppling. 

A ring. A goddamn ring. 

A goddamn mockery, more like. It’s mocking him. The Federation is mocking him, he knows it. He fucking knows it. 

(But… why?)

-

Pulgoier starts holding ?’s hand. ? keeps picking things off of the side of the road to give to Pulgoier, and Cellbit hates it. 

Roier makes a little shoebox bed for them that he puts under his and Cellbit’s own bed. Instead of powering off for the day in a corner of the room, ? and Pulgoier go there at night, and Cellbit hates it. 

? and Pulgoier sit across from each other on the floor when their owners have their meals. Sometimes they pretend to eat, usually pretending to feed each other, and Cellbit hates it. 

Richarlyson would have killed them by now. Cellbit wishes he was here to do so, but. 

But. 

-

But it’s well past midnight, and Cellbit can’t sleep. This isn’t anything too unusual; he learned how to live off minimal sleep back during the War, for better or for worse. 

But Roier can’t sleep, which means that he’s somewhere in the castle, which means that Cellbit is somewhere in the castle because there’s no way in Hell he’s letting his depressed and sleep-deprived husband wander around mourning. 

Tonight’s ‘somewhere’ is the garden, and Cellbit has Roier in his arms as they sway back and forth to the music playing softly on Roier’s communicator. (The Federation is shitty for so many reasons, but at least it’s providing the island with Spotify Premium free-of-charge.)

The song is unimportant. So are the two little freaks of nature watching from beneath a rosebush. So are the Federation’s hidden cameras, and Bad somewhere downstairs trying to carry Cellbit’s dining table out the door, and the itching bloodlust in the back of Cellbit’s brain. 

What is important is Roier, and so Cellbit focuses all his attention on him. 

He’s tired, clearly so: his hair is more of a mess than usual, his clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, his shoes are untied, his bandana is lost somewhere in the bedroom, his lips are chapped, and the circles under his eyes are dark enough to rival Cellbit’s. 

Cellbit doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful man in his life. 

He says as much, words ghosting across Roier’s pale lips. 

Roier smiles weakly, and he murmurs a quiet, “No, you.”

The song changes to something a bit quicker. They both ignore the change in tempo and decide to follow each other’s, instead. 

Cellbit’s arms tighten around Roier. He pulls him closer, nose burying itself in the side of Roier’s neck and breathing in his scent and internalizing it, filing it away in the little cabinet in his brain labeled ‘Roier’.

“You stink,” he grumbles. 

“Yeah, because you’re all over me,” Roier responds. He lightly pinches Cellbit’s side. “I know what we’re doing when we get back inside.”

Cellbit whines, sagging in Roier’s arms. He loves his husband, but he does not love showering with him; Roier takes so long under the water that it’s running cold by the time it’s Cellbit’s turn, and his shampoo smells so strongly that it makes Cellbit have an asthma attack. 

Cellbit doesn’t even have asthma!

What Cellbit does have is an unfortunately-acute sense of hearing. It’s a blessing at times, and it’s a curse. 

His eyebrow twitches in annoyance as he hears the absolute faintest of sounds: the crunching of grass beneath clumsy feet, and the overworking of machinery as it tries to figure out how to laugh.

At the same time, Roier gasps, “Mira, mira!”

But Cellbit doesn’t look. Why should he? He’s having a good time. He doesn’t need some… some… some things ruining it. 

“Ay,” Roier insists, poking Cellbit between his ribs once. “Gatinho, mira.” 

Another poke. “Mira.” 

Another poke. “Cellbit.” 

(Poke.) “Cellbo.”

Cellbit’s eyes squeeze shut. He presses a kiss to the crook of Roier’s neck to try and appease him, but Roier just pokes him again. With determination. 

“Stop ignoring me!” he huffs. “Unless… you hate me? You want a divorce?”

At that, Cellbit’s head snaps up in a panic. 

“Não!” he shouts. Why would Roier ever…

Lips twitching into a semblance of a smile, Roier grabs Cellbit’s face with one hand- squeezing his cheeks together and making him feel a bit like a fish- and turns it to the side. 

…right. If there’s one thing Roier is, it’s a fucking asshole. (And a handsome one at that.)

Cellbit’s shoulders sag in relief, but said relief quickly melts back into annoyance as he’s forced to look at the Mini-Mes and their… well. It isn’t dancing, that’s for certain. 

Pulgoier has taken the lead, just like Roier has. It’s holding ?’s little hands and rocking from side-to-side: left, right. Left, right. Left, right. It doesn’t move from its spot other than a small amount of shuffling as it tries pulling at ?’s hands in an attempt to get it to actually move. 

? is still. It’s staring directly into Pulgoier’s beady little eyes, absolutely frozen. If it could blush, Cellbit is sure that it would be doing so. 

Cellbit inadvertently copies it, stiffening against Roier’s body and stopping any and all movements. He doesn’t mean to- he wants to keep dancing, to keep ignoring the Mini-Mes and their bastardized attempt at “romance”, but… 

“Look,” Roier quietly says, sounding almost awed. 

He lets go of Cellbit’s face so he can press his cheek against Cellbit’s. 

Cellbit feels Roier’s jaw work against his as he concludes, “It’s us.”

Because… it is. It is, somehow, in such a fundamental way that Cellbit can’t really identify it as anything but Cellbit-And-Roier. 

“Oh,” says Cellbit, voice hardly above a whisper. 

He watches as Pulgoier tugs on ?’s arms, and as ?’s legs start to shake under it. 

Cellbit doesn’t actually remember a lot of his wedding reception; between the explosions and the alcohol, it’s all just a lot of blurry faces and the feeling of Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier-Roier. 

What he does remember is being ushered into the center of the dance floor along with Roier and freezing. The world faded from around him, and all he could think about was Roier’s smile as he took Cellbit into his arms; Roier’s warm hands on his body; Roier’s alcohol-laced breath across his face. His body was a stranger. 

He remembers thinking, ‘Shit. I don’t know how to dance.’  Because he didn’t, and he still doesn’t, because he never had a chance to learn how. It just never came up in his life, and then, suddenly, he was supposed to dance. At his wedding. In front of the entire island. And everyone he knew.

And he remembers the way Roier’s face softened as he picked up on Cellbit’s anxiety. His hands slid from Cellbit’s back, up to his shoulders, down the lengths of his arms, and to his hands. He tangled their fingers together, took a step back, and winked. 

Pulgoier physically can’t wink, but it otherwise does exactly what Roier did all those months ago: it takes a step back, and it just starts spinning. 

? can’t shout like Cellbit did back then, but it otherwise does what he did all those months ago: it gets pulled along, forced to spin along with its partner, stumbling over its own feet and flailing about like a doll caught in the wind. 

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Cellbit mutters. 

“I can,” Roier replies. “He’s your Mini-Me, of course he can’t dance for shit.”

He yelps out a laugh as Cellbit indignantly steps on his foot. 

Roier’s right, though; Cellbit can’t dance for shit. And neither can ?, being Cellbit’s shitty little clone. 

The night of the wedding, it took Cellbit a good solid minute to get his feet back under him. He felt himself smiling, and, maybe it was the wine in his system, but he found himself tugging Roier in a spin in the opposite direction. He was dizzy as Hell, but it made Roier laugh when he did it, so he just… kept doing it. Eventually, the spin led into a proper attempt at a slow dance that failed so miserably that the two of them gave up and jumped onto the stage for another round of karaoke.

Tonight, ? picks up on things a bit quicker than Cellbit had. It stabilizes, nods to itself, and starts pulling Pulgoier into its own spin. Almost immediately, they’re attempting a proper waltz, and Cellbit… 

Cellbit doesn’t get it. 

At first, Cellbit wasn’t sure what the end goal of the Mini-Mes was. Then, he realized that they’re little soldiers. Robotic supersoldiers capable of self-multiplication and growth, literal war machines. 

But then… why do they look like the islanders? Why does Pulgoier have the same dark circles as Roier? Why does ? have the same scar across its chest that Cellbit does? What’s the point? The Federation doesn’t do anything without a purpose, so why do the Mini-Mes have to look like their owners if they’re meant to grow up and kill them? 

Why can they dance? 

“What’s the point?” he murmurs. Roier hums in acknowledgement, and Cellbit takes that as a sign to continue: “Of copying us?”

“Because we’re sexy,” Roier responds. 

Cellbit rolls his eyes. “True. But, think about it, what purpose does any of…” (He waves his hand in the MIni-Mes’ general direction.) “...this serve?”

“I don’t know, but… look at them.”

Cellbit looks. He doesn’t understand. Something uncomfortable rises in his throat. 

? twirls Pulgoier, leading it into a dip. Pulgoier raises its head and presses its painted mouth against ?’s. 

Chest clenching, Cellbit tries to tear his eyes away, but he just… can’t. He can’t. Not when they’re right there, not when they’re-

“You think they’re learning from us, right?” Roier asks. “So… maybe they aren’t learning how to kill us. Maybe they’re learning to be us.”

Cellbit gives him a flat look. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

Roier shrugs, still watching the little monsters. 

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’m not a scientist. But… isn’t it kinda crazy that we taught robots how to love?”

But robots can’t love. They can’t. But. 

Roier’s arms tighten around Cellbit’s body. His smile is just as forced as it has been since the eggs all vanished, but his eyes are surprisingly soft as he watches the Mini-Mes tumble into the grass from the force of their silent, impossible laughter. 

“They’re just copying us,” Cellbit weakly says. “It isn’t actually real.”

“Maybe,” Roier hums. One hand travels up to cup the back of Cellbit’s head, gently pulling it against his chest. Cellbit listens to Roier’s heartbeat and wills his own heart to match its pace. 

“Or,” he continues, “maybe it is. We found our reasons. Maybe they found theirs.”

They watch the Mini-Mes, and the Mini-Mes don’t notice. 

The song changes, and Roier starts leading Cellbit into another dance. 

Cellbit’s eyes slip shut, and he lets himself get swept away by Roier’s movements. 

(Bagi would call Cellbit a monster, but Cellbit found love in the end. So maybe, just maybe, ? could have done the same.)

[bump1nthen1ght]

All the better to eat you with (Werewolf x M!Reader)

Pairing: Male!Werewolf x Male!Reader

Warnings: Dubious Consent, Explicit Content ahead (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 2004 words

Summary: You're walking the familiar path to grandma's house, when a friendly stranger offers you some protection. Unbeknownst to you, everything comes with a price.

Request: Can i request for a werewolf x male reader with knotting and breeding kink please? And can you like maybe make it base of the little red riding hood? Thank so much in advance bye!

“Y’know, red is a really good color on you.”

The stranger remarks, holding up the bottom of your red riding cloak. His voice is almost a purr, that lascivious smile on his face only a little bit off-putting.

“T-thanks, this is one of my favorites.” You brush off some imaginary dust from the cloak, feeling bashful under his undivided attention. “I have a blue one as well, but this used to be my older brother’s so…it’s kind of sentimental.”

The stranger smiles again, that genuine and unnerving kind.

“Well, I love it. I think red might be your signature color.”

The stranger throws a large arm over you shoulder, pulling you to his side as you walk. You nearly yelp st the sheer force, noticing just how tall he is; When standing right next to each other, you barely each his shoulder.

“Yeah, m-me too.”

—

Your mother had told you that there were dangerous things in the woods, but the stranger didn’t seem to be one of them. Even with his wide, wild eyes and his far-too big grin, he had offered to accompany you on the long journey to your grandmothers house. You had politely declined at first, you were a grown man and walked this path plenty of times before, but he had insisted. Not in a creepy way more like a…naive gentlemanly way.

You had given the stranger your name, to which he nodded and said you had a great name. He didn’t give you his, you didn’t press it.

He was enthusiastically touchy, talking your ear off with questions about your life and the food you had brought with you. He was an apt listener, his big yellow eyes never straying from your face as you talked. It was kind of nice, if only a little disconcerting.

So here you are, still by his side and only a mile left to your grandmother’s house. The sun was in the beginning stages of setting, but you would likely get to her home before dark. Even if not, the strong stranger gave you some comfort. He was built like an ox, with strong shoulders and a barrel chest. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t caught yourself staring at his figure a couple times. But hey, when he’s only wearing a tight undershirt, how could you not stare?

“We’re around 20 minutes away. Thanks again for walking me all the way here. I normally don’t mind walking alone but..this was quite nice.” You blush, trying to not let it show.

“Oh, it’s no problem! It wouldn’t be right if I had left a cute thing like yourself to fend by yourself.” He winks. “There are dangerous things in these woods, y’know. Things that would snatch you up in an instant.” He leans in close as he says that, his voice low and flirtatious.

You feel the hot blush across your face heat up even more. The stranger had been quite familiar this whole time, but never this direct. Maybe your stares weren’t so one-sided after all.

“Well, I guess I’m very lucky to have bumped into you, my knight in shining armor.” You chuckle, trying to match his coy way of flirting. It makes him laugh, but his wide eyes still stare you down, feasting on your entire body. “I’m sure my grandma would appreciate it too. Would you like to join us for dinner? She always has the best tea and biscuits.”

There's that cackling laugh again, all wheezes and smirks. His eyes crinkle up at the thought and you’re afraid he’s rejecting you, before he pats you on the shoulder. “I’ve never been invited in before! How sweet of you, little one, to offer someone like me inside.” He stops walking, the hand on your shoulder pulling you right alongside him. He turns you so you face directly towards him. His eyes are still lit up with that friendliness, his smile even wider, but there's something underneath it all. It’s something desperate, something knowing, something starved.

The stranger squeezes your shoulders together, making you wince a bit. His teeth seem whiter in the setting sun, larger, sharper. “Maybe next time, little red. But I think tonight I’m hungry for something else.” His voice purrs, his head cocking as he winks.

Before you can even suggest your grandmother make something else for dinner, he has you shoved up against the tree, your bodies moving faster than you thought possible. Your yelp is suffocated by his kiss, overwhelming and passionate. His large hands stop pinning your shoulders and instead wrap around your jaw, his large body now pressed against you and weighing you down. The moan you let out is downright pitiful and the stranger gobbles it up like a three-course meal. One of his hands moves down to caress your side, wandering down until he reaches your butt and squeezes. You yelp again, the stranger snickering into your mouth.

The stranger pulls away, saliva dripping from his lips as he forgets your head to the side so he can suck at your neck. Your hands claw up his back for purchase, too shell shocked to even speak. The stranger likes the feeling, like the feign of resistance, and growls into your neck.

“So perfect for me. So fucking perfect.” He laps and sucks at your jugular, nipping the skin around your jaw with desperation. You try to form words, but the breathe is knocked out of your when the sizable bulge in his trouser rubs against yours. He growls again, his hand squeezing your ass as he grinds into your crotch. You cant your hips upward, meeting the pleasure. The stranger chuckles. “Such a submissive little mate, so sweet for me.”

He hikes up one of your legs over his hip, grinding more fervently as he laps your skin. His warm drool drips down your neck, making your skin tingle. You moan again, digging your nails deeper into his back. The pain seems to make him more voracious, cackling as you scratch lines into his back.

The stranger finally moves back up to your mouth, trapping you in another hungry kiss.

“Say my name.” He orders, that crazed look still in his eyes.

“Oh..uh-” He barely lets you get out the question, forcing you into another kiss. When you get the chance to breathe, you mutter “I don’t-”

“It’s Mac.”

You nod your head, closing your eyes when he grinds against you. Biting your lip, you whisper, “M-Mac. That feels good.”

He finally pulls away from your mouth with a deranged smile, licking his chops.

“Perfect.”

Just like that he throws you to the ground, laying himself across you as he fiddles with your belt buckle. This has all been so overwhelming, so sudden, but you can’t say you hate it. Mac has got your blood searing, your cock raging hard.

Mac’s breath is heaving, was he always that hairy? On the ground, he almost seems bigger, impossibly so. He pants, a long tongue hanging out with his mouth. My…what big teeth he has.

You hear a shing, as if a blade was being unsheathed, then your pants are ripped open. Mac is pawing and tearing the fabric, sharp black claws cutting through like scissors. His eyes glow in the setting sun. What’s that on top of his head?

“I’m going to make you mine.” He mutters, sucking on two of his long fingers.

“What-” but you can’t even finish the sentence, Mac easing two of his fingers right into your asshole. Your cock jerks and your hips instinctually shove backward at the intrusion, but Mac keeps a firm grip to keep you in place. He sets a brutal pace, stretching you open with a fervor. You can’t even catch your breath, can’t even speak. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he looks at you, a heavy blush darkening his cheeks as he admires you.

“Have to prepare you…so small, so fragile. So good for me.”

Another gasp as you feel his fingers grow larger inside you. How is that even possible? You throw your head back, covering your eyes to hide from the pleasure. All you can hear is Mac panting, the schlick of his slobbery fingers as they fuck you. But then there's more fabric tearing, no, bursting at the seams. You force your delirious eyes upward, your heart stopping.

Above you is Mac, but he isn’t human anymore. The long tongue now hangs out a muzzle full of sharp canines. His undershirt lays ruined to the side, not able to contain the extra muscle and fur of the beast above you. No, the wolf above you.

“That's good enough.”

Before you can get a word in, Mac is yanking his fingers out and folding your legs backwards toward your face. You can’t feel the burn amidst all the sensation, only noticing a jingle as Mac undoes his belt buckle, pulling out his large cock.

All you can do is moan, bend to his will. Mac smiles, that same wicked smile.

“I’m gonna breed you, mate.”

And without another word, he shoves his cock deep inside you, stealing the air right out of your chest. Your nails caked in dirt as you dig them into the ground, biting your lip until blood is drawn.

It’s too much, too much-it’s too good.

Mac pants, his mad eyes burning deep into your skin. A clawed paw reaches down and grabs your jaw, yanking you to look at him. Drool drips from his jaw and onto your chest, his tail wagging desperately behind him.

“Look at me, look at me.” He keels and whines, swiveling his hips against yours. The crack of shock that rubs up your spine makes you moan, which Mac laps up like its the sweetest treat. “Ugh, you’re gonna take my knot so well. I know it, I know it.”

All you can do is nod your head, your dirt-caked fingers finding purchase in his fur. He lets you yank him closer, the warmth of his chest a contrast to the wet dirt beneath you.

When Mac thrusts in earnest, you swear you lose feeling in your legs. But even so your ankles hook around his shoulders, pulling him in for more and more. Your cock weeps precum, burning and begging to be touched. But Mac is a wolf on a mission, chasing his own high with delighted barks. He keeps that firm grip around your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek with a shocking sweetness. Mac never closes his eyes, content to watch you come undone under him, watch the way he wrecks you.

The slap of skin-on-skin and your heavy pants rings in your ears. You pray your grandma hadn’t wondered if you got lost and came to find you, because the sight of you was surely filthy. But with your cock twitching and a ferociously handsome wolf on top of you, it’s becoming harder and harder to care.

You can feel Mac’s dick throb inside you, a distinct whine coming from his chest. He claws his grip into the ground, his ears twitching as he looks down at you.

“Yes, here it comes. Take it, take it.”

You’re not sure what it is, but there is no way you’re not taking it. Your hips jerk as the rubber band reaches its most taut, your orgasm so, so close.

“F-fuck, fuck!” You moan, yanking and tugging on Mac’s chest fur as you explode into climax, cum spurting all across your stomach. With a final thrust, Mac shoves his hips into you and throws his head back into a howl, a warmth expanding inside you.

This must be it.

You ponder, letting out an ‘oof’ as Mac collapses on top of you. Still inside you, he nuzzles his muzzle into your neck, his hands gently rubbing your sore hips and thighs.

“So good for me.” He pants, licking up your throat with half-kisses. “My sweet little red.”

[peaches2217]

how would the bros' royal lovers feel about their post-partum bodies? of course, we all know they'd find peach/peas to still be beautiful no matter what, but would there be a level of self-consciousness there? this is the most wholesome stuff and you're giving me fictional baby fever, too!

Anon, I am so glad you asked! (And welcome to the club! 🥳)

TW: Body dysmorphia and related topics

Peasley doesn’t care. He knows he’s hot shit, no matter what he looks like. He’d dramatically strip naked for Luigi and say some shit like “Behold! This is the body which grew and nurtured our child, divinity itself!” and Luigi would be like “Hell yeah :D ” If anything, Luigi might end up worrying about his own appearance, since he’s normally so well-groomed; he’d lament that his hair and mustache look untidy because he’s just too tired from late nights with the baby to put as much thought as normal into his appearance, and Peasley would assure him that he’s just as handsome now as always.

“I don’t look quite the same as I did this time last year either, you know,” says the guy who, objectively speaking, looks way worse for the wear, “yet I’m still the physical embodiment of perfection. You’re no different, my love.” Luigi is one of the few people Peasley thinks of more highly than himself; there’s very little room for bodily insecurity. 😂

Peach is another story. I headcanon that she has insecurities regarding her body image, though it’s less to do with maintaining a certain physique and more to do with wanting to be healthy and physically capable (y’know that long-ass fic I keep talking about that I’ve got in the works? That’ll be one of the topics it touches on!). She does get self-conscious about her body sometimes during pregnancy, but it’s easily rectified with love and reassurances! Postpartum… not so much.

For whatever reason, the last month of her pregnancy takes a lot out of her, more so than expected, and it takes a few months to really gain her strength and energy back. She spends several weeks more or less confined to her chambers because she’s so frail, and when she tries to go for walks to get some fresh air and exercise, she gets winded and has to go back inside in like half an hour’s time. And by Toadessa’s assessment, there’s nothing they can really do to expedite the healing process — she’s doing everything right and is perfectly healthy otherwise. Some people just take longer to bounce back, and that process is complicated by the energy and resources needed to care for a newborn. The best she can do is rest.

And her frustration with her slow healing process ends up manifesting as frustration with her body as a whole. Like most people postpartum, she’s dealing with extra weight and stretched and sagging skin, and that coupled with the exhaustion of a new parent makes her feel like she’s some sluggish, disgusting creature that’s loathsome to even look at. She keeps expecting to see some sign of it reflected in Mario’s face, a look of pity or maybe even disgust that confirms her suspicions.

It should go without saying that that never happens. Mario knows how she feels, because this has happened before in another context (enter my long-ass wip!), and he knows “You’re still beautiful and perfect and I love you and (respectfully) want you to suffocate me between your thighs” ain’t gonna cut it when she feels so intensely about her body. So what’s a guy to do? Well, he knows it’s less about her physique and more about her vitality, so he helps her in regaining it.

He finds energizing exercises that are postpartum friendly for her to try and then does them with her, or he’ll join her for her walks, or anything else that will naturally build her back up, because she’s much less apt to get discouraged and call it quits when he’s there. It doesn’t matter how much physical activity actually gets done or if they spend more time taking breaks than actually moving. He gets her laughing and talking and thinking about things other than how inadequate she feels, and he makes sure she only pushes herself as far as she can reasonably go, and by the time Peach willfully puts an end to their routines, she already feels a thousand times better. When she feeds and rocks their baby, she spends less time staring in disdain at her figure and questioning how well she can raise a child if she can’t even take care of herself and more time reveling in the joys of motherhood, feeling on top of the world once more, and it’s a welcome change for all involved.

But above all, Mario makes it clear that, whether she becomes the buffest MILF on the planet or whether she wakes up tomorrow and decides she’s perfectly happy with where she’s at right now, he’s going to think she’s beautiful. He doesn’t care what she looks like so long as she’s happy with herself.

“You think my stomach’s finally getting a little flatter?” she asks one night, contentedly flustered beneath his touch.

“I think you look more confident than you ever have,” he tells her.

“You’re dodging the question, Mario.”

“Nope!” He kisses the tip of her nose. “Just focusing on what really matters.”

With time, Peach comes to agree with his sentiment.

[clockspur]

The Beginning of the Danse

Once Upon a Time, there lived a traveling minstrel.

After some years of wandering the world, he made up his mind to return home and visit his family. The Minstrel was eager to tell his mother, father, and sister of his adventures and fortunes.

On his way to the family house he found himself on the same road as the Spirit of Death. Death had come to collect a small mouse that was hunted by a mother falcon that evening. But before the specter could gently carry the poor creature to the afterlife, it was interrupted by the shouting of the Minstrel.

“Greetings, Master Death!” loudly declared the bard.

“Greetings, Minstrel.” said Death. Its voice was as low and rough as the winter winds.

“I have never believed that we would meet in person, so there’s something I would like to tell you.” the Minstrel gloated.

“And what would that be?” Death whistled.

The boy grinned, “I have decided not to die, Master Death. So you may pass over me and take some other fool.”

Death lightly shushed the mouse, who was frightened by the sudden noise. It placed the creature in its pocket where it would be safe.

“You are bold to assume that I would do such a thing. You will die, as does everything and everyone in the entire world.”

“But why should I let that happen” scoffed the vibrant musician, “I am a Minstrel, and a famous one at that. I have no interest in losing my admirers and gold over something as trivial as passing on from this world. I will fiddle forever and ever!”

“Is that so,” pondered the spirit, “to be heard by your kin as well?”

“Yes, for all time!”

“I have my doubts; hand me your fiddle, Minstrel, and I will show you.”

The young man was hesitant, but he was unsure of what would happen if he refused. Shaking, he placed his only instrument in the hands of Death.

To the bard’s amazement, Death began to play the fiddle. The Minstrel wondered at first if the gloomy shade knew how to play music at all, but Death proved to be an apt fiddler.

For Death drummed hooves and blew through grass. Death cracked stone and brushed leaves off of trees. Death scratched with sand, tapped with rain, and sang with mourners of all shapes and sizes.

Death knew exactly how to play music.

The spirit’s tune was unparalleled. It flowed and danced and kicked. It pulled at the soul and compelled Life to jig merrily with it. Even Death itself pranced to its own song, conjuring elegant and playful steps.

The folk of the nearby town came out to see who was playing that beautiful music, and they were not to only ones- the dead of the nearby cemetery also came to listen to the melody!

Many of the dead still had flesh of their person, but most were naught more than bones and the clothes they were buried with!

At this sight, a number of the living fled back to town. But those who didn’t run found themselves in awe, delight, and even relief to see the ones they buried with equally delighted and friendly faces.

Unable to contain their excitement, both the living and the dead joined together to dance to Death’s song. Family held hands with family. Friends romped together for the first time in a long time. Lovers moved in tandem, their feet stepping exactly as they did in life. And those who had no personal connection with the deceased made up their own games to laugh and sing alongside returning souls.

The Minstrel found himself tempted to join the dance, but dared not.

The festivities went on through the whole night. Some of the townspeople went back to bring food and drink and lanterns between songs, while the residents of the cemetery brought gifts of buried treasures and flowers that bloomed over their graves. All the while the young bard sat on a stone, watching. ‘Too scared to move, and too dumbfounded to try.

But as dawn approached, he lay witness to one last horrible sight: three bodies shuffling out of the trees, their faces ripped and twisted. Yet, to the shock of his frightened heart, the Minstrel recognized his father’s shirt, his mother’s apron, and his sister’s handkerchief.

“Brother!” cried the Sister, “the bear from the forest killed us- every single one!”

“My Boy!” shrieked the Mother, “she tore our flesh and fed us to her cubs, a dreadful fate!”

“Son!” pleaded the Father, “you must bring us back before dawn… before the rooster crows-!”

But the rooster did crow. Just as the sun pierced the sky, a farmyard cock heralded the morning with its own song. And when the shadows of night faded away, so too did the shadows of life with echoes and whispers of heartfelt goodbyes.

Some of the townsfolk waved back. Some of the townsfolk wept. And some thanked the heavens above for the chance to reunite with the ones they cared for, even if it felt like a moment.

Only when the light filled the sky and the living started for home- tired, full of food and drink, and satisfied in each their own way- did Death slow its melody until it came to an end.

The Minstrel was still holding out his hand, mere moments away from reaching his family before dawn broke. Yet in their place were their bones and clothes, discarded and strewn about. Above them were claw makes, cut into the trunks of the trees.

“I was wondering who they were,” muttered the icy voice of Death. “It seems that they still cling to their desires of an ill-deserved eternity, even after their demise.”

“Please,” begged the Son, “Will you bring them back, that we may fulfill our dreams?”

“Pride does not rule over Me,” groaned Death. “Neither Status nor Rule reign over My Hand. For I carve out the Beauty of Life so that it may transcend Time through Word and Memory.”

The young man said nothing. The mouse in Death’s pocket liked that.

The spirit held up the fiddle to return it. “The music you play will be the only immortal lineage of your family name.”

“That can’t be… That cannot be!” And with those words, the boy ran away from Death, eager to escape.

The Minstrel would live a long and miserable life. Many a time he would try to pick up an instrument and play, and many a time he would give it up when he remembered how his fingers would grow cold and how his voice would turn weak.

His good looks and fame caught the eye of a beautiful woman, and with her, he married into a wealthy family. But even surrounded by gold trimmings and rich dinners, he would only think about how the shine would fade and the food would rot.

The very idea of losing his life plagued his mind for years. He spent a good amount of his fortune for medicine to make himself immortal. He also ignored time with his children to study spells that could prolong his years.

In the end, his money was wasted and his heirs felt no obligation to stand by a cold hearted man. He died alone and afraid, begging invisible forces for one day more…

As for Death, it decided to keep the Minstrel’s fiddle. After all, if the instrument’s owner refused to take it, then the shade saw no problem in putting it to good use.

Death liked the music it made, and so did everyone else, it seemed.

And so the Reaper of Souls began a yearly tradition: to put away its tools of harvest and pick up its fiddle to play a song. For the Dead to reunite with the Living, and the Living to remember that one day they’ll be Dead, too.

More often than not, one who has recently passed will be frightened to see themselves on the other side of the Dance. But the Music is all the same. So are People. So is Life.

And so are the Memories that haunt what remains.

[spacecadetspe]

A snippet from last year...

Mar. 28, 2023

I accidentally triggered myself last night.  I think I've been triggered on and off for awhile now.

I guess... let's just get into it.

W brought home Covid weekend before last, and Fortitude and I have been sick on and off until today.  So I've taken a few days off from work and tried to sleep as much as possible.  I've lost weight; not in the healthy way, of course; and my stamina is still next to nil.

But the triggering really started when W mentioned that K had thrown out a paint-by-numbers that I had given her a couple years ago.  He asked her why she didn't just give it to me, and she replied that I had given back her last gift; why should she give me anything?  So W asked me why I had returned the purse she had given me for Christmas.

I tried to explain it to him, but because he's 7, I'm not sure it completely got across.  I asked him if he remembered going and seeing Ropana.  Lately she's been issuing chores and work for him to do, with very little gratitude.  I thought this was apt; show, don't tell.  I explained that she was showing him just what K had done.  She wants to give gifts and pretend to be friendly, even asking to put my trust in her... and then when a problem arises, she shuts down.  She defers to X, the abuser.  And I'm still left doing all the emotional labor.  Whatever gifts she gives me... don't solve the problem I specifically asked for help with.  And then she called me a liar and a bad mom to my partner... so why would I accept gifts from someone like that?

I don't keep fake friends.  And for some reason that I thought I should've let go of by now, I was angry that she was acting like I was the entitled, ungrateful one.

Fortitude mentioned that the woman couldn't even give me my winter coats back, let alone my other belongings.  He validated my anger, but if I'm honest, that didn't really help either.

And then Patience and his wife's blowup at me has been a stirred pot this whole time, as well.  The feelings of anger and betrayal kept popping up everywhere.

So last night, I was drawn to Phobetor.

"Can I stay here tonight?" I asked him.

He sat up to look at me.  "It's your realm, my lady.  You may sleep wherever you desire."  He watched me as I took a step closer.  "Is there something you need from me?"

I gave a slow shake of my head.  "No... I just... need you, right now."

Phobetor seemed to consider this for a moment.  "Do you need to process with me?"

"I don't know if that will help."  Processing is a mixed blessing.  While it does sort out your thoughts and experiences, it doesn't teach you how to overcome fears, and it's easy to get caught up in the process when true change is what's called for.

Phobetor smiled knowingly and cocked his shaggy head at me.  "Then what do I have that could possibly help you?"

I started listing off the traits that I needed; that I love about him.  "You're kind, erudite, you give good advice and great hugs, your voice is soothing, you're loyal..."  My voice cracked.  I felt a shock of pain rush through my body.  "You're... you're loyal," I realized softly.

"Ah," he said with a slow nod.  "You needed someone who wouldn't turn their back on you."

I broke down then, in the middle of his room, and started sobbing into my hands.  He sprang up off his bed and wrapped me up in his arms, and shushed me while I cried.

After awhile, he bade me lie down on his bed, on my side.  He lay down beside me and curled up against my back, with his hands on my belly.  "I won't turn my back on you, Hope," he whispered, "but I need you to let go."

"How?" I asked tearfully.

"Just talk to me," he said sweetly.

So I told him everything.  About Patience, C, K, and X... about how everyone was a friend until something went wrong, and then nobody seemed to want to work it out.  And dealing with that from another Virtue was unexpected and painful.

Phobetor lay with me about an hour, helping me process and letting the pain drain out.  "Is he still in the Forge?" he asked.

I nodded, and he hummed in my ear.  A little while later, he got up and said he was going to deliver the message to all the pertinent individuals that the processing of the Virtue of Patience needed to begin.

I held onto his hand for a moment.  "I don't want you to leave," I whispered.

He smiled, knowing that I wasn't going to prevent him from leaving, but only that I was showing my vulnerability.  He stroked my hair and pulled the covers up around me.  "I'll never be so far you can't reach me," he murmured.  "But if I am to hold to this standard of loyalty you've come to expect from me, I'll need to put your will into motion."

He left me there, bundled in blankets, and while I hadn't wanted him to leave me, I felt more secure.  Less angry.  Less hurt.  In all that pain, I was finally finding my foothold, and with it a real sense of stability.

[hangovercurse]

The Things We Can’t Tell Pete About v

Pete and you make amends, but after a series of break ins you end up staying at his apartment when an unexpected visitor shows up.

Colson Baker x Reader

Warnings: Drug use, cursing, heated make-out session

Word Count: 3161

| i | ii | iii | iv |

You spent the next week moping around your apartment, your phone turned off. All inspiration you’d had for writing seemed to have drained out of you, causing you to cancel writing sessions.

After not answering your phone for a few days, Pete came by your apartment, finding you deep in your depression. “I’m sorry for blowing up at you.” He said, taking a seat on the couch next to you. You shrugged, eyes not leaving the TV screen in front of you.

Your brother scoffed, grabbing the remote and turning it off, leaving you with no other option but to pay attention to him. “It’s fine Pete.” You muttered, reaching over to try and grab the plastic from him.

He frowned at you, “obviously it’s not. I shouldn’t have called you selfish and I shouldn’t have made it sound like I wanted you to get your heartbroken.” He explained calmly. He’d been through enough of these episodes himself, so he knew how to navigate the sadness that ran in your blood.

You sighed but didn’t say anything. You felt guilty that he was blaming himself for your mood. In reality, your fight with him was the last thing on your mind.

Pete continued explaining himself, “I’m just trying to protect you, you know?”

You nodded, trying to find the words to respond. “I know.” You whisper, “You’re right, though. Getting involved with your friends would be a bad idea.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “did something happen that I need to know about?”

You took a deep breath, preparing the lie in your head, “no, I just have been thinking about it. You’re right, it would just end up messy and someone would get hurt.”

You could tell he was trying to hide an “I-told-you-so” smirk. “So, there’s nothing going on between you and Colson?” he asked.

You tried to cover the fact that your breath caught in your throat. You guys were pretty obviously flirting the first night, but you didn’t expect Pete to jump to that assumption. “Colson?” You prayed your lie was convincing. “Why’d you assume I was thinking about going out with him?”

Pete raised an eyebrow at you and you let out a fake laugh, “bro, no. I was talking about Douglas.” You lied through your teeth. If music didn’t work out, maybe you could be an actress.

Your brother actually laughed at you for that, “wait, seriously? Doug?” His eyes closed and he leaned back into the couch.

“Yeah, I mean Colson’s hot and everything but that British accent really does things, you know?” You giggled, trying to ignore the sinking feeling from Colson’s name rolling off your tongue.

Pete rolled his eyes, “whatever, weirdo. Trust me, you dodged a bullet. I love Doug, but he could not handle you.” He got up from the couch. “I’m out, just wanted to come check on you. Maybe answer your phone some time?”

You smiled; happy you were on better terms with one of the men in your life. “I’ll try my best.” You called to him as he moved to the door. “Oh and, uh, Pete?”

He turned towards you, the sight reminding you all too much of Saturday night. “I’m sorry for being a bitch and calling you unstable and shit. I mean, you’re an asshole, but that was uncalled for.”

Pete shrugged, “I mean, I am unstable, but thanks.” He waved, leaving your house.

 A few weeks past and things were getting back to normal. You were back writing and editing tracks, Pete and you were talking again, and you felt like yourself. Part of you was glad that things ended earlier rather than later with Colson, so you hadn’t had time to get too attached. Still, the thought of what could have been made you upset from time to time.

You were on your way to the studio one morning when you got a text from your floor group chat.

Wanted to let you guys know, there’s been a series of break-ins in the area. Keep your doors locked. So far no one has been in the apartments, so if you can try to stay somewhere else until they catch him. Be careful floor 5 fam!

Your floor was almost exclusively younger millennials, so you all got along decently. Andy, the one who had sent the text, was actually a pretty good friend of yours, despite you rarely leaving your apartment.

You had an irrational fear of people breaking into your house. You couldn’t explain it, but the thought of being attacked in your own home was one of the worst things that could ever happen to you. Because of this, you decided to text Pete.

Hey, can I stay at your place for a little while. There have been break ins near my apt and I really don’t wanna be there if it happens to me.

You knew Pete was probably rolling his eyes, but you didn’t care. There was no way you were gonna stay in your apartment until you felt safe.

Sure

You have to buy groceries though

Deal

And thus began your week-long sleepover at Pete’s house.

 On day four, Pete walked into the guest room where you had set up camp, finding you scrolling through your phone on the bed. “Hey, Colson’s gonna come over tonight and we’re gonna get high on mushrooms and watch SpongeBob. Wanna join?”

The thought of seeing the blond again made your heart race, but you hid behind a fake smile, “no thanks, I’ll probably stay in here all night and get some work done. Have fun though, don’t bother me.”

“Yeah, you look like you got a lot of work to do.” He said sarcastically but left you to your own devices. “I’m ordering Pizza, I’ll get you one.”

You thanked him, trusting he knew your pizza order by heart by now. Once he left you let out a worried sigh, trying to figure out how you were going to hide the awkwardness between you and Colson from your brother. Hopefully, he would be too high to figure out anything was up.

You were also upset that you had to turn down a night of shrooms and SpongeBob, something you would’ve loved. But you figured you could skip out on one night of fun if it meant avoiding the guy that you probably could’ve fallen in love with if he hadn’t given up on your relationship before it even started.

Okay, so maybe you weren’t as over everything as you told yourself you were, but he had put you in a shitty situation. Of course, you weren’t going to be happy about it.

Three hours later you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, laptop in lap, and headphones in. You’d been listening to one of Lea’s tracks for the past hour, scribbling some general edit notes in your notebook and cleaning up some of the notes with your virtual tuner.

You vaguely heard a knock on the front door but ignored it, focused on adjusting her vocals for the bridge. Truthfully, it wasn’t the best song you’d written with her, but she liked it and she was your boss at the moment, so you did what she asked.

But when there was a knock at your door, you paused, removing one earbud, and calling, “yeah?”

You weren’t expecting to be met with those all-too-familiar blue eyes. “Hey.” Colson said, his confidence fading as you made eye contact.

“Hey.” You replied softly, feeling like his hand was wrapped around your heart and squeezing it.

He cleared his throat, stepping further into your room with a pizza box in hand. “Here’s your pizza.” He handed you the box awkwardly. You had expected him to leave the room after you thanked him, but he lingered for a moment. “You’re not skipping out on tonight because of me, right?”

You raised your eyebrow at him, confusion on your face. “No, I have a lot of work to do tonight so…” You trailed off, lowering your gaze down to the box in your hand.

He nodded, “okay, I just- you told me how much you liked doing shit like this with Pete and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t…” He paused, letting out a breath, “if you want to join, you should. Like I don’t want you to feel like you can’t have fun just because I’m here.”

You let out a dry chuckle, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not not hanging out with you guys tonight because of you. I’m just doing work.”

The man nodded again, scratching the back of his neck. “O-okay. I’ll just, uh.” He turned towards the door, moving to leave before turning back to you. “If you get done and feel like it, you should come watch SpongeBob with us.”

You nodded, sucking your lips into a straight line, feeling the awkward tension in the air that you desperately wanted to avoid. “I’ll think about it.” You said and with that, the blond left your room, pulling the door behind him.

You hated to admit it, but even when he was being nervous and awkward, he still managed to be fucking attractive as hell. You let out an annoyed huff, falling back against your pillows and covering your face with your hands.

You then spent the next 45 minutes trying to finish your edits, but your mind kept wandering to the boy with the sky in his eyes and an art museum on his body. Realizing you wouldn’t be getting any work done for the rest of the night, you thought about his offer.

Shrooms did sound good right now, and as much as you hated it, so did spending time with Colson, even if it was just friendly. And now that you had gotten Pete off your back about the events that had gone down weeks ago, he wouldn’t be suspecting anything anyways, especially not if he was tripping out.

Fuck it, you figured, climbing out of your bed and grabbing the box of pizza. You shuffled out of your room and into the living room where the bright colors of the TV lit up the dark house.

“Y/N! You decided to join us!” Pete cheered as you took a seat on the edge of the couch, curling your legs under you.

You giggled at your brothers very faded state. “I got bored of working so, shrooms.” You shrugged, reaching over and grabbing the bag off the coffee table. You could feel Colson’s eyes following you but you tried to play it off.

The mushroom was chewy in your mouth and tasted like dirt, so you ate it as fast as you could, focusing your attention on the tv. You leaned back into the arm of the couch, your legs falling to your side. From the corner of your eye, you could see Colson take a long swig of the bottle in his hands. It was too dark for you to read the label, but you could tell it was some form of alcohol.

Biting your lip, you considered the idea of toying with him, remembering how awkward he was earlier. Deciding he probably would be too high to care; you leaned over and grabbed the bottle from his hand. You brought the drink up to your lips, eyes locked on his and a smirk on your face. He watched as you swallowed the burning liquid, and it was then that you processed just how glazed his eyes were.

Handing him the bottle back, you giggled. Something about Colson being completely faded yet still watching your every move made you feel giddy inside. He smiled at your actions, accepting the bottle, and taking another sip of it. This time you watched him, his Adam’s apple moving with the liquid.

So, you were definitely not over him. Not even in the slightest.

You took in a breath, turning to the screen and waiting for the drugs to kick in. They were playing the episode where SpongeBob had to get a new spatula after his broke, a classic. Every so often you reached over and drank from the bottle of what you figured out was some form of whiskey, probably Jameson knowing your brother. Colson didn’t seem to mind, moving closer to you as subtly as possible so you didn’t have to reach as far. If Pete picked up on anything he didn’t say.

Around the 20-minute mark, the shrooms definitely hit. The lights from the TV got brighter, the pictures seeming to blend together in a different way. You loved this feeling, everything seemed so much funnier and every bone in your body felt 20 pounds lighter.

Your movements felt slower, your limbs turning to jelly. Colson happened to glance over to you, seeing the smile on your lips and knowing, even in his faded state, that you were high. The image reminded him of that first night, you on the same couch passing the blunt to him. Your eyes were glossy and your smile was beautiful then and now.

As the episode ended and rolled into the next, you shifted slightly, your legs starting to fall asleep. You moved to dangle them off the couch when you felt a soft hand on your ankle. You looked over to see Colson staring at the screen, but his fingers wrapped around your right foot, pulling it onto his lap. He then reached for the other one and pulled you so both of your feet were propped in his lap, your back against the arm of the couch.

You sent him a smirk, but if he saw it, he ignored it, continuing to watch the cartoon. His hand ran up and down your leg, sending shivers through your body. You tried to pay attention to what was going on on the screen, but you felt like your entire body was on fire.

You let out a little giggle at the sensations, causing him to glance at you, bringing a finger up to his lips in a shushing motion. You pouted jokingly towards him before turning back to the TV. He continued to look at you, the drugs making every feature of yours pop.

After another episode ended you heard quiet snores coming from the other side of Colson. You looked over to find Pete passed out, head hanging off the side of the couch. You laughed quietly, grabbing Colson’s attention. You motioned towards the sight, making Colson laugh silently as well. His whole face lit up as he took in his friend’s sleeping state.

You moved your feet off his lap, scooting closer to him. Your cross-faded state made you much more confident than you normally would be, and much more reckless. “Looks like it’s just you and me now.” You whispered, looking up at the man.

He smirked down at you, blinking slowly. His eyelashes were so long and pretty, you wanted to steal them. “I guess it is.” He said, voice matching yours.

God his voice was sexy.

In a moment of brilliance, or as anyone else would call it, stupidity, you climbed onto his lap, straddling his waist. He raised an eyebrow but made no effort to move you. Your hands rested on his shoulders, a drunken grin on your lips. “I was really sad when you left.” You murmured, searching his eyes.

He took his lower lip between his teeth, taking a deep breath. “I hated leaving.” He responded, leaning his head closer to you. “Took every ounce of strength I had not to go back.”

You frowned, leaning so that your noses were touching. “I wish you had.” You whispered before closing the gap between your mouths. His lips collided with yours so familiarly, so naturally. Your hands moved to the back of his neck, fingers toying with the hair there. His found your waist, pulling your body further into his.

Every inch of your body was tingling in the best way. You felt like you were flying, adrenaline coursing in your veins. When you pulled away for air you smiled up at him. “You’re really cute.” You giggled.

He grinned, “you’re cuter.” He pecked your lips as you shook your head in disagreement, “yup.”

You both knew better. You had ended things for a reason, a reason that was passed out next to you. But in his arms, you just didn’t care. You kissed him again, deeper this time. You felt like you needed to make up for the lost time.

And Colson kissed you back, missing your intoxicating lips. Your hips started moving against his, the friction in his pants making him moan quietly against your lips.

It felt good, but he knew something wasn’t right. So, he pulled away. “Y/N.” He mumbled, earning a small whine from you. “Shhh.” He shushed you, “we can’t do this, remember?”

You pouted, moving back from him. His thumb rubbed circles into your hip, a frown on his face. “We said we weren’t gonna do this because of Pete.” He whispered.

You sighed angrily, “why does Pete get to tell us what to do?” You asked.

Colson smiled softly, “he doesn’t. But we decided that it was best if we stopped seeing each other.”

“We did!” You whisper-shouted. “Obviously, that doesn’t work.” Colson chuckled at your small outburst, knowing you were right. “Doesn’t this feel right to you?” You asked, pressing your forehead to his.

He wanted to kiss you so bad, but instead he just said, “we can’t do this.”

You pushed yourself off of his lap, a frustrated expression covering your face as you stood up. “You’re both assholes.” You said, making Colson’s eyes go wide at your volume.

He stood up, hand going to cover your mouth so you wouldn’t wake up Pete. “Y/N please.” You glared at him but made no attempt to continue. “You’re right, even if we avoid each other it doesn’t work, so let’s scratch that idea.” He paused and you nodded, agreeing with him. You didn’t care what happened, you just wanted him back in your life. “Let’s be friends. Just friends. We can hang out together and have fun, but we don’t get involved with each other. That way, we won’t be tempted to do this every time we see each other.”

You hated the idea, but you knew it was better than the alternative. So, you let out a small “okay” against his palm. He smiled, removing his hand from your mouth. “I’m gonna go to bed, friend.” You said, backing away from him.

He nodded, a small smile on his face. “Wait.” He whispered, pulling you in for a short, sweet kiss. “Okay, now we’re just friends.”

You let out a small giggle and rolled your eyes, pushing him back onto the couch. “Goodnight.” You whispered, walking towards your room, and trying not to stumble. Your lips held a stupid smile that refused to go away.

[lyrebirdswrites]

not me drawing and interpreting proper astrological birth charts for the jjk main trio now that the official fan book finally gave us their birthplace in addition to their birthday 👀

Explanation under the cut! (edited to be more beginner friendly)

Quick disclaimer ig: this is just my personal interpretation of these placements. If you read the way I describe something and you think to yourself “hang on, I have this placement and this doesn’t sound like me at all” that would be because a) I am an amateur astrologer and I do this for fun, I don’t know everything about every sign/planet, and b) no placement exists in isolation - it’s influenced by the house it’s in as well as any other planets aspecting it - so it’s possible that the placement manifests in a less conventional/standard way due you because of such factors.

EDIT: my first draft of this post was not super beginner friendly so here’s a quick astrology 101 to help people understand wtf I’m talking about. Skip to the next photo if you don’t need a primer.

Everyone has ten main planets in their birth chart, each of those planets will fall under a different sign depending on when and where you were born. The planet governs an area of your personality, the sign shows what that area of your personality is like. Some quick definitions of the relevant planets for this post:

Sun: the one everyone thinks of when asked ‘what’s your star sign’. Your basic personality, your core, your ego.

Moon: symbolises emotion, intuition, your private internal world, and how feelings are expressed.

Mercury: symbolises communication, intellectual reasoning, and how you learn.

Venus: symbolises romance, aesthetics, how you socialize, and pleasure-seeking behaviours like shopping or sightseeing.

Mars: the source of your passion/drive/motivation. Symbolises where and how you expend your energy.

Retrograde: not a planet, just something the planets do sometimes. At some points in the year the planets look like they’re moving ‘backwards’ through the sky, and this alters their influence on the birth chart.

I think that’s probably enough but shoot me an ask if you’re curious/confused! I’m always happy to talk astrology (clearly lol)

Megumi... I always suspected he had scorpio influence somewhere in his chart and turns out I was right!! Not only scorpio venus but scorpio mars too?? I’m obsessed with this. Scorpio is a water sign (read: big on emotions), the embodiment of the phrase ‘still waters run deep’, and though scorpio placements are not always loud about their affection they tend to bond in a pretty intense way with their chosen people. Those venus and mars placements together really do speak of ride or die devotion - no wonder he’s Like That when it comes to Yuuji people he cares about.

His jupiter and saturn are both in retrograde; I would not have predicted it because I don’t think about natal retrograde all that much, but it actually makes a lot of sense imo. Retrograde jupiter usually indicates someone who is internally very philosophical in the sense that the person will define their own firm moral/ethical code instead of following a familial or societal belief system, which is pretty much megumi ‘I save people according to my own conscience’ fushiguro in a nutshell. While retrograde saturn is basically like. On the outside you’re stoic but on the inside you’re a worrywart, and you take responsibility Super Seriously but you also don’t like people with authority pushing you around needlessly. Which is also megumi in a nutshell lol.

His leo moon was a surprise but I honestly think it works for him because this is definitely where Unhinged Feral Megumi comes from: when he decides to go all out he gets such a flair for the dramatic. capricorn sun and capricorn mercury are pretty intuitive tbh, he really gives off capricorn vibes - practical, reserved, loyal, ambitious and tenacious, possessing a dry wit, capable of putting in steady hard work to get to where he wants to be.

I was already aware of Nobara’s leo sun because we’ve had their birth dates for a while now (birthplace is the new info which lets me draw the whole chart). But her cancer moon is such a lovely placement under that hard outer shell of hers. Nobara seems like she does not have a nurturing bone in her body, but it’s wrong to stereotype cancers as exclusively homebody motherly types - they have deep loyalty for their chosen family/home and they’ll go to the ends of the earth for those people in their own way whatever that may be... she really is a softie deep down 🥰 she really does care 🥰 thinkin about the end of her ch 125 flashback in this context

Nobara’s virgo mercury is actually kind of funny to me because while it indicates a natural gift for intellect and a talent for sorting out the fine details, it also has the potential to make someone a harsh critic who can nitpick and be quite blunt in stating their opinions... this is very Nobara, she does Not spare the feelings of anyone she is talking to lol.

Libra venus!! She has libra venus that’s so perfect!!! this placement is sophisticated and charming and always classy, these people adore that classic chocolates-and-roses romance but they turn love of all kinds into an art form. Traditionally the placement is also associated with people who care about beauty and harmony, who will go out of their way to look good for their companions. Also her leo mars... I love that. It’s really amplifying her bold outspoken flashy self-loving take-charge nature. Queen energy right here.

She has a bunch of natal retrogrades but the one I want to talk about is retrograde uranus... this one is Very fitting and again almost funny in the context of her character. You know how she’s always convinced she’s the only sane person in the room when actually she’s the unhinged one 24/7 and not self aware about that in the slightest? Yeah. That’s big retrograde uranus vibes.

Oh Yuuji... I could talk about your pisces sun all day 🥺 I could get Very technical and meta about the pisces association with the twelfth house and the fact that it’s ruled by neptune and what that says about his character, but I don’t have the room or the time so I’ll save that for another post. For now I’ll just say that the fact that he cares so deeply for others regardless of how well he knows them, the way he feels his feelings so intensely and is very intuituve/sensitive to others needs, him being interested in the occult before he ever found Sukuna’s fist finger, it all just seems more pisces to me than any other sign. And him having pisces mercury + pisces uranus in addition to his sun is also very sweet... our boy really thinks with his heart at all hours of the day doesn’t he?

His libra moon is such a fitting placement, too, because this moon is all about relationships - not just romance but bonds of all kinds, friends and family and companions of any sort. Yuuji as a character is so motivated by the bonds he shares with others and his desire to not be alone, especially on his deathbed. Libra moons are charming and personable and find it very easy to connect with others, they are deeply concerned with justice and will be accepting of everyone except for people who are cruel (exhibit a: just look how he responded to mahito). I think it’s a very apt moon for him to have.

Tbh if I were picking and choosing I might have loaded him up with yet more pisces energy and given him my favourite placement in the whole world, venus in pisces. But he actually has an aquarius venus and I think that’s so interesting! The part of this placement that speaks to his character for me is the way that aquarius venus love is defined by radical acceptance - there is never any judgement (I won’t judge you, Junpei!), because this venus seeks not only to see and understand but to be seen and understood in turn. Some say aquarius venus is an emotionally detached placement. I think that’s a mischaracterisation, but it is true that aquarius placements can be low key scared of intimacy and vulnerability even when they crave it lmao. An aquarius venus will sort through turmoil in their heart by retreating to think it over in isolation, rather than by submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known and reaching out. Manga readers if u know u know

All I can say about his capricorn mars is that it definitely embodies that determined protagonist vibe. Thoughts like ‘I want to get stronger, I want to be the best, I’ll put in the work to come out on top’ are very capricorn thoughts to have, and the drive and forward momentum associated with mars really push them to the front of his character. But also, again; an underdeveloped capricorn mars under stress will shut out possibilities for connection with loved ones by dedicating themselves to their job or cause. Yuuji learn healthy coping mechanisms challenge 2k21.

[jaskiersvalley]

Oh my god im the anon with the cuckoowitcher ask. I've been running around all day trying to have a few quiet Moments to read! I really loved it thank you so much. I've been reading all your lovely Storys but I have to say I have a Soft Spot for cuckoo Jas. Thank you for responding and writing something so sweet. Still love your writing and it still helps a hell a lot! Lots of love! Hope to see much more

Some people get stuck in my head and you, cuckoo Jaskier Nonnie, are one of those people because you’re always so polite and sweet. So while I may not have more cuckoo Jaskier stories at the moment, I wonder whether you’d like something else. There’s a lot of warlord Geralt going around, with Jaskier offered up as a tribute. But has anybody ever considered warlord Jaskier before?

It had started off as a side gig, Jaskier would always be adamant about that. He had wanted to be a bard. Sing songs, witness adventures and maybe be adored by the masses, that was his grand plan for life. Unfortunately, being a travelling bard didn’t pay well and people weren’t as quick to laud him as Jaskier had hoped. However, according to Redanian Secret Services, he was in the unique position to help them gather intelligence. So, on the side as Jaskier collected materials for his greatest works yet, he also picked up intel on armies, prisoners, relationships between factions, species and kingdoms. It was quite eye opening.

The only problem with it all was that Jaskier wasn’t stupid. He could see where wars were brewing, what allegiances were being forged. And, really, Jaskier thought he could do so much better. The information he was returning back to Redania wasn’t being used in the best way possible. So Jaskier started tailoring the information to ‘help’ them along. He had also managed to make friends with a few of the other intelligence officers, namely Valdo and Priscilla. Between the three of them, they had quite a spread of information and spent many a drunken night gossiping over maps, discussing how they would solve the problems of the continent.

One thing led to another and suddenly Jaskier had more than two fellow spies at his beck and call. Somehow he’d ended up with the loyalty of the dwarves, Zoltan and his crew being quite helpful. Then Filavandrel and his elves entered a truce with Jaskier, followed by Triss Merigold and a handful of sorceresses. It was haphazard at best but word travelled. And suddenly Jaskier was being approached by the Redanian Secret Service not as a spy but as an equal. They wanted to trade information and Jaskier almost laughed. Except, after Redania came Nilfgaard, offering riches in exchange for information and good relations. Not like Jaskier had an army or lands or anything like that. Did he? The dwarves and elves had their own regions, Redania was trying to save face that their own officers had done a better job of keeping the peace. Well, there was no harm in keeping on good terms with Nilfgaard, they had been the thorn in the continent’s side for a while. Maybe by being friendly, Jaskier and co could actually help settle issues.

When Temeria took umbrage at Jaskier’s meddling, it was one hell of an awkward moment because Redania, Nilfgaard, elves, dwarves and even Aedirn joined forces to quiet the unrest. Which was a turning point of sorts. Suddenly, every kingdom great or small came knocking on Jaskier’s door. He’d returned to Lettenhove because home was home. The steady stream of well wishers and ambassadors was, frankly, embarrassing. Jaskier had a hard time keeping up with everything.

Then there was the matter of Kaedwen. They were trying to be fiercely independent and up in arms. It just wasn’t going to do and, for the first time in his life, Jaskier asked his newfound allies if anyone was willing to raise arms against the threat. Unsurprisingly, Nilfgaard was down for a battle or two but they were joined by the elves. Redania offered medical assistance while the dwarves and trolls helped with supplies. It was all rather anticlimactic, an army marching to Kaedwen, only to be greeted by a white flag.

Not all battles were so easy though, sometimes factions arose, Cintra was being a royal twit and the war fought with them and Skellige was brutal. In the end though, they were defeated, Queen Calanthe had to admit defeat. Despite this, they weren’t prepared to roll over and play nice. In an attempt to display might and dignity, they sent the most extravagant offerings to Lettenhove. It wasn’t riches, no silks, no finery or gold. Instead, they had captured the most difficult of offerings. A witcher.

He was trussed up in his own silver chains. Silver for monsters as witchers had been known to say. It was a warning from Cintra, they had caught the most feared of beasts, the monster designed to kill all monsters. They wouldn’t bow down to a warlord, no matter what the kingdoms thought and did. The witcher was tied to a horse and made to walk behind it though a shuffle was a more apt description.

Jaskier stood in the hall of Lettenhove and watched as the half starved wretch was shoved to his knees in front of him. A hungry witcher was a weak one, much easier to subdue and manage.

“A gift, from Cintra,” the messenger had declared and stepped away with a bow.

Approaching the witcher, Jaskier ignored how every eye seemed trained on him, hands on swords and prepared to leap to his protection. Rather than pay them any attention, Jaskier sank to his knees in front of the witcher.

“Hello,” he offered. There was no response, the witcher’s head was bowed, whole body tense, trying to exude disdain and an air of threat. Up close, Jaskier could see the fine tremors through muscles though. He stood up. “Please pass my thanks to Cintra, I accept your fealty and this offering. Though I would request no more live tributes. Or dead ones! Gold, silks, food and shared knowledge is more than enough. Court dismissed.”

Nobody moved for a moment. “Everyone out!”

Jaskier stood next to the witcher who hadn’t moved throughout the exchange. As soon as they were alone, he was crouching down, tugging at the silver chains.

“You poor thing, how could they treat you like that.” Gradually, the witcher was freed from his bonds and as soon as he could, he had Jaskier’s own dagger at Jaskier’s throat. “Harsh,” Jaskier observed, “but fair. Can we save the killing for after dinner though? I have always found having a full stomach helped with most decisions.”

He didn’t expect the witcher to waver, the dagger fall from his hands and for him to collapse on the ground in a dead faint. It seemed that springing on Jaskier had really been the last of his energy. What a waste.

Needless to say, there was no killing after dinner. Jaskier learned that the witcher was called Geralt, he’d been to Cintra to collect his child surprise but Queen Calanthe had different ideas. Trapped, Geralt had been helpless to do anything which was how he’d ended up becoming an offering to a warlord.

That had Jaskier laughing. He wasn’t a warlord. If anything, Jaskier was a failed bard and a very bad intelligence officer because he thought he could do better than those he worked for. It wasn’t his fault people were pledging their allegiances to him or that he had to ask if anyone was willing to help deal with a threat to the peace that he was bringing to the continent. No, Jaskier wasn’t a warlord because he helped bring new rules to kingdoms and enforced them. Oh shit. He was a warlord. His parents were going to be so pissed off when they found out.

“I think they already know,” Geralt had interrupted Jaskier’s internal panic. “You might have been the last person on the continent to find out.”

“But I didn’t mean to become one.”

“I didn’t mean to become a witcher. Destiny is a bitch.” Geralt had shrugged. “At least you get to choose who you will speak to from different kingdoms. Is Emhyr over the fact you won’t talk to him yet? That you picked some general of his army as a representative”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward grin. “I mean, I just figured the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself wouldn’t want to deal with me. So I picked someone who would and who I liked. Then I heard of what Emhyr’s like and just decided I liked my pick better.”

Over the course of a week, Geralt ate and rested, gaining back his strength and resilience. Jaskier admired from afar, astounded by how quickly his witcher seemed to bounce back. Not his witcher. Geralt didn’t belong to anyone. Even if Jaskier quite fancied the idea.

“You’re free to come and go. I’ve set out a new law that’s making its way round the lands. Witchers are to be lauded and appreciated for their hard work,” Jaskier said as he stood, facing Geralt by the stables. His witcher was ready to head out on the Path again, hopefully it was going to be a little easier for him from now on.

“Thank you.” The thing was, Geralt sounded so earnestly genuine. “I was wondering, could you keep something safe for me until I return?”

An unusual request but Jaskier would help if he could.

“You’ve been a wonderful guest, even if your arrival wasn’t the most wholesome one. I’ll keep anything safe for you.”

He didn’t anticipate Geralt leaning in to kiss him chastely. “Keep my heart safe. I’m leaving it in your good care.”

The bastard then had the gall to hop onto his horse and ride off without a backwards glance. Jaskier was going to tell him exactly what he thought of that tactic when he came back. Until then, he would treasure Geralt’s heart, even if he didn’t have time to officially give his own in return.

[djmarinizelablog]

hi! read your last ask and you said that you took up creative writing classes so you might have a wider knowledge about this but i was wondering when u mentioned different writing styles (like minimalistic, hightened imagery, linear vilennete and all of that) could you maybe explain the difference and what they really mean and maybe examples in our own levihan nation and writers? this might be asking for too much but i was pretty lost and i'd like to know more about all that. however you are def free to ignore this too!

Did you just ask me to write a comprehensive poetics essay, Anon? (I love writing about writing lmao)

Super long post ahead, and I’ll be citing certain fanfics that I’ve read so far and those that I think somehow exemplifies all the different writing styles I mentioned in the previous post. 

First off, the ones I listed beforehand (minimalistic prose, heightened imagery, poetic language, linear narrative, non-linear vignettes) aren’t the only types of writing styles. There are more if you consider the variations of tone (humor/comedy, sentimental, macabre, noir etc), narration/perspective (first person, second person, third person omniscient/limited), and language (dialogue-heavy or action/scene-driven). And the nice thing is that you can actually use of one or two of them in your work---or all of them, if you’re feeling bold. 

As Hange always loves to do: “Let’s experiment!”

--------

I’ll start with minimalistic prose. It is what it is: short, clear, and concise. Think less is more. You have an economy with words where you disregard most adverbs and focus more on the context to make way for meaning, thus allowing the readers to create their own interpretations of your writing. I think the method here is to write your intended draft first, and then cut the unnecessary words to flesh out the scene even more.

Notice how @stereobone wrote this paragraph of Black Dog (an Eruri fic):

Isabel's voice wakes him, brother, brother, has him sitting upright in bed and grabbing for the knife under his mattress. He braces himself for the attack before he realizes there isn't one. There is nothing in the darkness but him and his heavy, panicked breathing. Levi's heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of his chest. He drops the knife on the mattress and shuts his eyes and tries not to think about Farlan's bloody resigned face before he was eaten. He tries not to think about how he left them. How it's his fault.

It’s very simplistic in language; the paragraph lets you focus on Levi’s innermost thoughts while he deals with an external action (ie, having nightmares). The author hasn’t unraveled the rest of the plot yet, but you already know where the tension is coming from.

Next is heightened imagery. If you’re familiar with the different figures of speech (metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, etc), then this is where they all come into play. I think the challenge here is being able to balance it well with the text itself and make sure that the imagery actually clarifies the context of the paragraph instead of convoluting the intended meaning. 

Here’s an excerpt from A Dangerous Game by just_quintessentially_me:

Hanji watched Levi, standing there, head bent and bloodied handkerchief pressed against his arm, and was reminded, irrationally, of a night years ago. When her parents had taken her to the circus. [. . . .] Holding her parent’s hands, she’d gaped, head craned back as she watched the spectacle, a cacophonous mixture of sound and color. At the center of it all, she’d spied a boy. Among the twisting colors and tricks, he alone, was still. [. . . .] The boy was high above, balancing on a platform atop a long pole. In front of him, stretched an audaciously thin rope. Below, no net waited to catch him.

[. . . .]

When Levi looked up, his expression was set - like the boy before the tightrope. And she knew, with sinking certainty, he was going to take the step. Into thin air.

Gray eyes met her gaze and held it.

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

At the door, Kenny smiled.

See how the powerful imagery of the boy on the tightrope was able to fuel the tension in that moment among Levi, Hange, and Kenny? 

I think poetic language is akin to heightened imagery, except that the former is more focused on the actual language. It’s very lyrical, wherein you can actually hear the lulling song of the sentences in a rhythm. One of my favorite works that does this is Deep sea baby by @smallblip. Here she makes use of various setting and scenery to create this entire atmosphere of Levi and Hange’s relationship:

Hanji knows whatever life they've led, this is her favourite.

The one in which her and Levi see the sea for the first time together.

The one in which she’s the Commander, and him, her Captain. And between them, a river of words left unsaid threatening to break the banks.

One day they must cross the ocean, but today they visit the shores again, without the kids this time. And Levi learns why when he watches her peel at her clothes. Her harness comes off first, then her blouse, then everything else, like a little dance for an audience of one. Levi tries not to stare, but he’s already seen her by candlelight in the dead of the night. And yet she never fails to take his breath away.

She makes her way to where the white foams dredge the past up the shores of the present.

"Come on Levi! The water is warm!" she says, and he hears it like a call to come home- where the heavens collide with the sea.

He takes off his clothes and folds them in a neat pile beside Hanji's mess. He swims out to join her.

It’s hauntingly poetic, the way the author is able to connect the metaphor in “a river of words” to the actual body of water right in front of Levi and Hange. Good poetic language is able to tighten up the texts together while keeping the sentence structure flowing with apt figures of speech.

When it comes to narratives, it only comes down to linear or non-linear. See how @lostcauses-noregrets does her opening statement in Trains (also an Eruri fic):

Levi hates trains. To be fair, Levi hates all forms of public transport, but he reserves a particular loathing for trains. They’re dirty, noisy, smelly and worse, filled with people. People who, heaven forbid, might attempt to speak to Levi, engage him in conversation. Levi’s worst nightmare is being stuck on a train with some friendly fuck who wants to pass the time making small talk. Admittedly it’s not a problem he has to deal with too often, his general fuck off demeanour deters all but the most aggressively friendly and hopelessly inebriated. But that doesn’t stop Levi from hating trains.

It’s a short fic and it’s very dependent on the linearity of events happening. But with that banger of a first sentence, the beginning already gives you enough of an idea of Levi’s pet peeve in the story, which in this case, is trains.

Here’s another hot and steamy fic called keep him waiting by keobuns that shows a linear narrative: 

He’s sitting with them in the back of the lab, nursing a cup of tea — it’s still pretty full, and even cold now, for he was far too distracted listening to Hanji talk to properly drink — when he sees it. Hanji’s too preoccupied with overexplaining the same Titan experiment they’ve gone over a hundred times to notice his stare. They just continue on and on and on, gesturing with their hands, pointing with their fingers, flexing their wrists…

Ah. Levi has to bring his teacup to his lips to hide the way his lips tremble. Hanji has incredibly nice hands.

The entire story just revolves around Levi simping for Hange’s hands and how it all goes down from there. But you as a reader are kept wanting more with every paragraph and every sentence that the author constructs (and trust me, it’s not just the sexual tension between Levi and Hange that keeps us going).

Now, as much as I love the straightforwardness of linear prose, non-linear writing brings a different round of ideas onto the table. It can create recollections from flashbacks, heighten the perspective or interior turmoil of a character due to trauma or grief, or even just re-invent what-if scenes that the characters have imagined themselves. 

Gnossiene by @thatalmondgirl​ is one of my all-time favorite Rivetra fics. In this excerpt, you will see how she switches between the past and the present, and how it affects Petra’s POV as a conflicted character:

Contrary to popular belief (fuck Auruo) Petra actually didn’t cry easily.

Alright, she could admit that at some times, she was...emotional. It was far from a weakness, but even she could admit that they sometimes got in the way and walled off all rational thought. Anger, frustration, sadness, hell, even happiness. The only one she could easily compartmentalise away was fear, which probably stemmed from her military career. Even so. It was never easy to separate all the others from her actions, think from a clean slate like the Commander could do, like the captain. [. . . ] Petra groaned, splayed out across her bed. She drew her arm across her eyes, willing the tears to go away. She’d already blown through her tissue box.

“Petra, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Mama sat on the end of her bed, with Petra on the floor between her legs. Even though Petra argued firmly that she was old enough to brush her own hair, Mama had insisted. Unfortunately, Petra wasn’t old enough - and probably never would be - to disagree with her mother.

“I know, Mama.” Petra grumbled.

“I don’t think you do. Else you wouldn’t be crying, would you?”

[. . . .]

“But a man shouldn’t complete you when you complete yourself. Maybe he’s an extension to your house. So you’ll be sad if the extension is compromised or burns down. But you still have the main house. And if it’s strong, the main house can still be standing even after the worst storm.”

Aside from Mama’s crazy metaphors that sometimes didn’t make sense, her message hit home. Even if it hit home years later.

See how it switched in between the before and after? 

An off-shoot of non-linear writing are vignettes (a layering of scenes separated by section breaks) wherein this writing style allows writers to curate scenes in terms of fragments, creating some kind of mosaic for the readers once they finally see the big picture. Nakimochiku’s I’m leaving, are you coming with me? stacks up scenes of interactions between Levi and Hange, enough to depict the kind of relationship that they have as young lovers in a school setting. You can string these fragments together, rearrange them in a different order, but in the end, you will still get the author's clear goal of highlighting how Levi and Hange’s relationship develops over time.

Those are the styles that I mentioned in my previous posts, but as I’ve told you, there’s more to writing than those, so I’ll give a short run-through of other methods in writing. 

Whether it’s dialogue-heavy works such as from my window to yours, or action-driven scenes like Carnivores (a Levi x Reader fic by CaptainDegenerate) that propel the story forward, we as readers should be able to follow through the actual storyline that the authors intend to take us. 

A third-person limited (we listen to Hange’s thoughts in Clockwork by @tundrainafrica) vis-à-vis an all-knowing/omniscient narration (the moon is dark by @sayonarasanity alternates the perspective of Levi and Hange) should be able to make us understand why the author chose this particular kind of point-of-view in order to tell the story. 

And lastly, having a solid and consistent tone throughout the work (the macabre of Even Humanity’s Strongest could make mistakes by Rimeko versus the sweet sentimentality of Flowers for You by @fanmoose12) should be able to set the atmosphere that the authors want us to imbibe as we read through their works. 

So there’s your crash course on writing and reading. Enjoy? :) 

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 27

First time reader click here

TWs/Summary: If you read carefully, you knew this; if you didn't: reader was drugged at the party. Hangover from Hell ft. boys being cute, Loki being best friend material and reader fully integrating him into the Gen-Z community via Monster energy drinks and depressive music whilst being sad. I live for Loki/reader friendship tbh.

So folks, this is the last big plot thing before the endgame. I reckon it's about 10-15 chapters left until out happy ending and the next bit is going to focus on developing reader's and Stephen's relationship. There will be smutty parts too - either chapters or interludes, idk, depending on how well they'll integrate into the story.

I love y'all.

Ow, was my first thought upon waking up. My head throbbed something fierce, the pressure behind my eyelids was unbearable and my mouth tasted like a bog on a sunny summer's day. I was warm, from both sides, and one of the bodies felt foreign in everything besides the smell - sandalwood leaked through the lead curtain of alcohol and sex.

Needless to say, I had trouble piecing together the fine details of last night but had enough coherence to remember our... Activities. I was sore and Strange's long arm was still possessively draped over both me and Tony. The luck was on my side as I carefully wiggled out of his grasp, padding to the bedroom on quiet feet. The sorcerer barely moved, only grumbling briefly at the loss of my warmth and immediately quieting, shamelessly snuggling into Tony.

I would have not exaggerated if I said it was the worst hangover of my life. It was baffling, really, because I'd gone way wilder and didn't suffer half as much after effects; my first attempt to brush my teeth ended with my face resting against the toilet bowl, my empty stomach rejecting what little liquid in it was left as the room spun on its axis. That was incredibly embarrassing and I hoped my boys wouldn't wake up to witness my best impression of a bum - and they didn't, both men still sound asleep and interwined like snakes when I put on the shirt closest to me and departed in search of coffee.

My mood only worsened. Steve and Bucky were already up, shoveling an impressive amount of eggs and bacon, as Bucky quietly teased Steve about his own hangover. The blonde man was slightly greenish, disheveled - we traded equally glum looks and nodded to each other in silence. The smell of food made my stomach churn and I retreated, one black coffee in hand, towards Bruce's lab, having been informed by Friday that neither Tony not Stephen planned on waking up.

"Morning, Princess," Bruce smiled kindly, pushing his glasses out of the way to hold me close and give me a sweet kiss. "Had fun? The boys still asleep?"

I giggled at Bruce calling Tony and Stephen boys. "Yeah. I wouldn't be wearing Stephen's shirt if he was up and about, I think." I pointed out the obvious.

Bruce chuckled, holding my face to give me a long, thoughtful look. I stared back, hoping convey my respect and adoration without having to say a word; like Tony, I wasn't particularly apt when it came to talking feelings. Whatever Bruce was looking for, he found it, and sealed it with another kiss, twice as long and twice as sweet. We stood like that, my head on his shoulder and my arms firmly holding him to myself, until the elevator dinged behind the glass wall, revealing a shirtless Stephen and Tony in his pajama pants, both men bickering animatedly.

"Aw shit, here we go again," I rolled my eyes, unhappy about the possibility of the magic being broken. I rather preferred all three men to be like yesterday: friendly, kind and relaxed.

"I will kick them out if I have to," Bruce shrugged, turning me around to face them.

Tony smiled, seeing me, stopping mid-conversation. "Princess, I am disappointed in your lack of manners. You left me with Merlin and he is mean." The engineer unceremoniously snatched me from Bruce and smooched me, hangover breath and all.

"Gross, Tony," I rolled my eyes, giving the man a light shove in the chest. "Morning, Steph," I addressed the third man who had gone back to his usual stoic expression. Just to see his resolve crack, because I loved pushing his buttons, I gave him a good morning kiss too, and was unexpectedly blown away by the eager response from his side. As I pulled back, I noticed his cheeks dusting a light pink.

"I came to get my shirt but I think you'd rather keep it," The sorcerer's fingers caressed my skin beneath the collar of his shirt, voice still low and scratchy from sleep and those magnetic eyes fixated on the exposed flesh of my chest, no trace of previous awkwardness.

"You sure 'bout that?" I pushed one of the sides off, exposing my shoulder, seeing Tony gulp the remainder of my coffee, one hand already messing with the screen that Bruce was focused on. "I think I look better without it," I would never miss an opportunity to tease the uptight man.

"Quite," He grinned, "It's a shame I didn't get to see much last night..." Two could play this game, okay.

"Oh, but you will," Tony piped up suddenly, a hint of smugness in his voice barely covered by Bruce's fond chuckle. I really didn't know what to say, suddenly overwhelmed with the attention, my emotions amplified by the hangover - party drugs tended to exaggerate my anxiety on the comedown.

And what a comedown it was. My social energy ran out very quickly so I complained about a nasty headache and retreated into my room, Bruce's gentle hands pressing a bottle of Ibuprofen into my own. Despite my attempts to tame my rioting body, it got worse before it got better and shortly before lunch, I had thrown up twice more. Pissed off, I ran a bath with cold water and sat in it until I felt somewhat human to prepare myself for a journey to Wanda's apartment - as a last resort, I was going to chug on of Pietro's Monster energy drinks that I knew he kept hidden there.

The retrieval was a success. Cans securely hidden in the kangaroo pocket of Tony's oversized hoodie I had thrown on, I had to make a haste detour to throw up once again - the closest bathroom was in Loki's apartment and I only managed to knock twice before throwing open the door and making a mad dash for the porcelain throne, a very confused Asgardian following my movements with raised eyebrows.

"Hangover from Hell," I croaked once the first wave subsided. Loki nodded in understanding, waved a hand to summon me a water bottle and shut the door behind himself.

As I sat there, desperately trying to understand why was I feeling like utter shit... It clicked. Bile rose to my throat once again, and I just dry heaving, mulling my revelation over and over again.

I didn't take any drugs. I had been drugged. My memories became hazy and dream-like shortly after someone had given me the drink... Someone, who? It was a split-second moment; Sam, even in his drunk state, didn't keep his eyes off me for too long. Maybe it had been someone the team knew? Possibilities began playing out in my head. Cursed was my overactive brain - the anxiety from the leftover drugs was making me panic.

"Fuck, FUCK," My hands shook - I only noticed it because I had spilled water on myself, adding cold and wet to the unpleasant sensations I was already experiencing. "Why am I such a fucking fuck-up." Taking a drink from a stranger seemed downright idiotic now. Middle school bullshit.

"Are you alright?" Loki's worried voice interrupted my inner monologue.

"Yes," I replied, voice cracking. "No. I don't fucking know."

The door all but flew open, the Asgardian taking several long strides to take a good long look at me. The frown on his face tells me all I needed to know about my physical and mental state.

A slender hand tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "What happened?"

I laughed tersely, feeling tears to begin welling in the corners of my eyes. "I'm an idiot," Seeing his face get annoyed briefly, I conceded: "I got drugged yesterday. My drink."

The hand that he had slid between my shoulder blades froze. I felt his whole body go rigid and his nostrils flare, the smell of ozone and something foreign - magic - filling the small space. The air around us became charged with the power of his anger. "Pardon?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

I physically fought with the need to flinch away from him, settling for lowering my eyes and staring at the dark stain on my hoodie. "I got carried away dancing. Someone handed me a drink and my stupid ass just shotgunned it," I confessed, picking at the wet spot. "And I can't tell anybody because I had a threesome with Stephen and Tony," I suddenly realised, my voice raising in pitch. "They're gonna think I didn't want it and feel bad. You know how Tony blames himself for everything under the sun..." Another wave of dizziness and nausea hit me as I leaned against the wall closest to me.

"Alright," Loki conceded after a brief pause. "We absolutely are telling the others. I'll make sure they understand," The Asgardian stated firmly in a tone that bore no argument. Seeing me lift my head to protest, he interrupted me before I could say anything: "Did you... Did you want it?" He asked me, hooking a single finger under my chin to look me in the eye.

I nodded, feeling my face heat up.

"You're not lying. The team knows of my ability to detect lies. Nobody will blame anyone..." Loki trailed off, obviously already plotting something. I wished it were a prank both of us were conspiring on instead of... Trying to make sense of this cluster fuck of a shit show. The circus called, they seemed to have left their clowns behind. "Although I will have a word with Sam." The Asgardian muttered darkly.

"No, it's not his fault. I just got too relaxed, I need to pucker up and be responsible for myself," I protested, damn well knowing it wasn't the Bird's fault. Everyone was drunk and I should've known better.

"It's not yours either," Loki sneered, seeing right through my self-loathing. It took a deep, slow sigh for him to calm down. His expression softened and the hand that was on my back resumed the gentle stroking as he scooted closer to me to press my side against his chest. "Vile people of this kind aren't exclusive to Midgard. It could have happened to anyone."

I nodded, my logical part briefly taking over as the waves of nausea and dizziness waned. I stifled a giggle, coming to another sudden revelation. "You holding up my hair as I barf out my hangover? That makes you qualified for the position of my Best Friend," I stated with a snort.

Loki chuckled, relaxing bit by bit. "I accept the position," His voice was unusually soft and a little bit shaky; I chose to tactfully ignore it. "Shall I call for assembly in the war room?"

I sighed, the dread and anxiety creeping it's way back in. "Can we just... Wait a bit? I have something- hold on-" I rummaged around my pocket, taking out two cans of Monster. Loki eyed them curiously and I extended one to him. "It probably won't do much for you but for me it's a last-resort hangover cure." I popped open the metal cap, seeing him do the same. "Be warned though, it tastes kinda funky if you're not used to it," I announced the disclaimer but it simply egged Loki on.

The scrunched up face he made was pretty funny. "It's sour but sickeningly sweet at the same time? I can't tell," He briefly eyed the written ingredients on the can.

"There are a bunch of flavors. Pietro likes the plain one, I like the purple one better, it's not so tongue-burning." I paused to inhale loudly. "If this is what college life looks like, I don't want to go," Mustering up my courage and gathering my balls in a knot, with one broad motion I closed my nose and poured the carbonated acid down my throat until my eyes watered. "Gimme a minute," I hiccuped, trying to keep it down.

Wide-eyed, Loki took a chaste sip of his own drink, eyeing me warily. He looked part impressed part disgusted with the little stunt. "I am pretty certain that is counter-productive."

"Caffeine make brain and body go skrrt," I argued back. "Friday, play my "grant me the sweet release of death" playlist. I'm upset," I announced and the AI obliged silently, the first notes of Placebo's 'Exit Wounds' beginning to play. If I was going to mop in a stranger's bathroom, I was going to do it with style. Even if said style was just simply stealing in my own misery with emo background music.

Loki stared at me, I stared back, both of us lost in our respective minds. At one point, he began swaying to the music slightly, resting the cool tin of the can against his cheek; I followed suit, mouthing along to some of the lyrics. It took us about a dozen songs to finally finish the liquid acid that was Monster energy drink and my ass felt like the bathroom tile itself: flat and hard.

"Do you ever feel like the universe just hates you for no fucking reason?" I groused, taking Loki's outstretched hand and slowly feeling the blood rush back to my legs.

"You wouldn't believe," He rolled his eyes in solidarity, vanishing away the empty containers. "Norns, give me a Hel-damned break."

I laced his arm through mine as we exited his apartment, feeling considerably less upset than I was before. I couldn't protect myself, but one look at Loki's sullen, irritated expression was bound to scare off anyone who dared to interrupt our mission.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95

[gra-sonas]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes Characters: Alex Manes, Michael Guerin, Isobel Evans Additional Tags: Minor Isabel Evans/Gregory Manes, Canon Disabled Character, Soulmates, Handprint Summary:

"Listen, darlin’. I don’t think because I say darlin’ that’s gonna bring you your soulmate. But, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t fully understand and they’re gonna find you, darlin’." - recorded by Cowboy for Airmanes

Michael used to work for an anonymous, queer-friendly sex hotline (going by the nickname Cowboy) while he was in college, and Alex commissioned him to record a message for him while he was deployed. One day, their paths cross.

Alriiiiight, happy Malex Monday! I meant to write a short ficlet, inspired by Vlamis recording a message for a fan, saying darlin’ three times. For reasons unknown, this turned into a 5.5K fic I wrote this afternoon/evening. 

This is a soulmate AU, and there’s some handprint stuff going on. And while this is mostly fluff, the fic is rated Mature (I know, *gasp*). Uhm, enjoy?

~*~

"Listen, darlin’. I don’t think because I say darlin’ that’s gonna bring you your soulmate. But, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I don’t fully understand and they’re gonna find you, darlin’." - recorded by Cowboy for Airmanes

When Alex listens to the message Cowboy has recorded for him, he has a hard time (pun intended) keeping quiet and not scream into his pillow. It's a close call. Even though the need to get off is overwhelming, he's careful to move his body into a more comfortable position without jostling the bunk bed too much. He hears Ogden in the bottom bed grumble in his sleep once, but he doesn't wake up. Small mercies.

Alex feels like an hour passes before he can finally wrap his hand around his hard cock and take care of his needs with the tiniest movements. He keeps listening to Cowboys recording over and over again, and he manages to time his orgasm with the final darlin' of the message.

Wow, Alex doesn't want to exaggerate, but he thinks he's never come harder in his life. Cowboy's voice's just doing it for Alex, always, has. But the darlin'? Surefire way to get him off in no time. It's the first night in a long time that Alex sleeps so deep, that not a single nightmare haunts his dreams.

The recording continues to bring Alex comfort and orgasms in the middle of an ongoing war, and he can't help but dream up scenarios where he meets Cowboy one day, and they realize that they are indeed soulmates. A soldier can dream, right?

Months go by and after one fateful and utterly horrible day, the war is over for Alex. He returns home to Roswell via a short stint in Landshut, Germany. Half of his right leg is missing, but they give him a purple heart as a consolation price and a thank you for his service. Not that anyone actually thanks him.

It takes Alex another couple of months until he can walk again without the help of a crutch. He celebrates this newfound mobility freedom at a local bar, the Wild Pony. He's sitting at one of the tables, nursing a beer, when two people occupy the table next to his. A tall blonde woman, and a handsome man with curly hair that spills out under the brim of a black cowboy hat. A cowboy hat. Alex tries not to be too obvious, but he keeps looking at the man every now and then.

He can't hear what they're talking about, their voices a soft murmur, but then someone feeds the jukebox with a dollar, and suddenly the couple has to raise their voices.

"Come on, Michael. Don't be such a sourpuss. I want to celebrate that you're back home. It's been a dull year without you. I've talked to Max, he's promised to be on his best behavior," the woman says.

Michael. "Nice name," Alex thinks. He's just reaching for his bottle to take another sip when Michael answers.

"Ugh, Iz, do I have to come? I'd love to spend an evening with just you, but you know Max, he won't stop nagging me." 

Alex freezes. He knows that voice. Intimately (well, in a way). But the man can't be Cowboy, can he? In Roswell of all places? Alex tries to be subtle by moving his chair a fraction of an inch to get a better view at the neighboring table.

He keeps staring and  almost jumps up when the woman (Iz)'s phone starts buzzing. She checks the display. "That's Greg, I have to take this call outside. Please don't leave, I'll be back in a minute."

Michael demonstratively takes his hat off and puts it on the chair next to him. He smiles at her. "No worries, I'll still be here. Say hi to your beau and tell him I hope to meet him soon." She grins. "Not sure I should introduce him to you. He's your type, brother dearest."

Alex can't see Michael's face properly, but his voice sounds annoyed. His voice, that Alex is fairly certain, is that of Cowboy, the man of his (sex) dreams. "As if I'd ever make a move at someone who's involved with someone else, let alone someone who's dating my sister, who also happens to be my best friend."

Iz laughs. "Good boy. Now give me a minute, I have to talk to my boyfriend." She leaves. 

Alex's hands are sweaty because now would be a good moment to approach the man, but what would he even say. "Hi, you're that guy from the queer-friendly sex hotline, and months ago you recorded a message for me I like to get off to. Nice to finally meet you in person."

Not awkward at all. But he also needs to know what the man looks like. So far, he's only seen part of his face (there seems to be stubble, which Alex approves of) and lots and lots of unruly honey-golden curls. In an unplanned move, he accidentally knocks his beer bottle over and the remaining beer spills all over his table.

"Damn," he mumbles under his breath, patting down the pockets of his jacket in search of tissues to mop up the mess.

Suddenly, there's movement at the table next to him and Michael turns around, a squarely folded piece of cloth (a bandana?) in his hand. "Here, take this."

Alex feels dizzy looking at the man. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine that Cowboy would look like that, but now? Even if this man turns out to be not Cowboy, Alex will forever have this visual when he plays the darlin' message.

Not the moment to think about that, though. He collects himself enough to say something. "Uhm, are you sure? That looks very nice and clean, I'm sure they have paper towels at the bar."

Michael's smile is almost blinding. "Don't worry about it, it's one of my oldest bandanas, it deserves to die in the most heroic way – drowning in alcohol."

Alex snorts. "Okay, thank you." He reaches for the bandana, and for a second, their fingertips touch. Alex's vision goes blurry and he tries his best to inhale, but there doesn't seem to be enough air to fill his lungs. He gasps.

When he feels a strong, warm hand clapping down on his shoulder, he can suddenly see clear again, his lungs expand without pain, and warmth is flooding his body.

He goes almost pliant under Michael's touch (because of course it's his hand).

"Wow," Michael says, and if that isn't the perfect word to describe the situation.

Alex tries to remember how words are formed. "Do you feel it, too?" Michael just nods. "In Roswell of all places," Alex says dryly.

Michael snorts. "You wouldn't believe how apt that actually is. All things considered."

"I don't know what that means, but I'm sure I'll find out eventually. I mean, I don't want to assume, but I will find out eventually, right?"

"Yes, beautiful stranger, you will. I never expected this to happen to me, but now that it did happen, I want to know everything about you. What's your name, handsome?"

Alex can't believe that this beautiful man is his soulmate, let alone that he found him in this godforsaken town he'd never expected to return to before he lost his leg.

"Well, handsome does have a name. It's Alex. And you are—."

Alex takes a calculated breath before he says "Cowboy," at the same time Michael says "Michael."

They stare at each other. Michael's eyes are wide. "How do you—?"

Alex blushes, and he considers not answering the question for a second, but this is his soulmate asking. "I'm—I'm not just Alex, I'm also darlin'."

Michael's eyes grow impossibly wider, then he bursts out laughing. "Oh my god, that was you? I couldn't stop listening to your message either. It's been very – how can I put this – inspiring?"

"Well, in true Pavlovian fashion, I can promise you that calling me darlin' will get me hard and off in no time," Alex says, keeping his voice low. He should be beet-read, but he's beyond feeling ashamed. In fact, he feels emboldened, and if the glint in Michael's eyes is anything to go by, he's certain there's one hell of an orgasm in his near future.

Before he can put more thought into that possible scenario, Iz returns to the table. She looks at both men and raises an eyebrow.

"Michael, why are you holding hands with this man?"

Michael looks down at their clasped hands, apparently, he doesn't know either when they started holding hands. For a moment, Alex considers letting go of Michael to greet Michael's sister properly, but he can't bear the thought of losing the physical contact right now.

Michael kisses the back of Alex's hand, then he looks up at Iz. "Isobel, this is my soulmate. His name's Alex."

"He's your—Michael! I leave the table for five minutes, and I come back to you having found your soulmate? I didn't even know that we could until recently." She seems exasperated, but then her smile goes soft. 

She sits down across from them and looks at Alex. "I'm sorry, Alex, I didn't mean to be rude. This is just a lot to take in. Uhm, I've met with Michael tonight to convince him to come and visit me, and spend time with our brother Max tomorrow. And I haven't been quite honest with Michael."

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Michael, Max and I were going to tell you, that we met our soulmates this week. Max bumped into Liz who's in town to visit her dad, and I happened to meet Greg at an event I organized for his school."

Alex perks up. "Greg isn't Gregory Manes, though, right? Teacher at the elementary school up at the reservation?"

Isobel blinks. "How do you even know about him? Oh my god, you're his brother! You're Alex Manes!" Alex nods. Isobel looks at him more closely. "Now that I know, it's obvious, you look so much alike. This is wild. I think I need a drink. You in? Shots are on me."

Alex and Michael look at each other and nod. There are only so many earth- and life-shattering revelations one can handle without being at least a little bit drunk.

Isobel stands up and walks over to the bar to order. The bartender reaches for one of the top-shelf bottles. Well, they have something huge to celebrate, this definitely calls for the good tequila.

Michael nudges him. "So, I know this has already been a lot, but there's something else you need to know about me, but I'd rather tell you about it when it's just the two of us. It's nothing bad, don't worry, I'd just prefer to tell – and show – you in private."

Alex smiles. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. Just real quick before your sister comes back. Does she know about the hotline job?"

Michael shakes his head. "No, she doesn't, actually. I got my engineering degree at UNM, and I picked up the job to make a little extra money for all the things my scholarship didn't pay for, and those requested messages were paid really well. It's been a great job, I was actually quite good at it, too, but now that I have my degree, it's a thing of the past. I don't really mind anyone knowing, but I'd rather this stays our naughty little secret."

"Oh, believe me, I'm not overly eager to tell anyone that your voice has provided me with some of the best orgasms. No need to look so smug, Michael," Alex grouses, but he smiles.

Michael turns his head, his face is very close all of a sudden, and his lips look plush and moist and oh-so-kissable. They look at each other.

"Alex," Michael whispers.

Alex closes the distance between them and then they kiss. Stars align, the universe expands, and Alex knows he's finally home. Not in Roswell, they could be anywhere right now, on this planet, or in another galaxy. No, home is in Michael's arms, in the sweetness of his breath, the sound of his low moans, and the soft touch of his fingers caressing the hair at the nape of Alex's neck.

"Ah, first soulmate kiss. I remember. So intense," Isobel says, and places three shot glasses and a bottle of tequila on the table.

They don't want to stop kissing, but they do. It's the polite thing to do. But it's hard. Alex would rather be alone with Michael. As if he's been reading his mind, Michael leans closer and whispers "One shot, then we leave. She'll understand. But I need to be alone with you."

Alex closes his eyes and inhales deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves. Michael's scent is intoxicating, he smells like leather and rain. Alex wants to drown in the smell. When a cold shot glass is shoved into his hand, he blinks his eyes open again.

"Earth to Alex, are you back with us?" Isobel smirks, but her eyes are kind and understanding.

"Yeah, sorry, it's just a lot to take in, and Michael smells so good. I'm sorry, but can we get this over with? I really need to be alone with him."

Isobel nods. "You know what, why don't you take the bottle home with you, and some time this week, we all meet and celebrate."

Michael nods and picks his hat up from the chair. "Excellent idea. I knew you'd understand." He kisses Isobel on the cheek. "You told Greg though, right?"

Isobel nods. "Yes, he knows. Liz, too. And—," she whispers something into Michael's ear.

Alex thinks he hears Isobel mention a "handprint" (whatever that means) but he assumes they're referring to the thing Michael will tell him when they are alone, so he doesn't ask what they're talking about. It's comforting to know that his favorite brother knows, though. It'll be good to have someone to talk to he trusts implicitly.

They hug Isobel (who also smells like rain, Alex notices), then they head out to the parking lot. Since Michael's currently living at a motel, the decision's easy where to go. They leave Michael's old truck ("don't ask, we've been through a lot together, and I'd never give up on her") at the Pony, and take Alex's SUV instead.

He doesn't live too far from the bar, and they enter his house not ten minutes later.

There's just enough time for Alex to put down the tequila bottle on the dining table before Michael pulls him into his arms. They're still wearing their jackets, and Michael his hat. Before Michael gets close enough to kiss him, Alex nods in the direction of his bedroom.

"There's a very comfortable and very big bed behind that door. We both know where we're headed anyway, and I'd like to take the prothesis off," he says, holding his breath after the revelation. He knows that his soulmate won't reject him because of it, but it's still a very personal thing to disclose.

Michael doesn't even blink, he just smiles and leads Alex to the bedroom. He makes Alex sit on the edge of the bed and kneels down in front of him. Alex's breath catches. Michael takes off his hat and jacket and drops them on the floor to his left, then he turns back to Alex and unlaces Alex's boots. 

Alex opens the button and zipper of his jeans, and cants his hips to wriggle them down without having to stand up. He doesn't quite succeed. "Damn, I'm stuck, sorry. I have to stand up again."

Michael shakes his head. "No, you don't. Do you trust me?"

Alex stops and thinks about it for a moment. Does he trust Michael? The simple answer is, yes. He just knows that he can trust Michael. He nods. "I do."

Michael looks at him and holds his gaze, when Alex's butt slowly lifts off the mattress. He gasps, but he keeps looking at Michael. Michael smiles softly. Then he reaches for Alex's jeans and pulls them down, while Alex is floating a few inches above his bed.

Alex's thoughts are racing. He should be scared, his soldier instincts should kick in, and maybe he should fight, but he does none of that. Because he doesn't feel threatened. He feels safe. Michael won't hurt him, that he knows with absolute certainty.

As if by magic, he slowly descends, until he sits on the edge of the bed again. Michael kisses Alex's left knee, then he turns his attention to the prosthetic on his right leg. Alex is about to tell him what to do, when he feels the prosthetic coming off. He groans in relief. He'll have to pace himself and not go entire days without the crutch too often for a couple more weeks.

Michael removes the leg and pulls the liner down to reveal Alex's stump. Alex scrunches his face. Not in disgust of how the stump looks, but he knows how it probably smells. But Michael is unfazed, though. He leans forward and kisses the tender skin of Alex's stump. Alex is close to bursting into tears because of the tenderness of the gesture.

His voice sounds a little wet when he speaks. "I need to take some meds. Would you mind getting them for me from the bathroom cabinet? They are labeled 'evening'."

Michael nods and gets up from the floor. Before he leaves, he presses a soft kiss to Alex's lips. "Thanks for trusting me."

Alex wants to reach for him and tumble backwards with Michael in his arms, but he knows he'll regret not taking his medication, so he doesn't. Thankfully, Michael's back with the pill bottles in a heartbeat, and Alex uncaps the bottle of water on his nightstand and takes his pills. 

Meanwhile, Michael toes off his boots, pulls his shirt over his head, takes off his socks, and drops his pants in a heap on the floor. When he looks around the room wearing nothing more than his briefs, Alex pats the free space next to him. "Come here, sit down. I'm ready to listen to whatever you're going to tell me in a minute, I just need you close for a moment."

Michael almost trips over his jeans in his haste to sit down next to Alex. Alex immediately realizes how anxious he is, and somehow that soothes his own nerves. He reaches for Michael's hand and laces their fingers together. Michael's hand trembles, and Alex squeezes it.

"You don't have to worry, Michael. I know you're going to tell me something extraordinary, but I can handle it. I won't reject you. Relax."

Michael snickers. "Well, you could say extraordinary, extraterrestrial would be more accurate, though."

Alex swallows hard, but deep down he knows that Michael's not joking. He squeezes Michael's hand again. "The 1947 crash was real?" Michael can't do much more than nod.

"So, you're a descendent of a group of people not from this earth who crashed here some 70 odd years ago?"

Michael looks at him. "I guess you could say that, although I have to add that I was actually on board of the spaceship." 

Alex can't believe what he just heard. "Uhm, okay. You don't look like someone who's well over 70 years old, though. Does your species age at a slower rate? I this a Superman thing? Are you from Krypton? How old are you really?"

Michael laughs. "You're taking this surprisingly well. Uhm, so, depending on how you look at it, I'm either 30 years old, or I'm about 80. I don't think we're aging slower than humans, though. We were actually in stasis in our pods for half a century, and only hatched in 1997."

"You did what now?"

"Oh, sorry, uhm, our stasis pods look like glowing eggs, and we always joked that we hatched. I don't think that's how our people actually procreate, though," Michael explains.

Alex is trying his best to take it all in, but it's a lot. He takes a deep breath. "So, by 'us', you're referring to yourself, Isobel, and your other brother, Max, right? Don't you have parents? What happened to them?"

Michael's face falls, and Alex feels awful for being responsible for it. "We don't know, actually. We don't even know whether we're actual siblings. We were found together after we hatched, mute, wandering the desert. Max and Iz got lucky, they were adopted by a local family. I wasn't quite so lucky. I grew up in the system. But I've always been a bright student, so I was able to get a good education. I had to postpone my plans to go to college after high school because of Isobel for a few years, that's why I only graduated recently. But I have a good job lined up, I'll start next month. So, I'm not a complete failure."

Alex wraps an arm around Michael's shoulder and pulls him into a hug. "You could never be a failure. I don't know much about you, but you're not a failure. You hear me?" He feels Michael nod against his chest.

"Good. Now that the big secret is revealed. What did Isobel mean when she talked about a handprint earlier?"

Michael pulls back and looks at Alex. "You heard that? Well, as I demonstrated earlier, my power is telekinesis. Isobel can influence people with her brain, and Max can heal. What the three of us have in common, is that we can share memories with someone else by putting our hands on them. Skin on skin. It opens some kind of mental connection, don't ask me how it works exactly, but it leaves an iridescent glowing handprint on the other person's skin. It fades after a few days, and the connection shared during the handprint also breaks."

Alex squeezes Michael's hand. "So, you can share memories and emotions, but you won't mind-whammy me?"

"God, no, I won't. I swear. I wouldn't even know how to," Michael says.

Alex turns to Michael and they look at each other. "Okay. I'll sit down on the bed against the headboard. I don't have any medical exams scheduled in the next couple of days. Does the handprint have to be placed somewhere specific?"

Michael looks at Alex with wonder in his eyes. "How are you so fucking calm and cool about this? My entire life – well, since we hatched – I've been worried sick about revealing this secret to anyone and sicking military special forces on us. You are the first person I've ever told, and you're taking it like I told you I have a mole on my left butt cheek."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "You have a mole on your left butt cheek?"

Michael giggles. "Oh my god, I know it's probably too soon to say it not even two hours after we've met, but I love you. You're ridiculous, and hilarious, and brilliant. And I love you." He wipes at his eyes. "And no, I don't have a mole on my left butt cheek. Wanna find out where I have one?" He waggles his eyebrows at Alex. 

"You casually mention that you love me, and I'm supposed to play 'search the mole' with you? You are unbelievable. For the record, I love you, too. And I don't care that we only met two hours ago. You're about to put a spooky handprint on me that will tell me everything I need to know."

Alex lets go of Michael's hand and scrambles back on the bed until he sits comfortably, propped up by at least three cushions. He looks down at himself and pulls his shirt over his head and flings it in the general direction of the hamper. He winks at Michael. "Come here, alien boy, tell me your story."

Michael laughs and crawls across the bed until he's next to Alex. He likes what he sees. A smattering of dark chest hair, strong arms, a sculpted torso. Alex is gorgeous, head to toe.

"Is it okay when I put my hand on your chest? Low enough that the handprint won't be visible even if you open the top two buttons?"

Alex nods. "That sounds reasonable. Go ahead."

Michael places his right hand on Alex's chest. Michael takes a deep breath, and suddenly his hand starts glowing red. The palm of his hand is heating up against Alex's skin, but the heat doesn't hurt. They look at each other, and suddenly it's like a gate to another dimension opens.

Alex looks at everything Michael sends his way, he laughs, he sheds tears, he looks in horror at what some of the foster parents did to Michael. He sees Isobel, and another man, Max, most likely, he sees an old man with an eyepatch at a place that looks like a junkyard.

It's not just images Michael shares, though. There are also emotions. Alex can barely handle the loneliness radiating through the connection, the fear of someone finding out, Michael worrying about Isobel, and a million other things.

When they later look at the alarm clock on Alex's night stand, they realize the whole thing didn't take longer than maybe ten minutes, and yet Alex feels like he knows everything about Michael. Not every detail or secret, but he knows Michael now. 

It's overwhelming, and terrifyingly wonderful. Alex doesn't know how else to describe it. They lie down next to each other, knees knocking, hands exploring, their mouths almost touching.

"Wow," Alex breathes out.

Michael kisses him. "Yeah," he whispers.

Alex does what he's been dying to do since he met Michael. He runs his fingers through Michael's hair and enjoys how soft the curls feel. Like the finest silk.

"You are incredible, Michael. Thank you for sharing this with me. I'll have a million questions for you in the coming days, and I'm sure you'll also want know more about me, but I need to not talk for a while. Can we do that?"

Michael nods. Alex barely blinks an eye, when they both float up, comforter and duvet getting pulled out from under them, and soon they sink back down into the soft mattress again. "This ability of yours sure comes in handy," Alex praises.

Michael pulls the duvet over them, and Alex is grateful for the heat inside of their little cocoon. "It does. You have no idea what it means to me to being able to use it in front of you."

Alex notices the emotion in Michael's voice and sees tears glistening in his eyes. He wraps his arms around Michael as good as he can and pulls him close. Michael hugs back, and then they just hold each other for a long time. Breathing each other in and trading lazy kisses.

Once their bodies and minds relax, their kisses get heated. They are both hard, their cocks brushing against each other through the thin fabric of their underwear. Alex wriggles his hand between them to wrap it around the tips of their cocks peeking out. There's no time (or room) for finesse. Heat and friction are doing the job for them. Their kisses get more and more wet and sloppy, they pant into each other's mouths, and just moments before Alex is ready to come, Michael looks at him, his pupils blown wide. He presses his hand on the glowing mark in the middle of Alex's chest.

"I love you," he says. A short break, then he adds, "Darlin'."

Alex lets out a guttural sound, something between a scream and a moan, and he comes in hot and almost painful pulses between them. Michael follows only moments later, adding to the mess. But they don't care. 

The connection between them is blown wide open, and Michael gasps, when he's receiving memories and emotions from Alex suddenly. An abusive home, his mom leaving, loneliness, gruesome years in the military, the immeasurable pain of losing a limb, Michael feels like he's about to pass out from it, but he holds steady.

Alex took in everything he shared with him earlier, now he wants to take in everything Alex is sharing. It's a lot, though, and when the flood of impressions subsides to a mere trickle, he realizes he's panting and sweating like he just ran a marathon.

Their foreheads are touching, and they cling to each other like they're afraid to let go of the other.

Later, they won't recall exactly for how long they stay like that. At some point, Alex musters enough energy to tell Michael where he keeps a bottle of nail polish remover in his bathroom.

"How do you—,?" Michael starts, and Alex just places his hand on Michael's chest. Michael blinks. "Wow, I think this experience has fried some of my brain cells, of course you know."

Michael closes his eyes and concentrates, but he's not strong enough to make the bottle come to him with his telekinesis. Reluctantly, he lets go of Alex, who grumbles and makes grabby hands at Michael.

"Just a second, sweetheart, I'll be back in no time. Don't go anywhere."

"Har, har," Alex makes. He's slowly feeling like he's fully conscious again. He's about to call for Michael's attention, when the man in question returns from his quest in the bathroom. He's sipping from a plastic bottle he's holding with one hand, and there's a wet towel in his other hand. Bless him.

He hands the towel to Alex (who notices that Michael soaked it in warm water, bless him more!), and he quickly wipes himself down. When he's finished, Michael takes the towel and returns to the bathroom.

When he comes back, he smiles at Alex. "Pajamas, or shirts and sweatpants?" he asks, pointing at the walk-in closet.

"Door on the far left, there's both, pajamas and other comfy clothes. I'll take what you take." He only feels silly for saying something so sappy for a second, because Michael beams like the sun. "Partner look, I like it."

Michael vanishes for half a minute and returns with two pairs of blue sweat pants and plain white shirts. He dresses himself first, while Alex puts on the shirt, then Michael's there to help him put on the sweats. Without being prompted, Michael asks "Your crutches, where are they?"

Alex smiles at him softly. "In the living room, leaning against the wall next to the dining table."

Michael goes to fetch the crutches and leans them against the wall next to Alex's side of the bed when he returns. "Anything else I can get you before we sleep?"

Alex shakes his head. "Nothing I can think of right now. Come to bed, Michael."

Michael smiles, his grin almost devilish. "It'll be my pleasure, darlin'."

Alex is tempted to throw a pillow at Michael. "You're not playing fair, Michael. I'm exhausted, and you know what you saying it does to me. I don't think all the darlin's in the world will be able to make me hard again right now, though."

Michael crawls into bed and under the covers. He pulls Alex close and kisses the tip of his nose. "Don't be sad, sweetheart, there's more than enough time for that in the morning. Unless you have to be somewhere tomorrow?"

Alex shakes his head. "No, there's nothing on my schedule tomorrow. Plenty of time for us to get to know each other with more words. Don't get me wrong, what happened tonight has been the most incredible experience of my life, and I'm grateful that we already know so many things about each other, especially the bad things that are much harder to talk about. But I still want to talk to you."

Michael nods. "We'll do that. Tomorrow. But now, let's sleep. The acetone helped, but I still feel a bit like I was hit by a truck. Big spoon or little spoon?"

Alex thinks about it for a moment. "If you don't mind, little spoon. You're just so warm, and I'm freezing. I'm always up for big spoon duty, though. I want to hold you, too, you know."

Michael's smile is the sweetest, and Alex's heart almost bursts with how much he loves him. "I know," Michael says. "And now, turn around and get comfy."

Alex does, and as soon as Michael's inhuman warmth engulfs him, his eyes start to droop. A moment later the room goes dark, and Alex feels Michael's lips peppering the his neck with little kisses. He pulls Michael's arm closer around himself.

"I love you," he whispers into the dark.

"And I love you. So much, Alex. So, so much. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael."

And then, they sleep.

[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.

Link To Fic

OR

Click Below To Keep Reading

* * *

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 - - - >

[alixanonymous]

How A Demon Commissions An Angel ~ A Daminette FanFic ~ Chapter 8: A Review Of Friendships

From the phone of Marinette Dupain-Cheng:

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: We’re getting nowhere with this!!!

Mr. Postscript: You don’t say…

Me: Your sarcasm isn’t helping.

Mr. Postscript: Well, it certainly can’t be hurting our progress seeing as we aren’t making any.

Me: Ughhhhh, Damian!!! 

Mr. Postscript: What do you want me to do? It’s not my fault Todd isn’t exactly the sentimental type! Our only “inside jokes” are our attempts on the other’s life.

Me: Right. 

Me: I just don’t see how we can get Grayson’s piece planned out so quickly and yet still not have even a single detail for Jasons besides knowing it needs to be a leather jacket!

Mr. Postscript: And that it won’t have any pockets.

Me: Not. Helping.

Me: Or happening. 

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know what to say then.

Mr. Postscript: Grayson is quite possibly the easiest person on the planet to please alright? He’s the most emotional in the family and would probably always have been the easiest to design for.

Mr. Postscript: Todd, on the other hand, is difficult, in all meanings of the words.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Mr. Postscript: If you knew them, you’d see what I mean.

Mr. Postscript: It’s like this, if Grayson is the most annoyingly cheery and friendly person, then Todd would be his opposite: frustratingly angry and antagonistic.

Me: Huh, he didn’t seem like it when we talked.

Mr. Postscript: Need I remind you that you had a short exchange on a stolen phone?

Me: Right, sorry.

Me: But I get the comparison!

Me: Grayson = Brightly colored Xmas sweater Jason = Leather biker jacket worn by someone with a chip on his shoulder

Mr. Postscript: An apt description.

Me: He did seem to care about you though… 

Me: He wants you to stay, they all do.

Mr. Postscript: I assure you that was news to me.

Me: Did you think they didn’t?

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know what I thought. Our family has never been particularly open with our feelings.

Me: Even Grayson? You say he’s emotional right?

Mr. Postscript: It’s hard to explain.

Me: Wanna try?

Mr. Postscript: Didn’t we just have a conversation about my complicated relationships? Do you really want to do this again so soon?

Me: I’m good to go. It’s really about if you want to.  

Me: I’m not going to push, Damian. That’s not what I’m trying to do.

Mr. Postscript: What are you trying to do?

Me: I don’t know, understand? Listen? Like I told your brother, I do think of you as a friend. 

Me: This doesn’t all have to be one long give and take exchange.

Mr. Postscript: Right.  

Mr. Postscript: So we’re doing this.

Me: Not if you don’t want to!

Mr. Postscript: Stop the indecisiveness and concern, I’ve agreed alright!

Me: If you’re sure… 

Mr. Postscript: Unlike you, I’m not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to.

Me: Whoa! 

Me: Low blow! Foul!

Me: Foul I say!

Mr. Postscript: Sorry? 

Mr. Postscript: I can’t tell if you’re kidding….

Me: I am! :)

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: You’re a dork.

Me: No, I’m an angel. You said so yourself!

Mr. Postscript: I’m regretting that now… 

Me: Mhmmm, sure….

Mr. Postscript: Can we get back to my complicated family now?

Me: Great idea.

Mr. Postscript: Wait a moment.

Mr. Postscript: Was this all an attempt at reverse psychology?

Me: Well…

Me: If it was, I’d say it worked, wouldn’t you?

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: You unnerve me sometimes.

Me: Really, why?

Mr. Postscript: You always seem to have the upperhand. I find myself often saying things I normally never would around you.

Me: I feel the same most of the time.

Me: I wish I could talk to my classmates the way I talk to you. 

Mr. Postscript: Right, well I’m glad to see the feeling is mutual.

Mr. Postscript: Now as for my family…

Me: Okay, I’m listening.

Mr. Postscript: Right, well.

Mr. Postscript: Like I said, feelings aren’t addressed much in our family.

Mr. Postscript: It wasn’t like that in my mother’s family either I suppose.

Mr. Postscript: It’s hard to explain but I assume it’s because they’ve all been together longer.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know. It’s like my family is talking and I’ll be right there and it’s like I’m only getting half the conversation. My brothers, they understand each other in a way I can’t seem to. 

Mr. Postscript: I suppose it’s because they know each other’s histories or maybe it’s just because they’re better at understanding people than I am. What do people call it, reading between the lines?

Mr. Postscript: They may not get along together all the time but they can communicate well enough. I can’t seem to figure out when something’s a joke or not. 

Mr. Postscript: It’s difficult to describe.

Mr. Postscript: Like you pointed out before, I also have trouble refraining from making assumptions and those do tend to lead me to the wrong conclusions a lot of the time as well. 

Mr. Postscript: Grayson is the best at explaining things. I suppose it wouldn’t be wrong to say he is the most emotionally equipped of all of us.

Mr. Postscript: Except Alfred. Alfred surpasses all of us.

Me: Who’s Alfred?

Mr. Postscript: Our butler, but don’t let the title fool you. He’s family. He helped me apologize to you actually.

Me: Oh, that’s great. It seems like you have some allies at least, not to make it sound like a war or anything.

Mr. Postscript: That’s the problem: I shouldn’t need help. I hate feeling like a child who can’t understand when the adults are talking. I’m still on the outside even though that’s exactly where I started.

Me: Besides the communication issue, is there anything else that makes you feel like an outsider? Anything they do? Is that why you call by their last names?

Mr. Postscript: None of it’s intentional mind you. I am an outsider and all of their inside jokes and how they understand each other so well simply serves to remind me of that. I bet if I did start calling them their first names they would make a big deal about it, so no point in starting now.

Mr. Postscript: I mean all of it is one big reminder that even if I’m his only real son, he chose them and they chose this life. They’re his family and I’m the son he never knew existed that got dumped at his feet when I was ten. Neither of us had a choice in the matter. 

Me: What about now? Does he choose to acknowledge you as a son now?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, although I keep proving to be more difficult than his other children despite my best efforts.

Me: That wasn’t your choice right? It’s cultural differences, not to mention that they’re all older.

Mr. Postscript: No but it’s my fault I haven’t managed the distance yet.

Me: It sounds like you didn’t have much of a choice in that matter either, how much you could change.

Mr. Postscript: Where are you going with all of this?

Me: What choices do you get to make, Damian? What do you want?

Mr. Postscript: I already told you, I want my father to be proud of me.

Me: So to do that you have to change? Be more like your brothers?

Mr. Postscript: I mean I must get better, grow, improve.

Me: Because you want your father to be proud of you, so you can be part of the family he had before you joined?

Me: Or because you want that for yourself?

Mr. Postscript: Can it not be all of the above?

Me: What’s the main reason? What drives you?

Mr. Postscript: Look, I don’t think you understand the situation, not everything relates to your own unfortunate situation okay? Can we just get back to Todd’s jacket?

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push.

Me: I know I can be a bit preoccupied with my own situation but the thing is, Damian, I know what it’s like to need other people's validation okay? It’s not good and it’s not healthy.

Mr. Postscript: My father is nothing like your pathetic peers. He only wants what’s best for me.

Me: I think that’s true, but how can he know what that is when all you want is to please him?

Me: Look, it’s not my place to tell you what you want and should want but it seems like you haven’t had a lot of choices in your life and I’d hate to see you only continue to do what other people expect you to.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t feel like talking more about this right now. I need some time to think on the situation. 

Mr. Postscript: Now can we get back to work on Todd’s jacket seeing as we’ve been talking for hours and have managed practically zero progress?

Me: Right, okay..

Me: Let’s start back at the simple stuff then: What does he like to do?

Mr. Postscript: Besides piss people off?

Me: … 

Me: Yes, Damian, besides that.

Mr. Postscript: Nothing comes to mind.

Me: Any hobbies? Interests?

Mr. Postscript: Well, he likes guns.

Me: Guns?!

Mr. Postscript: Yes.

Me: … 

Me: Like collecting guns?

Mr. Postscript: You could say that.

Me: Okay, well that’s a start.

Me: I could embroider some guns onto the front of the jacket or on the labels as a smaller detail? Would that work? I think it’d be pretty cool.

Mr. Postscript: It’s a bit difficult for me to picture but it sounds like a good idea, fitting at the very least. It might help seeing it drawn out first.

Me: Okay, well there we go. Somewhere to begin at least. Now, you said he likes the colors red and black right? Do you want the jacket to be one of those?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, that would be preferable.

Me: Give me a minute to think… 

Me: So how about this? I think gold thread would be best for the stitching and then I’d recommend using black for the body so the designs will show up better. If you want, I could also use red fabric to line the inside of the jacket and wait, you wanted this to have a hood too right? I could use red fabric for the inside of that too.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: All of that sounds fitting, especially the red lining in the hood. I definitely approve the color placement..

Me: Great!

Me: I think that’s actually enough for me to draw up some designs with a few different styles of the jacket itself. 

Me: Is there any way you could send me a picture of the kind of gun you’d want me to use as a model? I have no clue about that kind of thing… 

Mr. Postscript: I can do that. He has two favorites so perhaps one on each side?

Me: Right, two favorite guns…  sounds good. Symmetrical too.

Me: So, do you want to add any wording? I could make it subtle if he’s not the sentimental type, add it on with the embroidery.

Mr. Postscript: Hm, how about “Carpe Diem”? One word on the barrel of each gun.

Me: “Seize the day”? I love it. 

Me: Oh, I can just picture it, it’ll look so good in gold thread on the black leather!

Mr. Postscript: Just to clarify, you won’t be using real leather, right?

Me: Of course not! I would never!

Mr. Postscript: Good, that’s good to hear. 

Mr. Postscript: I’m actually vegan.

Me: Oh cool!

Mr. Postscript: Have you ever considered the lifestyle? It has many benefits, especially environmental.

Me: No, but I do try to limit my meat intake. Dairy is a little harder since we live in a bakery.

Mr. Postscript: Ah, I see.

Me: What made you decide to go vegan? Environmental reasons?

Mr. Postscript: Actually, I acquired a pet cow.

Me: You have a pet cow?!!!

Mr. Postscript: Yes. 

Mr. Postscript: Would you like to see pictures?

Me: Yes!

Mr. Postscript: They’re on my computer so I’ll email them later.

Me: Cool! What’s their name?

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: It’s B.C.

Me: Damian, please tell me you did not just give your cow an alias!

Mr. Postscript: Of course not, we call her that for short.

Me: Then what’s B.C. stand for?

Mr. Postscript: …  

Mr. Postscript: Before Christmas

Me: Before Christmas? Really? Why???

Mr. Postscript: She was an early Christmas present.

Me: So you decided to name her Before Christmas?

Mr. Postscript: I was a child and uncreative.

Me: Well, as long as you admit it… 

Mr. Postscript: Shouldn’t we get back to the commission? We’re almost out of time.

Me: Okay, I still don’t buy that name though so don’t think you got away with anything.

Mr. Postscript: I never do around you.

Me: So, back to the commission. As soon as you send me those pictures of the guns, I’ll have enough to do the first sketches. Then all we’ll have left will be Drake’s sweater, right?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, everything seems on track. Do you want to tackle Drake’s sweater tomorrow, same time?

Me: Sorry, I’m not able to tomorrow.

Mr. Postscript: Oh?

Me: Yeah, I’m meeting my class for an outing at the park after school.

Mr. Postscript: You still do those kinds of things?

Me: When I can.

Mr. Postscript: Why would you do that?

Me: I don’t know maybe because I don’t like being alone all the time if I can help it?

Mr. Postscript: It’s better to be alone than unappreciated.

Me: Can you honestly say you believe that, after everything you told me about your family?

Mr. Postscript: That’s different and you know it.

Me: Of course it is.

Me: Look, all I know is I’m trying my best to make things work. Sometimes things aren’t as simple as cutting all ties. Is it so wrong of me to try and salvage what I can of my friendships?

Mr. Postscript: No, it’s not. I didn’t mean to judge. 

Mr. Postscript: I just hate seeing you having to crawl after them. It doesn’t seem like they're doing much to try and salvage anything.

Me: Look, Damian, I know I asked you to help me not be taken advantage of but I don’t want to completely lose faith in everyone okay? I don’t want to live like that, to always be so pessimistic. So just this once, can you let me look on the brightside? Please?

Mr. Postscript: Very well. We can message the day after tomorrow.

Me: Thank you.

Me: Oh and I’m almost done with the sketches for Grayson’s sweater so check your email sometime tomorrow okay and let me know which one you like best!

Mr. Postscript: I will.

Me: Great! Goodnight, Damian!

Mr. Postscript: Night, angel.

Google Search History 

Tacky Christmas Sweaters

Who started making tacky xmas sweaters?

Audrey Bourgeois on tacky christmas sweaters

Gotham

Robin Robin Batman

Gotham Superheroes

Gotham Vigilantes

Gotham Villains

Does it mean anything if a boy calls you angel?

How to not read too much into things

How to spot red flags

Where’s the barrel of a gun?

Gotham Gun Laws

Gotham Crime Rate

Chat Name: Alya

Me: Hey, I’m here! Where are you guys?

Alya: We’re in line getting popcorn.

Me: At the park?

Alya: No, at the movie theater… 

Me: What?

Me: No, let me guess: Lila decided at the last minute that she wanted to see a movie and no one thought to tell me.

Alya: That’s not what happened! You always jump to blame Lila!

Me: No, then I guess Lila said she was going to let me know and conveniently forgot?

Alya: It’s not her fault Marinette. She gets memory lapses.

Me: Then why did she offer to be the one to tell me? Or rather why did you let her?

Alya: I’m sorry, okay! I forgot for a second. 

Alya: Look, the movie’s going to start soon but we can hang out this weekend! Just the two of us if you want.

Me: I’m busy.

Alya: You’re always busy these days. 

Me: Well, I wasn’t today or at least I made sure not to be.

Me: You should go. The movie’s starting. 

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: Well, it turns out I am free to talk today after all.

Mr. Postscript: What happened?

Me: Why should I say? I don’t need you to me “I told you so.” I got it, okay? 

Me: You were right.

Mr. Postscript: I wish I wasn’t.

Me: Really? 

Me: You love being right.

Mr. Postscript: No, I merely detest being wrong.

Me: … really?

Mr. Postscript: Okay, I admit I do find some satisfaction in being acknowledged for my superior intellect, but I find none in this case, not when it comes at my friend's expense.

Me: Damian, I think that might be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard!

Mr. Postscript: Yes, well it’s painfully obvious your standards for that would be very low. 

Mr. Postscript: Now, tell me what they did.

Me: Apparently Lila decided she wanted to see a movie at the last minute and forgot to tell me because of a “memory lapse”.

Mr. Postscript: That’s sick. 

Mr. Postscript: How has no one thought to confirm anything she says? I mean faking illnesses like that, she can’t be mentally stable, Marinette. She could be dangerous.

Me: I know, especially considering we have a villain that preys on negative emotions to worry about but what else can I do? All the teachers and the principal believe her without proof.

Mr. Postscript: Haven’t you considered legal action? There’s proof of her numerous lies all over your classmate’s blog, not the least of which being her claim that you committed theft of intellectual property! That’s grounds for slander! 

Me: I don’t like the idea of a lawsuit Damian. That would be so messy and with practically everyone believing her, not to mention that her mother is a diplomat, it wouldn’t be worth it. I’m not sure I’d win.

Mr. Postscript: You’d win. You’d be the only side with proof. 

Mr. Postscript: Also, I’ve mentioned before that I have resources that would make failure unthinkable.

Me: Right, resources… 

Me: Damian, you’re not into anything illegal right?

Mr. Postscript: What? Of course not! Where is this coming from?

Me: Well, you see… 

Me: You live in the crime capital of the world, you mentioned before that you’re not like my usual clientele but still have the means to afford my services, you just told me that brother collects guns, and offered to use “resources” that would guarantee I’d win in court. 

Me: So, um, yeah, I was getting kind of concerned.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: Right, well when you put it like that, I can see how you might jump to that conclusion so allow me to put your mind at ease.

Mr. Postscript: When I said I wasn't like your normal clientele, I meant that I’m not a performer of any kind. My family’s fortune comes from a completely legal business owned by my father and old money he inherited when his parents died. The resources I refer to are our family’s lawyers and legal teams who would never stoop so low as to lose a lawsuit against a pathological liar whose claims are outrageous and well documented. 

Me: Ohhh

Mr. Postscript: Other than that, Gotham, while crime infested, is a large city and many law-abiding citizens live here too. Todd is also one of them for the most part and he only uses his guns with rubber bullets for self defense because Gotham is still a dangerous place to live.

Me: I see, well that makes sense. 

Me: He does have permits for his guns though right?

Mr. Postscript: Angel, no one has gun permits in Gotham, not even the police. 

Me: Right, well… 

Me: Sorry about that!

Mr. Postscript: It’s okay. I can see how it looked. 

Mr. Postscript: Frankly, I’m more than a little relieved that you’re at least being somewhat careful considering we’re still friends that only talk online and who met when I tried to blackmail you.

Me: You know, I don’t hold that against you anymore.

Mr. Postscript: You should.

Me: I mean I could…

Me: but I don’t!

Mr. Postscript: You know… 

Mr. Postscript: Your ability to forgive is commendable. I don’t think you’re wrong to practice it. I just hate that it allows people to hurt you like they did today.

Me: I’m not hurt, Damian. 

Me: I mean sure I’m disappointed but honestly I don’t care that much anymore. I just thought it was worth a try.

Me: And anyways I find I enjoy talking to you more than any of the interactions I’ve had with my class of late. So I guess it all worked out for the better.

Mr. Postscript: I see. 

Mr. Postscript: Is this that brightside you were talking about?

Me: Why, yes. 

Me: Yes, it is.

Mr. Postscript: It’s nice.

Me: Isn’t it?

Mr. Postscript: They don’t know what they’re missing.

Me: They don’t need to.

Me: More for us.

Mr. Postscript: I find your reasoning sound.

Me: Hey, Damian? Thank you.

Mr. Postscript: For what? 

Mr. Postscript: Not being a criminal?

Me: Haha, no!

Me: For making me feel better, for being my friend.

Mr. Postscript: Angel, if apologies were necessary, I’d owed you a thousand.

Me: Nooooo

Me: Maybe just a couple hundred?

Mr. Postscript: Funny. 

Me: Oh, hey! Did you get a chance to look at the designs I sent?

Mr. Postscript: I did. Your talent really shows in your drawings. They all looked very good. 

Mr. Postscript: I can just picture Grayson crying on Christmas morning.

Me: So, did you make a decision? 

Me: Did you? Did you?

Mr. Postscript: I did.

Me: Sooooo, don’t hold your breath! Tell me!

Mr. Postscript: I’m partial to the one where the robin’s wearing sunglasses. I don’t why but it seems like it would fit Grayson.

Me: Yay! I was kind of hoping you’d choose that one too!

Me: One design done, two to go!

Me: Oh and got your pictures and have already started on the jacket! So now we just have to meet to go over Drake’s piece.

Mr. Postscript: We’re still on for tomorrow, right?

Me: Yes, sounds good!

Me: Oh, and Before Christmas is a beauty!

Mr. Postscript: What?

Mr. Postscript: Oh, right. 

Mr. Postscript: Yes. 

Mr. Postscript: Yes, she is.

Me: … 

Me: Damian, you’re really bad with aliases.

Mr. Postscript: I took the “use the initials” idea from you.

Me: Fine. I guess that makes us both bad at aliases.

Mr. Postscript: I suppose, if it makes you feel better.

Me: I’m not the one who needs to feel better, Before Christmas.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: Tell no one of this.

Me: Your secret’s safe with me, B.C.

Chat Name: The Child Prodigies (If you don’t look closely)

Me: Kagami, I saw the match online! You did so well! I’m sure even your mother couldn’t find anything to critique.

Gami: I’m afraid you severely underestimate her, Mari. It’s even worse now that I’m finally old enough to qualify for the Olympics, even if they are still three years away.

Me: Don’t listen to her! Well, not too much anyway. You were amazing!

Luka: She’s right. You did great, Kagami.

Gami: Enough about me, how did it go today?

Me: Well… 

Luka: Oh no. What happened, melody?

Me: Nothing. They didn’t show up but it’s fine, really. I’m not even surprised anymore.

Gami: That doesn’t make it any better, Marinette.

Me: No really guys, I’m good. It all worked out in the end.

Luka: So what’d you end up doing?

Me: Just sat in the park and worked on a commision.

Gami: I suppose it was the one for the blackmailer then?

Me: Not this again! 

Me: We’re way past that now, Kagami. He’s actually way better at friendship than blackmailing.

Gami: So you say, but if you would just give me a few moments to talk with him and verify that I’d be less concerned.

Me: I don’t want you scaring him off!

Luka: From what you’ve said, it sounds like he doesn’t scare easily.

Me: No, Luka, not you too!

Luka: We just care about you, Marinette and we’ve seen you hurt too many times. Besides, if he really is your friend like we are, wouldn’t it be good for us all to get along?

Me: … 

Me: You’re going to guilt trip me into this, aren’t you?

Luka: No… 

Gami: If we must.

Me: … 

Me: You and him have so much in common.

Gami: I’d like to see that for myself.

Luka: So?

Me: Fine… I’ll ask but I make no promises okay? He might not agree.

Gami: He will if he knows what’s good for him.

Me: And no threats!

Luka: We’ll see.

Gami: No promises.

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: Hey Damian! So I know you’re probably really busy so I really don’t want to bother you or anything… 

Mr. Postscript: No, it’s fine. I have about thirty minutes before my father expects me. What do you need?

Me: Need? Oh, nothing! It’s just my friends wanted to talk to you and I promised I’d ask but since you have to do something soon, it’s fine.

Mr. Postscript: Friends? What kinds of friends? 

Mr. Postscript: Are they reading over your shoulder right now?

Me: What?! Oh, no! 

Me: They aren’t a part of Lila’s posse or whatever. In fact, they’re not even in my class. I guess I just haven’t mentioned them yet because they have super busy careers and travel a lot now but we still talk all the time. 

Me: I told them about you (nothing personal though) and uh how we met so they just wanted to make sure I was safe. I tried to tell them they have nothing to worry about but after everything with Lila… let’s just say they’re a little protective!

Mr. Postscript: Good. 

Mr. Postscript: I’m glad you have some decent friends on your side.

Me: Me too! Well, since you’re busy I don’t want to make you late!

Mr. Postscript: Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure I have enough time to meet them. Did you want to do it over a group text?

Me: Oh, it’s okay! You don’t have to or anything!

Mr. Postscript: Seriously, angel, it’s fine. I mean it’s only fair since you had to put up with Todd for a conversation. I’m interested in meeting some of your other friends too.

Me: Right…

Me: Just give me a second to make the group chat.

Chat Name: The Child Prodigies (If you don’t look closely)

Me: You guys get ten questions max okay? He only has like twenty minutes.

Gami: Each?

Me: Total!

Luka: Hurry, melody, you said we only have a little time right?

Me: Fine.

Chat Name: All My Favorite People

Me: Okay, can you guys introduce yourselves?

Luka: Hey, man. I’m Luka.

Gami: Hello, you may address me as Kagami.

Mr. Postscript: Damian, pleasure to meet you both.

Luka: Ah, a formal one I see.

Gami: How much time do you have left so we may act accordingly?

Mr. Postscript: Actually, my father agreed to give me the night off from my duties so I could meet you and there’s still hours until dinner so I’m available till then.

Luka: Formal and a controlling father? Marinette, I think you have a type.

Me: LUKA!

Mr. Postscript: My father isn’t controlling, I merely have responsibilities that can’t be put off sometimes.

Me: Of course, Damian. They should be thankful you were able to get the night off at all especially since it’s only to satisfy their curiosity.

Luka: Right then, shall we begin? You ready? 

Mr. Postscript: Of course.

Me: Remember, this isn’t an interrogation, you guys!

Gami: How old are you?

Mr. Postscript: Sixteen

Me: Huh, I figured something like that but I don’t think I ever asked before… 

Luka: So that would put you in what grade?

Mr. Postscript: In the American schooling system, I would normally be in tenth grade and considered a junior but I skipped a grade and am now in my second to last year of secondary school.

Luka: A little wordy but okay. 

Gami: Why’d you skip a grade?

Mr. Postscript: I was far ahead of my fellow classmates and found school boring and redundant so my father allowed me to knock a year off my plate.

Luka: Do you often resort to blackmailing to get your way?

Me: Luka! 

Me: I told you we’re over it!

Mr. Postscript: It’s fine, Marinette. They’re right to be concerned. They care about you, do they not?

Luka: Of course, we do.

Gami: It’s not our affections in question.

Me: Um, I think you guys are taking this wayyy too seriously.

Gami: Nonsense, now answer the question.

Mr. Postscript: I can’t say I’ve ever tried that tactic before. 

Mr. Postscript: Or ever will again.

Mr. Postscript: I did get a good friend out of it, however I doubt there are many people with Marinette’s ability to forgive so I wouldn’t take a chance on getting a result as favorable as this again.

Luka: Dang

Luka: That was a good answer

Gami: No, it wasn’t. It was satisfactory at best. Now, tell me, do you have any experience in fencing?

Me: Kagami, you can’t duel him.

Gami: We will see.

Mr. Postscript: Fencing? No. I’m more familiar with traditional swordplay.

Me: What? Really?!

Gami: Oh?

Gami: Weapon of choice?

Mr. Postscript: Katanna 

Me: WHAT?!

Gami: I see.

Gami: Now, that is a good answer.

Luka: Really? Cause I don’t think Marinette needs any more weapon-wielding friends.

Gami: With that class of hers, the more the better.

Me: Kagami, no!

Mr. Postscript: Should you ever decide to launch an attack on those heathens, I would be happy to lend my sword.

Me: No no no! There will be no attacking with swords!

Luka: For now, let’s get back to the questions.

Luka: You’re going to pay Marinette in full for her services, right?

Mr. Postscript: Of course! What do you take me for, a thief?

Luka: It’s best to be certain, to make sure you know there are people who will hold you accountable.

Me: Luka, I said no threats!

Gami: Her class has taken advantage of her talents too many times to not be cautious. I can only imagine how much time and materials they’ve cost her over the years, thinking they shouldn’t have to pay because she was their friend.

Mr. Postscript: You didn’t mention this, Marinette.

Me: I mean I kind of did. Remember when I said I was done designing for people who didn’t deserve it? That’s what I meant.

Mr. Postscript: That’s criminal!

Me: It’s in the past, Damian. It’s my fault I let it go on too long.

Gami: Nonsense!

Luka: You know that’s not true Mari.

Me: Right, well, let’s just move on.

Mr. Postscript: Marinette, remember all those times you’ve told me it wasn’t my fault?

Me: Of course.

Mr. Postscript: Could see how your words might apply to this?

Me: …

Me: I guess. 

Mr. Postscript: We can talk about it later. Next question?

Luka: What’s your favorite thing about Marinette?

Me: Why ask that?

Gami: Wait, it was my turn to ask a question.

Luka: Well, you went twice in a row before so I’m doing it now.

Mr. Postscript: How her kindness is another form of strength.

Me: What?

Mr. Postscript: I was raised to see kindness as a weakness, as a vulnerability. Nothing since then has done much to change my mind. 

Mr. Postscript: Marinette’s kindness is unlike any I’ve encountered before although that isn’t saying much. I only wish people wouldn’t see it as a weakness and try to use it against her like I once did but they will find as I did that is not the case.

Me: … 

Me: Thank you, Damian.

Me: That was really nice.

Luka: He said nothing but the truth, my melody.

Mr. Postscript: Melody?

Luka: Yes, it’s what I like to call Marinette.

Mr. Postscript: Oh, I see.

Mr. Postscript: How nice.

Mr. Postscript: I prefer to call her angel myself.

Luka: That’s very fitting. Marinette’s like a ray of sunshine.

Me: Stop, you guys. You’re embarrassing me.

Gami: Why? It’s all true.

Me: … 

Me: I liked it better when you were interrogating each other!

Gami: Very well, we still have a question each left.

Mr. Postscript: A question each?

Luka: Marinette didn’t want us to scare you away so we were given a limit of ten questions each.

Mr. Postscript: Well, Marinette should know I don’t scare easily but as it happens I only have twenty minutes left till dinner, so fire away.

Gami: What are your intentions towards our Marinette?

Me: Gami!!! 

Me: What the heck!

Mr. Postscript: I intend to be a good friend to her, to listen and respect her choices, to offer advice if it’s wanted, to pay her generously for her services and to support her however I can.

Luka: Is that all?

Mr. Postscript: For now, however I’m looking forward to building our relationship and to learning more about her.

Me: I am too. 

Me: I mean learning more about you.

Me: I’m looking forward to learning more about you too!

Me: Right, so that was the last question! 

Me: Thank you for putting up with this, Damian.

Luka: Wait, I don’t think that last one should count!

Gami: Agreed.

Me: Well, then you should’ve been more careful!

Mr. Postscript: I should get ready for dinner. It was interesting meeting you both, perhaps Marinette will one day let us talk again.

Luka: Here’s hoping.

Gami: I would not object to that.

Me: We’ll see. No promises.

Gami: Very well, goodnight everyone.

Luka: night!

Mr. Postscript: Goodnight. 

Mr. Postscript: Go to sleep, Marinette.

Me: Okay, goodnight!

From the phone of Luka Couffaine:

Chat Name: Sempre piu

Me: You know, I think he just might be good enough for her.

Sempre piu: We will see.

Me: Come on.

Me: Admit that you like him, and that you like him for her.

Sempre piu: Well… 

Sempre piu: He seems like someone who would not hesitate.

Me: She deserves that much. And more.

Me: It just seems like neither of them sees it yet.

Sempre piu: It will make it all the more stronger when they do. 

Sempre piu: Already she talks to him in a way she never did to Adrien.

Me: We both know that was puppy love.

Sempre piu: Even so, she’s never felt so comfortable around a potential suitor before.

Me: Could she just not see him like that?

Sempre piu: You saw how she acted around him, how unsettled she was when we talked of her to him.

Me: No, you’re right. 

Me: It’s just going to be hard waiting for them to figure it out.

Sempre piu: It’ll be worth it. 

Sempre piu: Her happiness is worth it.

Me: Yes, it is.

From the phone of Lila Rossi:

Chat Name: My Agent

My Agent: Mister Agreste has been very pleased with your work so far. He would like to set up a meeting to go over your contract and continue your excellent relationship with the Agreste brand.

Me: I’m ready whenever.

My Agent: He will see you after your photoshoot this afternoon.

Me: I’ll be there!

My Agent: Good work, Miss Rossi. He’s very pleased.

Woo! We’re almost caught up to what I’ve already posted to AO3! Yay! Now, in case anyone actually reads these and wants to know: I’m working on chapter ten and is breaking practically all the patterns my chapters usual follow but I’m not mad at yet? You might be but we’ll see! One thing I think I can give away is that so far, I don’t think Damian and Marinette will be in at all... That’s all I’ll say for now. Till next time!

Master List

[camillemontespan]

ten years from now [AU. drake walker x camille montespan] [part eight: whiskey in williamsburg]

I’ve decided to pick random gifs to represent each chapter. This one seems very apt. On a slightly unrelated note, look at those back muscles. Damnnn.

Warnings: NSFW.

A/N: Please don’t hate Camille. That’s all I ask.

Master List Here! @moonlightgem7​​​​​ @jovialyouthmusic​​​​​ @mskaneko​​​​​ @ibldw-main​​​​​ @katedrakeohd​​​​​ @pug-bitch​​​​​ @gooddaykate​​​​​ @princessleac1​​​​​ @burnsoslow​​​​​  @loveellamae​​​​​  @pedudley​​​​​ @oofchoices​​​​​ @emichelle​​​​​ @simplymissjulia​​​​​ @dcbbw​​​​​ @sirbeepsalot​​​​​ @rainbowsinthestorm​​​​​ @notoriouscs​​​​​ @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore​​​​​ @addictedtodrakefanfic​​​​​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​​​​​ @nomadics-stuff​​​  @gardeningourmet​ @marshmallowsandfire​ ***********************************************************************

It was late evening. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over Texas. The air smelled of peaches, filtering in through the open window. Camille zipped her suitcase and sighed, relieved that she had managed to fit everything inside it without any issue. 

Camille and Liam were due to leave Texas tomorrow morning. They had spent two weeks back in Camille's hometown, two weeks that had been full of social events and confusion. 

Confusion for Camille. 

She had visited Texas feeling secure in her personal life. She was leaving Texas feeling as if she was floating, suspended in the air, unable to return to earth. 

She couldn't think like that though. She was with Liam. Liam, her fiancée. She had been with him for a year. They lived together. He treated her right. He was a kind man. 

But she couldn't help but think of her former best friend and boyfriend, Drake Walker. Their history wasn't so easily erased. He was making her feel things again, heated things, confusing things.. 

Camille hadn't seen Drake since their kiss in the maze at Applefest. She had been busy with Liam arranging more of the wedding and helping her grandma plant more flowers. Camille had been distracted which she knew was a good thing. 

She was good at masking her feelings. When she was with Liam, she focused on him. She kissed him more, paid him extra attention. She kept telling herself that he deserved love but she knew deep down that it was crushing guilt that was making her treat him like a king. 

But when the mask was off, Camille thought of Drake. He took up every thought in her head. When she thought of him, she felt her body react in confusing ways. His name in her head made her feel as if she was on fire. Drake had ignited something within her soul. 

When Drake asked her what she wanted, Camille had answered honestly. She didn't know what she wanted but she knew that she didn't want him to step away and leave her life again. 

Camille thought ten years had been enough time to no longer feel something when she thought of his name. But time made no difference in the end. 

Which was why she made the decision to go down to the jetty where no doubt Drake would be. She had to see him before she went back to New York. 

*********************************

She was right. Drake was sat on the jetty, looking out at the water. The sky was painted navy with the silver shimmer of the stars winking down at him. 

He looked up when he heard her footsteps. His eyes widened when he saw her. 'Camille?' 

She smiled weakly and settled down beside him. 'Hey,' she said. 

Drake cleared his throat. 'What are you doing here?' 

Camille wrung her hands together. 'I wanted to see you before I leave tomorrow.' 

Drake took a sharp intake of breath. 'Right,' he said quietly. 'You're leaving tomorrow.' 

Camille nodded. 'I am.' 

There was a long silence. Camille didn't like how silences were becoming a common occurrence between her and Drake. It made her feel sad. 

'I'll miss you,' Drake muttered, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. 

Camille bit her lip nervously before speaking, keeping her voice steady. 'I'll miss you too.' 

Another silence. 

Drake had so many things he wanted to tell her. So many questions he wanted to ask her. Did she love Liam? Did she want to marry Liam? Was she regretting kissing Drake? Was she regretting fucking him? 

But the question that left his lips wasn’t any of those. Instead, he asked, his voice cracking, 'Can I see you again?' 

Camille whipped around to stare at him. Drake kept his eyes on the lake, refusing to look at her. She couldn't work out what he was thinking. His walls were up. 

She was about to respond but was stopped by Drake who let out a heavy sigh. 

'Ignore me,' he said. 'I'm being an asshole. I don't mean to make it more confusing for you. Go back to New York. Organise your wedding. You have so much on your mind, you don't need me to make everything worse -' 

She grabbed his hand, making him stop talking instantly. He looked at her now. She could see the pain in his eyes. 

'I'll see you again,' she told him softly. 'We're not leaving it so long this time.'

Drake chuckled, surprised. He shook his head and squeezed her hand. 'We could meet for a drink or something,' he said hopefully. 

Camille smiled. 'I know a great whiskey bar in Williamsburg that you would love.' 

Drake grinned. 'Sounds like a plan, Montespan.' 

Camille blushed. Drake smiled and gently pulled her into his side so he could wrap his arm around her shoulder. Camille snuggled into him, inhaling his scent. She felt a flash of guilt sear through her chest as she did so. 

'I'm so confused,' she whispered. 

Drake squeezed her shoulder. 'I know, Camille. I am too.' 

He pressed a kiss on top of her head. Camille closed her eyes, holding back tears. She wouldn't cry. She wasn't going to ruin her last night with Drake. 

'It's okay, Camille,' he murmured in her ear. 'I've got you.' 

Camille sniffled and rubbed her eyes harshly. 'You always do, Drake,' she croaked, looking up at him. 'Always.' 

Drake leaned down to brush her lips with his. It was a soft kiss, a gentle one. A kiss that made her feel safe. 

*************************

Liam was perusing the duty free section of the airport wearing a look of intense concentration on his face. 

'Darling, do you want another bottle of your favourite Chanel perfume?' he asked Camille. 'A little treat for my fiancé?' 

Camille smiled and kissed Liam on the cheek. 'You're so sweet!' she said. 'But it's alright, I have enough Chanel back home.' 

Liam widened his eyes in mock surprise. 'Shh, there is no such thing as enough Chanel!' he gasped. 

Camille giggled and wandered to the chocolate stand. She jumped when Liam appeared quickly behind her. 'Or perhaps the lady requires a Toblerone?!' he cried. 

Camille rolled her eyes. Liam was in a particularly giddy mood this morning due to wedding excitement. Not long now. 

'Fine, let's have Toblerone,' Camille said. 

Liam wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled into her neck. 'What my fiancée wants, she gets,' he murmured in her ear. 

He picked up a Toblerone and took it to the counter. Camille continued to look at the rest of the chocolates on sale until her mobile buzzed in her pocket. 

She took it out to see that Drake had messaged her. 

Have a safe flight. See you in Williamsburg for that whiskey soon. D x 

Camille bit her lip. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She quickly stole a glance over at Liam who was chatting enthusiastically to the check out girl. Camille read Drake's text again before quickly typing a reply. 

Let me know when you're able to visit and I'll meet you. One glass or two? Xx

She put her phone back in her pocket. It buzzed instantly. 

I'm free next Saturday. Flight isn't too expensive. And what do you take me for, an amateur? We're getting a bottle. D xxx

Camille giggled despite herself. 

You're unbelievable xxx

Drake replied.

Name of my sex tape. D xxx

Camille held in laughter at the Brooklyn 99 reference as she typed back, her eyes flicking up every so often to track Liam's movements. He was still talking to check out girl who was giving him heart eyes, like everyone he met did.

That's an apt title. Suits you. Xxx

He replied a moment later. 

You would know. D xxx

'Darling, let's go to the wine bar near the gate!' Liam called out. 'We can feast on Toblerone and have a glass! How does that sound?' 

Camille shoved her phone back into her pocket and gave Liam a wide smile. 'Sounds perfect.' 

****************************

The texting continued for the next few days. As Camille readjusted to New York life, she would be brought back to Texas whenever Drake texted her. 

He sent her photos of Lone Star. She sent him goofy selfies. One night when she sat down for dinner with Liam, Drake sent her a photo of the jetty and a bottle of whiskey. 

All that's missing is good company, he had captioned it. 

Camille couldn't reply to that one. Not in front of Liam. 

She could try and kid herself that this was just friendly banter but deep down, she knew it wasn't. Too much had happened between them. They were more than just banter. 

Camille went to work and turned her phone off so she could focus on her job. She worked on new cases, gossiped with Olivia and made Hana cups of green tea. 

When she returned home, she would eat with Liam before settling down to watch a box set. Sometimes, cuddles on the sofa turned into naked fumbles. 

She acted normal in her everyday life. 

Camille went about her business, acting like nothing was unusual. On Saturday, when Liam asked where she was going, she said she was meeting Olivia for a liquid lunch. The lie left her lips easily. She took the subway to Williamsburg and waited for Drake to arrive at the whiskey bar, keeping her head down. 

Because Camille acted like nothing was different, Liam was none the wiser. 

****************************

Drake was relieved that Camille had suggested a bar in Williamsburg. The area seemed much more his style; more laidback, a little rough and ready.  He had booked into a cheap hotel for the weekend and had dumped his suitcase quickly before heading out to meet Camille. 

He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what he was expecting. He had toyed with the idea of cancelling, but the thought of doing that made him falter. If he cancelled, then she may just assume he never wanted to see her at all. And Drake couldn't have that. He needed to see her. He needed to have her back in his life, even if was just little fragments of her.

They shared a bottle of whiskey. In the dimly lit bar, they sat in a booth in the corner and talked about everything. They talked about Camille's job and her friends. They talked about Bianca and Savannah. They talked about Jackson. 

As the amber liquid burned their throats, they opened up more. 

'I think I've never had a long term relationship that's lasted more than six months because I always compare the girls to you,' Drake admitted. 'No girl compares.' 

Camille reddened and sipped her whiskey. 'Poor Kiara,' she said dryly. 

Drake smirked, making Camille giggle. 

'It took me a long time to accept that we were over,' Camille told him softly. 'Because we never got closure, I guess I was always left hoping.. Hoping that one day, you would come back into my life.' 

Drake took a long sip of whiskey before answering. 'I'm here now.'

Camille smiled weakly. 'You are, aren't you? Just like that.' 

Their eyes locked. Drake tore his away after a long moment, looking at the now empty bottle of whiskey. 

'We're out of whiskey,' he said. 

Camille sighed. 'That was a good bottle. Oh well.' She looked at her watch. 'I better get going -' 

'I've got a bottle in my room,' Drake suddenly said, unable to stop the words tumbling out. Camille looked at him with surprise etched on her face. 

Drake swallowed, regretting the suggestion. Camille looked quickly around the bar, her eyes darting nervously before she formed a reply. 

'Would be a shame for you to have to drink it all alone,' she said softly. Her eyes met his. 'Whiskey deserves company.' 

Drake's eyes darkened. 'I couldn't agree more.' 

********************************************

The hotel room door burst open and Drake and Camille crashed through it. Drake pushed Camille up against the wall roughly, making her gasp. Their lips caught,  fire igniting from their touch. Drake raked his hands through her hair, grabbing tendrils of it in his fists. 

Camille groaned and reached out to unbutton his denim shirt. Her fingers made quick work, eager to strip him. Drake returned the favour, pulling her shirt off and casting it to the floor. His hands cupped her breasts, kneading her skin through her black lace bra. Camille’s head fell back against the wall, her mouth slightly open as she focused on the sensations. 

‘You’re so fucking beautiful,’ Drake growled, pressing a hot kiss on her lips. Camille reached out to unbuckle his belt, making him hiss at the touch of her fingers against his skin as she pulled his jeans and boxers down.

Drake picked her up and carried her over to the bed, throwing her down onto the cotton sheets. Camille liked that he didn’t treat her like fine china. 

His lips trailed like a river down her chest to her stomach, remaining on her bellybutton as his fingers undid her jeans and pulled them off.

‘Drake..’ she groaned, her pupils large and dark as she watched him hook his fingers through her lace thong and pulled it down too. He was on a mission here. He knew what he wanted. 

Camille arched her back as she felt his tongue slip between her folds. ‘Jesus Christ..’ he groaned against her skin, lapping as much as he could take. His tongue circled and twisted, making Camille’s cries increase in volume. 

She could feel her body reacting in the most delicious way. 

‘Fuck me,’ she breathed. ‘Please.’

Drake didn’t need to be asked twice. He was working on adrenaline here; he didn’t have time to consider the consequences. There was no point. She was in his room. She was naked. The time to think about the consequences was over.

For the second time in ten years, Drake did what Camille wanted. He did what he wanted. He took Camille, he took her hard, and he didn’t think about anything else other than making her cry out his name. 

[wordsfromthesol]

Vengeance (1/2)

Author: @wordsfromthesol Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary:  Your family had lived in Gotham longer than you can remember. At this point, it was about pride, you weren’t going to let anyone bully out of your own town. So, when your sister got engaged, that did not stop the festivities from being held in Gotham. The night of her bachelorette party was one you will never forget.   Warnings: Language, death Word Count: 1.4k A/N: Y/S/N = You sister’s name

Part Two

“Y/S/N, don’t you want anyone else at your bachelorette party?”

“Never. Everyone else I know is such a bore, I just want to have the time of my life with my favorite person, my sister.”

“If you insist,” you chuckled, you could tell she had already started drinking, “I’m headed home from work now. I’ll change and meet you at yours.”

Even though it was late, and it was Gotham, you grew up here and were confident in your ability to avoid dangerous situations. You walked into your sister’s apartment and saw her video chatting her fiancé on the couch.

“Really? You guys have been a part for like 4 hours. Let’s go have fun Y/S/N!”

“Alright, alright!” Y/S/N turned to her phone, “Gotta go sweetheart, love you and see you soon!”

Both of you head downstairs for a night of dancing and drinking. About 4 hours later, you didn’t think you could handle any more liquor, and frankly any more of your sister. You finally convinced her it was time to go home, and the two of you began the walk back to her apartment. Both of you were stumbling left and right as you walked down the street. After a few blocks you noticed a man following you. You discreetly dialed 911 on your phone and loudly talked with you sister on the phone, indicating the streets you were passing. A few moments later, the man caught up with you and cornered the two of you in an alleyway. Not knowing how to react you grabbed yours and your sister’s purses and thrust them in his direction.

“Just take them, we don’t want any trouble!”

“Yeah, but maybe I do.”

This couldn’t be happening. How wicked were people? You pulled the purses back, now refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Fine, let’s see how you fair then.” You spat towards him, as your drunken sister looked at you in awe.

“Oh no, the odds need to be even.” And before you knew it you heard the sound of a gun, and watched as your sister slumped to the ground, her chest covered in blood. No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. Why her?! She had everything to live for. No. Suddenly, Red Hood dropped into the alley, in between you and the assailant.

He quickly disarmed the man, but as he turned to check on you, the assailant ran. Though he was wearing a mask, you could feel the look on his face and he glanced towards your sister lying lifeless on the ground.

“Look buddy, I don’t need your pity. I need a fucking shotgun and that asshole’s address.”

You could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle as he said, “Well, I’ll be in touch then.”

You slumped down to the ground, next to your sister as you watched him bound up the fire escapes, back to the rooftops he called home.

The next few days went by in a fog. How could everything be gone, how could the one person you loved the most in the world be gone? How could her killer still be running loose?

You get home from the funeral and see a note sitting on your kitchen counter.

I know what its like to lose hope in everything. Hopefully this information will help you gain some peace, though I beg you to let me know when you decide to follow through. I don’t think I can handle your death on my conscious as well.

Dolan Ramin

376 Orchard Lane, Apt 1708

Your friendly neighborhood Red Hood

P.S. (608) 376-0135

You weren’t stupid, and this was a fight you were determined to win. You spent the next six months in intensive martial arts and defense classes, as well as going to the range every weekend. Once you were satisfied with your skills, you spend the next two weeks tracking this “Dolan” person’s every movement. Once again, you decided to not be stupid, the morning of your planned assault you texted the number.

It’s going down tonight. 2am. His apartment.

You had been waiting on the building across from Dolan’s since 11 in the morning. Staring into his window, watching him complete every day activities. Activities he stole from your sister. Just after midnight you noticed a masked figure staring at you, one that was completing ignoring your target. Finally, you motioned for him to come near.

“Don’t tell me you are here to stop me.”

“Oh don’t worry doll, I get the vengeance thing.”

You glanced at the bat symbol on his chest, “And he approves of that…”

“We…we are still working on that aspect.”

“Hmm…look. Ever since you saved me that night, I’ve wanted to let you know that it’s not your fault. I know that probably doesn’t mean much, because if someone told me that right now, I would probably punch them in the face. I mean I antagonized the guy, how could it not be my fault? Like what if I just gave up our bags, or whatever he wanted…” You couldn’t control your words anymore until this masked figure grabbed your hand.

“No matter what people tell you, the guilt doesn’t go away until you face the reality. A million different things could have happened, you just have to accept you couldn’t control the outside factors. Vengeance could either give you satisfaction or destroy you, make sure you know what this will do Y/N.”

“How did you…”

“What you think I could find and break into your apartment, but not know your name?”

“Okay, true.” Silence filled the space. It was just after one in the morning when you broke it, “I just…how could I not? This man killed my sister, my best friend.”

“Y/N, that’s not something I can answer for you. While we wait, can I tell you a story?” You nodded for him to continue. “Many people don’t know my story, and honestly it’s hard for me to tell. But I think it will help…I was an orphan when I began to apprentice with Batman, at least I thought I was. The Joker began to taunt me, saying my mother was alive. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went off to find her. Only, it was a trap.  I was beaten to a pulp with a crowbar by the Joker, but when he left I was able to free myself, only to discover the door to the warehouse was locked. Before I could pick the lock, a bomb exploded and I died.”

You looked at him in awe, he had died. How did any of your problems come close to this? The Red Hood continued, “Years later something or someone resurrected my body, and then even later, my mind. I was so filled with rage, and if I’m honest with myself, I still am. I mean the Joker killed me, yet Batman still couldn’t kill him. Once you cross that line, you can’t come back. Yet I often wonder how Batman couldn’t cross that line, and it still infuriates me.” He looked towards the ground. “Y/N, just make sure this is really what you want before you cross that line.” Silence hit the pair again like a blanket. Nearly an hour had passed before the Red Hood spoke again, “Y/N, I’ve already crossed that line. If you can’t…I can.”

Finally you spoke, “I…I was so ready to end this man’s life. But I don’t know if I can now. I’ve spent the last two weeks watching him, learning his every move. In that time I’ve also seen the relationships he’s built. How can someone who takes a life so carelessly build such established relationships?”

“Some people are just better at faking it, these could not even be real relationships, Y/N”

“He’s just…he’s even nice to the fucking barista. How did someone so supposedly normal kill my sister?”

The Red Hood just shook his head, unable to come up with a response. He honestly didn’t know how some people could so easily hide their evil tendencies. Seeing your dilemma, he began to realize that if you ever killed him, you would not be able to forgive yourself.