#Me?! Taking pictures of the office? I would never without your permission!

[viktor-howl]

Onceler's office analysis 2/2

Ah yes, the second part. Because there's an image limit. That I was totally aware of. Yes.

Before I start rambling about the outside of his office, I wanted to talk a bit about the concept art and the final piece for the desk section, especially the platform it is on.

Onceler's desk platform!

—Not me getting all giddy from the last one— I honestly love the idea of the whole platform thing, being able to go up with all the stairs, and how it was implemented in HBCIB, AND when we get the office shot when he throws his glasses, there are some very subtle signs that it can actually work or pull up stairs from the floor, and the carpet, which should stop at the beginning of the stairs, isn't that visible in the actual scene, but I'm pretty sure it ends there. Because of the image limit that I am totally aware of I won't post the image again, but you can see some lines going around Onceler's desk platform, and looking close enough, you can even see every step of the stairs!

Outside of the office!

Notice how even from very far away, you can see the shadow of his chair in the first picture? Which doesn't happen in the HBCIB shot, but afterwards, almost warning us of where the next scene is taking place. I love every single detail of the outside of the office, the complicated yet elegant window trim with those golden colors, the lamps on each side, the shapes of the balcony railing —Said balcony probably remaining unused because he has no reason to look outside at the damage he's done— And just all the shapes that are going on, not following a pattern but still making sense.

I mean come on, look at how messed up those stairs are, you can even see them in HBCIB, yet they still work so well! This also applies to just so many things in the whole movie, it's almost everywhere, the patterns that don't follow a pattern (if that makes any sense at all???)

Okay I ran out of things to say... I just really enjoy everything about his office and wanted to keep it summed up in a post. Uh. Two posts. Hope you guys enjoyed my rambling about Onceler's office exclusively.

(I was going to reblog the of post to add this but you know what? I'm posting it separately. Because I already wrote all this in a different draft. I ain't rewriting all that)

[callalillywrites]

Shooting His Shot Part 2

Here is the conclusion of Shooting His Shot, and I really hope you enjoy this little AU as much as I had in writing it.

Please let me know what you think and if you might want to see more of this universe with the other characters featured here. Seriously, it wouldn't take much to convince to create more. Also, would love some suggestions on a good name for this AU if you've got any.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Other notable characters: Bucky Barnes, Jake Jensen, Sam Wilson, Ari Levinson, Natasha Romanoff, Peter Parker, and honorably mentioned Curtis Everett

Word Count: 3880

Summary: Steve owns a steakhouse that you used to frequent before your ex came into the picture. Now, your ex is gone, and you're ready to head back to the one place you've always felt welcome and wanted. What neither you nor Steve count on is his staff, led by Bucky, launching a full-one assault effort to get you two together. It's time the two of you realize your feelings for one another.

Warnings: abusive ex (Reader's), pining, so much pining, fluff, two ridiculous idiots in love, a whole bunch of matchmakers

A/N: This is a completely self-indulgent story made like one of those cheesy rom-com which is my bread and butter at this point. It's proofread, but any mistakes are my own.

I also do not give permission for my work to be copied or posted on other sites or fed into an AI machine.

*****

Coming into the room, Steve can’t help taking in the changes himself.

How they managed to clear out the old office and transform it into a decent private dining area is amazing. The amount of time should’ve been far greater than the natural lull between lunch and dinner service. Yet, his staff somehow pulled it off.

“Nick work,” he murmurs as he passes Jake and Peter on his way to the small table.

His words are enough to puff up both their chests and bring pleased grins.

They barely wait long enough for you and him to sit before they approach the table once more. In seconds, they have his and your drink orders before hurrying off.

“I hope they aren’t neglecting their other tables,” he can’t help mumbling though he knows them well enough.

Peter’s been so grateful for the promotion and has been working hard to prove himself. As much as Steve and Sam have continued to praise Peter and his skills, it doesn’t seem to have sunk in yet with the younger man. They’re not giving up as they’re sure he’ll eventually get there and realize they aren’t messing with him.

As for Jake, Steve’s never really had reason for concern. Jake can be a bit awkward, especially around the prettier clientele, but he’s always maintained his professionalism. That awkwardness has even worked in Jake’s favor a time or two from what Steve can tell. He’s certainly drawn in a few of their regulars between his professionalism and his natural ability to put others at ease.

Without Jake, Steve’s not so sure he would’ve met you or had you coming back.

Little does he know that it’s his kindness and his own awkward shyness that made you a regular.

“I have no doubt they’re handling them just fine. Sam and Nat would never let them live it down if they weren’t. You have a good team here.”

Hearing your praise, Steve can’t help but exhale a little. While he knows how good his team is, it’s nice to hear you defend them. Your opinion matters. Maybe more than it should, but then, you matter to him. Since that first day you walked in, you’ve mattered.

Not that he’s ever let himself show you for fear you might not be interested.

It’s why he’s let so many years of silence sit between you when he might’ve taken a chance. Sure, he can blame it on his honor of not hitting on customers. Then again, you haven’t really been considered a customer by him or his staff for the longest time now.

When you brought Brock into the steakhouse almost a year ago, Steve believed he lost his chance. The way you looked at Brock was the same look of love and adoration Steve wanted for himself. He couldn’t help disliking the guy though he’d done his best to remain professional while you and Brock dined.

You only came a few more weeks after that first dinner with Brock before you stopped.

At each of those meals, Steve couldn’t help noting how you said less and less. Your bright friendliness and warmth dimmed more and more though you never stopped being nice to the staff. It didn’t take a genius to see the cause of those changes within you.

Brock.

He’d grown more brash and rude after that first meal. No matter how much you tried to intervene and beg him to stop, Brock not only didn’t listen, but he tried to verbally annihilate you.

It was during that last meal that Steve had had enough. Not only had it been clear that Brock had taken away your confidence and your happiness, but he’d also taken away your ability to fight for yourself.

When you’d gone to the bathroom, Steve had stepped up to the table and asked Brock never to return to his steakhouse. He also made it known that such behavior towards his staff and towards you were not only unwanted but punishable.

As much as Steve wanted to deck Brock, it was one of the only times he’d kept calm. Because of you, he didn’t do what he’d done in the past. Brock got to walk away with his nose intact and his skin unblemished. There was a promise that if Brock ever returned, consequences would follow.  

What Steve hadn’t counted on was not seeing you again until all these months later.

Glancing at you across the table, he can see your quiet confidence and bubbliness has come back. The dark cloud looming over you is nowhere to be found. It makes him happy to see you hadn’t let Brock keep you down. That would be the real shame.

“Do I have something on my face or something?” you ask, breaking the brief silence.

Steve shakes himself before shaking his head. “No, you’re perfect, bijou.”

Butterflies erupt when you beam at him.

*****

Jake and Peter return with your drinks and a sampler platter that you didn’t order.

“Ari made you a fresh mocktail since Sam swept you away before you could finish the other one,” Jake says with a small wink, setting your drink in front of you. At least some of your training on flirting hasn’t left him since your absence. “Said not to worry about it, either. It’s on Sam.”

“Bucky also sent us out with this platter. Said he wanted your thoughts on a few new items he’s been considering for the menu.” This came from Peter who set the platter carefully next to the tiny vase of flowers. The platter contains several different foods from cheese sticks and poppers to some tiny ribs and wings.

You’re quite impressed by it all, yet you can’t help saying, “This all looks so wonderful, but I really hope you’re not going through a lot of trouble just for me.”

“No trouble, future Boss Lady.”

You hear Steve choke on the drink Jake just gave him though he recovers quickly enough.

“We’ll be back soon with your order,” Peter says, giving Jake an exasperated look. He shoves Jake from the room, muttering words too low for you to make out.

Neither notice when you call after them, “But we haven’t ordered yet.”

When they don’t come back, you turn to Steve with what has to be a comical expression as you ask, “Future Boss Lady? The free drink, the hugs, and everything I’ve gotten since I walked in. Are they…”

You pause in the hopes of Steve finishing the thought for you.

He sets his hand on the table, palm up and open in invitation.

There is no hesitation when you place your hand in his, relishing the warmth and the soft callouses that line his fingertips. Working man’s hands as your father used to call them. You have never appreciated the feel of another’s hand until that moment.

The soft smile you’ve grown to love over all the years you’ve known him peeks out as he finishes your question, “Trying to woo you for me? Yeah, I think they are. Well, that and they have genuinely missed you these last six months.”

That has your attention.

The answer isn’t something you expect because you’re still so sure that Steve isn’t interested in you. As if to prove your previous belief correct, you ask, “What about you? Did you miss me?”

A part of you wonders if he’ll even answer the question. You’ve never really been so straightforward with him before. This changes the little dance you two have done since that first meeting a few years back. You’re not even sure you’re ready to hear his answer.

Not that you’ve given yourself a choice.

He doesn’t keep you waiting long. His thumb runs over yours while his gaze meets yours. His voice is low, conspiratorial as he admits, “Mon bijou, the last 187 days have been the longest of my life.”

You suck in a breath as his words wash over you. It’s the first time he’s ever added ‘my’ to his nickname for you. Before, you were always ‘jewel’ and you liked it, but this is something else. It gives you the courage to press for more.  

“You’ve counted the days since my last time here?”

Pink tinges his cheeks while his other hand comes up to rub at his neck. Despite the embarrassment of his confession, he doesn’t seem all that upset about having admitted it. In fact, he nods.

An almost hysterical type of giggle escapes as you admit, “I counted them, too.”

New tears, happy ones, burn at your lash line and threaten to spill over.

His hand tightens on yours. “Please, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” you say though your conviction is shaky to say the least. “So, if I were to ask you to join me for an art show next week, you would…”

“Love to go,” he finishes without hesitation.

“Ugh, Mr. Rogers, you’re supposed to ask her out, not the other way around,” Peter grouses from the doorway before Jake can cover his mouth.

The two grapple for a few seconds, earning them a raised brow from both you and Steve.

“Apologies, Boss Man,” Jake finally manages when he’s got Peter in a loose chokehold, his hand firmly over Peter’s mouth, “but he’s not necessarily wrong. Smooth finish though. Mentally noting that with all the training future Boss Lady’s given me.”

You turn your face away before your laughter escapes you. To help, you even cover your mouth to keep the giggles in. It’s taking all your ability to keep yourself from just losing it in the moment. Your love for this group of people is overflowing with how much they aren’t subtly trying to help you and Steve out.

When you finally regain your composure, you meet Steve’s equally amused expression as he asks, “Did you two need something? Forget something perhaps? What about your other tables?”

“Checked them. All good, Mr. Rogers. We did forget to take your orders earlier, but Mr. Barnes says he’s got it handled.”

“Of course, he does. Thank you, Peter. Why don’t you and Jake head back to your stations?” His gaze softens the longer he looks at you. “I think we’ll be okay here for a bit.”  

Heat suffuses your cheeks, but you nod, happy to have more time with Steve alone.

Peter and Jake hasten back to their stations, content they’ve done their parts for the moment. You can see their happiness in the way they smile at you before disappearing down the hall. Jake even sends you a pair of thumbs up and a wink.

“I apologize for them.”

You shake your head. “Oh, please, don’t. It’s nice they care so much about you. You’re a good boss. Maybe even the best out there from what I’ve learned over the years.”

“What have you learned?” He arches a brow as he leans forward. His hand still holds yours on the table; his thumb has taken to rubbing a steady path across yours.

With a sip of your new favorite mocktail, you offer him a smile before diving in. “Well, I know that you and Bucky have made it so everyone starts at a living wage. From your dishwashers to your managers and even yourselves, you pay each and every employee enough to live without having to necessarily fear paying their bills each month. I also know that you and Bucky aren’t greedy with your earnings, either. You two are never making more than five times what your lowest earners make. You’ve even lived on zero salaries during some of the leaner years, so you could keep all your employees.”

Rather than the challenge he’d given you earlier with one raised brow, both are now touching his hairline as you reveal all you know.

But you’re not done yet.

“You’re also generous with paid time off and sick days compared to almost any employer out there. While you do occasionally ask your employees to help cover each other, you don’t guilt them or make them feel bad if they can’t cover. You’re not above rolling up your sleeves and stepping in when necessary. Hard work doesn’t scare you from bussing tables to managing customer complaints. I don’t think anyone out there has a negative thing to say about you or Bucky. You have their respect and their devotion. It’s why your restaurant has the lowest turnover rate in the city.”

You take another sip of your mocktail, needing a moment to catch your breath.

“So many companies tout the whole idea of their employees being family to them, but they’re empty words. Used as a manipulation technique. That’s not the case here. You and Bucky really have created a family here. You celebrate your employees’ victories and help them through tough times. You care about them and their lives outside the restaurant. It’s not because you want to pull more work out of them, but because you actually care about their well-being. Do you know how rare and precious that is? Is it really any wonder that I have had the biggest crush on you since forever?”

It takes less than a second for you to realize what you’ve admitted.

Now, you just need the floor to open and swallow you whole.

*****

Steve’s heart leaps at your last few words.

You have a crush on him.

That’s something he thought not possible despite his ever-deepening feelings for you over the years.

Yet, that’s nothing compared to how much you’ve learned about him and the steakhouse. He’s not sure how you came by all this information, but he’s certain he doesn’t care. The fact that it’s enough to impress you with all he’s firmly believed in doing for his staff makes it that much easier to fall for you even harder.

“You really noticed all that?”

You nod, your gaze lowering to where he’s still holding your hand. “Yeah, mostly from Jake and Nat, but also reading what are supposed to be puff pieces about the place. I think I might be a little invested in the success of this place.”

He tightens his hold on your hand, needing to know you aren’t some figment of his imagination. No other woman he’s ever met or been interested in has ever been so deeply sincere as you’re being with him now. They certainly hadn’t cared about the vision he and Bucky had for their restaurant so much as what they could get out of it for themselves. You care about his staff almost as much as he and Bucky do, and he can’t help loving you even more for it.

“I know I should’ve done this ages ago,” he swallows, then pushes on, “but do you think you might have dinner with me?”

Your gaze bounces to his before you motion toward the table and the appetizer that’s still sitting between you.

He chuckles. “Not this dinner. I mean a real one. I pick you up, hold the door open for you, and woo you properly. No assistance or machinations from others. Say, Monday night?”

“If I say yes, does that mean this one has to end? I’ve really, really been looking forward to one of Bucky’s creations and seeing everyone here, especially you.”

“Nah, I don’t want this one to end, either. Besides, it looks like the others have gone to a lot of trouble to make this happen. Don’t want to let their hard work go to waste.”

That earns him a beaming smile, and he’s more than ready to make it happen as often as he can.

“We should probably eat this before it gets cold.”

Nodding, you pick up one of the cheese sticks and take a bite while he chooses one of the poppers.

Both of you have to bite back moans, but the food is worth every bit of praise that’s sure to pass through both your lips before the night is over.

Talk soon turns towards the food and how good it is. You even offer Steve a sip of Ari’s latest concoction since he hasn’t been allowed to try it until your return. He finds it delicious though maybe not as much as you do. Every sip you take, he notes the little happy wiggle you do. It’s another thing he’s missed seeing these last six months.

Your enjoyment of the food and drinks the steakhouse offers is nothing short of wondrous to watch. None of it is faked to spare hurt feelings. The rare occasions you don’t like something, you share your thoughts with great care, couching your criticisms with plenty of positive feedback and constructive notes.

When the food is gone, Steve glances to find you biting your lip before you seem to come to a decision. Your gaze meets his as you say, “I, uh, I know this is one of your usual nights off. As are Mondays. Can I ask why you’re here really? Is it really to catch up on paperwork and handle payroll? Seems like those would be handled as necessary during the few hours between lunch and dinner.”

Steve blows out a breath.

He wonders how long you’ve been holding onto that information and which of his staff might’ve revealed this little tidbit to you.

Knowing you’ve revealed something deeply held, it’s only fair he does the same. If he wants to prove he’s all in, then he needs to step up and do it.

Another breath, he admits softly, “This is the day you usually make a reservation. Your early victory for surviving another week. Has been since the day you graduated with honors from university. So, it’s become a tradition for you to come each week. Your chance to spoil yourself. Since meeting you, mon bijou, I’ve found myself not wanting to miss an opportunity to see you again. Even if it’s in snatches on Thursdays, I’ll take it. You’re the greatest highlight of my week.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, but then, he’s certain he did the same with yours.

Though, you seem to recover quick enough as you ask, “Does this mean we’ve been pining for each other this entire time? Are we really those idiots in love you see in those Hallmark movies?”

Steve chuckles and nods. “I think we might be.”

“Oh, you most definitely are, but we love you both anyway,” Nat says from the doorway, her signature smirk in place. “Dinner will be out shortly.”

She takes off then.

When his gaze meets yours, you both burst out laughing.

“Well, my fellow idiot, I have one more question before I finally answer yours.”

Steve grins. “Lay it on me.”

“Why do you call me ‘bijou’? I know it’s French, and it means jewel. I’m just not clear on the why.” You prop your chin on your free hand and lean across the table towards him. 

The desire to lean in, to close the distance between you, is overwhelming. He longs to learn how soft your lips are against his, but he swallows the desire. Maybe one day real soon, he’ll have earned the privilege. All bets will be off then because he has no doubts that he’ll never want to stop kissing you.

“I took French in high school. Second language requirement. I ended up really liking it. Still pretty decent at it though I don’t practice half as much as I should. Back then, I really wanted to see Paris and be in the City of Love, you know? I got that chance with the army. Spent about a week between tours there and got to see some of the sights, but I’ve always wanted to go back. To really see all the sights. Share it with someone I really care about.”

He stops then, needing the moment to gather himself. For what, he can’t really say. It’s not lost on him that his next words have the power to either woo you or send you running in the opposite direction. All he wants is to keep you as close as you’ll allow for as long as he can.

“When I first saw you, I thought you were an angel. You certainly looked like one that night, but you were also so precious, rare. You took your time that evening learning about Jake. The tip you left was more than generous, even by normal tipping standards. Not once did you ever make someone feel inferior to you. I saw the way you stood up for Peter when that customer tripped him. I’ve never been more impressed with someone who wanted to do what’s right and not for what they might get in return.”

Your hand tightens around his, temporarily stopping him. He sees you blink rapidly. Your attempts to stop the tears are unsuccessful.

Reaching across the table, he gently swipes at the corners of your eyes and offers a smile.

“I don’t think you know how much of an impression you made on all of us that night. You were the most precious jewel I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen the English Queen’s jewels on a brief layover in London once. You don’t know how much I fell for you that night and having been falling ever since.”

His fingers continue to try and stem the flow of your tears leaking freely down your cheeks at his confession. The sweet smile on your face is almost as wondrous as you nuzzling your cheek against his hand, seeking his touch.

With a sniffle, you ask, “Do we really have to wait until Monday for that date?”

“It’s my next day off,” he says with a soft laugh, happy you’re agreeing to go out with him, “but I promise to make it worth the wait.”

A loud round of applause and several whoops echoed through the room.

Steve’s head shot towards the doorway where his entire staff are watching. Bucky stands at the head of the group, two plates in his hands and a wide grin on his face.

“Bout time you finally shoot your shot, punk. Doll here is a real saint for waiting on you so long.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t refute Bucky’s assertion.

“Kiss her already, man,” Sam hollered from behind Nat and Jake.

Before they can start chanting because they would, Steve leans in close to you, whispering, “Is it alright if I kiss you? Not because of these fools, but because I want to.”

Your smile contains a hint of mischief even as you nod.

When he’s within a breath of your lips, you let him know exactly what’s on your mind, whispering, “You know I’m an interior decorator, who’s just gotten a promotion. I could do wonders with this room of yours.  Maybe make it a place to turn the tables on these matchmakers you seem to have.”

“Mon bijou, you can do anything you want as long as I can call you mine.”

His lips touch yours, and you both forget about everything but each other.

Well, at least until Bucky sets your plates down on the table and sends everyone back to work. He’s the first to congratulate you both with hugs and well wishes for your long and happy future together.

*****

Main Masterlist

[lowkeyremi]

Hi ! I was wondering if you could make a drabble about how how Kuroo would comfort his S/O who's going through art writer block ?

Have a nice day/night and take care !

I’VE GOT YOU !

pairing: kuroo x impliedfem!reader note: As someone going through normal writers block this is absolutely perfect. Thank you for this request!! content: relationships, fluff, reader kind of loses hope, angst to comfort, reassuring words. wc: 530 words (sorry this is so short!! My brain refuses to work with me)

banner by: dollywons

Another frustrated groan leaves your lips, while you stare at your blank screen. 45 minutes ago ideas were flowing through your head like crazy. Sketches, rough drafts, and even some abstract ideas to get your brain working, but as soon as you booted up your drawing app on your computer and turned on your drawing tablet, your mind went completely blank.

Your hand would not move an inch, you didn’t even try to pick up your stylus pen. “Please brain work with me,” you moan in horror.

Of course your brain doesn’t listen and starts thinking about all the other things you could possibly be doing right now.

“I’ll try again later,” You set the stylus pen down on your desk. It wouldn’t hurt to scroll on tiktok for a little while…

Unfortunately all the videos that come up on your feed are art related. It’s so confusing, you’re itching to draw something but you don’t know what.

As if Kuroo could read your thoughts, he slowly walks into the office with a plate of half burnt cookies. He’s never been good at baking, but he can cook pretty well.

“How’s it going, darling?” He sets the plate down on the empty space on your desk.

“That’s the thing, it’s not going.” He notices your distress, so warm hands with years of blocking experience rub your back in soothing circles.

“I’m sure something will come to you.” Instead of leaving the room, he pulls his office chair over the your desk to join you.

“I have ideas, it’s just I don’t know, Tetsu, I can’t- I don’t- oh my god I can’t even talk.” Embarrassment floods within your body in mere seconds. You bring your legs up onto your chair and hug them into your chest.

“You have ideas, but you can’t or don’t know how to execute them properly?” How does he know exactly what you’re thinking?

“Exactly, I really do want to draw, but my mind goes blank every time I try to do so. It’s like I lost my spark.” He reaches for a half burnt cookie, wincing a little bit when it crunches in his mouth.

“You haven’t lost anything, you’re still the most talented artist I know. I believe that maybe this is a sign that you need to take a break. When you come back you’ll make the most amazing art ever like EVER.” His words encourage you enough to look him in the eyes,

“You really think so?”

“Oh baby, I know so.” The smile he breaks into is the exact same one you fell in love with.

“Hey wait, let me get some pictures of you for reference photos.” His smile turns into his famous smirk that everyone knows him by.

“Oh? Gonna sketch your amazingly handsome husband?” He puffs out his chest with pride.

“Maybe I’ll ask Bokuto instead.” Kuroo gasps in horror like you just said you’d kill his dog.

“No!! Me! Take pictures of me.”

“Okay okay,” you say with a teasing smile.

He can be a little weird and annoying at times, but man, what would you without Kuroo Tetsuro?

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks!

[luveline]

a hotch baby blurb along the lines of spontaneous phenomena where she works at the fbi or bau but not as a profiler and is a bit shy and quiet but he always notices her and thanks her for all her hard work ?? maybe he comes back from a case w a black eye or injury and she frets and they kiss ?? i love u mwah

I love you, thank you for your request! fem!reader

When people ask how someone as quiet as you ended up working in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you love to say, "I just slipped in. They haven't found me yet to fire me." 

For the most part, you aren't lying. You'd worked your way up by accident, and with no intentions on moving any higher you're happy in your cushy little desk job filing paperwork and typing up reports. 

It also gives you a strange sort of happiness to help people out. Not for praise, though praise is nice, but just to see a usually sombre breed of people uplifted. It's why you're in Hotch's office so often. He has an abundance of paperwork. You have time to file it, or if not filing, sorting. If not sorting, tying up loose ends. You figure, why not? 

You wouldn't enter his office if he hadn't given permission. He knows it's you because you always leave the door open, and you know it's him because he sighs tiredly in the doorway. 

"You're here late. Go home." 

"It's only…" You check your watch. "Five twelve."

More tired sighing. You quickly finish up what you'd been doing at the chair in front of his desk (which, a few times, he's told you to sit behind rather than in front, because apparently his chair has better lumbar support) and click a lid back onto your pen. 

"How was– oh no, what happened?" 

Your lilting tone makes him smile. 

"Nothing happened." 

Standing from your seat, you tilt your head to get a better look at him. A shiner stains the skin around his left eye wine dark, and the sclera is bloodshot. It looks painfully sore. 

"Hotch," you say softly. 

"It's alright. I've had worse." 

You know he's had worse. You know he's been stabbed like a pincushion and stitched closed again, know all about his perforated eardrum, his bad shoulder. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow this injury. 

Somebody as kind as he is, how's it fair he hurts this often? 

You move forward in an act of brazen self-indulgence that is completely unlike you and stop just shy of his shoes, looking up into his face. 

He obliges you, looks down. 

You picture the violence without meaning to, the hand that had hit him. 

"Are you alright?" you ask. 

"I'm fine." His brows lower and he winces, but they're lowering in fondness. The corners of his dark eyes crease with it, and his tone is sweet. He sounds younger than he is when he speaks to you like this, and he's been doing it more and more. "You worry more than you need to." 

"I just think that… if somebody hit me like that, I'd be upset, so…" You meet his eyes and feel intimidated, not by him, though he's imposing and tall and handsome in the worst of ways, the way that's making professionalism impossible to maintain, but because you're staring your feelings I'm the face at the same time. You really care about him.

"I like my job," you say, filling a small silence he hadn't bothered to fill, his expression suddenly unreadable, "but sometimes I wish I'd been a profiler." 

"Well, it's never too late." 

"No, it is. And it's not because I want to do what you do, I don't even think I could, but it's–" 

You cut yourself off with a nervous huff of laughter. He takes the smallest step closer, his face dipping down incrementally. "What?" 

"I wish I was so I could be there." 

"Yeah? What would you do?" 

"I'd take care of you," you say honestly. Your face burns with heat, and you realise how corny and out of place you'd sounded instantaneously. You turn your face to the side, grimacing so hard it hurts. "I'd defend you." You attempt to save face. "I mean, I'd try to. I'm not saying the other profilers don't do that." 

"I knew what you meant," he says, and lifts a hand to your cheek. 

You hold your breath as he steers your face to his. 

"You do take care of me," he says. "In your way, honey. You do." His thumb skips over your cheek. He seems, for once, out of order. Unsure. "Could I kiss you?" 

Your fingers find their way to his shoulder. You don't know how to say yes to that, your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth, your brain a useless mess of neurons that refuse to fire. 

You close your eyes and hope he gets the memo. You lift your chin. You stay very still.

Hotch kisses like a gentleman. Chaste, completely, a firm and sweet press of the lips. Then, like he's losing a handle on it, his nose pushes into yours and his lips part just slightly, and you remember to kiss back only a second before he pulls away. 

You raise a hand to his face, a mirror. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?" you murmur. 

"It stings, but," —he closes his eyes again, resting his forehead on yours— "I'll be okay." 

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 34: After the Holidays

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

A couple of days later, you sat in your office looking at an email when there was a knock on the door.

You looked up and saw Max at the door.

"Hey," you said with a weak smile. "Come on in."

He slowly sauntered in, his piercing blue eyes looking at you. "You know how to throw one hell of a Christmas," he said as he pulled out the chair to Jake's desk and sat down.

"Does this mean you'll be back next year?"

Max chuckled. "We'll see. I might make it a tradition."

You smiled. "That would be nice. It was good having you here."

Max nodded. "How are you holding up with everything that's going on?"

You sighed. "It's been tough, but we're getting through it. Jake's been a great support."

Max leaned back in the chair. "Good to hear. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Did you find anything on video at the hotel?"

"The only thing we found was him carrying you out. He must've known where the cameras were in the restaurant. There's no good view of where you two were sitting."

You sighed. "Of course not." Just then, you made a face.

"Are you okay?" Max asked.

"Yeah. Someone just likes to stick his toes in my ribs, and it hurts like hell." You took your hand and pushed on your ribs.

"Can I feel?" Max asked curiously.

"Of course," you replied, taking his hand and gently placing it on your side where little feet were currently pushing on your stomach.

Max's eyes lit up. "Oh, wow!"

You smiled at his reaction. "It's pretty amazing, isn't it?"

Max nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, it really is. He's strong, just like his parents."

"More like his dad when he's throwing hay bales off the back of the tractor trailer," you said with a smile, thinking about it.

Max nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. "I'm glad you found him, Y/N. Even though it was iffy there for four years."

You sighed, the memories flooding back. "Yeah, it was tough. But we made it through, and I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Max's piercing blue eyes softened. "You two are stronger for it. And now you've got a little one on the way. It's a new chapter."

You gently placed a hand on your stomach. "Yeah."

Max stood up. "I have to go. Thank you for inviting me for Christmas. I'll see you in Wyoming for court in a few weeks."

"Max. Jake leave next week. Would you..."

"Meet you in San Diego? Way ahead of you," he said with a smile. "Then we'll fly to Wyoming for court."

You stood up, and the two of you embraced. "You are the best." You separated. "Come on. I'll walk you out," you said after letting go.

The two of you walked to the front door. Max put on his jacket and then leaned over, giving you a gentle kiss on your cheek. "Love you like the sister I'm glad I never had."

You smiled. "Love you too."

Max opened the door, and you watched as he walked to his vehicle and opened the door. He turned, looked at you, and blew you a kiss. You returned the sentiment as he got in his vehicle, started it, and drove away.

You stepped back into the house, closing the door behind you, feeling a mix of gratitude and anticipation for the challenges ahead.

"Darlin'. Have you seen my cowboy boots?" Jake asked from the bedroom later that afternoon.

"Either in the closet or the mudroom, babe," you responded.

He stuck his head in the office door. "Are you packed?"

You looked at him. "As much as I can be. I'll only be in San Diego for a couple of days."

It was Wednesday. Your plane left tomorrow morning, and Jake didn't leave until Saturday morning. The plan was that you flew to San Diego, checked on his apartment, and stayed there with Max until Saturday afternoon when Jake left. Then you and Max would fly to Wyoming for the hearing for Dorian.

Jake's family was heading back home tomorrow morning, so they were going to say their 'laters' at the airport tomorrow. There were no goodbyes in this family. It was always 'later'.

Jake walked into the office, a concerned look on his face. "Are you sure you're going to be okay after I leave?"

"I'll be fine, Jake. Max will be with me the whole time," you replied reassuringly.

Jake leaned in and kissed your forehead. "Thanks, darlin'. It makes me feel better knowing you're not alone."

You smiled up at him. "I know."

Jake sat down beside you, a relieved expression on his face. "Thanks, Y/N. I know it's a lot to ask, but it puts my mind at ease."

You smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "It's no problem, Jake. Max has always been there for us. Now more than ever."

Jake nodded, appreciating your effort. "I really do feel better knowing you’ll have someone there with you."

You smiled. "I'll be just fine. Now, let’s finish packing so we can enjoy the rest of the evening."

You looked at his cowboy boots. "Do you really need to bring these ones back to San Diego? I mean, are you really going to wear them?"

He looked at his boots and then back at you. "Valid point. I'll keep them here."

You smiled, giggled and shook your head as you watched him walk back to the mudroom, cowboy boots in hand.

Late that night in bed, you were woken up by the baby kicking and pushing on your stomach. You looked over and saw Jake sleeping soundly next to you and then glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning. Sighing, you carefully lifted off the comforter, slipped your feet into your slippers, and quietly headed to the office.

The house was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards. You turned on the desk lamp, its warm light casting a gentle glow in the room, and sat down at the desk.

You turned on your computer and checked your emails, trying to distract yourself from the discomfort, rubbing your stomach as you did so. As you sifted through your inbox, you found a message from your attorney, Mr. Dunby, updating you on the progress of your case. You read through the details, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration.

After replying to the email, you leaned back in the chair, resting your hand on your stomach. The baby continued to move, but the motions were more soothing now. You took a deep breath, trying to relax.

A soft knock on the doorframe startled you, and you looked up to see Jake standing there, rubbing his eyes. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

You shook your head. "The baby decided it was time for a dance party."

Jake smiled, walking over and placing his hand on your stomach. "Hey there, little one. Give your momma a break, okay?"

You laughed softly, feeling a wave of love for both Jake and the baby. "I think it helped."

He walked over, leaned down and kissed your forehead. "Come on, let's go back to bed."

After turning off your computer, you turned to see Jake holding his hand out to you. You placed your hand into his as he led you back to the bedroom.

The apartment was still quiet, and the warmth of Jake’s hand in yours provided a comforting contrast to the cold floor under your slippers. When you reached the bedroom, Jake gently helped you back into bed, making sure you were comfortable before sliding in beside you.

He pulled the comforter up over both of you, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Try to get some rest, darlin'."

You snuggled closer to him, feeling the soothing rhythm of his breathing. "Thanks, Jake," you whispered, closing your eyes and letting the warmth of his presence lull you back to sleep.

As the night progressed, the baby’s movements softened, and you finally found a peaceful rest.

Tags: @buckysteveloki-me @bellyliveslife @tgmreader @callsign-barbell @86laura11 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @guacam011y @nerdgirljen @hookslove1592 @dempy @djs8891 @smoothdogsgirl

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

STORM-FLYING PETRELS (VI)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.9k

WARNINGS: Panic attack, talks about death, guns, anxiety, insomnia & paranoia, angst, alcohol, littering in some heartfelt moments, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your nightmares were getting worse. It was undoubtedly true. 

The violent way you’d gasp into awakeness, tears, and sobs stuck on your lips as the large walls of your bedroom left you feeling more alone and isolated than anything. The barriers wouldn’t tighten—they would push out farther until all that remained was you and the bed, solitary and abandoned to darkness. Faces danced as the ghosts out in the hallways did at twilight, faces dripping blood and eyes reflective like a cat’s. 

Your father, the people in the park, the man you’d killed. 

Your mother, now, too. She stands next to Samson Row like a picture of perfection with a winning smile.

Gripping the damp rag in your hand tighter, you think over the moments after Gaz had told you about your matriarch landing in the States. It was almost comedic, now, the way you’d gone still and blank; bandaged hand loose over the paper with that telling red ink. Eyes boring into the way the Brit’s hand had tightened over his phone. 

Not moments prior you’d been mulling over the reality that your father had hidden things from you—how this strange moniker of ‘Chiyou’ rang to something inside of your head—and then another problem hits you. Over and over again it’s like you can’t catch a single break without it all falling to pieces.  

Even now, the stupid coffee stain on the dining room table is making your knuckles go thin from how hard you’re pressing. Your body was shivering, cold seeping into your bones even through your jacket. It was only an hour after the events in your dad’s office. 

Your teeth grit together, dragging the enamel into a scrape of pure anxiety. 

“I didn’t really take you for the stress cleaning type, Love.” Gaz watches you tightly, lips pulled back in concern from across the room. “Why don’t we just sit down and figure this out, yeah?”

“Or you can get the mop and start cleaning the floors.” You grunt, rubbing your shoulder into your cheek. 

In the time you’d been washing down the kitchen like a mad woman, you’d gone through four cups of coffee, and the jitters were plainly seen in your form as you jerkily ran back and forth. You'd call it pathetic if you were in the right state of mind. 

“Better yet,” you talk like you’re drunk, “get the duster and—” 

Your legs had left the table to go and grab the roll of towels on the island, but the world swirls halfway through your rapid pace. There’s a moment when you’re sure the house is tipping on its side, the foundations caving in from under you. 

You make a sound in the back of your throat when your legs buckle.

But before you slam to the ground, strong arms wrap around your middle and you can’t even breathe enough to push them off.

“Whoa! Okay, alright,” Gaz holds you, body firm and warm in a way you never could be. “Christ,” He whispers, face stiff. “Easy.”

Half bend over, you stare at the floor as the Brit brings you down slowly to your knees. He crouches in front of you and swiftly places his fingers on your pulse; skin sliding along your neck. You want to gag but have to make your head stop spinning first. 

In a moment of shaking lungs, you take down a deep breath. Like a vale, black fabric sits at the edge of your vision.

“Love, I’m going to need you to focus on me, yeah?” Gaz speaks slowly, his tone tight but still shining with worry. “Just listen to me.”

Your eyes burn and your chest is held down by bricks. Kyle’s grip goes to the back of your shoulders as he shifts you over, turning you like a toddler to rest your back against the island. Gasping lowly, your body fights against all normal senses—quivering and sweating at nothing. Your mind was pulsing with…everything. 

Devoid of any other option in a state of inner panic, you focus on the feeling of Gaz’s hands rubbing up and down your arms. It’s a few long minutes of borderline hyperventilating until the dim light of the kitchen slowly invades your eyes. 

The steady drip of tears makes itself known seconds later. Had you been crying?

“That’s it,” the Brit whispers, tilting his head to you and offering a small, tense, smile. Kyle’s lower face blinks into reality as your clenched hands loosen. Stings of pain echo up your injured palm. “It’s alright, we’re just in the kitchen…” He thins his lips and stops his hand movements; gradually taking his limbs back as you catch your breath. 

You clench your jaw against the sting of growing embarrassment. 

“Sweetheart…?” 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” your voice is shaky and cuts out in places. Kyle looks away and closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head calmly. 

“Don’t need to ask for it,” he grumbles, caution stuck in his throat but being honest. “Take a deep breath.”

You nearly want to spite him and hold your lungs still, but you push aside your stubborn nature and do as he says. Groaning under your breath, your hands go up to your eyes, rubbing into the sockets. After a long moment where you can feel Gaz’s gaze stuck on you as his feet shuffle, you lower your hands and sigh long. 

“She can’t see the house like this.” You whisper, genuinely distraught. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Kyle’s eyes tighten, and he finds himself not knowing what to say to you. His heart constricts.

Sniffling, you rub at your cheeks, beginning to shove off the floor until firm hands once more snap to your shoulders. They keep you back against the island as you growl and attempt to jerk out of them. 

“Would you quit it?” In reality, you don’t want to be here anymore—not in the kitchen, no, near Gaz. Shame makes your stomach roll with nausea. You need to go back to your room; the closed curtains and the dark corners. 

Every action that was made near him was laced with agony; a knife stabbed through your chest. Even if his intentions weren’t sinister. You just need to be alone.

“Well, would you bloody sit down, then?” He’s serious about this, his grip not hurting but still tight. Gaz puts one hand atop his head and resituates his hat with a digging of his dark eyes. You glare at his neck with hatred. “I’m askin’ you to take a second, Love. Just let yourself calm down a bit. You’re running yourself ragged over this, yeah? Fuckin’ hell, look at what just happened!” 

“It’s nothing!” You snap but know that it’s not the truth. Gaz aggressively shakes his head and looks away with disappointment in his eyes. 

He knows it’s not your fault, and in fairness, he’s not disappointed in you at all. He’s disappointed he didn’t have a larger backbone about getting you involved in this. The day you both first met weighs on him every time he looks at you; every time he walks through his decaying house. The remnants of what’s left. 

The details in the office are brightly lit in his brain. 

Kyle takes a large breath and lets his tension drop instantly. There is an overwhelming amount of mixed concern and confusion that always makes itself known when he’s around you. 

Grunting, the Brit shifts on the floor and rests his back on the island right next to you on the floor. He bends one of his knees and rests his elbow over it, scratching at his chin with his fingers before resting his arm completely—letting it hang. You blink over in silent shock, mildly uncomfortable from how close he was. 

Strained silence falls as your hand slips into your jacket pocket; fiddling with the coin in its clutches. Your heart still pounds, eyes finicky as they dart from Gaz to the far wall and floor. 

Kyle clears his throat as your wounded arm burns. 

“How about we make a deal, yeah?” Your fingers pause with their rolling of the coin, but you don’t look over. Gaz tilts his head in your direction and stares at the side of your face—not trying to make you uncomfortable, just wanting to gauge your reaction. He takes a deep breath and, when you don’t reply, continues. “I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.” 

That piques your interest, ears twitching up. 

In your head you immediately snap back to the events in his room; the warmth of Kyle’s hands as he held and stitched you up with his story about his scars. You don’t know why you can’t stop thinking about it at every other moment.

You hum an acknowledgment, flinching when the chemicals start to turn your hand numb. Gaz lightly shushes you, squeezing your wrist. 

Your wrist rolls as you move it in a circle to push back tingles.

Pressing your coin into your palm, you think over Gaz’s proposal as he waits for an answer expectantly. He thinks to himself that if you agree, then he’s one step closer to getting on your good side for the remainder of this protection stint. The Brit prays you just hear him out.

He doesn’t want to admit how much your light-headedness has put a strain on his heart. How fast his eyes had snapped back and his feet darted forward. 

“You said your mother was a florist?” You don’t verbally agree or disagree with Gaz’s question, but the inquiry you say into the echoey kitchen is enough to know. It was strange, though, that you were asking a question that you already knew the answer to. As well as with how it was a personal one. But the Sergeant, nonetheless, holds back the pull of his large smile and nods.

“Affirmative. Little place down the street from my childhood home.” You stare at the far wall, and after a second your head slowly angles back so that your head rests on the island behind you. 

It must be a sight, the two of you on the floor of a dusty and barren kitchen. You can’t find the strength right now to get up and stalk away. Kyle rubs the back of his neck and is surprised by your follow-up. 

“What’s she like?” His brown eyes widen a smidge as he looks at your blanks and placid face. Voice small like a bird. 

“Uh,” the Sergeant falters, but recovers quickly, “she’s…nice, good, even. I’ve not spoken to her for a bit, but she’s…” Gaz halts for a moment, blinking, “...she’s just about everything you could ask for and more. Taught me well.” He ends his sentence with a dismissing huff. 

You feel your gut tighten, but hum in response. 

Kyle wonders if it’s his curiosity or his determination that makes him speak next, “What about yours, then?” Your body tightens back up immediately and he scrambles. “N-not in a personal way, just…you speak fondly of them, your parents, I mean.”

Most of the time. 

Licking your lips, you wonder if it’s really necessary to answer. But it had been so long since you’d had someone to speak to. Kyle had been slowly worming his way into the remnants of your everyday routine like a parasite; finding its home in the body of your family's estate. 

There were a large number of negative emotions attached to this Brit, yet still, once you’d opened the gates of your mouth, there was little chance of stopping. He’d taken a screwdriver and was working away since he’d saved you that day in the park. 

“They loved each other.” You settle with, hearing Gaz sigh in relief to see you weren’t going to snap and stalk off. “My mother was always with my father—they did everything together. She was more strict than him; wanted me to go into something with more prospects than follow Dad into a history degree. But…” You think, coin-face leaving indents into your flesh. Whatever damage had been done to your injured palm had slowed its heated pulse. “...Seady,” Kyle listens intently. “She was steady. Like a rock.”

Something akin to pain bleeds into your face and the man keeps himself from putting a hand on your shoulder in comfort. 

“I guess she just couldn’t handle it when he died. Needed to get away.” While you had dug your heels in and stayed stationary, she’d gone off and taken a shift overseas. To forget or to find something more, you never asked. When she was gone, you really couldn’t say much changed. 

After all, that entire first year was a blur of black and red. 

You take a shallow breath and pull your hands from your pockets. “Can’t say I blame her. Just… nervous about seeing her again.” 

This was more than Kyle expected. His brows were slightly higher on his face, eyelids curved. He clears his throat slightly, looking away quickly. Guilt, as it seems to do a lot recently, builds on his shoulders like a castle of stone.

He never should have agreed to that damned interrogation, but how was he to know that Row would pull the trigger for no reason? 

Hell, was that even an excuse? 

“...I’m sorry, Love,” he says, and your breath stops with mounting pressure inside of your throat. 

Your head slowly turns his way and you stare at the space where his stubble is taunt under his nose. 

“What…?” He barely hears the words. 

Kyle’s head fully turns your way but you don’t balk back when his brown orbs graze the side of your vision—so nearly looking into them but still so far. Eyes are wide and nearly frightened in expression by the words that had just entered your eardrums.

Kyle speaks up, “I said I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I never should have bloody played along with the bastard plan. It wasn’t right. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I just…need you to know that, y’know?” 

Face burning, you open and close your mouth; vision darting from random points on the Sergeant’s face until you snap your head away in a flurry of tight lips and shaking shoulders. You burn holes into the far wall but look more anxious than anything. 

Your lungs get tight and your nose feels like you’re breathing in needles, but you refuse to cry in front of this man again. No matter how much the words were like a bucket of cold water to your scalp. 

You can never forgive him for what he helped do—for the gun and the bag over your head; the death and trauma—but you’d never even expected an apology. It…it meant something, but what that was, you weren’t quite sure. 

All you do is shrug brokenly. 

“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” Kyle tries to comfort you. “It’s been what? Around three years since you’ve seen her? Well,” he chuckles lightly, “I’m sure the first thing she’ll do is give you a bloody huge hug. Lift you off the ground and all.”

You scoff, finding your breath. “She was never a hugger, Garrick.”

“People change, wanna wager on it?” Your brows turn into a line. “A ten.”

“No.” 

“Ah, c’mon!” 

“No!” You growl at a smirking Sergeant as he tilts his head back and laughs, hat-brim sticking out from his head. He raises his hand in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Point taken, then.” Rolling your eyes, you huff and rub at your eyes aggressively. While some of your nerves had left, the sheen of it still lived in the lines on your forehead. The air wafts back into that strange tension and delicate sanctity.

“My own father,” Gaz starts slowly, measuring words. “Was in the service. A soldier.” His arm moves up and he shifts it so it hovers above your lap. His wristwatch glints and after a dim hesitance, you carefully reach out a hand to touch the material; tiling it towards you. Your eyes slide over it as Kyle’s face softens, his tone easy. “I took after him, too. Tough luck I never managed to grow a green thumb, probably would have saved me some soiled clothes.” 

You puff air from your nose.  

“Can’t see you retiring to the garden anytime soon, unfortunately.” Gaz smiles and takes his arm back tactfully. 

“Hm,” the man settles back and sighs. “No, probably not, Ma’am. Just hope I don’t end up like he did.” 

At your angled head and glimmering eyes, he continues, “Fell in the line of duty when I was ‘bout as tall as a table. My Mum never wanted me to go chasing after his memory—we don’t talk much because of it.”

It was the way you could mirror yourself into Kyle’s own childhood that really struck you, but as your brain went a mile a minute you rolled it back into focus. You can think about that later, but right now you just wanted to try and understand the way you were feeling. 

“Why are you telling me this, Kyle?” You whisper. The Brit’s hand comes up to rub at his neck. 

“Because I feel like you need someone to talk to,” he hums. “Even if you don’t like ‘em.”

The tease is evident in his tone. 

You don’t like that he splays your emotions out like this—knows that something’s wrong even if it’s entirely obvious. He talks about it, and that's entirely foreign to you. Three years of solitude with no one to utter to but your professors and Hector. Only one of those you could consider somewhat of a friend, really. Hector listened when you ranted and seemed to at least care about you to a moderate degree. He had two girls after all, and although you’d never met them, you knew they were good kids. Loved.

Hector was all you had, and you told him nearly everything. 

And now…well…now Kyle wants you to talk? Part of you wanted to chuck a coffee mug at his head. 

You shake your head, walls going back up. 

“Keep your end of the bargain, Garrick. Go get the mop.” Brown eyes sadly watch after you as your arms shove you up. Standing, you rub at your eyes and snatch the paper towels from the island counter like they had personally wronged you.

Kyle hums under his breath and shakes his head, fixes his cap, and pushes up to follow.

—

You speak again far later, and despite his comments about not becoming the cook of the mansion, you can’t fight him in the fact that his food was good. And you both had to eat, regardless. 

Sitting in the back library, you place the plate of Gnocchi with creamed spinach down with a clack as you push aside the bottle of disinfectant spray. The white sheet that had been around the furniture was ripped back some minutes ago to show a luxurious chaise lounge of navy tufted fabric and a small side table. Your mother’s favorite pieces in the house, ironically. Gaz is already eating, standing near the fireplace in the center of the wide and extravagant room. 

He looks around every so often at the scores of books and ladders that extend to the ceiling. Everything about this house, he thinks to himself, is the definition of old money.

“All we need to pull this together,” Kyle licks at the side of his mouth and smiles as he says, “Is a nice bottle of Fiano, eh?” He laughs, “Don’t suppose you have a wine cellar, Ma’am? I’d say you deserve it after a day like today.”

Your form pauses momentarily when bringing the fork to your lips, but you continue with a blink and say, easily, “Cellar? Yeah, but don’t plan on anything being down there. It’s all gone.” 

Gaz tilts his head, bringing his own fork to his lips and chewing. “That’s a right shame. Would have paired nicely.”

You place your utensil down in exasperation and glare at his throat. “You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

Kyle’s expression goes mock offended. “Hey!” He humphs, “If you keep letting me cook then I’m going to do my bloody best!”

“There’s incriminating evidence in my father’s office and you’re worried about wine?” 

“I’m not worried,” Gaz points the fork at you as you shake your head and get to eating. “I said it would pull it together. There’s a damn difference, Love.”

You can’t believe this is the man that’s living in your home. Helping you clean; keeping you from being shot—talking about wine. It’s a miracle you haven't killed him at this point. 

“Tough luck,” you grumble, chewing. “There’s none left. Suffer alone.”

“Well, that’s just uncalled for, that is,” Gaz utters, getting the last piece of flooded potato and sticking it in his mouth. The smirk in his words is evident. But the weight of your previous words stands, and you get into the next topic swiftly.

“I need to go into my father's old office in the museum, Garrick.” The man’s arm stills from where he tilts his plate to get some of the spinach onto his fork. His shoulders tighten immediately. 

“Negative,” the Brit’s voice echoes. “Not happening, Ma’am. We’ll get someone else on it.”

No one else knows my father. There’s a part of you that knows that no one else can figure this out as you can. 

Red ink, copied signatures, that blasted moniker. It’s a literal trail of bodies that you need to piece together for this to make the painting you’re working on—brushstroke by brushstroke.

In your heart you know there’s more going on. Your father wasn’t what people are telling you, even if he knew things that sullied his image. This wasn’t right.

“Gaz,” you try not to let your anger show at this—growing tired of the constant fights. “This isn’t something that I can compromise on.” Kyles stares and sets his jaw.

“I’m not letting you leave his mansion, Ma’am. For yourself and for others.” He takes a breath. “Let my mates handle it; Laswell’s already got a unit together. They’re rechecking the docks and the museum by your counsel soon. Spoke to her just after I got news of your mum coming back.”

Soon wasn’t soon enough. You don’t know why, but unease hits your stomach. The house had always felt like it had ears on it, but when you were talking about stuff like this it seemed alive. The curtains sway with the AC, the wood creaks more. It’s horrible. 

Or maybe it was just because Gaz was living here. But it just felt like….eyes. 

“Kyle,” you try to stay the venom from your tongue. Anyone can tell you’re strained. “I’m asking nicely, here.”

“And you said you would listen to me, Love.” The Brit rubs at his forehead. “I’m not doing this to be difficult, truly.” A long sigh exits, a tired but honest one. He wishes you’d look him in the eyes so he can make you understand he only wants what’s best for you. The way you’d been after the shooting…Gaz’s hands remember the tightness of elastic as he stitched you back up—you’re vacant gaze. He can’t have that happen again. “I’m keeping you alive if you could only stay here. This house is secure, and if we go into a potentially target-rich environment, I have no say in what could happen to you, yeah?” 

You knew this, of course you did, but so much had been discovered in so little time.

“Sergeant, I—”

“No, Ma’am. That’s an order. We’re staying here and that’s final.” It seemed whatever strange feelings from the kitchen and office are far gone now. Kyle’s face is like stone, and you stare at his scars with returning resentment. Could he not see how much this meant to you? No, how could he? All he does is follow his fucking orders.

Your teeth snap around the food on the end of your utensil, sliding off the metal as you think. Letting fire flare in your gaze, you glare at the plate and say nothing else. Angry, but not defeated.

Kyle and you go back into a highly uncomfortable silence. Closing his eyes, the man twitches his nose as his legs shift from under him. Suddenly the brick of the fireplace is grating to feel against his athletic shit. 

He grunts and shovels his last bit into his mouth as you stand—food only half-eaten. 

Brown eyes stare as you stalk out of the room, hand clenched around your plate. When you’re out of sight, Gaz lets out, “Christ…just fucking brilliant.”

But he wasn’t about to tell you that you could leave; you can sulk all you want, but that’s not changing his opinion. 

You stomp through the immediate hallway like a child, playing your part perfectly. Once you are far enough away, your feet speed up to a light jog and carry you to the front door. You open it and place the entire thing on the front step; a backend form darts out from the bushes and hisses. 

You harshly whisper into slitted eyes, “Oh, step off, you temperamental demon.” The door shuts and you race up to your room—bounding up the foyer stairs two at a time, knowing exactly where to place your weight to make sure the steps won't creak. 

Entering the blackened room, you close the door and lock it with deft fingers. Looking at the clock, you engrain the time of seven-fifteen to memory and resolve to be back by midnight. Gaz makes his first round at eight, but he won’t bother you if you’re pissed as you intended to make it seem. From then it’s twelve and then at four. 

If you can get back in before he does that middle-of-the-night search, you’d be golden. 

You rush to your curtains, peeling them back and blinking at the water spots on the glass behind them. Shaking your head, you unlatch the lock and look down at the two-story drop into bushes as you push aside the window with a slow squeal of hinges. 

“I’m getting answers,” you whisper stubbornly. No Sergeant would stop that. Backing up from the frame, you feel the chilled breeze and pull your jacket tighter against the nighttime air. 

Licking your lips, your eyes slide to the curtain wrack and your brain sparks with mischief. But before you do anything reckless or admittingly dumb, you turn with a serious expression to the nightstand that you stare at, morning after morning.

A moment of a rapid pulse passes in tight silence before you walk over.

With a small quiver in your finger, you place your hand on the brass handle like it could snap at you with merciless teeth. It stays there as you dig your eyes into the wood, searing it with purpose, that cold, lifeless metal in your tensed grip. With a grit of your teeth, you let it drop numbly, shaking your head. You grab your wallet and phone instead, stuffing them into your pocket, and shuffling away.

“Don’t need it,” your low voice reasons aloud, a hidden object swiftly leaving your consciousness. 

Dragging your desk chair over to the tall curtains, you grasp a hold of the metal rod that holds them with trapped breath, reaching on your tiptoes carefully. Puffing out breaths, you unhook it after the third try with a mute chuckle. A smirk takes residence on your face. 

Getting down on unsteady feet, you accidentally knock the hard material directly into the wall with a loud slam as your legs shift too quickly.

You freeze in an instant, ears strained and eyes wide. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you stand holding the rod, those navy curtains a swell of the deep sea at your feet. 

Body ready to bolt, you take thin breaths before you realize nothing else is moving in the house. Letting out a long and slow breath, you move backward. 

Setting the rod across the opening of the window frame parallel, it stands in as an anchor as you feel your backside connect with the bottom wall. Focusing, you lift one leg and twist your spine to leave you straddling the frame with nervous pulses in your veins. Ducking your head, you move your grip to the curtains and grab them tightly, muscles straining. 

In a moment of courage, you say, “C’mon, I can do this…” and place one foot on the outside frame. The wood groans and sinks in, but you don’t let it scare you off. This had to be done. With a deep breath, you lean back with tightly closed eyes. 

Except you don’t fall. 

Lids pulling back, you stare at where your feet dig into the frame and how your hands hold the curtains—held themselves by the rod on the inside of your room that spans far more than the window's size. Your entire body is at an angle, hair swishing behind you due to gravity. 

“Holy hell,” You can’t help but utter, chuckling. 

Moving one foot back, you place it firmly to the side of your house as you scale backward down to the ground with sliding hands. The long curtain rod holds tight. 

In mere minutes, your feet hit down and you stumble before letting the curtain slowly go—far above hearing the slight ping of the thing hitting the floor at the loss of tension. With a smile on your lips, you dart away into the back garden before Gaz can even question the noise coming from your room.

All that’s left are the curtains whipping in the breeze.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

[i-write-sometimes-maybe]

My favorite- Lady Lesso X TeacherReader!

Synopsis: Lesso vowed to never let their words effect her, but what happens when they do?

Warnings: Kinda OOC Lesso, she's sensitive and emotional and soft as hell. Lmk if I missed anything.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/n: I've been in an angsty writing mood lately. Could be gn reader? I have a smutshot coming soon but idk when. Reblogs, likes, and comments are all welcomed!

© This is my work, you have no right to repost my work for any reason without my explicit permission, all rights reserved.

☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎

Many thoughts and feelings were swirling within the Dean, and she tried her damndest to ignore them. She tried ignoring the sorrow and detest for everything she heard about herself.

'Everyone is right about her...'

'I don't see how anyone could like her...'

'Evil isn't enough to describe her, maybe... monstrous...'

'She's really pretty, such a shame that won't hide her hideous personality...'

'It's not an insult if it's describing her...'

Each 'whisper' would be accompanied by an elbow nudge from one friend to another, partnered with blatantly obvious side-eyed looks.

These were things she's overheard, and that was just today. The worst part of them was that some of them had even come from her own Nevers, the very ones that she'd do anything for. The Evers? Well, these things are practically expected from them. And Lesso would vehemently deny it but these painful, venomous words were getting to her. More than she knew.

She knew she was evil, of course she did. She was proud of it.

But why does no one else seem to understand that it's not who she is, it's what she does. That evil isn't born, it's made. That she does have a heart. And just because she doesn't show it when she teaches doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

For some reason, the bitter words became more and more common as the years came and went. They're just getting softer, Lesso tried justifying the words of the insipid little creatures, that they were simply sheltered and couldn't handle her nefariousness.

And while that was partly true, Lesso couldn't help but think maybe they were right.

Maybe she was just a vile and heartless being with no regard for anyone but herself.

Well, that was the picture she thought she liked to paint.

She also thought she was doing a good job at handling their words, not letting them penetrate deep into her.

But she was wrong if the way she was currently pacing and ranting in your office was anything to go by.

"They speak as if I've done something to them personally, I can if they want me to!" She didn't spare you a single glance as she turned on her heel and began walking the same path she had been on for the last 10 minutes.

You knew she just needed to let off steam, to get things off her chest, but it didn't hurt you any less. Seeing her talk about herself like this, even if she didn't realize she was doing it.

"Them and their, their opinions... This just proves that everyone is unimportant and they don't matter. The only thing that matters is me and being evil." Wait, you don't matter?

Did she even know you were in the room? Of course, she had to... She was in your office. You knew you shouldn't take anything she's saying right now too hard, doesn't mean you won't.

You never took your eyes off of her, "I-" You just stopped talking because you kind of didn't want to hear the answer, and also because she may not even know what she was saying.

"I'm just a vile, no-life monster... I'm nobody's favorite person,"

"You're mine." You interrupted her rant, teary-eyed. Your Leo, talking horribly about herself and then saying that? No, you won't let her do that to herself.

She stops pacing and looks at you.

"What?"

Only then did she see your tear-filled eyes watching her every move, the utterly broken look on your face. And that was the moment that she processed what she was saying.

"I said," Your voice came out all squeaky, but you didn't mean your words any less because of it. "You're mine. You're my favorite person. And I don't know where you get off thinking that you're alone in this forsaken world because you're not."

She sighed, straightening her back slightly, "If everyone is only going to see me as evil and ruthless, then there's no point in trying to be anything else-"

You abruptly stood up from your spot leaning against your desk, "No! I don't know where you got these ideas that you're this horrible, low-life being that deserves a life of pain and misery because you don't."

You started walking towards her, and the tears began welling up in her eyes as she saw the tears falling down your face.

"But-"

"No. You deserve better than that. You deserve all the amazing things you have in your life."

"Everyone seems to think otherwise."

"Well, I'm not everyone. I'm yours. And I'm telling you the truth, I'm telling you what truly matters."

She searched between your eyes and you reached up and cupped her face with your hands.

"Leo, my amazing girl. I don't know where you've heard these lies but I'll make it my personal mission to eliminate every single one of them from your beautiful mind."

You saw her bottom lip quiver, she was fighting off more emotions, you took this as your cue.

You placed a kiss on her forehead, "You are an amazing, intelligent woman." You planted another kiss on her nose.

"You are more than enough," A kiss to her cheek. "You're immensely breathtaking and beautiful," A kiss to her other cheek.

You saw the corner of her lips upturn into a faint smile and you knew that she at least wanted to believe you.

"You are incredibly charismatic," Yet another kiss placed on her chin, "You're loving, affectionate, magnificent, funny, genuinely you, and most importantly. You're mine." You finished off with a kiss on her lips.

She instantly melted into the feeling of you, enjoying your warmth against her, and she wrapped her arms around your waist to pull you closer to her. She was certainly not letting you go.

Your lips moved together harmoniously until neither of you could resist the urge for oxygen anymore.

You rested your forehead against hers, "I don't like when you talk about yourself like that. And I know that it won't be easy to banish these thoughts of yours, but I won't let you do it alone."

"I don't know what to say, I can't thank you enough."

"You don't have to say anything."

"But, I do. You're too kind to me,"

"If you're about to say that you don't deserve it, you can save it. Because you do deserve everything I can give you and more. You're the most incredible person I've met and you don't deserve these things being said about you, let alone having them as your own thoughts."

"It's just, hard you know?" You listened attentively, "At first it was easy, to ignore all the whispers. But it just gets to a point where you can't ignore them anymore and you start believing them." Her eyebrows furrowed.

"It's perfectly human for things to get to you. To feel all these things, even if you don't want to. And that is what makes you human, my love. To be able to feel things so deeply, to resent the things being said and the emotions they evoke. And the most important thing, never let anyone tell you what to feel or when to feel it." She moved her head to nuzzle her face in the crook of your neck.

You felt her breath on your skin, involuntary chills erupting during it, "Thank you, Mon Amour." She placed a soft kiss on the skin just below her lips.

"Any and every time, Mon cœur."

You didn't let go of her, knowing that she needed this. And when she held onto you tighter, you held onto her tighter. You brought a hand up to her head, lightly scratching her scalp for a moment.

You weren't sure how long you were standing there, just in the center of your office, but you didn't care because it was just you and Leo. Nothing else mattered at this moment.

"What do you say," She pulled her head back to face you, still tightly embracing you, "We go back to my quarters, share a nice hot shower, and I can read to you for a little bit, hmm?" You asked as you began toying with the baby hairs on the back of her neck

The sweetest smile came to her face, "Can we cuddle too?"

You absolutely adored it when she was needy like this, it didn't happen often so you silently savored it.

"Can we cuddle? Of course, we can cuddle! Leo, dear, if I ever say no to that, curse me." A light chuckle came from her.

She playfully rolled her eyes, "I won't curse you, but I certainly won't let you off the hook if you do."

"Come on, let's go, Mon Cœur." You grabbed her hand and led her back to your quarters.

She never left your side for longer than a moment, but you knew it was all a part of what she needed to take her mind off those cruel thoughts.

She wanted to be as close as possible to you, being on you wasn't even close enough. She wanted to be a part of you, to feel you, all of it, all of you.

She insisted that she be the one to undress you for the shower, just as you insisted on undressing her. Though, that was more for pleasure for you both than comfort.

You kept things tame, too afraid to take advantage of her emotional vulnerability. You and Lesso have been together for over a year now, and she knew that you were like that. And at first, she couldn't understand it. But within a few months, she's learned to appreciate it and you.

She may not agree with you, but to you? She is a goddamn queen. She deserves to be spoiled and cherished and worshiped, and you did your best to do exactly that. And Lesso adored it.

And your Leo treated you no less than you treated her.

Once the shower was done and you both were feeling significantly refreshed, and you could clearly see that Leo had become significantly more relaxed, you came out to your bed.

You laid down first with Leo laying directly on top of you. You laughed to yourself as you struggled to reach for your book with the way she was on you.

"Are you okay with me reading where I left off or would you like me to restart?" You said, opening your book to the front cover and waiting for her response.

"You can start where you left off, I just want to hear your voice." She nuzzled herself into your chest.

You just smiled and opened to your bookmark, continuing where you left off last night.

As you were reading the words aloud, you had one hand in Lesso's hair, gently grazing your nails on her scalp. A soft, low hum escaped her lips.

You knew that in no time at all, she'd be fast asleep, but you didn't mind, you loved seeing her so relaxed and it brought you your own comfort knowing it was because of you. And she didn't mind either, whenever she fell asleep on you it was always the best sleep she's ever had.

Once you noticed she had fallen asleep, you continued to read to yourself for a bit. Just long enough for you to get tired yourself.

And once you were, you put your book back in its place on your nightstand and maneuvered to be laying flush in the bed with Leo in your arms.

When she didn't wake, you knew it was a success. And for a minute, you just laid there, holding her tightly in your arms.

"For you, I'd do anything." You whispered into her fiery hair.

Your hold on her didn't lessen for one moment. You loved having her this close to you. And her rhythmic heartbeat and soft breaths are what lulled you to sleep yourself.

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

Taglist: @v3nusxsky @pebbleswritessometimes

[babyhatesreality]

So Little one isn’t allowed to be in the office without permission.

What does she do when they have to work in there but she isn’t allowed to be next to them (because they don’t want her to see anything harmful/ or they have so much to do) and she wants the attention from them? How would she get the attention and would they give her these? #cuddlybaby

First- my apologies that it takes me so long to answer. Life has slipped in through the backdoor and I'm trying to find 'me' time to write. Thank you all for your patience <3

The office has been off limits without permission from day one. Even when you were in trials runs, you were told that you were absolutely not allowed in there without Steve or Bucky's permission, and never, ever alone.

You never really realized the full extent as to why, but it's because there is violent and sensitive material in there due to the Avengers' line of work.

It's actually a SHIELD rule, but Bucky and Steve agree with it wholeheartedly.

You were so lucky you didn't get your little butt busted when you were trying to be a dragon that one time and snuck in there without permission.

If the door is shut, you know you are to leave it alone unless it's an emergency. Steve and Bucky have a baby monitor set up in there, so if something happens, they will know. They don't really need one- super soldier hearing and all- but they take every precaution when it comes to you being physically separated from them.

However, you definitely have your clingy days, when you MUST be cuddled.

It'll start with you sitting in the hallway, leaning up against the door, sighing dramatically. Which always makes them both smirk.

Then you'll lay down on the floor and start whispering "Papaaaaaaa....Daddyyyyyyyyy..." underneath the door. At this point, you either get bored and go play orrrrrrrrrr.....

You start scratching at the door, like a kitty. When Alpine comes into your life (much later), she's very very good at helping you with this. And your voice gets louder as you call out to them.

If THAT doesn't work, you start slipping notes and drawings underneath the door. Sloppily crayon-drawn hearts, 'I miss you' scrawled out with the 's's backwards, pictures of a sad face.

They've usually broken by this point, but Steve and Bucky have a whole section of the wall in the office dedicated to these notes that help them remember to monitor their time in there. When they see these notes appear from underneath the door, it's time to stop, no matter what.

Then there are days when they're working in there and you are absolutely allowed to be in there with them.

You can only bring books or crayons in, as they're still legitimately working and can't handle the distraction of your exuberant play.

This suits you fine, as you usually just want to be near them. However, on those extra cuddly days.....

You often will simply crawl into their laps while they work. They will automatically adjust so you are comfortable while you snuggle into their chests, humming happily. They're not working on anything you shouldn't see, so this is fine.

But there was one day when Bucky was home alone with you, needing to go over sensitive material. HE was feeling extra clingy, so he broke his own rule, letting you play on the ground at his feet with the strict instructions that you were not to climb onto his lap (because he didn't want you to see the pictures he was examining).

You were fine with this. Until you weren't.

Knowing that you weren't supposed to look at the stuff Daddy was looking at but needing to be close to him, you quickly crawled up in between his legs, putting your head underneath his teeshirt as you climbed.

He was just inhaling to scold you when you giggled. And that broke him in the best way possible. He watched with an amused grin as you maneuvered your way onto his lap, staying under his shirt, giggling and grunting till you reached your goal.

When you gave a contented sigh of pleasure at finally being where you wanted to be, he laughed and wrapped his arms around you, beginning to tickle.

It became a wild game where he kept you trapped under there, poking and tickling while you giggled and laughed at his comments about this 'strange growth on his tummy' and 'must be an alien parasite' and how he was going to have to tickle it to death to get it out.

His field report was late the next day, but he completely tuned out Maria's yelling at him as he remembered your laughter. Worth it.

[venus-haze]

Why Don't You Do Right (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: You’d known him as Ben, the asshole rich boy whose family employed your parents on their estate just outside of Philadelphia, the mean streets that you grew up on, not him. When he returns from Europe to adulation and ticker tape parades in response to his heroic exploits during the war, he’s not happy when you echo his father’s sentiments about his praise being unearned. As time goes on, you find your own professional exploits make you begrudgingly more sympathetic to him, especially when you unexpectedly run into him again before the 24th Academy Awards.

Note: Reader is a woman, but no other descriptors are used. I don’t know how I feel about this fic, I guess I kind of left it open to another part. Soldier Boy’s background is so interesting even though we get so little of it in the show, I wanted to go ahead and explore it more from the perspective of someone who knew him back then. I decided to go with the last name Conway since as far as I know, the show doesn’t give Soldier Boy a canon last name. Feel free to picture any DILF of your choice as Ben’s briefly appearing father. Do not interact if you post thinspo/ED content or are under 18.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Period typical (and Soldier Boy typical) misogyny. Morally gray reader. Dacryphilia, slapping, spitting. Some dubcon elements. Complicated and toxic relationships. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Over two decades’ worth of catharsis rushed through your veins as you eavesdropped on the heated conversation taking place in Cliff Conway’s office, his son’s voice steadily rising while his own remained cool and nonplussed. The steel magnate wasn’t your favorite person, but he kept your parents employed during the depression when so many of your classmates’ families were out of work. Your father worked as one of half a dozen chauffeurs on staff, your mother a cook, though you didn’t see much of either of them growing up, as they spent most of the week living in the servant’s quarters on the estate while you lived with your grandparents in their small South Philly apartment. 

It never failed to make your blood boil that Ben saw more of your parents than you did. You could remember taking a swing at him when he called your mother “mom” not long after he got kicked out of boarding school. You had made the trek to the Conways’ estate after a long day of your apprenticeship with a local seamstress, enraged to see Ben sitting in the kitchen, joking with your mom who you got to see twice a week if you were lucky. Though it was years ago, the betrayal when she angrily shooed you out of the kitchen still felt fresh.

When you were older, you discovered that Ben clung to your parents since his own were unimpressed and disinterested in him. In contrast, Cliff lauded your ingenuity in working hard at your apprenticeship, building up clientele, and opening your own shop. Of course, it helped that he would drum up business for you among his wealthy friends, having you custom-make his suits and his estranged wife’s evening gowns for the high society events they masqueraded as a happy couple at.

In fact, you’d been in the man’s office for a fitting when he received a call that Ben had shown up unannounced, wishing to speak to him. He had shaken his head as he dismissed you with a wave, instructing you to stick around the mansion until his conversation with his son was over. ‘It won’t be long. I don’t have anything to say to him,’ he had assured you.

So you stood with your ear pressed against the door, the men’s muffled voices traveling through the expensive wood grain, a thick, dark mahogany that turned visitors into vampires seeking permission to enter, impossible to sneak in or out of without concerted effort. Being his father’s only child didn’t make Ben exempt this unspoken social ritual that Cliff enforced. Perhaps he thought things would be different for Soldier Boy.

“What do you want me to do? Congratulate you for taking a shortcut?” Cliff said, his tone even. “A real man doesn’t take shortcuts.”

“Compound V isn’t a shortcut—“

“I tried with you, Ben. I really did, and somehow you ended up with no work ethic, no sense of purpose. Instead, you think you can cheat your way to greatness.”

“I signed up to fight, and I did,” Ben retorted, his voice wavering, “in Normandy, in Belgium—“

“On Hollywood sets where you fool around with movie stars and play pretend. Believe me, I’ve had my fair share of starlets, but I didn’t get ticker tape parades or national holidays for it.”

Ben scoffed. “President Truman said I’m a hero—“

“No, the boys who came back and haven’t had a good night’s sleep since, the ones who didn’t come back at all, they’re heroes,” he said. “You, Ben? You’re a disappointment. I’m ashamed to even call you a Conway.”

Your hand flew to your mouth. In your dealings with Cliff, you had an idea about his feelings on his son’s fabricated exploits, noticing the newspaper pages with photographs or even mere mentions of ‘Soldier Boy’ crumpled in his wastebin. You knew none of the stories were true, anyway, not when Ben’s anecdotes about growing up in Philly were almost carbon copies of yours, from the fights to the laughter. It was all a lie, and no one would back you up even if you went public with it. No one but Cliff, anyway.

The whole situation had been odd from the moment you saw Soldier Boy in a newsreel before a Gary Cooper movie. Despite the helmet and mask that obscured his features, you’d recognize Ben anywhere. As much resentment as you harbored toward him, you’d have to be blind to ignore how attractive he was, thinking it was a shame that his striking green eyes and pouty pink lips were imprisoned in black and white. He spoke to the camera, proud and confident, the hot-blooded, all-American hero with the strength of a hundred men. The living, breathing embodiment of the American spirit was nothing if not an excellent liar, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. 

What really threw you for a loop, however, was the lie whose tendrils arrested the minds of your fellow countrymen. Soldier Boy was born great, blessed by god with these superhuman abilities that he used in the fight against evil and anything that threatened the American way of life. His very existence proof of divine intervention in the land of the free. No, you’d wanted to argue, he’s just Ben, and he cheated.

As you heard shuffling in the office, you slipped away from the door and into one of the nearby parlors. Despite spending so much time in the Conways’ mansion in your youth and then in a professional capacity as an adult, it never ceased to amaze you how many rooms were in the place. Some of which, like the one you decided to lay low in, served no other purpose than to display the family’s ornate possessions—Persian rugs, imported chaise lounges, commissioned artwork, vases and statues from places you weren’t even sure you could point out on a map. It was almost sick how the objects in that room alone were worth more than what you’d ever make in your life.

You couldn’t privately lament your financial woes for long, as despite your efforts, Ben noticed you ambling around the room as he stormed out of his father’s office. He stopped in his tracks, rerouting his direction to join you. The costume he wore certainly wasn’t awful, and from a quick glance you could admire the effort that went into putting together such a vital aspect of his persona. Still, it wasn’t him, no matter how hard he tried. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he mused, his voice low as he took you in.

You gave him a curt nod. “Ben.”

“You and my old man are the only ones who call me that anymore.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the only thing about you that’s real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, I understand the ‘scrappy young fighter from the rough streets of Philly’ is a lot more sympathetic than ‘spoiled rich boy who wants to feel special.’ It’s the part where you stole my life that really gets me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit, Ben,” you said. “You’re a fraud, even your father says so.”

“I’m a fucking hero, sweetheart. You’re a washed up old maid who’s lucky I’m even looking in her direction,” he said, shooting his insult back at you.

It stung every time you were reminded of how many people thought there was something wrong with you for choosing your career over marriage. You’d have been offended by his words if it weren’t for the cheek twitch that gave away just how bothered he was by your statement. His tells were few, but they were distinctly his, and in the years you’d spent orbiting the spoiled brat turned man-child, you’d learned to recognize all of them. He was fundamentally insecure, always trying to prove himself to his unimpressed father and failing every single time. It seemed Soldier Boy was no exception.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your face, backing you into a wall. You knew whatever he’d been shot up with had made him strong, but you weren’t expecting the steel grip that encased your jaw, one squeeze away from turning it to dust. He could do it, and probably would if you pushed him enough. 

“What’re you doing here anyway? Don’t think I didn’t see you slinking out of my father’s office like a fucking whore,” he asked, releasing your jaw to drag his fingers across your lips, smearing your lipstick onto your cheek.

“I was in the middle of fitting Cliff for a new suit before you showed up,” you said, your voice quivering as you tried to compose yourself.

“Cliff? My mother hasn’t even called him Cliff in years,” he scoffed. “Jesus, the old man gets on me for taking a shortcut, but you’re just fucking your way up to the top, aren’t you?”

Impulse overtook your reasoning as you spat in his face, an acidic combination of satisfaction and terror wrestling in your gut as he stood frozen in shock, your saliva dribbling from just below his eye down to his chin. It wasn’t like you’d justify his insinuation with an answer, regardless of its validity. 

Suddenly, you felt stupid for taking the bait. Ben’s bite was always worse than his bark, practically trained by his father’s neglect to be desperate and snarling so that it was impossible to be near him without his foaming mouth claiming his pound of flesh. He had been jilted by his father yet again, becoming the world’s first superhero only to be told he was a failure for it. You, on the other hand, received his father’s praise and approval in kind, the street dog treated as pedigree. 

He wiped away the spit with an open hand, and in the same instance landed a harsh slap across your face, leaving your cheek stinging with the force he used. Fat tears clouded your vision and rolled down your cheeks as you trembled under his unrelenting gaze.

“I fucked every USO broad I could get my hands on, and none of ‘em could cry as pretty as you can,” he whispered, the barbs of his taunt cushioned by the cruelest lilt of nostalgia.

You’d seen how you looked when you cried before, having locked yourself in your fair share of bathrooms after being brought to tears by his words growing up. Your face always contorted, pained and puffy as tears fell from your red eyes, snot dripping from your nose. You never cried neatly, it was always raw and painful, your grief clawing its way out from deep within you. He liked that, though, the mess, the tangible evidence of how sensitive and vulnerable you were compared to him. 

How greedy, to have the adoration of the American public and it still not be enough, to trek to Philadelphia just to get affirmation from his father and now, you–as if you mattered, as if Vought and the military gave a shit what you thought of Soldier Boy. He cared, though, enough to take out his anger twofold on you for having the audacity to be favored by his father. 

“No one can make me cry like you can,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your tears.

You had fucked him once, or more like he fucked you, a few days after he got drafted and his parents unexpectedly threw him a farewell party. People are creatures of habit, and the circumstances, even the room were almost identical to that night you stumbled back into the party–mascara absolutely ruined, your legs too weak to dance, and the taste of his cum spoiling the expensive wine that was being served. You didn’t have illusions of any sentimentality behind the encounter. There was a decent chance he wasn’t going to make it back home, so you both seemed to figure ‘why not.’ With the self-loathing that had crept up on you as the night went on, you almost hoped he wouldn’t.

That didn’t stop you this time from letting yourself kiss him back when he pressed his lips to yours. His lips were soft, his hands too as he cradled the cheek he smacked, the contact causing you to gasp in pain. His other hand was on your waist, holding you steady in place. You were sure you couldn’t move if you tried, but you didn’t bother, allowing his tongue in your mouth. Part of you wanted to bite him, for spite and to see what would happen, if he could even feel something like that, but you decided against it when he brushed his thumb against your sore cheek again. He’d use any excuse to pull more tears from you.

You put your hands on his, hoping he could at least feel you trying to push them away. “He’s waiting for me.”

“‘Course he is,” he sneered, gripping your waist a bit tighter before releasing you.

The room was silent for a few moments before you said, “See you around.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bet on it, sweetheart.”

As soon as he stormed out of the room, you could feel yourself breathe better. You hurriedly ran into a nearby bathroom to straighten out your appearance before returning to his father’s office, giving a courteous knock before hearing a muffled ‘Come in!’

The ashtray was considerably more full than when you’d left, and the cigarette between Cliff’s fingers was steadily smoldering down to a nub. You figured it best not to ask him about it.

“What took you so long?” Cliff asked.

“Ben and I were just catching up.”

His eyes landed on your bruised cheek, and his tongue darted out from between his lips. “Alright. I suppose we should get back to it, then.”

Nodding, you went over to your bag in the corner of the room, searching for the measuring tape you’d been using while trying to ignore your patron’s burning gaze you felt on your back. The irony wasn’t lost on you that like your parents, your livelihood depended on him. You wondered why Ben so desperately wanted that same fate.

By 1952 you’d gotten married and promptly divorced after less than a year and a half of marriage, moving to Los Angeles and setting up shop there not long after the deaths of your father and mother in quick succession. Both decisions took you out of Cliff Conway’s good graces, though your reputation and talent preceded you. Within a few months of opening your new shop, your clientele had expanded to Hollywood stars, and you had to hire a handful of employees to help run the front end of things while you toiled away at your sewing machine most days. As awards season rolled around, you found yourself turning away customers as you simply didn’t have the time or resources to handle them all.

Plenty of people you’d never expected to see in person came into your shop, but you were particularly taken aback a week before the Oscars when a no-name starlet bleached hair and what you could assume was equally bleached teeth came ambling in with Ben–no, Soldier Boy, right behind her in the same costume he had been wearing the last time you saw him in 1945. The two of you made eye contact, and though he gave you the slightest smile, he made no other effort to indicate he knew you. Discretion, she was the jealous type.

You’d found the starlet’s dress, pointing out the customizations you’d done based on her request. She beamed at you before disappearing into one of the dressing rooms with it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said.

“Me either, ‘til Darlene mentioned the shop name, same one as back in Philly.”

You shrugged. “Things aren’t so bad out here. Fresh start after the divorce, ya know?”

“You seeing anyone?”

“No, but you are.”

He scoffed. “She’s an easy fuck, besides MGM is paying me out the ass to bring her as my date to the Oscars.”

“Congratulations on the Best Picture nomination, by the way,” you said.

You had seen the movie, his fabricated life story, but the rage you felt upon seeing him seven years prior was no longer existent. He’d cemented his place in American history on lies, and there was nothing you could do about it. Besides, you felt too old and far too busy to let yourself get mad about things like that the way you used to.

“I think we got a pretty good shot of winning,” he said. “It’s all about who you schmooze, and I doubt Gene Kelly’s got a company like Vought sending blank checks and gift baskets to the Academy.”

“You never know.”

His response was interrupted by a squeal, though you couldn’t tell until the girl shuffled out of the dressing room whether it was in horror or delight. To your relief, it was the latter, an almost painful looking smile plastered across her face as she posed in her dress for Ben.

“So? Isn’t it perfect?” she asked, nearly glaring at Ben for not complimenting her quickly enough for her liking.

“Goddamn honey, you look like a million bucks. They’ll start casting you instead of that Marilyn Monroe girl.”

You nearly snorted. Marilyn wasn’t all that well known, but she had the makings of a star, and the kindness that made her one of your favorite customers as opposed to the more demanding clients that would come in and expect you to drop everything for them. It was almost painful watching the starlet fawn over herself while trying to pull as many compliments from Ben as she could. What a floozy. Then again, you hadn’t done much different when you were first starting out in your own career.

Finally, when it seemed like she had enough of herself, she retreated back into the dressing room to change.

“You know, I’m staying at the Roosevelt.”

“That’s nice. They have a great bar.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink later, then?”

You nodded your head toward the dressing room. “She won’t have a fit?”

“She’s got a place with half a dozen other MGM broads,” he said. “She can cry on cue, but it’s still not as pretty as when you do it.”

You narrowed your eyes a bit, considering the implications of his proposal. The judgment you’d made on him years ago came back to you, he’s just Ben, and he cheated. Though not on the same scale, you supposed you had too. Besides, Los Angeles wasn’t Philadelphia, both of you could get away with a lot more here than under the watchful eye of his father. 

Grabbing the nearby receipt book, you handed him a pencil and pointed to a blank receipt, his conspiratorial tone rubbing off on you. It was odd, him speaking to you as if you were old friends or partners in crime, even. You’d never considered him like that, the differences in status made apparent to you from an early age. Even still, you certainly weren’t America’s hero.

He scribbled the room number and reservation onto the paper. “It’s under a fake name.”

“Alright, maybe I can get there before midnight. No promises,” you said, flipping to a new page just as his date emerged from the dressing room, her Oscar-night gown back in the protective bag you’d provided.

The dress had already been billed to MGM, though you knew by now it came out of whatever stipend the production company gave her, a move meant to make up-and-coming stars seem more important than they were in hopes of catching the attention of the right people. She had to know her chances were slim to none on her own, it was for everyone. For a moment you felt a bit bad for being so quick to judge earlier, even if you didn’t particularly like her attitude, she wasn’t the only one trying to claw her way to top billing in a uniquely cannibalistic city. In the nearly two years since you’d opened the shop, it stopped surprising you when certain clients wouldn’t come in anymore or would come in months after whatever event you’d styled them for to sell their dresses back to you to make rent. 

Ben glanced at you one more time before the starlet eagerly dragged him out of the shop, onto the next pre-Oscars errand. Funny, him putting up with a day of bullshit just to see if you’d be here. Maybe he’d find an excuse to blow her off now that he did what he’d set out to do. You looked at the clock on the wall and then to the unfinished orders laying on your sewing machine or draped over mannequins. There was no way you’d make it to the Roosevelt before midnight, and you weren’t sentimental enough to feel particularly bad about it.

[copias-sewer-rat]

Against the forces of Heaven and Hell, just us.

PART 1|PART 2|

What does really mean to fall? As an angel that question wasn’t unfamiliar to you. Moreover, you have been questioning the heavenly gospel for a very long time. It all started when you met a human-loving demon and ever since then you had strayed from heaven’s path.

⸸tags: Good Omens AU, no serious tw (for now) but maybe sexual innuendos and foul language, around 4.5K words, Copia goes by he/they and the angel has no pronouns so it fits everyone who reads. Hope you enjoy this first chapter!

⸸ my masterlist ⸸

⸸ read it on Ao3 ⸸

I. ENJOY THE SILENCE

“Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, another thing to fall.”

William Shakespeare - Measure for Measure

----

18/8/2023

'There is something beautiful about demons. You might think it is ineffable, but I’ve had enough time to think, to know what is so special about them, let me tell you. Mainly, they get to experience all the pleasures that humans create for themselves without any sort of negative consequence. Exquisite food and refreshing beverages are those pleasures that we angels can indulge in but can never take too far. Demons can also enjoy the sin of the flesh without repercussion -not that I am interested, just curious…- Demons get all that, but we get to love and trust God, and that is more than enough. I have no doubt about God’s love, but humans portray the enjoyment of another one’s body in such a pure way it makes me a tad jealous.'

----

You put your diary down, not really sure how to continue something like that. You decide to focus on something else. The painting before you is mesmerizing. The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez, portrays the most tender embrace between a man and a woman. The image is still, but you swear that you can see the man gently caressing the face of his lover, and the woman trying to put her hands around the man’s neck. The painting was part of a temporary exhibition. It was brought from Milan to the Galeria degli Uffizi in Firenze-or Florence as English people say-. There is where you spend most of your time, contemplating your existence as an immortal and holy being.

Looking at the picture, you begin to reminisce about how your love and understanding of human art and knowledge, and as a result of humans themselves, had started in the first place. Your arrival to Earth had been long ago, exactly the day when the Great Library of Alexandria had burned down in 48 BC. The pain for all the knowledge lost was enough to make you come down from heaven, but it was too late. You had been interested in humans for a while. Curious about those creatures God had created so long ago in her image. However, your appreciation of humans was always done from the distance of your heavenly office.

The Library of Alexandria was an astonishing building, so enormous in size and in meaning. Formed by structures of white and grey stone with beautiful engravings, all of it surrounded by a luscious garden and the glorious city of Alexandria itself. It was the place the humans had erected to keep their precious knowledge for all eternity. So, when you saw the fire start, you had no choice but to come down. You had gone down to Earth without permission. The punishment would be severe but nothing compared to what you were feeling by seeing those flames. It was knowledge being destroyed without salvation, you had to do something, and maybe that thought alone made you a bit selfish. Despite that, not even a miracle could help restore so much without being too obvious.

Not everything was bad that day, however. There, between the clouds of smoke and the heat from the flames you had met your very first demon. For sure, it would have been a negative experience if it hadn’t been for him. They stood there, in the exact middle of the library, looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Their beauty was ethereal and androgynous, which felt a bit dangerous. Their hair, long, wavy and soft brown fell gracefully over their shoulders. Also, two locks of hair on the top of his hair were raised as if to give the impression that he had horns, bold choice. Lastly, he wore a black tunic, which was very fitting for a demon. The demonic look was completed by pointy ears and a couple of mismatched eyes, one white and one green and… freckles. They were very light but also distributed throughout the whole face and making it look like a map of the night sky. But that wasn’t all. It seemed that the demon had smeared some of the ash on his eyes, maybe as some kind of human disguise that you didn’t understand, or even to celebrate his demonic deed.

You were about to blame him for the fire until you noticed the look on his face. He seemed tired and in distress. A pain equal to yours for the loss of words, art and knowledge.

“I assume this wasn’t your doing? Judging by your expression…” The demon suddenly turned to you, a bit taken aback. He hadn’t noticed your presence until that very instant, and for sure they weren’t expecting an angel.

“N-no, i- it wasn’t. But it wasn’t a human act either.” - You did not know that demons stuttered…- He looked down and you could swear you could hear the cogs turning in his head.

“You then believe this despicable act to have been caused by another demon?” He shook his head. “Not exactly. If this had been planned or acted by my kind, I would have known.”

“Are you insinuating this was a plan from my side? Preposterous! It is impossible. God would never allow something like this to happen!” The demon chuckled bitterly at your words.

“You haven’t been down here a lot, huh, angel?” He savoured that last word as if he hadn’t said it in a long time. It was your time to shake your head. “God and her archangels like to do things like these from time to time, or even allow them to happen, just to test humans and have some fun.” You could not believe your ears. You hadn’t read anything of the sort while in heaven.

“How do I know you are not lying to me? Why put that ash around your eyes if it is not to disguise yourself?” The demon rose an eyebrow at your accusation.

“Ash? What are you-?” He touched his eyes and looked at his long-nailed fingers. “Oh… I hadn’t even noticed. It was so anguishing here during the fire… I tried to save everything I could, but some of the scrolls broke on my hands. Maybe I smeared the ash on my eyes without noticing…” He looked defeated, but still gave you a toothy smile. His fangs were big and shiny. You felt your cheeks heat a bit… weird.

“Ahem. Well, if it is any consolation… I believe you, demon. But I do NOT believe that this was heaven’s doing.” The demonic creature tilted their head.

“Stay a bit longer on Earth, angel. Then you will see.” You were surprised at their suggestion. They probably could see it too because you heard a chuckle.

“Are you trying to tempt me?” The demon fully laughed at your question.

“Clearly not, angel. Do you find Earth tempting by any chance?”

“It is not like that. But obviously Earth is where temptations and sin become a reality, you could be planning something.” You scoffed. They smiled at your words and for the first time, you could truly see that their demonic nature.

“Then we are lucky that you seem to be such a… pure and incorruptible angel…” An awkward cough escaped your lips, but your eyes could not leave the demon’s mismatched ones. You thought to yourself that he didn’t know you, that you didn’t know what you are capable of yourself, and that scared you a bit. You decided to put up the front of the perfect angel and keep the conversation going.

“I should get back, there is a lot of paperwork waiting for me… after this… But even if I did accept to stay here… I wouldn’t trust anybody who is so rude that they don’t even introduce themselves in the first place.” The nameless demon snorted at your comment, made a deep but gentle reverence and looked back at you.

“The name’s Copia. What about you, angel?” You told them your name and they hummed. “Bel nome. It suits you.”

“What was that?”

“Mm? Oh! Italian. It is a language that some humans will start speaking in a few centuries, it is my favourite one, so I am learning it in advance.” That was endearing. He was interested in human culture as you were, even more, if that was possible.

“I think I will hang out on Earth for a bit, then… I will ask for a transfer, I know an angel in the heavenly administration that owes me a favour. Maybe I can investigate what’s going on, and learn a thing or two about humans.” Copia nodded.

“Angel, you won’t regret it, I assure you. Humans are the most delectable little creatures. I would also like to know the reason for the fire. Maybe we can even work together.” Suddenly the demon Copia was right beside you, nudging at your side.

“What a crazy idea! We belong to different sides. Neither of them would allow something like that!” To your words, Copia exhaled exaggeratedly.

“You would be surprised to know how little do hell and heaven actually care about what happens here.” You turned to look at him with a brow raised.

“That I cannot believe. Heaven cares a great deal about the humans, I have read about it.” Copia crossed his arms, as if about to lecture you.

“Antagonizing hell and caring for humans are two different things, angel. Heaven and hell only want to be on top, like greedy lovers who secretly hate one another but cannot stop fucking. It is a game of power, humans are only the pawns.” You blushed at his choice of words.

“What are you saying, demon?”

“I am saying that there are beings like you and me that love humans because they are deeply interesting and complex, but that is not the norm. I would like it to be though.” Me too, you thought. You also thought about the nature of the demon right in front of you. He was so different to those you had heard about up in heaven. You were told they were arrogant and selfish creatures, but Copia didn’t seem like either of those things.

“How do you know so much? Who are you?” To your question, Copia gave you a guttural laugh.

“That is a conversation for another time I am afraid, angel. After all, we just met. I cannot give away all my secrets on our first encounter.” You felt your cheeks heat again as the demon’s eyes glistened with an emotion that you didn’t couldn’t quite place yet.

You hadn’t noticed, but during your conversation with Copia there had been black clouds forming above you, and then something started to fall. You extended your hand and grabbed what seemed to be floating flakes.

“Do you know what is this, Copia?”

“Well, humans would call it snow. Which is very cold, previously-condensed water falling to the Earth. But this isn’t it. This is ash from the fire, a reminder of my failure.”

“You did not fail… you couldn’t have known.” You were surprised by your compassionate tone. You were having compassion for a demon.

“Thank you for the kind words, but I do not deserve them. I am a demon, remember?” It was like they just read your mind.

“It is taking me a bit to actually believe that, Copia. And snow sounds beautiful, I wish I could see the real deal.” You smiled at him.

“You will someday, angel. I am sure.” There was a somber aura to his tone, as if he wasn’t entirely sure about it but wanted to believe that it would happen nonetheless.

As the flakes continued to fall, both of you were starting to get covered in ash. The feeling on your skin was not an unwelcome one, it felt soft and gentle. You touched your arm, taking all the flakes that had fallen there and making a trail on your skin. Copia looked at you with an amused look. Then, you looked at your ash-coated fingers and thought of something. You turned so Copia could not look at your face. The ash was easy to manipulate, dark and velvety, and in an instant you had copied Copia’s ‘eye makeup’. With a twirl of your feet, you showed the demon your new look and he rose his eyebrows.

“How do I look?” You said adorably cupping your face.

“With all honesty, I don’t think it is too flattering on you, angioletto.” You smiled.

“I imagined so. You looked so cool, I wanted to give it a shot.”

“Cool, huh… I guess it adds to the demonic look.”

“It is more than that, I think. It accentuates your eyes, gives them depth and character.” You stepped closer, getting on your tiptoes, trying to prove the statement to yourself. Copia rose his eyebrows again. There was also a small tint of pink on his cheeks.

“I-in any case. I think is time for me to go.”

“Oh… then wait for just a second.” Very gently you took a carcass of a scroll that was at your feet, put your hand over it and miracled it back to its original state. It was a tiny miracle, nobody would notice. “We cannot do this with the whole library sadly, but not everything is lost, Copia. There is always hope, and we will find out why this happened.” You handed him the scroll, it seemed to be a poem, but you were not sure of what. Copia gave you a puzzled look. “Have this as a memento, as a reminder to keep loving humans, no matter what.”

Copia extended his hand and grabbed the scroll. You were sure that it was an accident but his fingers brushed yours, just for a second. You felt the heat of his skin, and even for a moment, it felt intoxicating. That is when it all began for you, since then you became obsessed with the human idea of connection and all its derivatives.

Copia took the scroll and hugged it tightly.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That is perfectly fine, Copia.”

You smiled, said your goodbyes to them and left.

----

The leader of your heavenly section was pissed, but ultimately they let you get off with only a warning. They didn’t even notice the miracle. It was then time to visit the administrative section of heaven that was in charge of assigning angels to Earth. It was a section that not many visited, most did not want to spend time there. For a second, you remembered your conversation with Copia. How he had told you that heaven and hell didn’t care at all. Maybe he was right. You reached your destination: the desk of the angel that owed you a favour.

You had helped them a while ago to get the post they currently held. The angel did not want to work much. They wanted to be in a section that did not receive many visits or paperwork. You suggested the Earth dispatch section, talked to the right people and the angel was transferred. You did not think at the time that little favour would help you in the future, but you were glad it did.

You told the angel that you wanted to be dispatched to Earth. They asked you for how long and you answered that indefinitely. They looked at you as if you were the weirdest being in existence. Maybe you were. After a lot of convincing, your wish came true.

The first day on Earth was difficult. You had been dispatched close to Alexandria and so you decided to look for any clues that would point towards the reason for the fire or even its culprit. Sadly, when you got to the destroyed remnants of the library, almost every salvageable piece of art or literature had been ransacked. You felt defeated, and it was only your first day on Earth. This is what you always wanted, a purpose linked to humans. You weren’t going to give up so easily.

It was difficult to navigate the library, or what stood of it. Pillars and debris making inaccessible some of its most important sections. After a couple of hours of investigation without any luck, you were properly ready to give up. Suddenly, something caught your eye, you don’t remember how, it was like an instinct of some sort, but then you saw a section that wasn’t there before. It was also destroyed in its majority and everything inside was burned to the ground, but there was a name on the entrance, the name of the section which you learned later, it translated to English as: ‘The Shared Archive’. You decided to give it a shot, to try and find anything of worth, and you did.

Inside a pile of ash, you found a scroll, it seemed intact enough, so you took it. You didn’t know what it said at first, but time later when you were able to translate it you were shocked by its content. The scroll said:

“Cain kills Abel - Heaven +1; Abel kills Cain - Hell +1”

----

You rise from your seat. It had been an hour since you had put your diary down. People were starting to look at you weirdly, but you don’t care. The gallery was about to close for the day so you took your leave. You had been reminiscing for far too long, and you were late. The streets of Florence were as always full of life, with locals enjoying the afternoon and tourists taking pictures and enjoying the beautiful sights that the city had to offer.

After a short walk, you reached your shop, an antiquary, full of paintings, statues, books and everything that could come to mind. The sign at the door said closed, but the door was unlocked… weird. You stepped inside, not very sure about what was going to happen and-

“You are late, angioletto…” Copia’s voice surged from the shadows, a white eye piercing through the darkness of your store and looking directly at you.

“Dear, you scared the living heaven out of me!” Copia chuckled.

“Good, you deserve it. We are late. I made the reservation for 9 pm. It is 9 pm and we are not there.” You put your hands on your knees and gave Copia a small apology bow.

“I am very sorry, dear. I lost track of the time.” You hear Copia’s steps slowly getting closer to you and then a gloved hand graces your shoulder.

“It is okie-dokie, I know you would. That is why I moved the reservation to 9.30 pm.” You rise very slowly with an annoyed look on your face.

“You scoundrel of a demon! You are incorrigible… You made me worry for nothing!” Copia laughs uncontrollably, wiping a tear that had formed in his green eye because of the laughter. You feel embarrassed and a bit angry at him, which is noticeable by the red on your ears.

“It is quite impressive that you made it here before the sunrise. Were you at the Galleria degli Uffici again?” You press your lips, feeling seen by the demon.

“Em… yes…” The words come out timidly. “There was a new exhibition, I had to see it. You know how I am…” Copia smiles fondly and his fangs shine with the light coming from the outside.

“I know, I know… once again angioletto, that is why I changed the reservation. However, if we don’t make haste my efforts would have been in vain.” You nod, leaving the diary on the entrance table and making your exit with Copia by your side.

----

The sun has set, and the lights of the streetlamps mix with that of the full moon, drenching the city of Florence in a dreamy atmosphere as if had been painted by Claude Monet himself. Thanks to the ethereal shine of the city, you can now observe Copia who walks silently right beside you. He is wearing black gloves with golden nails on the outside. A long black coat covering a black turtleneck and the crimson suit pants he always likes to wear. Very smart and expensive black Italian tailored shoes cover his feet. The look is complete as always by the accessories: a silver upside-down cross necklace adorning his chest, a metal earring on his pointy left ear with the symbol of that band he likes to help sometimes and a pair of round sunglasses hiding his mismatched gaze -you had told him a thousand times that it wasn’t necessary, that wearing sunglasses in the dark would attract more attention to him rather than the fact that he had a white eye and a green eye, he didn’t care, he likes the drama-.

His hair was still long, over his shoulders for your disappointment, but still long. He has taken some of it in a ponytail and the rest is set loose- except for the curls on the top that look like horns, those are always there-. He now also has a few white hairs which he has miracled for himself to make everyone think that time passes for us, I think he likes feeling like a silver fox. He has also been rocking the facial hair for a couple of years now, with sideburns and a pencil moustache to be exact. To top it all off, he always wears a bit of makeup, ever since he could after you had met him actually, a black upper lip and some black eyeliner and eye shadow. Some things stay the same however, you can still see the freckles that have always adorned his face. You love his freckles.

“Do I have something on my face?” Copia asks, you have been staring for too long. Bollocks.

“N-no, I was just wondering why you were wearing the sunglasses during the night again. Everyone is staring at you.” You try to excuse yourself.

“Oh, so you don’t like when everyone looks at me? Do you want me all to yourself, angel?” Your excuse bites you in the arse and now you are beet red, luckily there isn’t much light and Copia might not notice.

“On the contraire, my dear. You are too precious to keep to myself, that is why everyone is cheering your name when you help that little band of yours… They can’t get enough of you.” You frown at your own words, you just wanted to take the iron off the conversation, but you just ended up being crushed by an anvil of your own creation. Copia stayed silent at that, expression unreadable under the dark veil of the city.

Copia and you were nothing, just associates. You had been just that for centuries, always side by side. You helped humans, you enjoyed the pleasures of a human life, you spent your time right beside the other and also lived your own lives, but nothing had ever happened between the two of you. Not that it could ever happen, you are an angel and they are a demon, being together would be sacrilegious and most certainly it would make you fall. If you fell, there would be nothing left for you, all your heavenly purpose gone, just because you indulged in your carnal desires. Even if you did, maybe Copia didn’t feel the same towards you. You had heard all about his one-night stands and his participation in orgies from that insolent satanic Papal figure that Copia calls a friend. Nonetheless, there had been moments during your partnership when Copia’s behaviour had made you think that something else would be possible. Lingering touches, furtive looks and thoughtful gestures made you fall more and more. You weren’t falling, but you were falling. That scared you plenty, but it was harder trying to deal with Copia’s absence for weeks at a time helping the band which left for heart aching in pain. You decided to stop thinking about that.

----

At 9.25 pm you both enter your favourite restaurant. A very typical Italian restaurant that served Copia’s rigatoni of choice and your favourite pizza. With time it had become your spot. It wasn’t just a restaurant anymore, it was a place to meet and share information, to celebrate, to release stress by eating or just to spend time with one another. The restaurant was quite humble and very aesthetically Italian, which for you was a plus. Many of the eating spots throughout the city had become tourist traps, so you were grateful to keep the little spot intact. You had to help a couple of times with some miracles to avoid bankruptcy, but nothing too serious, just for the benefit of the family that owned the restaurant.

Carlo, the older son of the owner, has already your table prepared with your water and Copia’s wine, you sit and make your usual order. Apart from that both of you stay silent for a while, the awkwardness from your previous conversation still lingering in the air.

“I have to tell you something…” Copia finally breaks the silence.

“What is it?” You ask, taking a sip of your water.

“Do you remember when I sent you a message a couple of weeks ago when I was on the European tour?”

“Yes, you mentioned that you had found something, but you said nothing else…”

“Well, that was because I wasn’t quite sure, but now I am. I have found something.” You open your mouth slightly, not knowing what to say. “I have found a scroll, angel. One that is legible.” Your mouth opens completely and your eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Are you sure? We have been tricked before.” Copia nods.

“I know, that is why I have checked with my contacts…” You huff.

“You know I don’t like your ‘contacts’.”

“Yes, well, we have no other way of telling if it is real.” You stay silent, looking at your water.

“Have you translated it already?” You look back up to Copia’s eyes, looking for an answer and the smiles.

“Yes, and it is a very important one…”

“What-” Instead of telling you, Copia hands you a piece of paper. On it, there is a picture of a scroll with a writing in old Latin and under it a translation written in pen:

“Judas betrays Jesus +1 hell; Judas stays with Jesus +1 heaven”

----------------------

Here is the very first part of the Good Omens/Ghost AU with our dear Copia as our personal Crowley (also I am back at using song titles for the chapters). I have a lot of plans for this AU (even little side stories and drawings) so get hyped! This doesn't mean that I have abandoned other projects, I just had an ADHD moment with this fic so I had to do it. Let me know what you think as always and thank you for all the support.

[desired-misery]

Leon "I will culture you through conversational osmosis whether you like it or not, Hunnigan" Kennedy | Ingrid POV

...

There is a little hiccup in the planning; the principal is very nervous about something, says that he needs Condor to meet him at his office. It raises Ingrid’s suspicions, but Condor is not that worried.

“Guys like this get nervous all the time, it’s probably just cold feet.” Condor explains as he parks the car. It is just past 1900, so the office building is empty of most people. Ingrid has permission to hack into the building’s security systems to ensure things remain unlocked for Condor, so she can watch Condor approach through camera feeds.

“He probably believes the information he has is more valuable than it really is, so he’s jumping at shadows. All I gotta do is show up, smooth over some ruffled feathers, prove that I’m taking things seriously, and he’ll be easy to talk back into getting stateside again.”

Condor usually does not talk this much, not to explain things like this. He is very relaxed. Ingrid watches him stroll into the building and chat with the security guard for a moment as he waits for Vaughn to get over himself and buzz him up. Ingrid does not know what any of the operatives look like; that isn’t part of the files she gets access to, so she studies Condor through the security cameras as he makes his way to the elevators.

It is hard to get a sense of him without anyone next to him to put him in context, but Condor isn’t built like she thought he was. He is on the leaner side, looking like an average white man. She was expecting to see a burly, muscly man squeezed into an ill-fitted suit, looking way out of place, but Condor fits right in the corporate world. She cannot tell what color his eyes are or even exactly what shade is his hair other than it isn’t darker than a light brown. His hair is longer than she was expecting, too. She has been picturing him with a buzz-cut, like all Hollywood soldiers are depicted with.

“Don’t laugh if I say something cheesy into the comms; sometimes I gotta give these guys the kind of act they’re expecting to get them to calm down.” Condor is looking at his reflection in the elevator, fiddling with the earpiece wire running under his jacket. He adjusts it, making it more visible.

“Are you going to quote movie lines at me?” Ingrid asks, amused. Condor is quite the movie buff. Most of his references slide over Ingrid’s head, but Tony likes them a lot. It never fails to make Tony chuckle, which Condor must take pride in (although he would never admit that).

“Absolutely, Q.”

“Hm?”

Condor’s sigh is suffering, dramatic. “You’ve never watched a James Bond movie? What kind of secret agent are you?”

“A boring one,” Ingrid replies. She absolutely would not call herself a secret agent. 

Condor hums. “That’s terrible. Where’s your sense of adventure? Of suspense?”

“Oh, I get more than plenty of that at work. Mostly from an agent by the name of Condor.”

It is strange to be able to see Condor smile in response to something she says.

...

[damiansgrayson]

Dick kills for the second time, Jason finds out about the first. (ficlet)

Amy Rohrbach is the one to give him permission when she hands him back his badge and gun. The one to say, “As a police officer…you have more options.”

Her words run through Dick’s mind as he goes to follow up with the reporter; the one who is dead only minutes later by a bullet through the head as glass flies everywhere and Desmond crashes through the window. Dick’s on his feet in minutes, already attacking, trying not to scream in rage as the words fall out. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Part demand, part secret plea.

“There isn’t one, Nightwing. Not one. That’s the best part.”

Mass murderer. Domestic terrorist. The former residents of his building on floors one through three probably died instantly when the bomb went off. But four and five... the floors fell through on them. They were crushed, trapped, they died of internal injuries and smoke inhalation. And floor six... they burned. 

Roland continues, knowing he's finding weaknesses Dick refuses to give into. “Nor is there a single good reason for me to harm a hair on your head. The essential truth of your nature is that you could take every beating I could dish out. You might even enjoy them. You have absolutely no regard for your personal safety. But the people around you, well! That’s a different matter, isn’t it?

“I’ll take out the people you care about- hell even strangers you stand next to on the street. You won’t be able to shake someone’s hand without marking them for death.”

After his parents, Dick knows all too well about the mark of death. 

“Do you like being alone, Dick? I’ll make sure you can’t save any of them. I’ll make sure you relive over and over your failure to save your relationship, your circus, the residents of your building, Ms Michaels- that’s how I'll take you apart. Loved one by loved one. Innocent by innocent. It will never stop. I can keep this up forever. Every loved one, every stranger.”

He's right. It never stops. Dirty cops are one thing, but then there's the attorney generals, the judges, the jails that never seem to hold. It never stops. 

Punching harder, kicking stronger-- it’s all useless with someone like Blockbuster, who can take the beating without crumpling like most, but Dick continues. Rage flows through him in a messy way, the kind Bruce would say gets people killed, and he’d be right. Dick’s all but seeing red, trying to control himself and failing, trying to picture anything but the people he’d failed to save.

“And you’ll let me do it, won’t you? Just so you don’t tarnish your own moral righteousness. Just like Batman.”

One moment Roland is waxing poetic on threats; the next, he’s choking on his own blood as a wingding rips its way through his throat. 

Moral righteousness be damned, Dick can't forgive himself if he lets himself become locked in a deadly battle with his own form of the Joker. He still runs to the roof and retches before collapsing to his knees. He's failed. Bruce will never look at Dick the same way again. 

What else could he do? 

In a fugue state, he calls Amy about the body. She comes up with some alibi. He hands back the gun and badge and disappears before she can argue. 

-

Back in a hotel room as he gets ready to leave Bludhaven for a bit, he stops. Outside the window of the fire escape he hears someone, blinds closed and obscuring vision. Heavy step, large build. Sound of uniform. Doesn't want to be quiet. Not afraid. Dick readies himself. 

“Hello Dickard." 

Only one person uses the most irritating, immature forms of nicknames for him. “Go back to Gotham, Jason.”

Cursing Babs for tattling to his brother may not help the situation, but it's easier than getting a smug Jason to leave once the window is broken into and he climbs in. She trusted Jason more than others under Bruce's shadow had when he returned. Maybe it was shared hatred of the Joker- the way he'd killed Jason and killed Barbara's old life. Bodily traumatized by him in ways few of the other heroes had been. 

There's a million reasons he's here, but if comfort or concern was one of them, the last person he'd tell would be Dick. “Or what, you’ll kill me?”

“Fuck off,” Dick snarls, misplacing his guilt inside of anger. If he didn't hate himself so damn much, it might feel good. 

Of course the tone goes ignored, just as the words, and Jason launches into, “Remember how I told all of you that sometimes lethal force is necessary and all I got in return was lectures on morality?”

Dick ignores him.

“Remember how the second you wore the cowl you had me arrested because you ‘weren’t a hypocrite like Bruce’?” Dick hadn't so much had him arrested as hadn't stopped Gordon from doing it, but the point was moot. 

“Are you done?” 

“Is your fragile sense of self still intact?”

If it was anyone but him asking, Dick might have answered honestly. “It’s fine.”

“Seems too fine.” Jason says. “Guess I should have expected as much from a cop.”

The words feel like sandpaper on the gaping wound that is Dick’s guilt and before he can help it, he’s stupidly asking, “Are you saying I should have let him live?”

“That fucker?” Jason scoffs. “Of course not.”

“I’m not proud of it.” He says, as if that makes things better. As if a man wasn't dead, however monstrous, and Dick wasn't a killer, however once described  righteous. “I’m not proud of it, but it’s done. It’s not like the Joker.” 

Bruce wasn’t there to fix it. 

Jason stills in a way Dick doesn’t catch on to until the shaky tenor in his voice gives his anger away. “What do you mean ‘not like the Joker’?”

Years have passed and somehow Dick hadn’t realized it was still secret-- had he expected Tim to say something? Alfred? Or the Joker himself? It seems stupid to not have known Jason was never told but he’s the last one to want to admit how much more of a hypocrite he was this same night. “Nothing.”

“No, what? Not like the Joker killing me?” Jason irrationally demands, always jumping to the conclusion that no one loves him properly. “This time people you actually cared about were in danger?”

“No.” Dick huffs, glaring and admitting with a flat tone, “Not like when I killed the Joker.”

“The Joker is alive.”

Dick hates the mixed feelings that come up every time he thinks on those four words. “He wasn’t for about three minutes.”

“What, hit him wrong with your escrima stick?” 

“No.”

“I deserve to know. It’s him. If KGBeast-”

“Get out, Jason.”

“Not until you fess up.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Within the minute it takes for Jason to draw the gun, shoot it, and Dick to leap out of the way, his temper is already unleashing again. “What the fuck.”

“Please, if I thought you couldn’t dodge, I would shoot you. Now tell me.”

Despite knowing that he's allowing Jason's psychological manipulation to win, his anger overrides pride as he spits out, “I beat him to death with my own hands.”

Jason stands, gun lowering minutely. “Why?”

“He made it look like he had killed Tim.”

“That was enough? After all these years?” Jason challenged, unbelieving. “You’re not that stupid.”

“He took a crack about your death in the middle of it.” Dick looks away, not wanting to see Jason’s expression. "You had only been dead a few months."

Jason, for once, is more silent than he's ever been around Dick when not nose deep in a classic novel. 

“Bruce revived him.” Dick said, heading off the next logical question. “He didn’t want a death on my conscience.” Another death at least, Dick laments to himself.

There's a stillness to Jason's quiet fury as he says, “Bruce belongs in Arkham with him.”

Thinking of how he himself had  allowed Zucco to be riddled with bullets, or how he had manipulated lightning into frying Creighton, Dick can't help but mutter, “All of us do.”

“Would you do it again? Kill him?”

What was the Joker’s current murder count? Every death he saw in the reports was a death that Dick felt differently than before. Small, perhaps a bit broken, he confesses, “Yeah. Yeah, I probably would. But that’s not a good thing.” 

Right?

Jason cracks. “I hate him, Dick." He knows it's Bruce. "He doesn’t give a shit about anyone other than the clown who leaves carnage in his wake, doesn't care how many people die, or get paralyzed- we're just toy soldiers. He's a fucking monster for bringing him back to life. You know that, right? Why do you all act like I'm the crazy one to suggest we put him seven hundred feet under?”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Then why is he still alive?”

Thinking of mitigating potential damage, even if he has no place doing so, Dick asks, “Are you still asking about the Joker?”

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t shoot Dick for the remark. He wouldn’t have blamed him if anger arose, but instead the man shakes his head, looking out the window for a moment. “It’s not that easy.”

“You don't actually want Bruce dead,” he says. “Sometimes I worry you need the reminder.” 

Jason scoffs. “Hypocrite.”

“I know.” Dick sighs. After a moment, he goes back to the original question about the Joker. “I don’t have a new answer for you."

“Don’t let Bruce stop you next time.”

He deflects. “Don’t shoot up the manor on your way home.”

“No promises.”

“Alfred will shoot back,” Dick points out, although it's not like either would actually harm the other. 

“You going to hide out?”

Dick can't face their mentor. His adopted father, rather. Alfred might calm Bruce down, Babs might do a good job of distracting him, but the confrontation will happen regardless and Dick's too broken to let it happen now, however much of a coward it makes him. “I’m riding out to Donna’s in a bit.”

“At least Diana believes true justice can cost a life.” Triton, Maxwell Lord, Ares… names from the League files that Bruce keeps on its members. Diana tries peace before all else, though. Jason's spent too much time around Artemis if he thinks otherwise. 

Thinking about Wonder Woman only makes him think of Superman, though. There's no League member close to Bruce on the list of people he wants to fail less, and just the thought makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

He has to refocus. It's done. 

Jason’s demeanor toward Dick has shifted, and while there’s some chaos and upset brewing around Bruce, he’s at least postponed his anger at Dick. “If no one else tells you but me; you did the right thing.”

"This isn't some bonding moment, Jason!" Dick growls, yelling again. "I'm not this person!"

Jason rolls his eyes. "Delude yourself all you want. Just answer one question." 

Dick waits, even if he knows better. 

"If you hadn't been taught by Bruce, would you still be holding onto that no kill rule-," Ever one to cross a line to make a point; Jason finishes, "-Or would Zucco have died by your own hands too?"

"I know better than to be jury, judge, and executioner by now." Dick says. At least I should.

"Bludhaven isn't different enough from Gotham for you to actually believe the American justice system works. Even if it did, jails here don't hold either. How many people do you think he would have killed next?" 

Unsure who he’s arguing for anymore, he replies, "I can't prove that he would have."

"You're not that naive, no matter how much you want to be Superman's fanboy."

Dick waits a minute, and Jason doesn’t fill the silence, before finally admitting, "I couldn't let myself become Bruce. I couldn't create my own joker."

"Stop, you're going to make me have to respect you."

Quiet fills the space again.

“Just promise me you’ll go back to Gotham and stay out of the Nightwing costume.” It wouldn't be the first costume of his that Jason has taken, after all. 

“Oh, come on, this would be the perfect time for him to start using guns." Jason’s grinning.

As much as Dick wouldn’t mind punching him, he only rolls his eyes. “Have fun finding a place to fit them."

“I’m sure there’s room where you keep the fake butt padding, but fine. I can’t fit in your tiny suit anyway, some of us have muscles.”

“Some of us didn’t cheat by using the Lazarus pit." 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself."

“See you around." 

[davidmariottecomics]

Copyrights and Wrongs, Part 1

Hello there! 

Feels like it's been a bit since we last spoke, and I'm sorry for that. Two weekends ago, Becca and I were out of town (I'll share a little bit of that later) and then last weekend, I was just dealing with being really depressed and uninspired and I didn't want to just not write my blog, I didn't really want to do anything. I'm doing a bit better and am about to have a lot to talk about, probably for a few weeks (at least 2-3), so buckle up and get ready! This blog's a special one because appropriate for the time of year, it has HOMEWORK!!!

Also, as a head's up, this first part's going to be a bit shorter as Becca is at Cartoon-a Palooza starting this afternoon! More on that below too! 

What is Copyright? 

Copyright is both exactly what the name says and a much deeper, more complex thing. In a nutshell, it is the right to copy a creation. If you draw a piece of art, if you write a poem, if you design a machine or a building, if you compose music for a song, if you write a blog even (hehe!), under U.S. law, you are the owner of that work and other people can't use it without your permission. 

In more concrete terms, copyright is a form of intellectual property law that defines ownership and use of art under some pretty specific terms. The three biggest ones being: originality, creativity, and fixation. Originality asks if a work is original and unique. What that means is if you and your friend see a cool dog, and you both draw a picture of it, as long as your friend didn't just copy your exact picture, you both now have an original piece of work. Maybe the most commonly thought of example against originality is plagarism, where someone takes another person's written work and tries to pass it off as their own. Creativity is maybe the most nebulous term involved in determining copyright and often overlaps against originality, but should broadly be thought of as the work's intent and execution. Let's say you put together a Pintrest board of inspiration. It isn't meant to be a unique creation or piece of art unto itself, it's just a bit of reference. But if you printed all of the images from that Pintrest board out and collaged them into a piece of art, that would qualify as a creative effort. Finally, fixation refers to whether or not you actually made the thing in a trackable way. If I sing my cats a silly little song to announce their breakfast, but I never write that song down and it isn't ever recorded, it isn't fixed and there isn't proof that you've made the thing. However, if I shoot a TikTok of me singing that song to my cats, hey, I've got that record and I'm set. 

That's a very basic overview and, like I said, copyright is complicated. Being a set of laws revolving around ownership in a capitalist system, there're whole sections of the legal industry dedicated to arguing out and testing and defining the limits of copyright. The other really basic stuff you need to understand about copyright for the rest of this conversation are what you can do as a copyright holder, how long copyright lasts, and what "fair use" is.

Here it is from the horse's mouth--the U.S. Copyright office--but the rights a copyright holder has come down to reproduction, continuation, and distribution. You can make more of your work, either through copies or by creating more new work covered in part by your initial creation, and you can display it or sell it or perform it or otherwise make it available. As part of sale, you can also sell the copyright itself--transferring the ownership to someone else. A lot of comics is done with this step happening before the work is started as "work for hire." This basically says that if you're creating an image for a company that owns the copyright to, say, a character like Batman or property like Transformers, you understand that their copyright to the initial work of art supersedes that of the work you now produce for them, and in exchange, they're going to pay you for your creation and any rights that might otherwise be claimable with it. Not to say it too many times, but it's a complicated system and one that has a lot of very reasonable and righteous criticism lobbed at it. There's often a bit of a rub between copyright as protecting creators and copyright as protecting companies.  

Companies, for example, famously have been responsible for the expansion of copyright after the death of the author. Current U.S. law dictates copyright for modern creation lasts until the death of the author, plus 70 years. After that, works enter what we call the public domain (more on that in a sec). But just to really put that into perspective: Stephen King is still alive! And there is a distinct chance that his books won't be available until the 2100s under current copyright law. Or, rather, most of his books. If I did my math right, I believe Carrie will be available in 2069 because it actually pre-dates the current code! And this is further complicated by various other things--like work-for-hire creations and anonymous creations have different term limits, and we're reaching an interesting point where some original works are becoming public domain, but their derivative works are still copyrighted (like, say, Mickey Mouse. Steamboat Willie, the first Mickey short, will hit the public domain in 2024, but ALL OTHER MICKEY STUFF will still be under Disney). 

Which brings us back to public domain and fair use. To briefly tackle public domain first, it is the idea that after a copyright expires, that work is available to anyone to use as they please! You wanna tell a Dracula story? Do it! You wanna stage a Shakespeare play or adapt it into another medium? Do it! You wanna turn the Odyssey into a rock opera? Do it! Public domain says no rules, just right! Do it! It's a good idea to check what is in the public domain (Wikipedia linked as a starter) at any given point, just to see what may be available to you. This is going to be important in coming weeks. But everything in the public domain is fair use.

As are certain other things--if you're an Adobe subscriber and use photoshop, the software is copyrighted, but you've got fair use to use it, if you see a movie, the movie is copyrighted, but you've paid your money and have fair use to view it. There are certain limitations for research, education, and transformational uses too. I can't get into all the specifics, because they're varied and incredibly nuanced, but as a few examples: if Mad Magazine does a parody of X-Men called "Ecch-Men" or whatever (a thing they've definitely done), that's fair use--it's understood to be parody/satire and not the original work. If a textbook is publishing a historically significant photo, that may be under fair use. Posting a quote from a book on social media and in a locker room with or without proper attribution may be fair use (this is a real example). 

Okay, that's a lot to take in and we haven't even gotten to stuff like trademark, patent, or infringement. But hopefully that's enough of a primer that you'll feel confident in the coming weeks of conversation. 

Homework Time 

Toldja there'd be homework! So here's what we're going to be talking about over the next few weeks that you might wanna get yourself primed on too! 

First off - The Copyright office is conducting a study on generative AI and taking into account public opinion and information on it related specifically to copyright. Public comments are open until October 18th. I already submitted one--that I may reproduce in part or in full here--but if you are (rightfully) concerned about "A.I." as it currently exists and the many ways in which it is already violating copyright law, definitely take the time to share a comment! 

Secondly - You may've seen the news in the past 24 hours that Bill Willingham is releasing Fables into the public domain. I'm linking to the A.V. Club's article because well... you all know how I feel about Substack (and you may know how I feel about Willingham himself, which is to say, he sucks!). Next week, this'll be our first topic of discussion to see what that actually means. And please remember, I'm not an expert in copyright law, but I do wanna discuss it! 

Finally - No homework on this one, but the other thing we'll be talking about is digging a little bit deeper into work for hire and the complicated relationship between comics, artists, and licensed and unlicensed works. 

See ya next week! 

What I enjoyed this week(s): Blank Check (Podcast), Dungeons & Daddies (Podcast), Craig of the Creek (Cartoon), Honkai Star Rail (Video game), One Piece (Manga), One Piece (Live Action--I know there are some strong feelings on this take, but maybe we'll talk about that in a future blog), Birds of Prey #1 (Thompson, Romero, Bellaire - Comic), Blue Beetle #1 (Trujillo, Gutierrez, Quintanta - Comic), Shazam (Waid, Mora, Sanchez - Comic), Fire & Ice: Welcome to Smallville #1 (Starer, Bustos, Bonvillain - Comic), The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon (Book), Chainsaw Man (Manga), the Original McDonald's Museum. 

New Releases this week (9/13/2023): Sonic the Hedgehog #64 (Editor) Sonic the Hedgehog's 900th Adventure (Editor) 

Announcements: Becca is at Cartoon-a Palooza in Temecula on 9/15 & 9/16. It's a cool free all-ages little con, so come on out and see them! That's today and tomorrow at time of posting! They've got new stuff! 

Becca (and their letterer pal, Duke) has also got a new comic out! It's a short NSFW comic in Midnight Ouevres, the adult part of the Stellar Inflorescence Genshin Impact free zine! 

Wanna support me? Consider joining my Patreon!

I have a webstore! And I did, in fact, get a couple extra copies of Beast Wars Vol. 3! But check it out! Limited quantities on everything! 

I've still got a few things on my eBay, if you're looking for stuff! 

Pic of the Week: Becca and I were in Vegas a couple weekends ago, saw Weezer. It was fun. But on the way back, we stopped by the Original McDonald's Museum in San Bernadino! It's a fascinating little place, in the building that was built where the first McDonald's was before it was torn down and rebuilt to be a little theater. It's also not recognized by the McDonald's corporation because this is the location the founders kept for themselves when they ultimately sold the rest of the company to Ray Kroc. Anyway, so it's a funky little place with a lot of history and is full of toys and packaging and photos and outfits and this big Grimace suit with Becca! 

[narratingvoice]

[[The art in this post is by @missazura! My good friend @hushpupper commissioned it from her as a gift for me, and I'm thrilled! Please go reblog the original from her, and commission/donate to her!!! And of course, this work is not for commercial use. Please do not use it without permission from Azura.]]

I've been talking about fan art recently on this blog, and it's got me thinking about the many different ways people have interpreted my appearance based solely on my voice. I find it fascinating what elements pop up over and over again by very different artists. For example, almost everyone draws me with glasses, which is (sort of) correct, but how did you all guess that from just listening to me? I don't think I ever mention them. And the humanized idea of me.... well, I never thought I'd identify with being human, but I can't help but look at your art and think "yes, that's me!" You've captured my essence, if not my species.

So it got me thinking, I wonder if I should show my face. I'm talking about the player model I sometimes inhabit, of course. I never show it in the game because there's no need; I can control the Parable just fine in my ethereal state. I only created the model to playtest, so I can see things from Stanley's perspective and interact with them. Sometimes you need to have hands that you can bang against a button to make sure it works. And I thought, why not post a picture of myself here, so the fans can see how close their guesses were? So I contacted Azura, a very talented artist whom I previously worked with on Ultra Deluxe, and commissioned a portrait of myself.

Not that I want to discourage you from drawing art that does not look like this - on the contrary, the more diverse designs, the better! Please don't take this as "canon". But without further ado, drumroll please...

Ta-da!!! Who's that handsome devil? I think this portrait turned out marvellous! I shall hang it in my office next to my matching one of Stanley. Oh, and make it my profile pic too, why not. Do note that I don't always have that number of arms. The body is made of pure liquid crystal pixels and I can control its shape to whatever I need in the moment. For this, I struck a dynamic pose that I thought would show off my dynamism and gusto. And yes, the eyes ARE the glasses, it's more convenient that way to just have a texture instead of modelling the fiddly little arms. The headphones are the only removable part, as their purpose is to test my sound levels. Yes, I'm very proud of the simplicity and efficiency of my design. Everyone go say thank you to Azura for capturing it so well.

[movedtoferinehuntress]

⌜ ♥ @elisethetraveller ⌟ ―― Caitlyn ► 𝑀𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑦𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑙 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠 = ❝ 🧸 - Does your muse own any sentimental objects from their past? What makes it/them so special? ❞

Caitlyn wandered around her room with Wolfy, eyes taking in what little she had. Despite her luxurious life, Caitlyn had a minimal amount of objects in her room. The moment they enter the room to the left was shelves of trophies. Several were for her rifle events, a contest every year at the Hunter Pavillion on the outskirts of Piltover. There were also a few for her musical competitions and having the best composition or best sound. None of them mattered though. Vases of flowers and elephant ear plants were by the marblesque pillars, glistening from the sunlight that came in through her window.

There was a little musical box with a ballet dancer on it that would play a cute little song if she wound it up. On the right side of her room was a large dresser covered with pictures of her family, herself, and some of Jayce and herself as well. A large painting on the wall was of several horses running in an open field, with sun rays shining down on black and white horses. "Watch out," Caitlyn offered, waving her hand around the massive map of the undercity in the center of her room, decorated with red ribbons and her work of finding territories or the locations of incidents in search of the truth. Papers sprawled all over the floor and some illegally stolen documents from the enforcer's office that she took without permission. A small picture of Grayson could be seen stuck out of the folders as she walked toward the corner of her room.

"Here," Caitlyn said, as she opened up the glass shelving. "All of these stones, I've collected them over the years," Caitlyn said as she reached down toward one. She picked up a stone that looked like a budding flower of blue, and around it was calcite crystals infused around the dark blue. "This is Azurite, it reminds me of a sort of abstract rose, see," Caitlyn said, pointing at the way the rock formed what looked like petals. "This was one of the first gifts Jayce gave me. I've always been given gifts but never with meaning. I got this when I was sixteen, it was the first gift that someone thought about and put time and effort into it. There were very few people who cared to get to know me and what I liked," Caitlyn allowed Wolfy to hold it for a minute before tucking it back inside the shelving. "I'm quite proud of my rock collection,"

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 45: Court - Y/N again

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

You made your way back to the witness stand and sat down. The baby must’ve been sleeping because you didn’t feel the kicks like before.

The judge glanced at you. "I’ll remind you that you’re still under oath."

You nodded. "Yes, Your Honor," you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You watched as Dunby approached you.

"Dr. Seresin, from all the testimonies we’ve heard from your friends, it’s clear that you love your husband. But we haven’t asked you directly—while you and your husband didn’t talk much for four years, did you still love him?"

You nodded. "I did."

"Enough that divorce wasn’t an option for you?"

"There was a moment when I actually considered divorce," you admitted. "But I changed my mind while I was creating our home."

"And what was it that made you reconsider?"

"I was figuring out how to decorate our office," you explained.

"And what about that changed your mind?"

"I came across some old boxes we had packed away. Inside, I found photos of him during his days at the Naval Academy, and pictures from when we got married."

Dunby nodded, letting you continue as the courtroom fell silent, hanging on your every word.

"As I went through those photos, I remembered the man I fell in love with—the man who was always there for me, who made me feel like I could take on the world." You paused, the memories tugging at your emotions. "And it hit me that despite everything we had been through, I still loved him. I didn’t want to give up on us, no matter how hard it had gotten."

Dunby tilted his head slightly, his tone soft but inquisitive. "So, you chose to hold on to that love, even during the most difficult moments?"

You nodded. "Yes. It wasn’t easy. We were both hurting in our own ways, and the distance between us didn’t help. But deep down, I knew I still wanted him in my life. I knew that if we could get through the worst of it, we’d come out stronger."

"And what did finding those photos mean for you at that moment?" Dunby asked, stepping closer to the stand.

"They reminded me of what we built together. The life we shared, the memories we made." You swallowed hard, emotions welling up. "I realized that the man in those photos was still the man I loved. And I couldn’t just walk away from that."

Dunby paused for a moment, allowing the weight of your words to settle over the room. "So, despite the challenges and the years of separation, your love for Lieutenant Seresin never wavered?"

You smiled softly, glancing briefly at Jake, who was watching you with unwavering focus. "No, it never did. It may have been buried under the hurt and frustration, but it was always there."

"So, when you did consider divorce, would you have just written him a letter?"

You shook your head. "Goodness, no. Even when Max and I briefly tried to date, I told him straight away that we were better off as friends. I would’ve found out when Jake came back from deployment and talked to him in person."

"So, you didn’t write a letter or tell deputies that you wanted nothing to do with your husband?"

"No," you replied firmly. "I’m not like that."

Dunby smiled warmly at you. "That's good to know." He paused. "So, when Texas A&M contacted you about Dr. Stryker's information not adding up in his current grant project, how did you feel?"

"I felt confused. Dr. Stryker wasn't a person to make the kind of mistakes the University was saying especially after working with him in the past."

Dunby nodded thoughtfully, absorbing your response. "Confused—understandable, given your professional history with Dr. Stryker. Did you immediately think there was something more going on, or did you give him the benefit of the doubt?"

You shifted slightly in your seat. "At first, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had always been meticulous in his work, and the mistakes they were mentioning didn’t seem like something he would overlook."

"So, when you went to Wyoming to meet Dr. Stryker about his project was he aware?"

"No. When I found him, he seemed surprised."

Dunby tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "Surprised? In what way?"

You thought back to that moment, recalling the details. "He was caught off guard. It wasn’t just the surprise of me being there, but almost as if he didn’t expect anyone to be looking into the project so closely."

"So, the first time you met, how did he seem?"

"Irritable and agitated. He didn't like the questions I was asking and he definitely did not like my husband being there."

Dunby nodded, taking in your words. "Irritable and agitated—that must have set off some alarms for you. How did he respond to your husband being present?"

You took a deep breath. "He made it clear that he wasn’t happy about Jake being there. He kept glancing at him, like his presence was an intrusion. I could tell it was making him uncomfortable, but Jake was just there to support me."

Dunby leaned in slightly. "And did Dr. Stryker’s irritation raise any concerns for you about his intentions?"

You shrugged. "Not really, but I knew with Jake there, we weren't going to get very far so I told him we would look at the numbers with fresh eyes tomorrow."

Dunby nodded thoughtfully. "So, you made the decision to step back and revisit the project the next day. How did Dr. Stryker respond to that?"

"He seemed relieved, actually," you admitted. "Almost like he was glad to have a break from the conversation. It gave me the impression that he wasn’t prepared to discuss the details under the scrutiny he was facing."

Dunby considered your words for a moment before continuing. "And when you did return the next day, was there any change in his attitude or behavior?"

You nodded slightly. "He was calmer, more focused on the project."

"So, when did you realize something was wrong?'

"When I looked at the information he gave me."

Dunby raised an eyebrow. "The information he gave you—what stood out?"

You took a moment to gather your thoughts. "The data didn’t match what I knew about the project. The numbers were inconsistent, and some of the results seemed fabricated. It wasn’t just small mistakes—it was clear that something was deliberately off."

Dunby leaned in slightly, his voice steady. "And how did you react when you realized this?"

"I confronted him about it," you replied. "I asked him to explain the discrepancies, and that's when he told me that he intentionally did it to get me back to Wyoming and to get my husband away from him."

"Then what happened?" Dunby pressed.

"I remember getting upset and angry," you began, your voice steady. "I told him that what he did was unethical and unprofessional."

"And then?" he urged.

"The next thing I remember was waking up on a couch with a fire cracking in a fireplace in front of me."

Dunby’s brow furrowed as he processed your response. "You woke up on a couch? What happened between your confrontation and waking up?"

"I don’t remember much," you admitted, feeling the weight of the memory. "I remember feeling dizzy and then everything went dark. When I woke up, I was disoriented and confused, and I had no clue where I was."

"And did you see Dr. Stryker when you regained consciousness?" Dunby asked, his voice probing gently.

"Yes. He walked in with a tray of food for me."

Dunby raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And how did you feel when you saw him again? Were you angry, scared?"

"I was both," you replied, the emotions surfacing as you spoke. "I was still upset from our earlier conversation, and seeing him brought back all those feelings of betrayal and confusion. But I was also scared because I didn't know what he was planning."

Dunby nodded, encouraging you to continue. "And what did he say when he entered the room?"

"He was all cheerful and I asked him where I was and he told me home."

Dunby leaned in, his expression keen. "And did you believe him? Did you feel like you were at home?"

You shook your head slowly. "No, not at all. It felt wrong. I didn't recognize the place, and the way he said it felt off. It was like he was trying to reassure me, but I could sense something deeper was wrong."

"Then what happened?" Dunby prompted.

"I realized that he had drugged me with the coffee, but I told him that where we were wasn't my home. He began acting as though we were some sort of family and he was protecting me."

"Protecting you from who?"

"My husband, Jake," you clarified, pausing for a moment. "But then he kept going, talking about how if it weren't for me, he wouldn't be where he is today without my help with the book. Then he started turning it on Jake. How I was better off without him and that he would've never left me like Jake did."

Dunby's brow furrowed as he absorbed your words. "And how did that make you feel, hearing him say those things about Jake?"

"It made me angry," you replied, your voice steadying. "He was trying to manipulate me, and it felt like he was taking advantage of my vulnerability. I knew deep down that it was all lies."

Dunby nodded, encouraging you to continue. "What did you say to him in response?"

"I told him that he didn't know anything about my marriage or my feelings," you said, recalling the heated exchange. "I reminded him that Jake had always been there for me, despite our struggles. Dr. Stryker's words were just empty attempts to turn me against the person I love."

"And did he respond to that?" Dunby asked, his tone inquisitive.

"He didn't like it at all," you recalled. "He became defensive and tried to belittle my feelings for Jake. It was like he was desperate to convince me that I was better off with him. I could see the anger building beneath his surface, and it scared me."

Dunby leaned in closer. "Did you feel in danger at that moment?"

"Not until I realized that he had taken off my wedding ring and replaced it with one of his own. I told him he was insane and that really hit a nerve. He told me I was insane for staying with Jake and he was going to show me that he was so much better." You paused as you remembered what happened next. "He then grabbed my arm and told me I was going to learn to love him and he was never going to let me go."

Dunby’s expression turned serious, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air. "That sounds terrifying. How did you react when he grabbed your arm and made that statement?"

"I was in shock," you replied, your heart racing as the memory flooded back. "I couldn't believe what was happening. I felt like I was in a nightmare, and all I wanted was to escape."

"Definitely fear," you admitted. "I had never seen him like that before. The way he was acting felt so foreign to me. This wasn't the Dr. Stryker I had worked with."

Dunby nodded, his expression sympathetic. "That must have been unsettling. You mentioned that this behavior was completely out of character for him. Did that add to your fear?"

"Absolutely," you replied, your voice steady but still laced with emotion. "I knew him as a professional, someone who valued his work and reputation. This sudden shift felt like a mask had come off, revealing someone completely different. I realized then that I couldn't trust him."

"And in that moment, with him holding you and trying to convince you of his intentions, did you think about how you might escape?" Dunby asked, leaning in slightly.

"I did," you affirmed. "But I realized all the doors had locks and he had the only key."

"How did you escape then?"

"I didn't. The next morning as he informed me that I had to collect chicken eggs with him, I realized there was blood in my underwear."

Dunby's expression shifted, a mix of concern and focus. "Blood? That must have been alarming. What went through your mind at that moment?"

"I was terrified," you replied, your heart pounding at the memory. "I knew something was seriously wrong, and that's when I yelled to Dorian that I needed to go to the hospital."

Dunby leaned in closer, his interest piqued. "And how did Dr. Stryker react to your demand to go to the hospital?"

"Surprisingly, he didn't argue."

Dunby's eyebrows lifted in curiosity. "What do you mean by that? Why do you think he didn't argue?"

"I think he realized that my demand was serious," you explained, recalling the intensity of the moment. "He could see that I was genuinely frightened. It was as if he understood that pushing me further could lead to something he didn’t want—like me getting help or telling someone what had happened."

"And then what happened?" Dunby prompted, keen to hear more.

"He reluctantly agreed to take me," you said, your voice steadying as you recalled the next steps. "But even then, he acted as if it was a huge inconvenience. He didn’t show any real concern for my well-being; it felt more like he was trying to maintain control of the situation."

Dunby nodded, his expression serious. "So, when you finally got to the hospital, what happened?"

"We were brought into a room. Dorian addressed me as his wife, but when he turned around as they undressed me into a gown, I mouthed to the nurse that I needed help. It took her a bit, but she figured it out." You paused. "They were able to contact the authorities."

Dunby's eyes widened slightly, clearly recognizing the gravity of your situation. "So, the medical staff acted quickly to ensure your safety. How did you feel when they contacted the authorities?"

"I felt a mix of relief and fear," you admitted. "I was relieved that someone was finally going to intervene and help me, but I was also terrified of how Dorian would react if he found out I had reached out for help. I knew he wouldn’t take it well."

Dunby leaned in closer, his voice calm and reassuring. "What happened next when the authorities arrived?"

"I was being taken to another room, but when Dorian saw them, he pulled a knife to my stomach."

Dunby's expression hardened at your revelation, the tension in the room palpable. "He pulled a knife? That’s terrifying. What did you do in that moment?"

"I froze," you admitted, recalling the shock and fear that coursed through you. "I didn’t know how to react. My instincts told me to run, but I was too scared to move. I could see the anger in his eyes, and I knew he was serious."

Dunby nodded, encouraging you to continue. "And what happened next?"

"Agent Maxwell was able to persuade him to let me go."

Dunby's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Agent Maxwell intervened? How did he manage to diffuse the situation?"

You took a deep breath, recalling the tension of that moment. "He talked to Dorian calmly, trying to reason with him. He kept his voice steady, telling him that we could work things out, that there was no need for violence. It seemed to catch Dorian off guard."

"And did Dorian respond to that?" Dunby asked, his interest piqued.

"Yes," you replied, nodding. "For a brief moment, he hesitated. I could see the internal struggle on his face. It was as if Agent Maxwell's words were reaching him, even if just a little."

Dunby leaned in, his voice steady and encouraging. "And then what happened?"

"Maxwell took advantage of that hesitation and moved closer, positioning himself between Dorian and me," you explained. "He kept talking, slowly inching forward while maintaining eye contact with Dorian. It was like he was trying to establish a connection, to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this."

"That must have been a tense moment," Dunby noted. "How did you feel watching this unfold?"

"I felt a mix of fear and hope," you admitted. "I was terrified for my life, but I also felt a flicker of hope that maybe this would end without anyone getting hurt."

Dunby continued, "And what did Dorian do next?"

"After what felt like an eternity, Dorian finally dropped the knife," you recalled, your voice steadying. "He seemed defeated, like he realized he had gone too far. Max was able to disarm him and the officers were able to step in and take him into custody."

"And then what happened?" Dunby asked.

"Max came over to talk to me, and the doctor and nurse quickly checked me over. After that, Max took me outside, where Jake was waiting. As soon as he saw me, he ran over to me."

"So, Lieutenant Seresin was there for you after all of this?" Dunby asked.

"Of course," you replied confidently.

Dunby walked over to his table and picked up some papers. "Your Honor, these are the results from the forensic document examiner regarding the paperwork Dr. Seresin allegedly signed. The signature on the documents was forged."

He then walked over and set a copy of the results on Dorian's attorney’s table.

"No further questions, Your Honor," Dunby said and you watched him sit down.

The judge nodded, glancing at the documents before addressing the courtroom. "The court acknowledges the forensic results. Counsel, you may proceed with the next witness."

Dorian’s attorney, looking unsettled by the latest revelation, rose slowly from his seat. He glanced at the forged documents on his table before shifting his gaze toward you. "Dr. Seresin," he began, his tone noticeably more measured, "you've been through quite an ordeal, and I appreciate your patience." He paused briefly, as if gathering his thoughts. "But, I have to ask—throughout this entire process, with everything you’ve endured—do you believe Dr. Stryker was always malicious in his intentions, or was he acting out of desperation?"

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, weighing your response carefully. "I think he was driven by obsession. It may have started out as desperation, but at some point, he lost control of himself. What he did to me was wrong, no matter his intentions."

The attorney nodded slowly, seemingly dissatisfied but aware that his options were dwindling. "No further questions, Your Honor," he said quietly before returning to his seat.

The judge scanned the room, then turned to Mr. Dunby. "Mr. Dunby, is there anything further you wish to add?"

Mr. Dunby rose from his seat, clearing his throat. "Yes, Your Honor. I would like to recall Dr. Dorian Stryker to the stand."

A ripple of surprise passed through the courtroom. You glanced at Dunby, wondering what he had planned. Dr. Stryker, who had remained still and emotionless up to this point, appeared visibly tense as he looked over at his attorney.

The Judge nodded. "Very well, Mr. Dunby. Dr. Stryker, please retake the stand."

Tags: @buckystevloki-me @bellyliveslife @tgmreader @callsign-barbell @86laura11 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @guacam011y @nerdgirljen @hookslove1592 @dempy @djs8891 @smoothdogsgirl @devil-angel-winchester