#fic: Operation wanker

[courfee]

it's been exactly a year since the last chapter of Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule and I still miss it. This scene is probably one of my favourite things I've ever written and I've wanted to draw it for forever, so now seemed like an appropriate time

[courfee]

well, i did write a 10 things i hate about you jegulus AU....

jegulus but theyre actually just kat stratford and patrick verona

[tryin2writehere]

TW: Descriptions of violence and non-con, so if that is difficult for you to read about, please skip this bit of fic and take care of you!

Chapter 1 is

People In Glass Houses

Chapter 2

Edward Horniman’s voice was a trip down a long gravel road at midnight, rumbling out his ridiculously confident effusions. Sometimes that voice just uttering Susie’s name flared an inconvenient arousal within. She often contemplated how lovely it would be to hear him reading aloud, vacillating between his clipped, precise enunciations and his rocky waterfall oratory. Ideally, Eddie reading to her would include wrapping his mouth around luscious descriptions and dipping his tongue upon an abundance of flowery syllables. Gabriel García Márquez? Alice Munro? Nabokov? Truthfully, he could read the fucking Magna Carta, and she’d thrill to hear his voice octave-dive, the wondrous way it did sometimes. The man missed his calling; he should be working for Audible.

Certainly old enough to know her own foibles, Susie mentally cursed her wretched streak of impulsivity. If Eddie opened his mouth close enough (sans cigar,) she’d have him on the nearest flat surface.

Thank the stars for GPS. She hadn't even noticed the time pass, the landscape change, or the weather turn. Approaching Birmingham, a rainy gray wall shrouded fields and roads, and light fog swirled like ghosts on the ash tarmac. The polyrhythm of the windscreen wipers and the tiny raindrops swayed her back to meandering thoughts of Edward.

Susie decided it was inevitable. One day, one of them was going to hold eye contact a moment too long, and that would be it. It would sweep them away like a brush fire, feeding on their oxygen, and… what in the hell was she thinking? It was beyond reckless to even entertain fantasies, and she chided herself.

Far worse than carnal desires for Eddie was the equilibrium she noticed in his company. Accustomed to operating alone, Susie truly rarely felt lonely. But now? Now, she craved his steadying presence and the meter of their banter. She longed for the way he regarded her, listened earnestly, trusted her vault of knowledge and experience. She enjoyed the pull and push; it reset her in a way. He validated her authority even while he toyed with their power dynamic. She found his respect seemingly eclipsing his fear of her, and she wasn’t sure she’d EVER experienced this in a relationship that wasn’t blood-bound. She reveled in his quickened breathing pattern when she’d antagonized him, his parted mouth when astonished, his sweet tobacco and woody Blenheim smell, the intensity of his coal-black gaze in low light, the flexing of his enormous strong hands -

“Fucking hell,” she huffed a sigh in frustration, acutely aware that she’d circled back around to lust. Again.

As she pulled into the Walsh’s Gym car park, she drew her thoughts to the task ahead: how to coax a bargain from a notoriously licentious wanker. As luck would have it, Susie excelled in appealing to the pragmatism of the depraved, and this bolstered her confidence.

“You here to see Mr. Walsh?” A lanky man with ginger hair swung the glass door open, ushering her inside.

“I am. Susie Glass,” she introduced herself, stepping into the white glossy lobby, endless photos of boxers wainscoted the walls.

“I’m Sean,” he said, and nodded at a squat man dressed like a cartoon cat burglar in front of the reception desk, “that’s Don.”

“How’s it?” Don nodded, barely making eye contact as he rummaged through the thigh pockets of his black… leggings? Was he wearing leggings? She amended her cat burglar analogy to beat poet/jazz dancer.

“He’ll be down in two ticks,” Sean drew her attention in time for her to see his eyes sweeping over her body. “Mr. Walsh has great taste.”

She raised an eyebrow, “in what, Sean?”

He snorted, “in whatever you are.”

“Sugar and spice and everything nice,” Don stated without inflection, his expressionless brown eyes lifted to her as he mumbled, “found it.” He flicked his knife out of his leggings pocket, saluted her with the knife hand and dove over the reception desk with Balanchine-like elegance. Definitely a dancer.

“You’re gonna dull that gorgeous knife. Use a fuckin box cutter!” Sean shook his head in dismay.

“I didn’t see any other cars; are you closed today?”

Sean and Don exchanged a look and Sean snickered, “uh yeah, we’re closed.”

Don amended, “to the public.”

“I see you’ve met Sean and Don,” a booming voice called.

“Mr. Walsh,” she said by way of greeting when she spotted him strutting towards her.

“Ah no, love, you call me Sugar,” he smiled his oversized capped teeth, like a row of fresh white marble tombstones. He was a startlingly imposing man, at least 6’4” and obviously muscular in his fitted white designer tracksuit. His big square head was topped with a full head of blonde hair, curls product-tamed into place, grays brushing his temples. Through the cauliflower ear and the wide crooked nose of a former pugilist, she could see he was likely considered a handsome man.

“Let me give you the grand tour!” He placed his hand on her back and guided her to the right open doorway.

Sean interjected, before they were fully through the door, “Mr. Walsh, that shipment came in this morning.”

He stopped, hand still on Susie’s back and growled, “did you inventory it?”

“No.”

“Well inventory it then ya fucking eejit!” He laughed loudly, guiding Susie to the right with a squint of his gray eyes.

As they walked away, Susie heard the distinct metallic clicks and clacks of guns.

He led her into a red brick-ensconced training hall. Black heavy bags lined both sides of the room, hanging like abattoir hunks of meat on hooks. Enormous windows topped the brick walls, which would have typically given the room a vibrant quality. As it was, with an overcast sky, lights off, and dead quiet, it just felt like a slaughterhouse.

Susie stopped at the last heavy bag, “your gym is stunning, Sugar. Are these new?”

“Aye, they are. We don’t use this gym as we do the others. Well, not for the training anyway,” he winked and laughed, further confirming the talk that Sugar’s side hustle was indeed weapons trafficking.

Turning to her, walking backward, Sugar prattled off his history of purchases for the gyms punctuated by fighter accomplishments. She enviously eyed the red tatami springboard floors they walked upon, wondering what method could keep them so immaculate. Susie attempted to shutter the redesigns that populated her mind as they talked.

Sugar led her through another area with huge vaulted ceilings and five boxing rings, boasting of his success, “no other gym in England has turned out as many wins.

That was an outright lie, of course, but Susie didn’t balk. She was no stranger to the arrogant blustering of giant egos. She had wrangled worse.

As they entered the next doorway, she clocked the building's orientation as a horseshoe shape. It briefly conjured memories of the horseshoe above the door of her childhood home. “Pointing up, to catch all of the luck,” her mother had whispered to her, as though it was a secret. Well, it didn’t fucking work. But this would. Perhaps she would name it: “The Horseshoe.” She could hear her brother’s voice in her head, “what the fucks that got to do with fightin’?”

“Drink?” Sugar offered as they entered his office.

“Sure,” she sat at a mahogany table plonked at an odd angle within the large room.

He handed her a glass of whiskey and took his to what could only be described as a leather throne of a chair tucked behind the largest desk she had ever seen.

“This is Middleton Distillery. You know it?”

“I do.”

“So Susie Glass, what’s a pretty puff dealer like you want with a boxing outfit?”

She sipped her whiskey, and it reminded her that if she was going to drink posh Irish whiskey, she preferred Redbreast 32.

“Your succinct description is a bit off the mark.”

He laughed at her, “is that a fact?”

“I own and operate GlassKnuckle,” she offered. “My brother is a boxer, and my grandfather was a boxer. I’m interested in expanding, and this area would be ideal.”

“Yer fucking kidding! This area??” He slammed his hand on the desk. “ridiculous shite.”

“Which part?” She asked coolly.

“This has been my home for twenty years, and I’ll tell ya, it’s gone to gentrification, hasn’t it? Fucking hipster craft beer arseholes! I hate them all. It’s all I can not do to gut the little fuckers with their wee coffees and their precious art shows,” he swallowed the last quarter of his whiskey in one large gulp. “Used to be a standup neighborhood with decent folk.”

“So, not fond of Digbeth. I can understand that; the location does suits my needs, if we can come to a mutually agreaable deal.”

He was as well groomed as his unused gym, his nails manicured, he smelled strongly of some pine-forward cologne. She decided his attention to the superficial likely didn’t stem from breeding; instead, much like her own meticulous appearance, a stab at the control and exuding power.

“Another?” He offered as he poured himself a generous glass.

“I’m still working on this one,” she smiled politely.

“You nurse a drink better than Florence Nightengale,”

“Moderation has its merits,” she replied flatly.

He raised his eyebrows, “Are you judging me, Susie Glass?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“That’s good,” his face relaxed as much as she figured the Botox would allow, and he loudly drank the entire glass.

She sat patiently, sipped at her drink and waited for a natural opening to wrap this shit up, “Sugar, are you entertaining offers on this location?”

“I am,” he smiled and pointed to the picture on the wall with his gold ring-adorned fingers. “You know who that bloke is?”

“I do. Hero of yours?”

“Hero to everyone, should be. We have a statue back home, but here, right underappreciated, Rinty is.”

“I’m sure. Where’s home?”

“Belfast. But you know Rinty, he said, ‘It ain’t about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can hit and keep moving forward.’ I feel sometimes I can hear him saying this to me. I just keep moving forward.”

Susie was well aware that quote was from the film Rocky, and wondered if he was fucking with her, until she noticed a framed quotation also misattributed to Rinty on the shelves behind his desk.

Her vision blurred momentarily, and she felt weighted with sleepiness. She made a mental note to grab one of those wee espressos from a hipster arsehole when this was done.

“And I’ll tell you what else, he could fucking sing!” He boisterously announced and pitched his glass into the wall, physically delighting in the thunderous crash with a loud laugh, his head kicked back. She hoped she hadn’t flinched.

“Sean and Don are fantastic with a Hoover and a mop,” he explained, as though it made sense to casually smash glasses into walls if one’s henchmen are good at cleaning. Cunt.

“I’ll sing it for you, one of Rinty’s favorites.” He wasn’t asking.

He loudly launched into a verse of “The Fields of Athenry.” Susie desperately attempted to somewhat hold the uncomfortable eye contact while he crooned to her.

She hoped he wasn’t set on singing another verse and clapped, quickly complimenting him, “you’ve a lovely singing voice Sugar.”

What she would have initially described as loquacious was now resembling mania. No matter. He wouldn’t be the first unhinged business acquaintance she’d worked with, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The dizziness returned and she felt more at . She’d only had three-quarters of her glass, and when the force of realization hit her, she nearly shook. She steeled herself and looked into his eyes, which matched the dreary sky, “if you’re game, I’d love to discuss details with you, but I need to use the loo first.”

She stood and the room spun.

“You good there?” he stood as well.

She steadied herself and turned from him, “the loo this way?” She pointed and began walking away from Sugar as fast as she considered nonchalant.

“Yeah just up the stairs to your left.”

Stairs? Fucking great. She saw the stairs in the distance, her vision blurring in and out like faulty binoculars.

As casually as possible while attempting to walk with authority, she unbuttoned the top button on her blue blouse, and using her pinky to hold the sheath in place under her center bra wire, she slid the bone knife she had tucked between her breasts into her hand.

With no small amount of force, she slammed into the wall and was suddenly sandwiched between the bricks and Sugar’s body. Sugar’s mouth hovered at her ear, “look a bit wobbly Susie, you need a hand.”

He wasn’t asking.

“Get off of me,” she ordered with a calm ferocity.

“You drank too much,” he roughly spun her by the shoulders to face him and pressed her back further against the bricks.

“You clearly don’t know what you’ve done.”

“Just relax Susie,” he said pressing himself against her more firmly, his hands on her.

“You’re going to get off of me, or I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Just relax,” he ripped her shirt open with a flick of his fingers, and panic surged forward. Don’t fucking panic.

Her right arm was pinned against the wall, and she was using her left to try and push Sugar away from her.

Reworking her strategy as quick as her foggy brain would allow she spat, “that quote isn’t Rinty you fuckwit. it’s Rocky Balboa.”

That got his attention and he pulled back a bit to look at her face, “what are you on about?”

“And Barry McGuigan was an infinitely better boxer than fucking Rinty,” she sneered.

“McGuigan?! He was a fuckin eejit! Fuckin tout pussy!” He screamed, towering over her.

Susie felt her arm finally free of his weight and jammed her knife into his left eye socket with as much force as she could muster. He hurtled backwards as she yanked her knife back out of his eye. She dropped to the ground with a muted thud, her legs unexpectedly going out. He clutched his eye with a hand screaming, and she sunk her knife into his crotch, then frantically scuttled backward away from him.

Her legs felt like foreign objects on the cool textured floor.

“Purse, purse, purse, purse,” this was the mantra as she crawled, her hands slapping the floor, her knees and shins burning as she frantically dragged them along. Why was she so fucking loud?

Her vision telescoped into a purse vignette, and everything else was blurry and terribly far away. After crawling endlessly, she reached her purse and clumsily poured everything out on the floor with an immense clatter. What did she need? What the fuck was she looking for? Who was hollering? And there it was, gleaming amongst the clutter, her beautiful Beretta. She clutched at the textured grip and upright upon her knees turned in time to see what appeared to be an armed Sean and Don hustling toward her. Which was which?

She used one of her hands to push herself to standing, and hobbled towards them, towards the slaughterhouse.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sean (or maybe Don) squeaked, eyes wide, swinging his gun around.

“Holy shit!” Don (or possibly Sean) yelled when he spotted Susie.

Count them Susie.

“Count what?” Don asked.

She fired at them. OneTwoThreeFourFive,” she watched them collapse to the ground, unmoving.

“Five shots; three left,” she thought, or possibly said aloud.

Quite suddenly, she couldn’t breathe; was she in a straitjacket; no, she was being crushed in a bin lorry. Dizziness and confusion consumed her, and she desperately willed herself to make sense of what was happening.

Sugar Walsh’s arms were crushing her (clearly not a bin lorry,) and he was behind her and bellowing something, but she couldn’t understand words. They slammed into the floor; he rolled her onto her back, straddling her, his hands on her throat squeezing, blood dripping onto her face from his, huffing and puffing his whisky-tinged breath on her.

Do something!

She remembered the gun in her hand, deliberately pulled her noodle arm up, squeezed the trigger and Sugar’s head exploded. His enormous body collapsed fully on top of her like an avalanche of giant Irish cunt.

Her breath wooshed out like a bellows, and she couldn’t get it back. But she was alive. She couldn’t move, but she was alive. She used her free arm to wench his shoulder pit up up up far enough for her nose and mouth and chin to wedge from underneath him, and then blackness closed in.

When she regained consciousness, she frantically tried to move her pinned body, wiggling and screaming, “get the fuck off me!”

“Fuck!” She cried, and an epiphany struck her addled brain.

Phone, phone, phone, phone, phone, phone. Where is it??

She yelled, “Hey Siri!”

She thought she heard her phone respond. Dizziness weighted her body. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake!

“Text The Duke my location!”

“Send your location to The Duke?”

“YES! Yes!”

“It’s sent,” she thought she heard Siri say, and the last thought she had before the darkness swooped in again was “I hope I don’t chuck up.”

[olderthannetfic]

As I said, @hilichurlrights​, you can really tell how ignorant such people are of the composition of fanfic fandom, never mind the rest of the world.

I agree it makes sense...

I just think it makes people fucking morons and they should learn better.

This response is an example of the very thing the original ask was bitching about and with good reason!

AO3 and tumblr are full of m/m shipping. They are equally full of useful idiots doing the work of TERFs and homophobes by accident. That’s where this nonesense about “fetishizing” leads: to trying to force people to avoid m/m content.

(Funny story: I know a 20-something who proudly told me she only has het ships because she knows it would be fetishizing for her to have any m/m ships. Good job, wankers, you sure made fandom more progressive by getting rid of the queer shit.)

It’s very telling that the constant refrain is that WOC are sidelined for two white men, as though WOC aren’t “sidelined” in favor of white het in spaces with more het shipping. I’m not even convinced that sidelining is a good way to look at people spending hobby time on X vs. Y anyway, but it’s definitely not a good way to look at this specific pattern because shippy fic is romance. Women are “sidelined” in m/m because it’s m/m. All of the non-leads, regardless of gender or orientation, are always “sidelined” in romance novels. That’s what the genre is.

This is the kind of insidious rhetoric that the bigots sneak into our spaces to be absorbed and repeated by unwitting progressives.

Do you not get that spreading this nonsense is demanding that people like heterosexual fiction and and demanding that they prioritize hetereosexual fiction as more progressive? Or are you pitting f/f with WOC against white m/m? The examples I can think of where this comes up tend to be about shipping some very popular white guy lead with either the WOC or the white dude from his canon.

Plenty of people don’t read fic about women because they don’t identify with women or because they have trauma or because the media industries and genres they’re into don’t depict women in ways that inspire them. There are so many valid reasons including the very obvious one of other people’s hobby time is not yours to command.

The word ‘fetishizing’ itself is tremendously ambiguous in this context too. This isn’t some universal evil we all agree is real or all agree on a definition for.

Fic is not primarily operating in the realistic family drama space where “good representation” seems to hang out. It’s more likely to be romance novels or crime procedurals in terms of its genre elements. Some of it is erotica. Much of what I see called out as “fetishizing” is actually just rape fantasy--a normal and healthy thing everyone has known was fine since the 70s unless you are, once again, a conservative religious asshat or a radfem. Or, worse yet, plenty of it is just “Women aren’t allowed to write about men” with a whole pile of misgendering, mislabeling of orientation, and demands for people’s RL info.

Writing a female Asian character as some ninja prostitute stereotype is fetishizing.

Being horny for m/m is not. Not even if you’re a cis woman. Not even if you like kink.

Being horny is not a bad thing.

Every time you uncritically call people’s amateur m/m art “sus”, you’re helping out the bigots.

[jlf23tumble]

can u rec some larry college fics I wanna see something >.> also bottom harry pls as always

I AM SO CURIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOU WANNA SEE!!! But I've got you, of course I do! I have so many, and sometimes it's hard to find 'em all depending on tags, I know I left some out, argh, but these 20 should get you started. Some of my absolute undersung faves in here, too, tbh!

Strange Side Effects, @jaerie, 2.5k. Lactation party tricks!

the big idea, orphan_account, 3.5k. Horny YouTube pranks!

need a little sweetness in my life, @mercutionotromeo, 3.7k. High school fic sequel!

Nothing Can Come Between, @ham-palpert, 4.1k. Wanker fest alert!

Here, Kitty, dimpled_halo, 4.5k. Very best pet play!

Graphic design is my passion, @kingsofeverything, 6.4k. Dildo art!

Can't help but touch myself, Tita, 7.4k. Panties and more!

hey, you see me down on the floor series, ballsdeepinjesus, 7.4k. Secrets revealed after walking in!

Strip that Down, lovelarry10, 7.5k. Wax party!

like how your hands feel me up and down, ballsdeepinjesus, 7.5k. Fave Halloween fic!

just close your eyes and dream about it, itiswhatitisbutterfly, 8.5k. Gender explorations!

down in atlantis, polka_stripes, 8.8k. Swim team time!

Laundry Room, beautlouis, 10k. Liminal space love!

Service Kink AU series, lookingfortherainbow/ @andtheywerebandmates, 14k. Is as it says!

a cage for every ugly spirit, sarcasticfluentry, 15k. BLASPHEMY I LOVE TO SEE!

Constant Debauchery, SirTranscelot, 19k. Alpha/alpha swoon city!

Take Our Bodies Higher, @littlelouishiccups, 21k. Phone sex operator Harry!!

precious little thing, @mercutionotromeo, 21k. Phone sex operator Louis!

Instant Pleasures, 100percentsassy, 25k. Making a fault a feature!

knock knock, i love you, beautlouis, 86k. The very best virgin Harry!

[mrs-saturday]

okay.

this is going to be the LONGEST reblog of my Tumblr career, so please sit tight.

first of all, I need you all to understand how SERIOUS I take a maxivstappen upload.

when I saw the user and the word count, I knew this would be monumental. so, in classic Thaila fashion, I made a whole cocktail, ran to my snack stash and grabbed some of my favourites, and put on some good old mood lighting. (see image attached below)

and now for my review:

AAAAAAAAAA MY FEELINGS MEL ?!?!?!?!?!

lando, you are such a knob. dare I say, wanker of the century in this fic. imagine fumbling the bag SO HARD. SO ROBUSTLY, that your mrs FLIES TF HOME to be away from you. 0/10 behaviour from landhinio here.

but the WRITING?! 100/10 no inchidents on this track, just a smooth operation of a well written, heart wrenching fic. here's a few of my favourite lines:

"That was worth the tears and the unappreciated cooking." “Do you feel lonely in this relationship?” — “No.” “Does he make you cry often?” — “No.” “Do you think your relationship is slowly breaking apart?” — “No.” "Last day before the summer break, the last race. And probably, the last day of him and you." "And finally in this relationship, you did something for yourself. You left"

i. cannot. recommend. this. enough.

this is a beautiful story of the reader finally realising she deserves more, and I hope you all carry that message with you for all your lives.

you always deserve the best of the best treatment.

and once again, this has been a mrs Saturday review of a maxivstappen fanfic.

THE GREATEST

[ masterlist / requests are open ]

☽｡⋆ being in a relationship with a formula 1 driver like lando was hard, but not impossible. right? a story based on THE GREATEST by billie eilish. — lando norris x fem!reader

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 angst! pure angst, swearing. i’ll write a part 2 if requested 𝄞 4.4k words

❝ I’m trying my best to keep you satisfied ❞

Loving a formula 1 driver, let alone being in a relationship with one, wasn’t easy. But that didn’t stop you. In fact, you were sure nothing was ever going to be able to get in between the love that Lando and you shared, the kisses and the late night cuddles, the fun family dinners and the celebrations of his milestones. Everything was so perfect.

Yes, sometimes it’s hard to meet his standards, sometimes having you leave your own family to go attend races with him, or the blatant flirting he would still be partaking in at after-race parties, it was definitely a flaw of your relationship, but maybe you should’ve just worn something prettier or done your makeup in a different way, in the end it’s your fault if his attention wasn’t keen on you, right?

But no matter what, you were ready to do it for him. He’s your main priority, just as he should be. That’s what makes a relationship a functioning one, doesn’t it?

❝ Let you get your rest while I stayed up all night ❞

Of course you weren’t always his main priority, but who were you to judge him? He’s a professional racing driver, it’s not only a job but a complete career, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in this world. Having a world championship under his belt, that was more important than you. You just have to live like that, someone had to put in the work for the relationship. And because it definitely wasn’t Lando, it was you. But you didn’t mind, you’d do it all over again for him. Because you truly loved him, and to you, there was nothing in this world stronger than love.

So when you both finally get home after a long race weekend, you don’t mind doing the cooking and cleaning and laundry for him. You also don’t mind him going to sleep while you’re up packing up luggage for him and you to depart for the next GP. You would’ve appreciated some skin contact after such a busy and nerve wrecking weekend, but if he needed rest, then he should have it. You could rest another time, maybe during the flight or while he was spending time with his friends. You weren’t sure why, but Lando always insisted on not having you with him, always making up excuses why you couldn’t come even if in reality, you were at “home” trying to get used to the new place you’d have to stay at for the next week. Maybe you would’ve preferred being with him, or having him with you, or being in your home country with your loved ones he was yet to meet, but that’s okay. He had his fun with his friends and their girlfriends, that’s what mattered.

Maybe he didn’t want you there because, while he dated a girl he’s known since forever, a girl who knew him before his win and his fame and his career, all the others were dating models and successful women. Maybe you embarrassed him a little bit, so you were understanding when he told you to stay at home. His fans didn’t exactly love you either, so actually, it was really thoughtful of him not to have you by his side when he went out, because then his fan base and the news wouldn’t be able to pick at every little flaw you had, which you had surprisingly lots of, as the media told you.

The clock read 5am when you finally finished packing up the luggage and went to bed yourself. Well, not the bed but rather the couch, because Lando had just previously told you not to wake him if he was already asleep, and who were you to rip him out of his peaceful slumber when he had so much pressure on him the last three days? It was a little cold, but that’s okay. It was just kinda difficult to fall asleep on the small, hard, uncomfortable couch.

The clock read 8am when you woke up to prepare breakfast for him and you.

❝ And you don’t wanna know how alone I’ve been ❞

You knew better than to complain. Of course you felt a little bit alone in the huge apartments while he was away, spending time at the track or in the gym with his friends. How could you not? You were in a country you’ve never been in before, a country with no familiar faces or friends or people you could talk to besides the McLaren team and well, your boyfriend. But in the end, Lando showed you the world. And you had to be grateful for that. Even if he basically just pushed you around the world and then picked you up again when it was time to travel farther. And god, how you missed your family. And how deeply you wanted them to meet your one and only love, Lando. It was sickening, the need to be at home again.

One time after a long day of qualifying, you told Lando about your homesickness and that you felt a bit alone on this journey.

He got mad and told you if you wanted, you could just leave. He’s not keeping you here. 20 minutes after, you were stood in the kitchen making dinner for the two of you. Your response to “Are you actually fucking crying right now?” was a quiet “I was just cutting onions.”

His reply to “I thought we were eating together, I made dinner” was “I’m going out to eat with Charles and his girlfriend.”

You felt your heart break in that second, but he was just mad and not thinking straight. Outbursts are okay sometimes.

❝ Let you come and go, whatever state I’m in ❞

You spent the whole evening and night crying, putting his food in the fridge in case he was hungry later. The tears didn’t stop until he came back through the door, obviously a bit tipsy. He quickly wrapped his arms around you and told you how sorry he was, telling you that next time, he would take you with him to dinner. You knew it wasn’t true, and he knew as well.

At least you felt his touch again, his arms around you and his rough fingers caressing your cheek. That was worth the tears and the unappreciated cooking.

❝ Man am I the greatest? My congratulations ❞

Miami GP ‘24. Lando’s first win in his Formula 1 career. You were the proudest girlfriend in the world and you couldn’t wait to celebrate his win with him tomorrow, knowing he’d be busy partying with the others today. You’re in Miami, after all. And he has just won. Of course he had to celebrate that with his boys, surrounded by beautiful women and loads of alcohol. He would never cheat on you, but you were sure he wouldn’t mind being in the presence of some women who were gifted with a prettier face and body than you were. That’s okay, at least he doesn’t use you for your looks.

As he stood there on the highest step of the podium, smiling like a little kid who had just fulfilled his dreams, smiling like he once had smiled at you, it made you so incredibly happy and emotional and you couldn’t wait to finally see him and give him a big celebration kiss.

Once he was back in the paddock he told you to wait until the cameras were gone. You didn’t get a hug either. Not until you were back in the apartment.

At last. you got your hug and a kiss. As a goodbye before he left with Max.

❝ All my love and patience, all my admiration ❞

The day after, you woke up at 7, waiting for him to wake up while you were already up in the kitchen, baking a small cake with a “one” on it, all decorated in orange.

Even if you were left unsatisfied yesterday, that didn’t stop you from still feeling eternally proud of him, and proud to be able to call yourself his girlfriend. He was so dedicated to the things he loved, it was a pleasure to watch him go through life with his determination. Racing was his passion, there’s no shame in sometimes forgetting your girlfriend for it.

He finally entered the kitchen at 12, smiling at the small cake placed upon the dining table. “Surprise!” You said, and he immediately went to hug and kiss you, smiling just as brightly as he did on that podium. Moments like these were a reminder that he did in fact love you, and once again, that it’s all worth it.

❝ All the times I waited for you to want me naked ❞

You often wondered how the others managed to keep up their relationships.

Just recently you were having lunch with the other WAGs at a restaurant near the circuit. Originally, you didn’t want to come, still feeling insecure about what the media has to say about you, the ugly duckling around the most beautiful women in F1 history. However, they insisted. At the table the girls began talking about the party after Lando’s win, and how proud you must’ve been to see him on that podium. You loved talking about it, until you were asked why you didn’t come with him to the party. A lame excuse of “I was just tired and not feeling well” made the others look at you weirdly. How could she be so selfish and miss her boyfriend’s afterparty for that? Alex, Charles’ girlfriend smiled at you with a knowing look, but you pretended not to notice, feeling embarrassed.

The next topic at the table was rather intimate, and you wanted to puke right then and there. Were you really the only one who hasn’t been touched in so long, because there just wasn’t enough time between all the travelling and racing and exhaustion? Or were you just not good enough? Was it really your looks? Should you change?

You missed it dearly, the intimate times with Lando. The ones where he finally took care of you instead of the other way around, the ones where you could feel the connection between you two with all your senses. Was it your fault that these times stopped? Lando was so perfect, it just couldn’t be his fault.

Maybe you just had to wait until he wanted you again.

❝ Made it all look painless, man, am I the greatest? ❞

You didn’t show your feelings often, not your real ones. The times he had catched you crying for him on you knees were pathetic little situations he shouldn’t have seen you in. When asked, you denied. “Do you feel lonely in this relationship?” — “No.” “Does he make you cry often?” — “No.” “Do you think your relationship is slowly breaking apart?” — “No.”

Talking about it with the women around the paddocks or when you’d facetime your friends from home, you never once said anything bad about Lando. Never once complained about how he treated you or how he ignored your feelings and your endeavors. Not even your closest friends knew what was really going on, or maybe, you just didn’t know that yourself. In your mind, this was just a phase where his career just made it impossible for him to focus on you. Someday this would change. Sooner or later, it would change.

For everyone else, you had the greatest, perfect, flawless relationship. And you didn’t mind keeping that imagine up. For his sake.

❝ Doing what’s right without a reward ❞

And so it kept going. You making efforts, him abandoning you. No matter what you did for him, no matter how much heart and love you put in for him, it was left unappreciated. But that‘s okay, still. You were in a relationship, your only task was to love him, and you did. Because that‘s the right thing to do in a relationship, and for him, you‘d do anything. No matter if he appreciated it or not at the moment, you knew that, eventually, he would.

❝ And we don‘t have to fight when it‘s not worth fighting for ❞

At least you hoped that he would change someday, so far he obviously hadn’t, and it was slowly getting to you in a more serious manner. In a way that might worry you and the people around you, in a way you wouldn‘t forget. That one time you prepared dinner for the both of you and he went out with Charles and Alex instead, it was all forgotten in a matter of seconds when he apologized. But now every single interaction he had with other women haunted you, asleep or awake. No apology would help you actually think he would change his current treatment towards you, and as it seemed, he didn‘t care either.

There was no point in fighting anymore, no point in telling him how you feel whenever he walks out the door, leaving you alone with nothing but your awful thoughts. For fuck‘s sake, you left all you had behind to be there for him, and how does he show his gratefulness? He doesn’t, because he isn’t fucking grateful, and he couldn’t care less about you and your dumb feelings. He doesn’t care that you want nothing more than to finally be able to introduce him to your family, he doesn’t care that you gave up your own career for his, and he doesn’t care that while he’s treating you the way he is, all the people who knew the both of you and basically the whole internet was only picking you apart. Never him.

Oh you were such a shitty girlfriend refusing to kiss him in front of the cameras after his first win, but wasn’t he the one who pushed you away? And how could you miss the party that night, the party dedicated to your oh soo perfect boyfriend? Do you not care about him enough? Were you not proud? So many girls would trade their life for a day in your shoes, and you just didn’t appreciate that? What a disappointment you are to the WAGs, and what a disappointment you must be to Lando.

“Lando please, listen to me,” — “No, I’m done with your insufferable complaining all the time. I meant it the first time I said it and I mean it now, if you wanna leave, leave.”

❝ And you don’t wanna know what I would’ve done, anything at all, worse than anyone ❞

You would’ve walked through fire for him to love you again. For everything to go back like it once was. When he would brag about you to his friends and even in interview, when he took you to hang out with his friends and to parties, always keeping an arm around your shoulders so other guys wouldn’t even dare to look at you, when he was so eager to fulfill not only his, but also your dreams, wether that be a simple one, like him meeting your parents in your childhood home, or the greater ones, like becoming not only a good, but a great graphic designer. When he would watch you draw and perfect yet the smallest details with nothing but the growing admiration for you visible in his eyes. When he would kiss you good night and good morning, when he would ask about your day and passionately tell you about his. Back to when he had loved you. But now it was too late. All the things you had done for him, all the things you would probably still do, in the end, were for nothing more than a broken heart.

The sleepless nights. The nerve wrecking days. The painful parting from your family and friends. The abandonment of the life with him you had so desperately wished for.

It was all for nothing.

❝ I loved you, and I still do. Just wanted passion from you, just wanted what I gave you ❞

Last day before the summer break, the last race. And probably, the last day of him and you.

You were done with his shit, the sad look on your face visible to everyone in the room as you sat and watched the race from the McLaren hospitality, his parents seated next to you. Something felt very off, your usual happy and optimistic demeanor completely washed off, replaced by a dark, almost expressionless look. They sensed that something might have happened between Lando and you, but nobody dared to ask, too busy watching the intense race.

The outcome was disappointing, Lando finishing behind Max, the one he’d have to beat to win the championship. The team and the people inside the paddock and the hospitality clapped for him and Oscar anyway, with Oscar finishing second and Lando fifth. You cheered and smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what was to come once you’d be back in the hotel. You were scared, sure it would be the most painful thing you’d ever have to do, putting all the things you’d done for him, all the things he’d done to you, in its shadow.

The celebration went well, again, no hug or kiss for you. You were sure his mother had even scolded him for it, but that wasn’t important anymore. You didn’t really care anyway, the media would run their mouths about you anyway, and Lando surely doesn’t give a shit either way. You desperately needed an answer, you wanted him to explain it to you. What had suddenly happen, what did you do wrong, for him to suddenly act like this? And if he fell out of love, then why couldn’t he just tell you?

Meanwhile Lando was busy celebrating Oscar‘s podium, taking pictures for the McLaren instagram account and whatnot, then doing the post race interviews.

He loved you, he really did. But he just didn’t see you as someone he wanted to spend this life with. He couldn’t imagine living his private life without you by his side, he wanted you to come with him to visit his family at home, to come with him when he would meet up with Max and the others during summer break or really, he wanted to just do nothing with you, nothing but share small kisses and cuddling on his couch at home, eating some homemade food and drinking a glass of wine together. At the same time, he thought that you didn’t fit in. Not in this life.

You met when he wasn’t yet the person he is now. When he was still passionate about so many other things other than just racing. Of course this had always been a part of him, but so were you. And now its just racing that occupied his mind, no single corner in his head left for his girlfriend. He knew it hurt you, but at the same time, part of what the media had to say about you was true. The first season he had spent with you by his side, the internet was already raging about how you weren‘t the typical WAG, and how they thought seeing you next to someone like a Kelly Piquet, you did seem a little weird. Lando didn’t want to be confronted with these opinions anymore, so instead of standing up for you, he decided to ‘hide‘ you. To not put you in the center of attention after a race to hug and kiss you, to just let you stand there and wait until you were inside where no one could see you. He also avoided reading anything the internet had to say about you, so the fact that his plan had only made you gain more and more hate, went unnoticed. Just like your complaints when he didn’t want to be seen with you after races at parties or even in a restaurant for dinner with Charles and Alexandra. Of course they had invited the both of you, and not only him. Lando came up with an excuse so he the paparazzi wouldn’t see you. The rumor that Lando and you have broken up after he was seen at dinner alone didn‘t seem to bother him either, but it did you. He thought you liked it this way, as he thought, without any hate comments about your looks or the way you’d dress compared to the others. He thought you appreciated not having to dress up for parties or the countless hangouts with his friends. He thought you cried that night after he was out for dinner because you cooked for him and he just went out, not that you cried because you felt not good enough for him to want you to come with him.

He really was stupid enough to think you were happy with all of this.

And while he was happy to be able to finally spend his summer break with you and only you, it all came crashing down when you were back in your shared apartment. Tears were forming in his eyes while yours were already streaming down your face as you yelled at him, telling him every yet so small detail that left your heart crushed and broken while he was busy „hiding you“, or as he explained it to you, „protecting you.“ this wasn’t protection, this was blatant ignorance. And finally in this relationship, you did something for yourself. You left.

Maybe it was miscommunication, or him refusing to communicate at all. But that didn‘t matter now, ‘cause now, it was over. No more kisses, no more cuddles and no more meeting friends or families. But most importantly, no more crying, no more sleepless nights, no more unappreciated support, no more hiding.

❝ I waited and waited ❞

Finally at home, your family had expected to see you with Lando by your side, and they were so very excited to finally be able to meet the guy their lovely daughter was head over heels for, using every chance she had to gush over him and how unbelievably proud she was of him. So when you stood there with puffy eyes and all your luggage placed next to you, they knew the tears you cried weren’t happy tears from finally behind home again. They were tears from saying goodbye to the life you were ready to spend with your boyfriend, who was now on the other side of the world.

You knew it was stupid, but you couldn‘t help waiting for him to reach out to you again. A call or a message, hell, you hoped he was as miserable without you as you were without him so that maybe Max or even Oscar had to contact you again. Despite all the times he had hurt you, you missed him so dearly.

But after months and months of waiting, you decided that there was no use in waiting. It’s over, and its for the better, it has to be.

It was gonna be hard seeing him again, once the summer break is over. Even if the love between Lando and you ended, your love for Formula 1 didn’t, and you weren’t about to give that up just for the sake of not having to see him. You‘d be in the stands or in front of the TV, he‘d be in his car or in front of the camera. No point in worrying. But still, the first few races, you watched curled up next to your best friend and your parents from home. It was so nice to finally be able to see everyone again, everyone you had to miss all these months you were away. Your dad and you used to always watch races together, and you were more than grateful to finally be able to do exactly that again.

❝ Man am I the greatest? God, I hate it, all my love and patience – Unappreciated. You said your heart was jaded, you couldn’t even break it, I shouldn’t have to say it … ❞

His instagram and twitter definitely make it seem like your broken heart doesn’t match his perfectly fine one. He seemed happier than ever, having fun with his friends at parties and driving around different towns with different girls. Seeing him was draining, but how were you supposed to never hear about him again when the entire internet was screaming his name? You wanted your life to finally feel easier now, but it seemed to only get harder.

You felt you lost your soulmate, while he only lost his greatest burden.

It wasn’t until you watched the first race after the summer break with your dad that it all came flooding back to you. Lando crossed the finish line first, and as the camera switched to show him get out of his car and rip off his helmet to kiss his new girlfriend that looked weirdly similar to you, surrounded by loud cheers, clapping and ecstatic, smiling faces, you realize that maybe, he really didn’t love you. And that he didn’t *want* to kiss you after his races, because it seems that if he had wanted to, he would’ve.

At the same time, even while standing on the highest step of that podium, Lando couldn‘t help but think about you, how stupid he was to treat you like a piece of shit when all you wanted was to be there for him after races like this one and most importantly, why the hell no girl he‘s been with after your breakup felt even remotely close to you. You were the greatest thing he‘d ever had, no trophy, no price would ever compare, and he managed to take it all for granted.

If he had just put in a little more effort, really, you could’ve been the greatest .

[wykart]

gat! i wanna hear about the gat that lives in your head 👀

Oo ooooo ok. Thank you for indulging me. I have this Gat x Yaz fic that started as a fun what-if and is now going on 75k, so a lot of my hcs for Gat revolve around making her a better character fit for Yaz. (Which HELLO, ep 3 just validated the hell out of by having Yaz Literally Portray Gat!!)

Gat is a regular Gallifreyan without the ability to regenerate and she’s pretty bitter about it. Being forced to tail the Doctor, being technically her subordinate but functionally her sort of warden, or idk wrangler (seeing as the Doctor keeps trying to escape service) makes her doubly bitter, because she sees the Doctor as this highly privileged and coveted member of the elite, who had all the knowledge of time, all the ‘superior’ telepathic/time-sense abilities and social standing handed to her on a silver platter, and she has just renounced all of it. So Gat loves bossing her around, and thinks the Doctor’s a bit of a wanker. A spoiled brat who just wants to make trouble. That said they do become sort of friends over the course of their work together.

As a regular Gallifreyan you can’t attend the academy (oh also looms are canon, sorry. But only for Time Lords, bc the Pythia sterility curse is silly and I dislike it – so that’s another part of the long curation of a class gap between the Time Lords and everyone else, since they’re ‘created’ perfect, engineered, aligned with the idea of cold science and rationality, while the mess and indecency of natural birth is left to the subjugated). That said there aren’t that many Time Lords, and so plenty of Gallifreyans serve in the citadel and the military. The CIA and it’s more clandestine, stylish offshoot, the Division, though Gallifreyan will never rise to high ranking roles due mostly to their shorter lifespans (though still longer than human life spans, about 300-400 years).

Gat is completely loyal to the Division, and very proud of her rank, even if she is second-class (and wholeheartedly believes herself to be second class). She holds herself far above all other species just like your regular Time Lord nationalist (planetist?) partly because of her perceived inferiority to Time Lords. She enjoys being revered by ‘lower lifeforms’, who often don’t know that there is any distinction between the widely-feared, legendary Time Lords, and the rest of Gallifreyan society. She considers herself to have risen above the people she was raised around, as someone who has earned everything she has. I imagine she was raised on the outskirts of one of the large Gallifreyan cities, maybe Arcadia (because that’s the only one I can name lmao) and she has particularly acute telepathic abilities (although less refined through genetic science than those of Time Lords). She joins some military youth conscription in the city, slowly rising through the ranks and eventually showing such skill and discipline that she goes to the citadel to further her training, eventually joining the CIA and then the Division, which she sees as the highest honour. They have a late exposure to the Untempered Schism, and it's said that this delay paired with the reduced malleability of adult minds makes the imprinting less transformative. Most don't reach this point, and many of those who do go insane.

The Division is a bit of a shady place, as you can imagine. Because they operate all over time and are triggering paradoxes left right and centre, they are uprooted from their temporal origins (or, the Gallifreyans are, who have only naturally-honed defences against timey wimey mishaps). Her childhood memories are hazy and unconnected to any specific time period, without names or faces, only feeling and a general timeline of rational events. This stops their minds from unravelling, and also makes for better agents. They also regularly have their memories wiped and edited of any contradictory events hence rewritten, or anything compromising that might have damaged them (read: trauma, debilitating guilt). ‘Useless’ emotions are also pruned, like remorse and comradery beyond loyalty to the cause. They are extensions of the empires hand, anything that conflicts with their purpose is extraneous.

What I found interesting in Fugitive is that the Doctor says that Gat specifically is after her, and that she knew Gat would come. I take it as Gat being responsible for her somehow (ik right, an impossible assignment). But I also took it as Gat having something to do with what caused the Doctor to run and Arch herself in the first place (it’s because the Doctor discovered the truth about the timeless child. Clown hours). So she is responsible for rounding the Doctor up, but she’s doing it alone. And in my clown-brain 6B theory, the Time Lords catch up with the Doctor eventually anyway. To fit the story, I made it so that this was Gat’s second chance. A mission to redeem herself for allowing the Doctor to discover the truth, despite Gat not knowing what that is. She follows orders. Maybe the Time Lords knew it wasn’t going to go well. I mean, she resorted to using Judoon, she had no help. Against the Doctor, they must have suspected how it was going to end. I think it’s a personal mission for her, that she would have pursued regardless. She took the betrayal personally. For her, it really is a last chance thing, because she doesn’t matter a whole lot to the Time Lords, despite her rank and her skill. There will always be a surplus of zealous, devout Gallifreyan soldiers to fill her place.

Anyway the story of the fic itself is that the backfiring gun doesn’t incinerate Gat but teleports her down the Earth and fries all her comms equipment, then when the house TARDIS lands with Yaz and the others she comes across that. I’m a big believer in the curated Gallifreyan hive-mind (courtesy of the Matrix) as a means for the propagation of social ideas and control. So Gat’s indoctrination runs deep, and when she finds herself without that support structure she struggles to deal with the influx of repressed memories, the sudden isolation of her thoughts, and a burgeoning sense of individuality. And idk enemies to lovers slow burn Gallifrey angst lesbian time, you know the drill.

Thanks for the ask I loved writing all this out :)

[kukukape]

Richard Malik x Operative: The Whistleblower

This the first time I've posted a fic in a while, but I'm excited! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist 😊

Tags: @simping-for-sandayu-oda @luciewarrenx3

•••

Richard had to admit, he'd come up with more... enjoyable plans than this one. He grunted as the Albion thug's knee collided with his stomach, again. Wanker was enjoying this way too much.

His eyes flicked to the camera ever so subtly. Not that the bastard would've noticed, he was too busy trying to decide which way to assault Richard Malik next. But he could see it moving around a bit sporadically, as if its operator were trying to get his attention.

And even in the midst of great pain, he had to fight a smirk. Things were already going accordingly.

"U-ugh!" He grunted as the Albion guard pulled him up by his hair and punched him in the face.

Welp, time to fall back into character.

"I-I'm not who you think I am, I-I swear!"

A slap across the face. Backhanded. Richard had to admit, that hurt his pride more than it did his face.

"You're Malik! A SIRS officer and a leaky fucking twat!" Richard, with his forehead resting against the cold concrete, found himself wanting to smile at his own notoriety.

Malik. That name carried weight in SIRS. In London's infrastructure of justice and security. This scared, begging persona wasn't him. This was a choice.

He was a spy. Slippery, and willing to relinquish his true character for his mission.

His breathing quickened with faux fear as the Albion officer picked him up by the collar, bunching up his silken silver tie amidst the action. "That's not me, I s-swear to god, please- PLEASE-"

---

Angel's heart nearly stopped when Bagley cut the feed. "Fuck…" she whispered. She had half a mind to curl up on the curb and let a grey gloom consume her, but Bagley was too much of a dick to allow that.

"Fuck is right! And fucking dead is what he'll be if you don't hurry," he said in his not-so-robotic deadpan.

Dead. Murdered. Killed?

All words and possibilities that resonated with Angel. She took a deep shaky breath, squeezing the steering wheel of her Atterley. "Drop a pin please, Bags," she said.

"I already did, while you were having a little panic attack."

Instead of meeting his snark with her own, Angel kicked the car into gear, speeding towards the construction site. From first gear to third, then sixth... and she was skidding to a stop by the sidewalk before she knew it.

Her optik buzzed as someone got onto comm. It was Brian, the team's most senior hitman. "Scope the place out before you go in. This could be a trap for all we know, so-"

The soft patters of a silenced P9, followed by two separate cries cut Brian off.

"Angel! Bagley, what's she-"

"She's storming the place like the baboon cousin she is!" Bagley exclaimed, "You know for a spy, she's rather uncovert." Which only said the absolute least.

The bodies were shrouded before the spy moved on, picking off another soldier just as they were turning the corner. A bullet between his eyes before he even knew he was in danger, and cloaked to make his death even less apparent.

Pressed against a corner wall, Angel took her phone out and let the news drone above become her eyes. "Bagley, help me find him," she said urgently.

"There's a closed off room in the back. Try there," he said. Angel jumped from camera to camera, her heart squeezing a bit every time she didn't see Richard.

Just when she was about to crack her phone in her grip, she saw him. Wrists tied, on his knees, gaze trained on the floor as he tried to catch his breath.

Angel knew this picture of him. Years ago, in a dirt-floored cell where they huddled together for just an inch of warmth. The image made her shudder, so forcefully mentally that she did so physically too.

She flinched again when Brian came over the comm. "Alright, there he is. I suggest you take out the rest of the guards before you go in," he said.

From soldier, to spy, and now to soldier again. Angel nodded as she squeezed the hilt of her gun. "I'll get right on it."

---

Richard chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared at the floor. He could feel a pair of eyes on him once again, staring through that same metal lense. He didn't dare turn to look, didn't dare break character.

Until he heard the camera screech, as if it wanted him to turn. And, flinching in surprise, he did.

He looked at the camera, wondering why the DedSec operative who'd come for him wanted to make their presence so known. Richard eyed the camera for a moment, searching for something deeper beyond the blank, metallic lense.

Of course, he found nothing. But just the notion of the operative- who he was all too sure was finally here- trying to communicate you're safe, it's okay, made him want to chuckle.

He gave the camera an acknowleding smirk, and ever so slight tilt of his head.

"AHH!" A soldier just outside screamed.

Richard's head whipped around again, and he heard some indecipherable yelling, along with the heavy footsteps of Albion-approved military boots. Somebody was obviously getting their ass kicked outside, because he only heard one person grunting in pain as limbs connected with their target.

Then silence.

He never really liked the quiet. It meant that nothing was happening, and for Richard, something always had to be happening. He couldn't predict quiet. Couldn't scheme it, outsmart it.

Thank god it didn't last long, before the metal door squealed open and quiet footsteps pittered in.

Richard kept his gaze down, as would a man currently fearing for his life. He'd been that enough times to know how to imitate it.

The 'fwoop' of a knife unsheathing made him flinch genuinely. But a steady, smooth... familiar voice eased him.

"Easy. It's just me," she said. Just me, she said. As if he were supposed to know her.

And he did. Oh lord, he did. And the mixture of fear, anger, regret, and happiness in him was too genuine for somebody so used to lying in the face of everyone short of his mother and father's graves.

The fearful part of him was scared to turn around and look at her as she cut through his restraints easily. But he didn't have a choice really, as she walked around and kneeled in front of him, cupping his face with both hands and searching for any injuries to his visage.

Richard was a confident man. Strong, assured, and decorated from head to toe in awards that highlighted his ingenius.

But he looked like a dumb fish in that moment, his mouth slightly ajar and eyes wide.

"…Angel?" He asked softly as her calloused fingertips subconsciously brushed across his brow, stretching down to touch his jaw.

---

"That's my name," she said dryly as she searched his face, looking anywhere but his eyes. Her hand reached into the pocket on his shirt, where she knew he kept a handkerchief. "Hold still, you look horrible," she said. Not that a handkerchief was gonna fix that, but whatever.

She wiped blood from his jaw, and the bits that had gotten onto his cheek. She chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep more words than necessary from escaping her.

I missed you.

Are you okay?

I know this is a farce, so what are you playing?

All reasonable, but Angel couldn't utter any of them. Because Richard Malik, her friend for all of their youth, her partner in war, her lover for that one night back in college, was right in front of her.

She raked a hand through his hair, which was as close to saying I'm glad you're okay as she was gonna get. And he grabbed her wrist gently.

Brown eyes met a lighter shade. Both of them soft, affectionate, and untrusting.

"You're Dedsec," he said it firmly but quietly. Looking for confirmation. Hoping she'd say no, she just happened to be walking down the street and decided to shoot up a restricted Albion area for shits and giggles.

But she nodded. And a pride she never had while working at SIRS shined in her eyes.

Angel helped him to his feet and cleared her throat. They clearly weren't gonna do the whole "So what've you been up to the past six years?" thing, so she spoke first, "We got the call from you. What was that all about?"

A look of shock passed over Richard's eyes. And Angel could tell what he was thinking. Probably wondering where that smile she always used to greet him with had gone.

But he remembered himself quicklyc straightening his tie with a nervous hand. "I'll upload the intelligence onto an anonymous FTP. You can sort through it-"

"No, I want to hear it from you," Angel cut him off rigidly.

Richard inhaled as his whole "My name is Richard Malik, herdyderdyder," speech was thrown out the window. "I believe I've discovered who Zero-Day really is; rogue SIRS officers from the CT unit who then framed Dedsec for the TOAN bombings."

"Men working under you?" Angel raised one elegant brow. "I always got the impression the CT unit was always fiercely loyal," she commented.

And back to the games they went. This time, for the first time, against each other.

He let out a humorless laugh. "You know how good I am at making enemies," he said, reaching for the door handle.

"Wait, Richard," she said quickly. Angel's hand shot out to grab his arm. He looked down at her in surprise.

…Down at her.

Since when was he so damn tall? And handsome…

No, no, stop it, monkey brain.

"I…" Angel's jaw moved uselessly for a moment, before she simply yanked him into am embrace. Richard made a surprised sound. Way too many surprises for one day for him.

But this one, he could tolerate.

Hesitantly, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders while hers linked around his neck tightly. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, and he could smell the shampoo drifting from her hair. "It's… good to see you again, Angel," he said quietly.

Angel chuckled once, before inhaling sharply and slowly pulling away. Out of his reach once again.

"We'll, uh... check out the info," she said, nodding before moving to step by him. But she paused by the door, then reached back over to him. Richard watched dumbly as she fixed his silver tie, straightening it back up and patting his chest twice. And she smiled.

"You grew up nicely, Richard," she said, before slipping out the door.

Richard stood there dumbly for a moment, a thousand different things racing through his head.

But the one thing that stood out the most was the fact that his plans had definitely just been shaken.

~end~

[allwaswell16]

Favorite Larry Fics of 2019

2019 was an amazing year for Larry fan fiction! In fact, some of my all time favorite fics were published this year. This is a pretty long list, but there were so many other great fics this year! You can find everything I read and recommended this year on my fic rec masterpost here. This rec list is organized by the month the fic was published and then by word count. Happy reading!

~~*~~

January

🌟 Etched in Salt (is a cathedral of the world), @helloamhere (E, 24k, crime solving au, telepathy, telempath Louis, boundary case Harry, partners, touch deprivation, bad parenting, angst with a happy ending)

🌟 Like An Anthem In My Heart, @goodmorningtoyouuniverse​ / gmtyuniverse (NR, 21k, World Cup au, professional football players Louis and Harry, coming out, angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers)

🌟 No One But You Got Me Feeling This Way, @runaway-train-works​ / runaway_ train (E 3k, uni au, camboy Louis, student Harry, angst and smut, porn with plot, pining)

February

🌟 Tell Me Your Secrets, @dimpled-halo (E, 17k, enemies to friends to lovers au, phone sex operator Louis, roommates, dirty talk, phone sex, smut, humor, Chicago, fluff, movie au, For a Good Time Call au)

🌟 sunbeams, @coffeehazza​ / ohsailor (NR, 2k, neighbors au, meet cute, insomnia, bartender Harry, night nurse Louis, gifts)

🌟 sweet, sweet fate, @bottomlinsons​ (T, 1k, soulmate au, humor, soulmarks, first meeting)

March

🌟 Tied Down, @ham-palpert / hampalpert (E, 48k, crime au, criminal Louis, criminal Harry, multiple POVs, non-linear, detective Niall, detective Liam, undercover officer Zayn, drugs, prison, established relationship)

🌟 Gonna Live At Last, @larrymaybe22​ (M, 42k, Potter Direction, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Louis, angst, hurt/comfort, PTSD, post Battle of Hogwarts, Images of War, panic, grief, counseling, minor character death)

🌟 Close to Nowhere, @angelichl (E, 34k, supernatural au, psychics, paranormal investigators, clairvoyance, sexual tension, ghosts, mystery, bed sharing, angst, teasing, smut, protective Harry)

🌟 Everywhere and Nowhere, @2tiedships2​ (M, 16k, a/b/o, alpha Harry, omega Louis, secret admirer au, omega Louis, courting/mating rituals, scenting, pining, heat)

April

🌟 That’s What I’m Here For, @taggiecb​ (E, 46k, farm au, farmer Louis, farm hand Harry, boss/employee, age gap, demisexual Louis, small town Canada, adult children, sexuality crisis, mourning, depression, soft, happy ending, silver fox Louis)

🌟 Counterbalance, @louandhazaf​ / YesIsAWorld (E, 44k, motorcycle racing au, racer Louis, racer Harry, ballet instructor Harry, dancer Harry, enemies to lovers, secrets, side Ziam)

🌟 fondre ton absence, @scrunchyharry (T, 41k, amnesia au, historical, WWI, first love, soldier Louis, sick Harry)

May

🌟  cut your teeth on my heart, @turnyourankle​ (E, 94k, bodyguard au, bodyguard Louis, suspense, kidnapping, Canada, hate to love, enemies to lovers, smut)

🌟 BLVD, @kingsofeverything (E, 12k, Myrtle Beach au, 1990s, embarrassing situations, humor, piercings, masturbation, Wanker’s Day fic, summer)

🌟 Stealing Flowers, @lululawrence (NR, 4k, strangers to lovers, meet cute, Brooklyn, subway, humor, bets, mutual pining)

🌟 Hello My Name Is Harry, @a-brighter-yellow​ / abrighteryellow (T, 3k, famous/not famous au, famous Harry, not famous Louis, drama teacher Louis, actor Harry, high school reunion, inspired by Chris Evans)

June

🌟 Tired, Tired Sea, @mediawhorefics​ (M, 113k, famous/not famous au, popstar Harry, B&B owner Louis, Scotland, recovering addict Harry, isolation, loneliness, hurt/comfort, pining, slow burn)

🌟 After Dark, After Light, @becomeawendybird / QuickedWeen (E, 71k, historical au, medieval, Scotland, Scottish Highlander, commander Louis, laird Harry, secret relationship, self discovery, sexual tension, light angst, smut, light bondage

🌟 Tied to Fate, @littlelouishiccups​ (E, 52k, ghost fic, haunted castle, ghost Louis, American Harry, angst with a happy ending, magic, mind reading, light d/s)

🌟 Sisterwives, @jaerie​ (E, 32k, a/b/o, omega Harry, omega Louis, dub con, religion, cult, polygamy, brainwashing, mpreg, mating, non con, optimistic ending, please check tags)

🌟 the sanctity of patience, @scrunchyharry (T, 22k, royal au, historical, Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany, Larry Abroad, royal Louis, King Louis, arranged marriage)

🌟 a garden in bloom, @gaycousinlarry​ / momentofclarity​ (G, 10k, bed and breakfast au, older Larry, silver fox Louis, age difference, writer Harry, bed and breakfast owner Louis, Nouis as platonic soulmates, pining, insecurities, falling in love)

🌟 it’s paradise, @polkadotlou / twoshipsdrifting (E, 9k, sequel to where the lights are beautiful, a/b/o, alpha Harry, omega Louis, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, insecurity, blocked bond, side Ziam)

July

🌟 waiting for the tides to meet, @nauticalleeds​ (E, 59k, soulmates au, lost soulmates, miscommunication, pining, art director Louis, photographer Harry, New York City, summer, bed sharing, road trip, smut)

🌟 With Words Unspoken, @jacaranda-bloom / jacaranda_bloom (E, 18k, set in 1979, older Larry, late 40s in age, strangers to lovers, California, fate, sexual awakening, scientist Harry, lawyer Louis, emotional journey, smut, bl)

🌟 No Bunny But You, @crinkle-eyed-boo (E, 13k, strangers to lovers, bartender Harry, artist Louis, punk Louis, flirting, humor, semi-public sex, d/s undertones)

August

🌟 some things fade (some never do), @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed​​ / we_are_the_same (T, 25k, magic au, fantasy, magical tattoos, exes to lovers, getting back together, pining, angst with a happy ending, long distance relationship, tattoo removal)

🌟 old macdonald had a farm, @microlouis​ / louistomlinsons (NR, 5k, magic au, curse, canon compliant?, animals, humor)

September

🌟 Heartbeats in Time, @forreveries​ (NR, 6k, friends to lovers, high school, first kiss, indie music, fluff, realization of feelings)

🌟 Perceive with your mind, @rsadelle​ (T, 4k, uni au, neighbors, invisible Louis, cursed Louis, strangers to friends to lovers, cuddling)

October

🌟 Come In and Change My Life, @lightwoodsmagic​ (E, 12k, a/b/o, alpha Louis, omega Harry, mpreg, professional football player Louis, neighbors, cat, pining, fluff, smut)

🌟 the best part of me (was always you), @pinkbus1​ (E, 5k, exes to lovers au, exes with benefits, angst with a happy ending, d/s undertones, pet names, writer Louis, photographer Harry, smut, bh)

November

🌟 You Were Mine, @brightlyharry​ (E, 20k, established relationship, troubled marriage, sad Louis, lonely Harry, social media, online friendship, masturbation, lack of communication, miscommunication, sad sex, smut, hurt/comfort, check the author’s note before reading)

🌟 We Had a Good Thing (Going), @phd-mama​ / phdmama (T, 4k, break up, reverse chronology, open ending, FOUR fest, based on Spaces)

December

🌟  Now That This Old World Is Ending, @thetommmo​ / daggerinrose (E, 49k, action/adventure au, cults, violence, brainwashing, survival, angst, smut)

🌟 I Just Want You to Stay, @sadaveniren​ (E, 34k, Advent fic, a/b/o, alpha Louis, omega Harry, friends to lovers, fwb, fake/pretend relationship, mutual pining, misunderstandings, kidnapping, heat, bonding, angst with a happy ending)

🌟 Give A Little Sing To The Singles, @londonfoginacup​ / LadyLondonderry (T, 31k, Advent fic, workplace au, coworkers, office, office party, pining, fluff, crack, humor)

🌟 The Goat Guy of Bethlehem, @lululawrence​ (NR, 25k, Advent fic, American au, pining, humor, fluff, college au, attempted arranged marriage but as a joke)

🌟 It’s About Time, @kingsofeverything​ (G, 3k, proposal fic, older Larry, friends to lovers, roommates, moving, dramatic Harry)

🌟 Thank You (To The One Who Let Him Get Away), @fallinglikethis​ (NR, 3k, proposal fic, soulmate au, soulmate identifying marks, first words, humor, fluff, cheating (not H&L)

[dorthyanndrarry]

Dothyanndrarry’s current Fic library: Part one

All lists are arranged oldest to newest. Longer fics have word counts. Only links to the tumblr versions because linking outside the website makes tumblr think I am a pornbot and then it disables all my links. All these one shots are available on my Ao3 account as well, my pen name is DorthyAnn, searching that and any of the fic names should get you there.

Below there are links to:

44 one-shots.

 My 16 longer stories, and 10 tiny stories are located on post two

One-Shots (Oldest to newest)

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Leave Sleeping Dragons Lie

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Harry and Draco are forced to hold hands for an hour in lieu of two weeks detention with Filch. It does not turn out how either of them likely thought it would, much less everyone watching.

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Boggart

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In their eighth year Draco Malfoy’s boggart turns out to be the last thing anyone expected, himself.

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Potter and His Twice Damned Hair

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Draco hates Potter’s hair, except that he loves it, only he really, really does hate it.

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‘Arry

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Malfoy had always spoken french, but before eighth year he had never spoken french to Harry, not like that and Harry desperately wants to know what he’s saying.

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A Drunken Kiss

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Draco gets sloshed, Potter gets smooched, Pansy laughs herself sick.

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I Almost Lost You

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Draco’s getting married in the morning when he has an unexpected visitor who desperately begs him not to go through with it.

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A Sweet Christmas Kiss

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Harry listening to the radio, singing along with his surly sweet beloved.

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Christmas Jumpers

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Harry can’t find his favorite gaudy Christmas jumper

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The Obligatory Mistletoe Fic

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Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy. Mistletoe. Need I say more?

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Mistletoe at Midnight

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Draco unexpectedly runs into someone on his way to the kitchens caught under the mistletoe. Well, it's not that unexpected, Potter is a moron.

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Dad Jokes

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Harry and Draco making horrible dad jokes to their kids.

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In Sickness and in Health

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Harry gets ill and Draco shows up to take care of him, whether he wants Draco to or not.

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A Late Night

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Harry comes home late from work.

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Chocolate Frogs

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After the war every chocolate frog Draco buys is a Harry Potter card, every single one.

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Glasses

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Harry loses his glasses, Draco keeps them.

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Just Piss Off (NSFW)

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Was it an argument about Amortentia of maybe flirting or a fight? Quite possibly all three. (A bit NSFW)

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A Selkie on the Shore

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Harry is a Selkie and while in human form, and meets Draco on the beach

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The Dare

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Draco lost a bet and now he has to kiss the first person to come into the room, and of course it’s Potter.

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Lip Biting (NSFW)

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Draco’s had the great misfortune to be paired off with Potter in a project and working together with the git is an absolute torture. (NSFW)

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Dittany

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Draco Malfoy, Potion Master consultant for the Auror’s, is assisting Harry in finding an illegal dittany grow operation, in the middle of a swamp, and no, they aren’t getting on.

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Coffee & Crosswords

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A short and sweet coffee shop, muggle au

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Bedtime Mayhem

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Domestic fluff. Harry and Draco try to get their rambunctious children ready for bed.

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Homecoming

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Harry gets back after months in Chine and surprises Draco with this return.

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Planetarium Date

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Harry takes Draco on a date to the planetarium.

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Sharpies

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Harry sees Draco’s scratching at his dark mark and wants to help. (mild self-harm)

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Flirting is Hard when You’re Harry Potter

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Every time Draco complains about Harry Potter and the wanker is in earshot, he agrees with everything Draco says. It’s absolutely abhorrent.

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Best Laid Plans

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Teddy has the perfect plan to get his Godfather Harry and his Cousin Draco together! And it’s totally going to work this time.

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The Rebound (NSFW-ish)

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Draco’s doing some sad drinking after a break up when Harry Potter shows up.

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Nightmares

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Draco has a nightmare about the war.

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Castle Cupid

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Hogwarts has merged Harry and Draco’s rooms and won’t let them out. It seems to be waiting for something, but what?

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The Compliment Game

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Harry and Draco end up in the detention together with their new and decidedly odd Potions Professor who decided to inflict the most awful of punishments on them, a compliment game.

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Patronus

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Draco’s been practising his Patronus in secret. When he finally succeeds, it turns out to be an animal he could have never expected.

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Little White

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Harry meets a corn snake with a sharp tongue and learns some interesting things about a Slytherin with a secret crush.

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The Morning After

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Harry wants to take his relationship with Draco to the next level, like the actually having one level.

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KISS!!

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“NOW KISS!!” Someone shouted. A wave of silence flowed through the hall followed immediately by a ripple of laughter. Additional tags: public embarrassment.

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Sirius Black (Marauders era)

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Not drarry, Mentions of child abuse, corporal punishment.

Moments in Sirius’ young life that ended up subtly changing the course of his life.

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Accidental Utterances

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eighth year, Harry yells that he’s gay to turn down a very persistent suitor, in the middle of the school

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Fixation (NSFW)

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A little one shot about Harry fixating on Draco and maybe doing something about his little obsession.

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Intent

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Eighth year. Draco has seen Harry watching him again and goes to talk to him about it, what it means, what Harry means.

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A Winding Path (Luna/Ginny)

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Luna walks a winding path, in the summer heat, the waving grass, to an important confession, to the distant figure of Ginny as she flies.

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A Stick in One Hand & A Kiss in the Other

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A story of mistletoe, and workplace pranks that may be a little cruel which sometimes require a stick to even the odds

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Paper Hearts

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Draco makes origami. Harry collects them. All of them. It’s not a problem, he just… he likes them, a great deal.

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The Best We Can (Wolfstar)

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A raising Harry AU

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Curry & Wine

Only on Ao3

Harry’s promised Draco their first proper date. What could be better than homemade curry, a little wine, a much-needed talk?

[trashboatprince]

I’m working on a main story for my Reverse Omens au, but for right now, I really wanted to do something with Aziraphale the Demon opening up his shop.

So, here’s a little something while I work on the main story for Sour Blessings. I had to do a bit of research for this, so you’re welcome.

Summery: The opening for A.Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More is on Friday, however, the demon Aziraphale may have to put that opening on hold, indefinitely, due to an unexpected promotion.

Not if the angel Crowley has anything to say about it!

Warning: Reverse Omens, the other demons and angels are not swapped, these two fools are in love but they won’t admit it so it’s getting the ship tag.

Aziraphale (formally Azrafel) is a half-deaf, white cat demon, Crowley (formally Samael) is a rainbow boa angel and the one who tempted Eve (There is a reason for this!).

Rewrite of the infamous Bookshop deleted scene.

On with the fic!

--

Can’t Have That Now, Can We?

--

Aziraphale, formally known as the demon Azrafel until he stole back his original name, was more excited than he had been in years.

Finally, after so many hiccups, missions, and simply being absentminded about his goal, he was opening up his shop! Well, not officially, he planned on being open to the public on Friday, but he was allowing for guests today!

So far, the only person invited is his dear angel, Crowley, who he knows will be here promptly at a quarter past eleven, the redhead was also so good with time.

Proudly, Aziraphale looked up at the sign that had just been installed this morning. A. Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More, it read with a shine of silver paint on a dark blue background. It was beautifully fitting for the man-shaped being, fitting his color aesthetics. He practically purred in delight as he stepped through the doors, happily hearing a jingle of a bell above his head.

The demon hummed to himself a song from an opera he had attended a few days ago, carefully lining up some of his collection he had noticed he bumped out of place. His shop was going to house his massive collection of antiques, a term he had adored using for the collection since it was first coined during the 1400’s in references to ancient artifacts.

He finally had a place for all his stuff, things he had hidden all over the world, bought, traded, stolen, made himself, gifts from his favorite snake, all in one place now! Sure, it took him centuries to finally settle down, but 1831 was a good enough time, right?

Well, there had been an attempt a few centuries ago, back in the 1500’s, but it had been a bookshop next to a printing shop that had printed a book he really had wanted, but a mission to China had prevented that. And had also resulted in him not paying rent on the shop and having gotten in trouble with Hell for something stupid, he couldn’t pay the rent and lost the first shop.

Anyway, he happily likes to forget that happened and has instead tried again! Same location too, second time’s the charm!

Aziraphale wasn’t finished setting up though, he still had more stuff in storage that he needed to bring in, but his angel had said he’d help up with bringing that in. He wouldn’t help with the organizing though; Crowley knew from experience that Aziraphale had a way of organizing his clutter in a way that worked for the cat. Especially when it came to certain collections, like his massive library and his collection of rare snuff boxes.

As he carefully aligned a bronze statue of a rather specifically detailed and accurate horse he got as a joke gift from Crowley, he heard the jingle of the bell above his front door. He cupped his hand over his left ear, trying to hear who it was, couldn’t be Crowley, it was too early still.

Then he smelled the scent of festering mold and swamp scum, along with other unpleasant things, and he felt his skin prickle.

With a held back sigh, Aziraphale put a fake smile on his face, turning to face his fellow demons, hoping his beard hid the fact that his mouth twitched. “Hastur, Ligur, to what do I owe the pleasure of two Dukes of Hell in my shop?”

The two demons stood by the open doors, dressed in rather shoddy clothing, meant more for the lower class than the higher, as Aziraphale himself was dressed to blend in with. However, it was good to note that this time they actually wore clothing that would help them blend in, rather than how they dressed the last time they ‘visited’ Aziraphale. He would never forget those sins against nature.

Neither of them smiled, they just stared, before Hastur stepped forward. “We’ve orders from Below for you.” He ground out, making Aziraphale raise an eyebrow.

“Orders? Strange, normally Hell just burns a message in one of my books or screams at me from an envelope nowadays, don’t usually send messengers to tell me what my next job is.

“It’s not really… orders.” Ligur spoke up, waving a hand, completely bored of this already. “’s more like you’re getting somethin’.”

Aziraphale blinked, cupping a hand over his ear again. “Come again?”

Hastur made a face. “Think of it as… bad news, but not really bad news, more like good news, but we can’t say that shit, so it’s bad news, but not that bad-”

“I… I got it.” The cat sighed, holding up a hand. “Is it about the second revolution in France?” He had sent in a wordy letter to Hell about how he had helped kickstarted that event, even though he hadn’t actually done so. He and Crowley had taken a trip to the south of France and got dreadfully wasted and somehow ended up on the Isle of Capri.

“More like a bunch of things you’ve done, Azrafel.” The chameleon demon spoke and ignored the face Aziraphale pulled, hearing his old name. It has been centuries, and no one cared that he stole back his angel name, they just ignored him, thinking he was edgy or something. “Apparently, you’ve done your job to such extremes that Hell is oddly impressed.”

This can’t be good.

“And because of this, you’re going down to Hell, promotin’ you back to Downstairs. Heard you might get a cushy job runnin’ the torture department, lucky bastard.”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to register what this meant. “But… I’m opening this antique shop on Friday. If Master Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”

“Hm,” Hastur pondered for a moment, “actually, I think that’s an idea, whoever replaces you up here can use this place as a base of operations.”

This got a look of disgust from the cat demon. “Use my shop?” The nerve! No one was allowed to use his shop; this was for him! And maybe Crowley, because he knows that wily angel will also laze about wherever Aziraphale is staying.

Neither demon seemed to give two shits about what Aziraphale thought of this. “You’re bein’ promoted,” the frog demon shrugged, “you get to go back home.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone who wanna spend more than five minutes on this waste of space.” Ligur commented, look at a bell jar on a shelf, containing a taxidermized scene of insects dancing at a ball. The chameleon on his head licked its lips.

“Azrafel’s been on this shithole for almost six thousand years,” his companion replied, “that’s some impressive patience, I can’t stand doin’ tasks up here that take longer than a day. Just plant bad ideas in a human’s head and let ‘em do all the work. Still, gotta give kudos where kudos is due…”

He dug into the pocket of his grubby coat, pulling out a box, covered in stains that Aziraphale really didn’t want to know the origins of. “Apparently, this is for all your bad work.” He said in a tone that clearly didn’t hide his jealousy and bitterness.

Hastur opened the box and Aziraphale stared at a rather lovely, shiny medal. He had seen this kind before, proudly worn by members of the Dark Council.

When they said he was being promoted… oh, oh bugger, this was a Promotion.

“I don’t want it.” Aziraphale spoke without much thought. He glanced up and nearly screamed, because right behind Hastur and Ligur, was a redheaded angel, giving a cheery wave.

The grandfather clock off to the left happily showed that it was exactly a quarter past eleven in the morning. It was the worst possible time for Crowley to show up.

--

With a skip in his snake-skinned step, Crowley turned a corner down a street in Soho, a box of the finest chocolates under his arm. He had dolled himself up for today, putting on his finest dark gray suit, his pink shirt clear and ironed, and a new hat sat happily on his head, decorated with a gold-plated apple blossom.

It was over-the-top, but the snake-eyed angel was known for being flashy and showboat-y with his appearance.

He spotted the shop at the corner and picked up the pace, mentally counting down the seconds. He loved being exactly on time, but he also loved putting Aziraphale on edge when he was a few minutes late.

Crowley got right up the steps at exactly 11:15, noticing that not only were the doors opened, but two figures were standing in the doorway, with Aziraphale stared past them. And right at Crowley, with a look the screamed ‘oh bugger’.

The demon licked his lips, stammering as he tried to speak to the two strangers, who Crowley hadn’t quite realized were demons. “B-But only I can properly thwart the good deeds of the angel Cr-Samael!”

Crowley stopped smiling, tilting his head, eyebrow raising over his dark shades. He held up the package, smiling, and mouthed ‘chocolates’ at his best friend.

“I don’t doubt that,” the blond-haired demon spoke, “whoever replaces you will be as bad an enemy to Samael as you are. Baphomet, maybe.”

The angel looked horrified and disgusted. He looked towards Aziraphale and mouthed ‘Baphomet?! Baphomet’s a wanker!’ The gray-haired demon shifted on his feet, trying to ignore Crowley to not draw attention to him.

“Samael’s been here just as long as I have, and he’s wily! And cunning, and brilliant, and oh…” Aziraphale was a bit flushed in the face and Crowley perked up, smiling brightly.

“It almost sounds like you like him.” Hastur spoke in a tone that was clearly not pleased with this.

“I loathe him!” Aziraphale shouted, though his face still burned red. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent! Which he isn’t because he’s an angel, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one!” He tacked on quickly.

Hastur actually smirked, crossing his arms. “That’s the attitude that Hell likes to hear. I can see why they’re bringin’ you back.” He stepped forward, pinning the medal to Aziraphale’s dress jacket, the shorter man holding his breath at the bad smell coming off of Hastur. A quick glance over the other’s shoulder let Aziraphale know that Crowley was out of sight, hopefully he knew to stay away until these two were gone.

“So…” Aziraphale started, “we’re going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?”

“Ehh… soon.” Hastur waved a hand. “Got a job to do, then we’ll be back for you.”

--

The job was a simple corruption on, convince a human in charge of a respectable pub to take in bribes, sell illegal content under the counter, and convert his pub into a drug den in later years, that should do the trick.

And to help with that, they decide to plant things in the backroom of the pub for the owner to find, miracled with a temptation to put the pieces together. Ligur stood outside the backroom’s door while Hastur moved to remove the contents of his pockets in the room.

He pauses, however, hearing voices outside of an open window.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved,” it was the voice of the angel Samael, “of glorious being of God’s divine will?”

There was a strange, echoing voice that followed right after, layered as if multiple voices spoke at once. “No one is listening, oh angel Samael, the Lefthand of God.”

Blinking, Hastur steps onto a crate under the window and, using his true eyes, peeks out the window, only the top of the head of his frog looking into the alley behind the pub. He could see Crowley, standing before a cloaked figure in white, the latter having their back turned to the window. He slipped down a bit to not be seen, but still remained close to hear.

“Curses.” The angel hissed. “If only I could understand why my blessed plans are always so brilliantly thwarted! It’s as if the forces of Hell have a champion here on Earth who contaminates my blessings! Who overlaps their own dark influences on my own good ones! Who thwarts me… thwartingly…”

Unbeknownst to the demon on the other side of the wall, the cloaked figure that Crowley was speaking to was actually just a tailor’s dummy from the tailor shop just next door. Crowley was practically tickle-me-pink with delight of how much fun it was doing this. He absolutely loved when he got to flex his acting skills.

He continued the act, putting on the heavenly voice once more. “Why, Mister Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Heaven! They do say as how the demon Azrafel, your nemesis, is being sent back to Hell!”

Crowley knew he was acting slightly to broadly, but it was the style of the time, so it was necessary.

“Can this be true?” He continued in his normal voice. “I was going to throw myself into a pit of Hell Fire in my despair at once more being beaten by the demon Azrafel! But such excellent news! Only Azrafel knows my ways well enough to…”

“Thwart them?”

“Exactly. Now, let us retire to church, and pray to the success of good on this Earth, thanks to Hell’s foolishness!”

Hastur heard the other walking off before he moved out of the room, well, he might have to have a conversation with Aziraphale it seems.

--

“So, I’m… not going anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, mismatched eyes staring at the two other demons, the pupils growing with possible hope.

“Change of plans.” Hastur grumbled. “We need you here, in this shop, battling good.”

Ligur slapped the Aziraphale on the back a few times, nearly knocking him over. “Carry on battlin’ that pain in the ass angel. I’m sure Hell’ll understand that you’re needed here more than down there.”

“Keep the metal.” Hastur poked at it against Aziraphale’s chest, making him wince at the pressure of the jab.

“But I don’t understand…” The cat demon blinked, suddenly realizing he was all alone in the shop now, the scent of sulfur starting to mellow out. With a snap of his fingers, the shop suddenly smelled of flowers, thanks to the lovely potted plant that just showed up next to him.

With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, moving around a shelf to try and return to his previous task of worryingly set up his collection.

“Well, that was fun.”

Aziraphale yelped, jumping a foot in the air as his hair and beard puffed up from the shock. He turned, finding a certain angel, basking happily in a chair that had been swiped from the King of Spain in the late 1300’s. “Crowley… w-what are you doing here?” He asked, approaching the redhead, who just smiled, holding up the box of chocolates from behind.

Aziraphale chirped in joy, taking the box. “Oh, yes, thank you, darling!”

“’s nothin’, kitty cat. I think you deserve them now than you did before those two idiots showed up.”

“How… much of that did you see?”

Crowley shrugged before getting out of the chair, stretching. “Well, I arrived to see that you were stuck dealin’ with two idiots, and that you needed help. So, I may or may not have helped you out of a bit of trouble, again. Nice medal, the Dark Council kind? Wow, that’s a hell of a promotion, kitty cat.”

Aziraphale frowned and removed the metal from his jacket, tossing it towards Crowley, who caught it with ease. “I’ve done so well at my job that I was promoted to join them! I mean, it’s not the worst promotion I could get, in fact, any demon would give up their whole… well… everything to be part of that group! But I must admit, it would be too much, I’d be allowed to do whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to work and stay on Earth.”

“Sounds like a shit job to take, Aziraphale.” Crowley commented, looking over the metal before dropping it into a clay pot. “But hey, you get to stay here!”

“For some reason…” Cat eyes turned, staring directly at snake ones, hidden behind dark lenses. “What did you do?”

Crowley grinned brightly. “Oh, just pulled off some theatrics.” He wiggled his fingers and Aziraphale groaned. “I told you I was good at this! I should join a theater, get my name out there! I’ll even do those boring, sad Shakespearean plays you like so much!”

“Uhg.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes before looking at Crowley, smiling. “Still, thank you for helping me today, darling. Now, how about the two of us enjoy this delectable box of goodies you got me, I have a lovely red that we can drink alongside them in the back, found it while bringing things in the other day.”

“Sounds delightful, kitty cat.”

END

--

Well, this was a lot of fun to write!

In case you wanna know what they look like, Aziraphale looks like Martin from Prodigal Son (except well dressed in a light gray and dark blue Regency outfit), and Crowley looks like David’s portrayal of Richard II (in a dark gray and pink Regency outfit).

Hastur and Ligur look like characters from Oliver Twist haha.

In case anyone was wondering why Aziraphale owns an antique shop, it was because as much as I love the bookshop still being part of a Reverse Omens au, I also really loved the idea of going off the little fact that book Aziraphale also collects old snuff boxes and it went from there that he just collects all sorts of things.

Oh, and Hastur left Aziraphale on Earth cause if he's really the only one who can 'stop' the Heavenly might of Samael, the angel with the title of Destroyer, well... yeah, might as well leave him to deal with that mess.

Thanks for reading! As always, drabbles are open! 

[courfee]

little poster for the fic Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule :) 10 things i hate about you, but make it jegulus

[the-french-belphegor]

Avuncular

New fic! If you like disaster uncles and inquisitive toddlers, this one’s for you ^^

Summary: In which Alex is a mischievous toddler, Ardeth has something on his mind, and Jonathan almost decides that the ultimate book on correct uncle-ing might be worth more than the Book of Amun-ra. Almost.

(because Tumblr hates links: on AO3 [https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866544] / on FFnet [https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13669878/1/Avuncular] )

.⅋.

Umm El Qaʻāb, Egypt, February 1929

A tomb was no place for a small child, Evy had said, and Jonathan agreed wholeheartedly. So did Rick, who, despite admitting that the necropolis felt nowhere as evil and dangerous as Hamunaptra had, was still unwilling to bring Alex inside.

Especially after what Evy had said about the human sacrifices.

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘human sacrifices’?”

“Oh, don’t be silly, darling, it’s not like that,” said Evy lightly as she breezed along the ancient cemetery with the last of the diggers. “Pharaohs of the Early Dynastic Period were expected to have servants in the afterlife, so they killed people and animals as part of the funerary rituals. That stopped after the First Dynasty, though, and there is absolutely no record of any curse placed on them.”

To think the Bembridge Scholars had rejected her so many times on account of ‘inexperience in the field’. Like so many people, they’d seen a mousy, bookish girl and failed entirely to detect the force of nature behind the glasses and the frumpy clothes. Honestly, the lengths some people would go to ignore what was in front of them were astonishing, Jonathan thought. One look at ten-year-old Evy squinting at the Middle Demotic papyrus on the wall of their parents’ bedroom could have set them straight.

Hamunaptra had changed that state of things rather spectacularly. Evy – and by extension Rick and even Jonathan – was now courted not just by the Bembridge Scholars, but also by none other than the bloody British Museum. So when the opportunity of digging on the ancient necropolis of Abydos presented itself, Evy – and Rick, also by extension – had jumped at the call. Jonathan had tagged along, partly out of curiosity and partly because February in Upper Egypt was infinitely preferable to February in London. The weather when they’d left had just been miserable.

They had brought Alex, as well. Leaving him behind in England was simply out of the question.

But any dig site was full of hidden dangers, and half-dug tombs even more so, so Jonathan had half volunteered and half been volunteered to look after his nephew. Which was fine by him, really, as Alex was a cheerful child, not to mention inquisitive and quite bright for an almost-three-year-old. Besides, it also meant that he didn’t have to actually do any digging or directing diggers.

“What’s that?”

“A tent.”

“What’s that?”

“That was a column – maybe there was a roof somewhere, but it’s long gone now.”

“No, Uncle Jon,” said Alex in a voice that was entirely too bossy for a toddler and brought back vivid memories of Evy at that age, “what’s that?”

He was pointing at a bas-relief on the decapitated column. Jonathan stepped closer and squinted at it.

“Let’s see… Oh, that’s Thoth – ibis-headed chap, god of things like wisdom, magic and science if I remember right. The Ancient Egyptians sure had a different definition of ‘bird-brained’, didn’t they?”

Alex scrunched up his face.

“‘Bird-brained’ is when you’re a… pillock?”

“That’s right!” Jonathan said, delighted. His nephew didn’t lack brains and had a good grasp on vocabulary. The next second, though, he frowned and asked, “Now where did you pick up that word?”

Alex’s grin was an answer in itself. “Yesterday you said Mr Whitehead was a pillock.”

Oh, right. The old wanker had had the audacity of going straight to Rick for orders, knowing perfectly that Evy was in charge of the whole operation. Rick had set him straight right away and given him the kind of glare that might have scared off Imhotep, and Jonathan, who had seen his sister deal with this kind of nonsense all her life, had put the boot in and added a vicious tongue-lashing.

Good thing Alex had only turned up for the end of it, or he might have heard a lot worse.

Alex wasn’t just smart; he also – unfortunately – had an unerring instinct for latching on to any kind of profanity and repeating it at the worst moment.

Fortunately, he was also easily distracted.

“What’s that?”

The “what’s that” game could last a long time, as Alex was curious about everything, and it was only his second trip to Egypt – and his first dig. The little tyke must not even remember seeing his first camel last year. There was rather a lot to see in the camp for a child and Alex’s wide eyes darted everywhere. Jonathan ambled around, his arms full of nephew, putting a name on everything Alex pointed a tiny finger at.

The questions were easy enough to answer. Maybe this uncle thing really wasn’t so difficult, after all.

Alex was a healthy, well-fed little boy, and every now and then Jonathan had to shift his weight in his arms and hitch him up a bit not to drop him. That had been Evy’s obsession at first.

“Put your fingers behind his head!”

“Careful, he might slip!”

“Here, let me take him –”

Not that Jonathan hadn’t been terrified before holding his first and so far only nephew for the first time, to tell the truth. But when he had finally picked up the newborn and settled him in the crook of his arm, holding him had just felt… right. Alex had been born a day or two after term; he had been a robust, round-cheeked baby, with nary a wrinkle, and his weight in Jonathan’s arms had been warm and reassuringly heavy. He hadn’t felt like a tiny draught might somehow break him, like the very few babies that had somehow found their way into Jonathan’s arms so far – including Evy, that first time their mother had let him hold his baby sister. But that might have been due to the fact that everybody had previously impressed upon him how much holding a baby was a tremendous responsibility for a five-year-old.

At some point he’d had enough and remarked to Evy, “Look, I know I might not be the most careful of fellows generally speaking, but really, old mum. I never dropped you, did I?”

“So says you,” Evy muttered.

Rick had backed him up, to both siblings’ surprise. And then, of course, because being a father not only didn’t change some things but also exacerbated others, he had waited till Evy’s back was turned before looking at Jonathan right in the eye and saying, “Do not drop him, though. Ever.” with frankly scary seriousness.

If it had been any other subject, Jonathan would have been happy to just gulp and nod. But he’d stared right back, somewhat peeved, and said, “You know I won’t.”

And then baby Alex had gurgled and half drooled, half vomited on his shoulder and the conversation had met a swift and definite end.

“What’s that, Uncle Jon?”

“Oh, that’s a camel. Stay well clear of it, they bite and they stink to high heaven.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

Alex was pointing at a tent again, and Jonathan was about to answer when he looked at the boy, who was squirming and sniggering like he’d made the funniest joke in the world.

“Oh dear, I don’t know,” he said airily. “I have no idea what it’s called. Could it be… a tree?”

“No!” squealed a delighted Alex, giggling at his own joke like only a three-year-old could. “It’s a tent!”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!”

“Well,” said Jonathan, hitching him up again, “you know better, I’m sure.”

The sun was climbing in the sky and the temperatures with it. Jonathan spotted the large tent Evy used as general headquarters and made for it, eager for some shade if not exactly cool. The cloth was thick and they had added rugs and hefty blankets to keep the sun’s glare out. It wasn’t enough by a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

Jonathan was trying to remember the spot he’d buried his canteen in the sand to keep it cool when a voice behind him said, “Good morning, my friend.”

Goodness knew what prevented him from dropping Alex. As it was, he started badly enough to jolt the boy a little, and Alex gave a startled squeak.

“Good grief, Ardeth,” Jonathan gasped. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one day.”

Ardeth Bay grinned, making him wonder how much of these little scares were actually on purpose.

“That is not my intention, I assure you.”

“Yes, well… As long as you don’t enjoy scaring me half to death too much. How’ve you been keeping since last time?”

“I’ve been well, thank you. Hamunaptra is quiet, but we still keep watch.”

“Nothing cursed about this place, is there?” asked Jonathan with a touch – oh, just a smidge – of anxiety. “No malediction we should know about?”

Ardeth shook his head. “No, nothing of the kind. This is just a courtesy call.”

Then his warm black eyes slid from Jonathan to Alex, who had both arms around his uncle’s neck in an uncharacteristic display of shyness.

“Hello, Alexander. You don’t remember me, I don’t think. I’m Ardeth Bay, and I’m very pleased to see you.”

Alex’s only answer was to bury his face into his uncle’s shirt. Jonathan shrugged with the one shoulder available.

“Don’t take it personally, he’s a lot more outgoing when he’s had time to adjust to people. Alex, my boy,” he added, “you’re starting to get a tad heavy for your old uncle. Mind if I put you down for a bit?”

“No!” Alex leaned back and stared at him with a pout. Jonathan stared right back, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ll be taking this to mean you don’t mind, then, shall I?”

The pout was suddenly a little less firm. “…No?”

“It’s like this, partner – either I put you down right now or my arms fall off. I don’t have your dad’s shoulders, don’t you know.” Alex grumbled a bit, but thankfully detached his arms from his neck when Jonathan deposited him on the mat, relieved. His arms really did feel about to fall off, and Alex’s small body against his chest had been a veritable furnace. “D’you want to say hello to Ardeth? He’s a good friend, you know.”

“’Lo,” Alex muttered. Jonathan shook his head.

“Now where’s the chatterbox I know and love? You didn’t eat him, did you?” he asked, crouching to squint at the boy. Alex let out a reluctant giggle, then clamped his hands over his mouth. “Thought so. Spit out my nephew this instant, you don’t know where he’s been.”

Alex snorted through his hands, and Jonathan stood up, satisfied. Something popped in his back when he was fully upright again. Alex really was getting a little too heavy to carry a long time.

“He has grown up a lot since I saw him last,” Ardeth remarked thoughtfully. Jonathan nodded.

“I’ll say. How old was he then, eighteen months? He was barely walking. Now it’s all we can do to keep up with the little fellow.” Jonathan glanced down at Alex, who was inspecting the maps on the table – or trying to, since the top of his blond head barely reached them – then back at Ardeth. “How many nephews do you have again?”

“Two,” said Ardeth with a smile, “and three nieces.”

“Good heavens. How do you not have grey hair yet?”

Ardeth raised an eyebrow. “How do you? One nephew can be enough.”

“Give it time, old boy, give it time. I shudder to think of the state we’ll all be in if he ever gets a little sibling.”

Evy was only half-jokingly considering putting Alex on a leash after he escaped supervision and almost ran into traffic twice in one week. The way things were going, it wouldn’t be surprising if all three of them got grey hair before the boy finished his first decade of life.

“How are Evelyn and O’Connell?”

“Same old, same old, as disgustingly in love as ever. You’d think having a small child and an engrossing job would get them to keep their hands off each other sometimes, but no such luck.”

This got a chuckle, which made Jonathan grin and ask, “How’s the wife, by the way?”

Imeni, Ardeth’s wife, was a tall woman with sharp features, rich dark brown skin, and long almond-shaped eyes that seemed to be always twinkling. She got on very well with Evy, who liked her equanimity and her love of lore, and, perhaps surprisingly, with Jonathan as well, who liked the fact that her sense of humour balanced Ardeth’s – when he bothered to air it, that is. The man was often so serious one might be forgiven for thinking he had no sense of humour whatsoever.

Oddly, Ardeth seemed to hesitate for a second before replying, “Imeni is well, thank you. She sends her love.”

“Couldn’t come, eh? That’s a shame. You know, one of these days you two should take a holiday and come visit merry old London. We could show you the sights. I don’t think swords are allowed on double-deckers, but…”

Something – what exactly, Jonathan wasn’t certain – inserted itself into his train of thoughts, like a wedge, and his voice trailed off. He stopped talking altogether, puzzled, and automatically looked around the tent to check on Alex…

Only to find that the boy was gone.

Jonathan’s mouth dropped open. The ‘something’ abruptly crystallised into icy dread.

“Alex?” he called, doing his best to sound normal and not like a rabbit who’d just been stepped on. His best, he found, wasn’t very effective. “Ardeth, did you see where he—?”

Ardeth had looked a little confused for a second until his mind did a similar equation and came up with the same result Jonathan’s had.

“No,” he said, and in other circumstances Jonathan might have marvelled at the way his eyes went round and his face spelled out the same kind of budding panic he felt. “I wasn’t watching him. Are you sure he’s not—?”

“Yes of course I’m sure!”

The tent wasn’t that large; in five seconds Jonathan had exhausted all possible hiding places for a three-year-old. He bolted out into the mid-morning sun, eyes straining to catch any movement at all and sort out which might be his nephew.

The dig site sprawled in front of him, an open-air ant colony full of sunlight, ancient stones, and people, none of which the one tiny human he was looking for.

You’ll keep an eye on him, won’t you? Evy had told him more than asked, to which Jonathan had replied with a little more confidence than he felt, Of course I will. What sort of uncle do you take me for?

Perhaps the question bore asking a little more than he thought…

“Oh God,” Jonathan moaned. “I’ve lost him. The one thing I swore I’d never do and I’ve gone and lost him. How does one even lose a two-stone child?”

“Never mind that,” came Ardeth’s sharp voice, snapping him out of his self-pity. “We just have to find him. He can’t have gone that far.”

Gone was the genial if quiet fellow with the slight smile; in his place stood the Ardeth of old, the grim-faced warrior on a sacred mission. For some reason Jonathan found this reassuring. He had first-hand knowledge of how valuable an ally the Medjai could be in the more… extreme kinds of situations.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

“You’re right, you’re right. He’s just one little kid… with tiny legs… Good God, what if he falls into one of these trenches they’re digging along the walls over there?” he wailed. Naturally, his brain helpfully provided him with an image which made him physically sick to his stomach. That is not helping! he thought as forcefully as he could, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope of getting rid of the mental picture.

“Jonathan.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not helping.”

“Of course, I know that,” Jonathan snapped as he strode out of the tent, hopefully in a direction a three-year-old would find interesting. “But it’s not something I can help, is it? Anything could happen to him! He could fall, he could cut himself, he could get sunstroke – he’s always taking off his hat, the damn thing never stays on his head for more than ten seconds – I bet this bloody necropolis is crawling with snakes and scorpions, too, let’s not forget those—”

“Stop.”

Ardeth’s voice had that iron ring to it which only came out when he was giving urgent orders to his men. It reverberated through Jonathan the way his old captain’s voice used to, a decade ago, when someone had been about to step on a mine or a half-buried live shell. Instinctively he froze, one foot still in the air, precariously balancing on his other foot, searching for the hidden threat.

“What?!”

“Look.”

Ardeth was pointing down at something about two inches from his right foot. Jonathan stumbled back and examined it.

A tiny footprint in the sand. Followed by another.

“The wind will erase them soon,” said Ardeth, “but at least they can give us a direction.”

Jonathan let out a long, drawn-out breath.

“Fantastic. Jolly good show. I’ll be right behind you, then.”

Ardeth frowned at him.

“Why is that?”

“Well, you’re the expert tracker here, aren’t you?”

“I really am not,” muttered Ardeth, going back to the footprints and following them down the path that led to the busiest area of the necropolis. “Anybody might have spotted those prints.”

“Yes, and anybody else might have stepped on them. Anybody still might, for that matter.”

Ardeth gave him a look between curious and exasperated, and Jonathan tried to curb his pessimism. After all, Alex had been his responsibility, not Ardeth’s, but the fellow still offered his help, apparently without even thinking about it. Antagonising him would not just be rude, it would be quite idiotic.

“Sorry for assuming things, old boy,” he said after a short silence. “I just thought that, of the two of us, you’d be the one with the most experience in tracking people. Or children, as it were.”

The look Ardeth gave him this time, though still tense, was almost exempt of irritation. It was even a little thoughtful.

“I’m a warrior, first and foremost. If I need to track someone – or something – I rely on experts. But,” he added with the hint of a smile, “I do have some experience looking for my nieces and nephews.”

Jonathan squinted at him. “Do you mean ‘looking after’ your nieces and nephews?”

“No, ‘for’. They like playing hide and seek.”

The mental picture of Ardeth – dour, dignified, serious Ardeth – playing hide and seek with children Jonathan imagined to be no older than ten made him smile. And then something else occurred to him, and he groaned.

“Oh, God. It’s bad enough that Alex likes to disappear just because he gets curious. I’m not looking forward to him disappearing because he doesn’t want to be found.”

“Does he run away a lot, then?” Ardeth asked curiously. Jonathan nodded with a solemn sigh.

“Like I said, he’s curious. Takes after his mum, God help us. Evy was the same, really, except in the end she could usually be found in the library or in front of an interesting-looking bas-relief.”

It appeared Jonathan was not the only one who got entertaining mental pictures. Ardeth actually smiled.

“I have no trouble believing that. I take it you were not a curious child, then?”

“Oh, believe me, I was. The difference is, I’m the eldest, so no-one else remembers all the silly things I did as a boy. No-one alive, anyway.”

Jonathan’s mind caught up with his words a second after they left his mouth, which meant he could finish his sentence without his voice trailing off.

Grief was a sneaky bastard, he knew, the sort that could leave a fellow alone for months or even years until it tapped him on the shoulder one day, said “Remember me?” and stabbed him through and through with something that felt like a long, icy knife. He hadn’t felt that knife in a while.

Pull yourself together, old boy, he told himself as sternly as he could, it’s been a decade.

…All right, nine years. Well, eight years and six months. And three days. Point was, quite long enough that a grown man shouldn’t make a fool of himself because his mother and father happened to die before their time.

Jonathan released a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and avoided Ardeth’s eyes until he was certain the expression in his wouldn’t betray him.

Of course, since the man was anything but stupid, there was something solemn in the gaze Jonathan caught as he finally glanced his way again. It was somewhat tempting to ask him if his parents were still alive; after all, Jonathan, Evy and Rick knew precious little about Ardeth Bay and his family, or even general Medjai customs. But even here, in the middle of the desert, and no matter how much Jonathan usually liked to trample them into the sand, etiquette rules prohibited personal questions unless such information was freely offered. Ardeth having previously mentioned being married and an uncle had been all they had known about his private life before they had meet Imeni, who was a little more liberal with personal details.

Besides, in the event that Ardeth’s parents were in fact dead, the last thing Jonathan wanted to do was make things more awkward, knowing first-hand how sharp old grief could prove.

They silently approached a man sitting on the ground, surrounded by what appeared to be crockery, intent on cleaning up a piece of ancient earthenware.

“Um,” said Jonathan, “excuse me. Did you happen to see a child? Blond, blue-eyed, yea high, probably was not wearing a hat.”

Evy is going to kill me on that account alone if we don’t find him soon.

The man gave a start and glowered up at Jonathan.

“If I saw a child?” he yelled in Arabic. “Yes, I did see a child! He picked up this pot and almost dropped it. Do you know how old this pot is? How valuable!? Snotty brats running wild, almost breaking priceless artefacts, what kind of a dig site is this—”

“Did you see where he went?” Ardeth interrupted him shortly, also in Arabic. The man’s glare went from Jonathan to him, and his anger visibly went down a notch or two, replaced with wariness.

“Yes,” he answered after an awkward silence. “That way, towards the Osireion1. I figured someone was looking after him, so I didn’t really pay attention.”

Ardeth thanked him and strode in the new direction, practically towing Jonathan, whose legs had just decided it was the right moment to start wobbling. The Osireion, unlike most temples, had been built much lower than the other buildings, and as such was being excavated rather than just cleaned up. If Alex took a wrong step…

“Did you understand what he said?”

“Most of it,” wheezed Jonathan. “The next time I’m carrying the lad I swear my arms will fall off before I put him down. There are pits over there, for God’s sake, and – and trenches, and holes full of stagnant water in this season…”

Just for a second, the words ‘pits’, ‘trenches’, and ‘holes full of stagnant water’ dredged up bad memories, over a decade old, and he froze. Ardeth, still walking briskly towards the temple, didn’t appear to notice. Jonathan had to run a little to catch up with him.

“ALEX!” he yelled, praying the boy was within earshot and his parents weren’t. “Where are you?”

“Yāh! Do you search for a little child?” someone called out in English with a fairly heavy accent. Jonathan and Ardeth whirled round as one.

One of the foremen was waving, trying to get their attention. The two of them ran up to him and reached him in a dead heat.

“Where did you see him?” Jonathan panted. “Is he all right?”

The man squinted at him and Ardeth. Then, without a word, he jerked his chin in the direction of a rudimentary tent shielding a couple of camels from the sun.

Between the camels, sitting cross-legged on the sand with a biscuit and making cheerful one-sided conversation, was Alex.

“…but then I have fingers, so I can pick things up and not eat them – broc’li, you know, they’re yucky. Carrots are okay, only Mummy doesn’t like it when I saw ‘okay’, but Daddy says it except he doesn’t really like carrots? Carrots are fun to crunch, though, ‘cause I have teeth – see? How many teeth do you have?”

Jonathan leant forwards with his hands on his wobbly knees, panting, and sent a quick silent prayer of gratitude to anyone who might be listening.

“Alex,” he gasped. “You—why—where—”

“Hi, Uncle Jon!” said Alex with a grin, waving. “These camels don’t bite!”

One of the camels chose that precise moment to sniff lazily the half-eaten biscuit in Alex’s hand and drew back its lips. Jonathan’s heart, already going a mile a minute from the run and the fright, skipped a beat. In the space of a second he had rushed over to the boy and picked him up.

“Get your own biscuit,” he snapped at the camel, “and leave my nephew’s fingers alone.”

Then he heaved a sigh almost as heavy as Alex and wrapped his squirming nephew into a tight hug.

“Put me down, Uncle Jon!” protested Alex. “I don’t wanna hug! I wanna see the camel again.”

Jonathan ignored his request and shifted him back to peer at him.

“Are you all right? Did you get bitten, stung, scratched? Where’s your hat gone?” He transferred Alex to one arm as he used his other hand to check him and his clothes for any damages. When his fingers hit a ticklish spot Alex squirmed again with a giggle.

“You’re silly.”

“And you are in a world of trouble, partner. Why on Earth did you run off?”

Alex’s grin was a milk teeth version of his father’s when Rick really smiled, and an unholy mix of triumphant and utterly disarming.

“I saw a bird!”

Jonathan’s mouth fell open.

“…A bird.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you ran off.”

“Yes!”

“But…” Jonathan stared at the boy in his arms. “But there’s plenty of birds at home and you don’t disappear each time you see a bally sparrow!”

…Oh Lord, I hope I haven’t given him ideas.

Alex shook his head vehemently, still grinning.

“Can I – Uncle Jon, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” Jonathan replied distractedly. Alex put his arms around his neck, his eyes shining like he’d just had the best idea in the history of bright ideas.

“It was,” he said in Jonathan’s ear, his voice a little too loud to sound properly conspiratorial, “a desert bird!”

He leant back, staring expectantly at his uncle with the same beaming smile.

Jonathan, too frazzled and knackered to do anything else, stared back a few long seconds. Then he gave a small smile.

“So you saw a camel and a bird, eh? Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“That’s not all,” came a voice on his left. He’d completely forgotten Ardeth, Jonathan realised with a twinge of guilt. “Apparently, he also peeked into a well in search of water, disturbed the foreman’s tools, and then forgot to say ‘thank you’ when he was given a biscuit.”

“Thank you,” said Alex immediately in the prim and polite tone Jonathan knew he had picked up from Evy. Ardeth smiled slightly.

“Not to me, Alexander, to him. He was the one who gave you the biscuit.”

The foreman, who had been talking with Ardeth, stared at Alex impassibly, arms folded across his chest. Alex wriggled closer to his uncle, looking intimidated.

“Thank you,” he said more uncertainly.

The foreman stared a little more, then gave a solemn nod.

“Do not look in wells, little boy,” he said gravely. “There is danger there.”

“But I’m careful.”

“He always says that,” said Jonathan to the foreman in Arabic, “generally just before he does something really stupid. Thank you so much for finding him.”

The foreman looked taken aback for a second. That was a common enough reaction on the occasion that Jonathan got his Arabic sentences right. The accent threw people. For all that his mother had lived most of the second half of her life away from Egypt, she had retained her Cairene accent, which Jonathan had inherited and held on to. As long as he didn’t make glaring mistakes – which happened often, admittedly – people’s faces at hearing a pasty blue-eyed Englishman speak Arabic with the kind of lilt one might find among the middle class of Downtown Cairo always had some entertainment value.

“If I were you,” said the foreman in Arabic after a ‘you’re welcome’ nod, “I’d keep an eye on that child. Kids his age can be reckless, but he looks utterly fearless.”

“Don’t I know it. Unfortunately he can be…”

Dammit, what was a good word for ‘sneaky’? Muḵādeʿ2 meant ‘dishonest’, but that didn’t describe Alex at all. Jonathan was dishonest; Alex was just slippery as an eel and blithely ignored the adults’ opinions on where he should be and what he should (or shouldn’t) do.

Ardeth seemed to infer what Jonathan meant and picked up where he left off, thank goodness. “He can be very stealthy.”

He looked stone-faced and imperturbable, as usual, but his voice had something strange about it, slightly off, as though strained.

The foreman nodded again and went back to his duties after a last pointed look at Alex, who responded by throwing his arms around his uncle’s neck again, generously sprinkling biscuit crumbs into his shirt collar.

Despite what he had told Ardeth earlier, Jonathan gently put Alex down with a groan. The boy really was getting heavy. However, in deference to the fright he’d just had, he reached down to grab Alex’s free hand in his. Alex ducked in order to keep both hands on his biscuit, but this time Jonathan was adamant to not let go of him.

“Hand, please.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“And what did your mum say yesterday when you didn’t want to hold her hand?”

Alex grumbled something inaudible and slipped his tiny, sticky hand into his uncle’s.

“Good show.”

As they made their way back to the tent at a much more leisurely pace than the earlier frantic search, Jonathan gave Ardeth a sideways glance.

“What’s the matter with you? We found Alex safe and sound, which means Evy and Rick won’t kill me immediately, only when he inevitably mentions his little escapade. There’s a good chance you’ll be gone by that point, though.”

Ardeth’s lips twitched briefly, but something in his expression remained just on the cheerful side of grim.

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Well, lucky you. What are you worried about, then?”

Ardeth hesitated.

Jonathan stared at him. Ardeth never hesitated.

“I was thinking,” said Ardeth after a few seconds’ silence, “about children.”

“One particular specimen or children in general?”

“Yes.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“So you can be cryptic when the world is not at stake as well. Good to know.”

“What was cryptic about ‘Leave this place or die’?”

“Want a list?”

Answer came in the form of a mildly exasperated look. Then, uncharacteristically, a little more hesitation before Ardeth seemed to come to a decision.

“The reason Imeni couldn’t come is because she’s eight months pregnant and the doctor said she should avoid riding.”

Jonathan couldn’t help a large smile.

“Well, I believe congratulations are in order, old boy! Too bad I don’t have cigars. It’s a little early for that, I suppose, but I’ll be sure to bring some next time.”

The remark seemed to baffle Ardeth out of his uncertainty. “Why do you want to smoke cigars? I don’t think I’ve seen you smoke a cigarette.”

“I do have the occasional smoke, but in this case cigars are a tradition in Old Blighty after a birth. The men of the house usually retire to the smoking room while the lady does all the work, and when said work is done the father hands out cigars. Presumably it makes him feel like he did something other than help start the whole thing.”

“The father isn’t present when his child is born?” asked Ardeth, one eyebrow raised. Jonathan shrugged.

“It’s all supposed to be very much women’s business. Tradition, you know. Of course Evy said tradition could go hang and insisted on having Rick be there when Alex was born. The midwife almost had a fit.” So had Rick, come to think of it. But from the look on his face when Jonathan had finally been allowed into the room to check his sister had survived the ordeal and meet his new nephew, it had all been worth it in the end.

Ardeth nodded.

“Among the Medjai, fathers are usually present for a birth. That way, if… something goes wrong, they can still see their child. Or say goodbye to their wife.”

The second sentence cast something of a pall on the conversation. Jonathan swallowed.

Alex had been a healthy baby, but his birth had been difficult for Evy. Despite his earlier remark to Ardeth about the prospect of the boy getting a little sibling, Jonathan was fairly sure the chance was slim to none.

Unconsciously his hand tightened around his nephew’s.

“Is that the reason for your, um… Is that why you were worried?”

Ardeth shook his head. “No. Not entirely, at least. But…” He glanced down at Alex, who kept trotting besides his uncle, eyes darting everywhere. “My experience with children is being an uncle, not a parent. What if…”

This was the most Jonathan had ever heard him falter. There was something disturbing about it, as though he was watching Evy have no idea which section of the Dewey classification a book belonged to.

“What if I’m not ready to be a father?” Ardeth finally asked, sounding like he wasn’t asking Jonathan so much as simply thinking out loud. “If I can fail to notice a child just disappeared under my nose, what does it say about my ability to keep track of children of my own?”

Jonathan blinked at him, rather stunned.

Ardeth voicing any concern of a personal nature was unusual enough. Doing so to him, Jonathan, and not to Rick or Evy, was even stranger, and, to tell the truth, almost unnerving. Ardeth was solid certainty, as unwavering as a rock planted deep into the sand; when that certainty met with the unknown, the rock became wind and went around the obstacle. Ardeth was adaptable, quick to think on his feet, and unafraid of change.

To be fair, and despite the fact that the very last thing Jonathan saw himself as was a parent, even from an outsider’s perspective having a child was an enormous change.

“I suspect,” he said slowly, “that it’s just not the same when they’re your own. Goodness knows Evy was never very keen on children, especially babies or toddlers, until this one came along. Or a little bit before that. Believe me, those two wanted Alex to happen.”

Ardeth’s small smile was lightning-quick, but definitely flitted across his face.

“But they were ready.”

“Good Lord, no. Absolutely not. I think they completely forgot the practical applications of this concept called ‘sleep’ for about a year and a half, for one. You see, this little gentleman here took a long time to learn to sleep through the night.”

Before Alex graduated from baby to toddler – with all the independence that implied, including moving about on his own and being able to express himself with actual words – Jonathan had been very happy that his old room was across the wing from the nursery. It was good to know, on the occasional night he spent at the house, that if Alex started to shriek (or coo, or chatter – the boy was a menagerie all to himself) at four in the morning it was someone else’s responsibility to see to him. The perks of being an uncle, he had found.

Ardeth was silent a few seconds, looking thoughtful. In the hush, Jonathan felt Alex start to lag behind a little and glanced down at him.

“All right there, partner?”

“I’m not sleepy,” muttered Alex, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Jonathan exchanged a long-suffering look with Ardeth, uncle to uncle.

“I didn’t say you were. Think you might be getting a mite tired, though.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sleepy.”

“So I suppose your usual post-morning-snack nap is out of the question?”

“No nap!”

“That’s a shame, I could do with a kip. Oops, steady there.”

Alex had tripped over a rock; only Jonathan hauling him up by the hand kept him on his feet. When he landed, he squinted up at his uncle. His blue eyes were large enough that even the mid-morning sun couldn’t keep them closed.

“Uncle Jon,” he whined, “I’m not sleepy.”

“Yes, you did mention something to that effect.”

“But I wanna go up.”

“That’s funny, I think there’s a word missing in there…”

Alex made a face.

“Please?”

“Splendid. C’mere.”

Alex hardly needed the invitation. The second Jonathan crouched down, the boy wrapped himself around him like an improbable mix of limpet and octopus. He felt a lot less twitchy and energetic than he had been earlier, a clear sign that he was sleepy, or at the very least tired.

Jonathan looked down at the small hand loosely grasping the fabric of his shirt and at the bright blue eyes, now half-closed, and shook his head. It was nigh on impossible to stay cross with that child too long. Even when he misbehaved in the worst way – and Jonathan was well-placed to know there were always worst ways for a little boy to misbehave – he was just too darn cute to reprimand seriously.

Good thing that wasn’t his job. He was only an uncle, after all – although apparently not a very good one.

“Chances are he’ll be asleep in two minutes,” said Ardeth quietly, a smile in his voice. Jonathan suppressed a chuckle.

“Maybe even less. He did have himself quite an adventure this morning. He saw a desert bird, don’t you know.”

Ardeth nodded with a knowing smile.

“My nephew Nehi accompanied us to Cairo two years ago to see the new museum curator. I don’t think he stopped talking and pointing at things from the minute we reached the first houses.”

“How old was he then?”

“Five. You’ll want to watch that one when he reaches that age.”

“Oh, joy. Watching him now is hard enough, for Christ’s sake – you’ve seen how slippery he is!” Jonathan made a mock grimace of fear and glanced down at Alex, who sure enough was now sleeping soundly. “Well. Not right now, probably. Look at him – you’d never guess how close he’s come to giving two grown men heart attacks.”

“Children are good at that,” Ardeth philosophised. “But they’re also good at a lot of other things, alhamdulillah3. You don’t see yourself having one of your own, one day?”

They were almost at the tent, and the urge to sit down – putting down Alex was out of the question this time– was getting more pressing by the second, but Jonathan stopped in his tracks and stared at him, alarmed.

“Good God, no. The very thought. I don’t know who would be more miserable, the poor mite or me.” He drew one of the folding chairs next to another and finally sank into one, not too abruptly to avoid waking Alex, who still clung to him. His bones seemed to rattle when he settled against the backrest.

Ardeth gave something between a chuckle and a snigger.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not. Being an uncle is the limit of my meagre abilities. I don’t think I’ll ever want children, and children have to be wanted to be happy.”

He and Evy both had been wanted, Jonathan knew. So much so, in fact, that in his case there’d been a bit of gossip about whether he’d been the main reason for his parents’ marriage. Adults usually made a point of sending children away before they talked of such things, but that little rumour had followed him for most of his childhood nonetheless.

In hindsight, maybe it had been a factor, but the only thing it had changed was the timing. Nothing could have stopped Salwa al-Masri and John Carnahan from loving each other, officially or not.

Evy took a lot after their parents in that respect.

Jonathan smiled down at Alex, then looked back up at Ardeth with utmost sincerity.

“Tell me something – did you and Imeni want that child?”

Ardeth appeared taken aback – not that Jonathan could blame him, as he conceded to being serious about as much as Ardeth conceded to laughing out loud – but replied firmly, “Yes.”

“Then what is there to be worried about? You’ll both love the kid to pieces and I’ll bet you anything your nieces and nephews will be happy to get another cousin.”

Ardeth squinted at him.

“Are you seriously trying to impart wisdom?”

“I am a fount of wisdom, I’ll have you know. Generally I just need a glass of Scotch or two first.” Well, he was a fount of something, anyway. Evy always said he talked her ear off when he was three sheets to the wind. Thank goodness he usually toppled over before he got truly quiet. Quiet drunk Jonathan was not a fun drunk at all.

The look Ardeth gave him told him exactly what he thought of that boast, but his eyes twinkled.

“I am not gambling with you again,” he said, and Jonathan knew him well enough by now to spot the slight smile that did not quite show on his face. “Once was enough. I should have listened to O’Connell.”

“Just because that camel race was rigged doesn’t mean they all are, old boy. And Rick can talk – the last time he made a bet, Evy won five hundred dollars.”

A soft sound, like a newborn cat, interrupted the conversation. The grip on his shirt tightened as Alex burrowed against him, frowning a little. Nightmares, probably.

Jonathan let his hand hover over the back of his head, not quite sure what to do. Should he wake up Alex? Let him sleep on? Stroke his back like he’d seen Evy do sometimes, almost absently? The sun was a couple of hours from its zenith, sending the temperatures climbing; Alex’s shirt clung to his back and his neck was drenched in sweat, curling his hair a little. Surely a hug in those conditions couldn’t be too pleasant –

“Put a finger or two near his hand,” came Ardeth’s voice, “and when he takes them, rub your thumb over the back of his hand. Gently.”

Jonathan threw him a curious look, but did as instructed. It didn’t take much prodding for Alex to grab his index and middle finger. Even asleep, the boy liked to clutch at whatever passed by near enough.

To his surprise, after a little while, Alex’s features slackened, his body relaxed, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully again. Jonathan turned back to Ardeth with an appreciative nod.

“I say, that’s a neat trick. How did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t,” said Ardeth with the kind of soft smile that only seemed to come out in the presence of children. “But experience has taught me it takes little to soothe a child sometimes.” He paused. “You seem to be doing fine as an uncle, you know. No need to worry on that account.”

“Thank you,” said Jonathan in a rare flash of open sincerity. The reassurance hadn’t felt necessary until he’d actually heard it. Evy and Rick hadn’t been given the book on correct parenting, but at least they could fall back on memories of their parents, some more distant than others. Jonathan didn’t even have the blueprint of basic uncling. How did one talk to one’s infant then toddler nephew, he had no idea, so he tended to talk to Alex as he would an adult, mostly. Minus some words Evy disapproved of which Alex, unfortunately, found irresistible.

He was fairly sure that uncles weren’t supposed to lose their nephews, though. That little lesson would stay learned.

Well. At least they’d found Alex again quickly, and no harm had been done. The boy had had a biscuit and a little stroll while his uncle and Ardeth had a fright and an unexpected heart to heart, and now he was sprawled on Jonathan’s chest, twitching a little in his sleep sometimes – not a bad way to end an adventure. Even if the small body felt like a boiling water bottle in the blistering heat.

Alex tightened his hold on his uncle’s fingers, and Jonathan couldn’t help a smile. That boy was absurdly sweet.

“So,” he said to Ardeth in a low voice, “what’s the worst trick your nephews ever played on you? If I want to do this uncle thing right I’d better be prepared.”

Ardeth gave a silent laugh and shook his head.

“The worst my nephews have done so far is unhooking my saddle straps just before I mounted my horse. But… Did Imeni ever mention what my niece Kiya did when she was told to take care of her sister’s donkey for the afternoon? I know she likes telling that story.”

The anecdote sounded highly intriguing. Jonathan made himself comfortable in his chair and smirked.

“You know, I don’t believe she did.”

“All right. Well, I was giving Kiya’s sister Jamilah a riding lesson one day…”

.⅋.

Ardeth talked, Alex slept, and Jonathan listened, suppressing a laugh every now and then.

When some time later Evy made her way back to the tent to get a few maps and check on her son, she greeted Ardeth warmly and asked, “Everything all right? I trust everybody behaved?”

“Mummy, Mummy,” exclaimed Alex, who had woken up in the meantime. “I saw a desert bird and then I chased it to the big holes but he flew away. Then the scary man gave me a biscuit and I said ‘thank you’, and then Uncle Jon yelled at a camel, and I wasn’t even tired, and did you know camels bite?”

Evy withstood the onslaught of words with remarkable patience – hard-earned patience, Jonathan knew – and when Alex stopped to get his breath back she aimed her eyes at Jonathan like one might a rifle and squinted.

Not fair, thought Jonathan. I taught her that squint, for God’s sake.

Still, he barely refrained from squirming, and looked to Ardeth for help – to no avail. For the second time in their almost four years of acquaintance, Ardeth appeared uncertain.

The thing about being an uncle was that you had to remember to bow to higher authority, namely The Mum. Especially when the mum in question was Evy. And this even if the uncle in question was a Medjai chieftain, apparently.

Jonathan’s gaze went back and forth from his beaming nephew to his friend before settling on his sister. There was only one thing to do, then.

He took a deep breath, looked Evy in the eye, and tried to look as reasonable as possible.

“Evy, old mum – I can explain everything.”

THE END

.⅋.

1Also spelled ‘Osireon’; one of the temples at Abydos, a cenotaph (tomb without a body) for Seti 1st, who as a deceased pharaoh symbolically plays the role of Osiris there.

2(مخادع), “dishonest”, Egyptian Arabic

3(اَلْحَمْدُ لِلّٰهِ), al-ḥamdu li-llāhi, literally “praise [be] to God”.

[hohoz]

AN AMAZING FIC, it feels like I'm reading a book, its called Follow the wind by Tahimikamaxtli

Here's a small part that should get u in the mood, BTW Caitlyn feels so real in this particular scene, hope u enjoy.

-x-

Gentle shaking was what awoke Yasuo. His eyes fluttered open as the gentle motion rocked him. As he shifted, the hand left his shoulder, evidently satisfied that he was awake.

"Yasuo. Get up," said a very familiar voice. Dimly, he realized that whoever it was, they must have been calling his name for some time.

He straightened, sitting up on the bench with a groan, pressing palms to his temples as the world tilted dangerously before him. Already, he could feel the beginnings of his inevitable hangover as an uncomfortable prickling set in behind his eyes. Once the feeling of nausea had passed, he looked up at who had woken him and squinted against the bright light of the hallway lanterns.

Though he could only see their silhouette, the shadow of the large hat made it obvious who it was. After all, there was only one person in the League who wore such a ridiculous hat. Not that he would ever tell her it was ridiculous.

Caitlyn.

As his vision adjusted to the light, he thought he could see the smug smile on her face.

"Have a nice nap, love?" she asked sardonically as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other and crossed her arms. She had traded her Sheriff's outfit for a simple purple top and frilly purple skirt that only just covered her thighs. For an officer of the law, Yasuo often thought she had a less than scrupulous taste in clothing. He let his eyes wander up past her ankle-high boots and up her smooth legs before they came to rest on her face. Yasuo looked at her for a moment more, meeting her amused gray eyes before groaning again and covering his eyes with his right hand; the light from behind her was still painful.

"Why is it you?" he asked as he lowered his hand at last. "Of all the people in the Institute…"

Caitlyn's smile grew. "Don't think yourself lucky, love. When we're all cooped up here, the chances of running into one another are higher than you'd think."

Yasuo waved a hand dismissively and Caitlyn chuckled. He took several steadying breaths before he spoke again.

"Where are Jayce and Vi?" he asked as he realized that the Piltover triumvirate was not complete. To his surprise, Caitlyn stiffened and her expression hardened as she tightened her arms around one another.

"They're not here," she said tightly. Yasuo raised an eyebrow – both at the obvious statement and at her tone.

"It doesn't take a Sheriff to see that," he said carefully. "I just thought they'd be with you."

"They were. Not anymore."

"Where'd they go?" he asked casually.

"Back to Jayce's room. Or Vi's. Or maybe somewhere else. I don't know; I left before I could hear much else."

Yasuo straightened, interested. "Together? They left together?"

Caitlyn nodded curtly, and she uncrossed her arms, placing her hands on her hips and looking away from Yasuo. "Maybe my wishes will come true and they'll finally sleep together," she said with a faintly bitter tone. "Then I won't have to deal with them flirting anymore. Heavens knows it's such a bother."

"You don't sound all that happy about it," muttered Yasuo without meeting her eyes. Though he was obviously interested in her reaction, he was approaching the subject as carefully as he could. The last thing he wanted was a red dot on his forehead and a bullet in his brain. Death was not so… temporary off of the Rift.

Caitlyn smiled thinly. "I'm not. If I have trouble dealing with them now when they're not sleeping together, I can only imagine how it'll be if they start." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "I can already see the paperwork… oh, my poor fingers," she said as she cracked her knuckles for emphasis.

Yasuo chuckled uneasily and Caitlyn shot him a glare that was only half-serious. She had a valid point about having to deal with them as their friend if they became a couple, but he could not shake the feeling…

He cleared his throat. "So you're not jealous?" he asked meekly. Caitlyn stared at him.

"Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous?" she asked, sounding very genuinely surprised. "What are you on about?"

"Oh. I thought maybe…" His voice trailed off timidly, and after another moment of staring incredulously at him, Caitlyn let out a loud laugh. Her laughter rang out through the halls as she doubled over, clutching her stomach. Yasuo felt his face redden. There's no need to laugh that much…

Her laughter continued even as he squirmed uncomfortably on the bench, looking around the hallway to make sure no one saw him being laughed at by Caitlyn. To his relief, there was no one in sight.

"Oh, you wanker!" she gasped once she could finally breath again. Still laughing, her speech was halting and broken. "You thought- You thought I had feelings for one of them, didn't you?"

"No."

"You bugger," she said with a grin. "You're lying, I can tell. Tell me the truth, Yasuo."

"Well, not anymore," he corrected himself stiffly. Caitlyn wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes, shoulders still shaking.

"Oh, I'm sorry for my rudeness, love," she said quickly and still unsteadily. "It's just… that's so bloody ridiculous!"

"I can see that now."

Caitlyn, still giggling, sat down on the bench beside him. The edges of her hat brushed his hair as she leaned back. "I didn't mean to laugh at you, love. But I'm being quite serious: I don't have feelings for either of them."

Yasuo glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes as she said it; her tone had changed drastically. Her eyes and her face were filled with a bitter sadness, and though how she said it was with complete conviction, her expression lacked that same conviction. The laughter had fled her face, leaving it sorrowful and morose. She was silent, staying ahead of her at the opposite wall of the corridor with blank eyes as Yasuo watched her. Just when he was about to ask her if she was fine, she spoke again.

"And besides," she started briskly as if realizing how she looked. "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter: do you know how mad it is to date a friend, love?" She shook her head vigorously, sending her hat trembling. "Absolutely barmy. Honestly, I wouldn't want the trouble." She sighed. "Unfortunately, if this goes on like I think it's going to, it's going to be even worse for me than either of them, I wager. I'd still have to deal with the both of them if they start to ignore each other."

"That doesn't sound fun."

Caitlyn cracked another small smile. "It won't be."

Yasuo sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned back on the wall behind him. "Well, Caitlyn," he muttered. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks, love." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "What happened to you?" she asked finally.

"What are you talking about?" he grumbled without opening his eyes; the light was still painful.

"You took a while to wake up, love. You must been drinking quite a lot. Trying to forget something… or someone?" she added slyly.

"I've just got a lot of things on my mind," he said, ignoring the second part of her question.

"A woman?"

Yasuo opened his eyes to glare at her. "No, not a woman. Not everything men think about is about women, Caitlyn."

The Sheriff's shoulders brushed against his as she shrugged. "But much of it is," she said idly. She narrowed her eyes at him in scrutiny. "Come on, love. I'm not Valoran's Greatest Detective for no reason."

"Is that you?" said Yasuo nonchalantly. "And here I was under the impression that it was Vayne. Silly me."

That struck a nerve; even though he had known both women for a short time, he knew that Vayne and Caitlyn had an almost friendly rivalry over who was the better investigator. He knew that although the Night Hunter and the Sheriff of Piltover were close, at many times they would butt heads over their differing methods, and their normally warm relationship would ice over. But the two women always maintained a professional respect for one another, even if their friendship would occasionally turn icy. He had seen them many times at a table together, heads together as they conversed quietly on what he could only imagine were cases. He knew that they consulted each other, and at times they would work together and ask favors of one another.

Caitlyn's eyes flashed in anger at the sound of her friend's name, and she stiffened, hands clenching at her sides. "Yes, well, unlike my colleague the Night Hunter," she said shortly. "I operate within legal parameters." She held the hard expression for a moment longer before a sly smile twitched her lips and softened it. "Besides, I consider it a handicap for her. It's only fair, the poor girl."

Yasuo let a grin of his own cross his face. "Don't let her hear you say that. And you can't tell me you haven't ever… stretched the law a bit. Not once asked Vi to rough a criminal up a little or Jayce to investigate a suspect's home on his free time?"

"Not once." She had answered it smoothly and without a hint of a lie, but the grin on her face gave it away.

Chuckling, Yasuo shook his head. "You and Vayne are worse than Vi and Jayce."

"We are not!" exclaimed Caitlyn, scandalized. Yasuo shrugged, and Caitlyn scoffed. "You're just saying that to get me off topic, aren't you?" she asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Maybe," said Yasuo as he inspected his fingernails. He did not have his sword with him, so there was little else to pretend to be interested in.

"I knew it," said Caitlyn as she shifted on the bench to face Yasuo. "Were you thinking about her?"

"I don't know who you're talking about."

Caitlyn looked at him with eyebrows raised in skepticism. "Come on, love," she said with a sigh. "I know who she is. Don't make me say her name – for your sake."

Yasuo pressed his lips tightly together and looked away pointedly.

"That bad, huh?" said Caitlyn quietly. "Maybe you should try to talk to her, Yasuo."

"Again, I still don't know what you're talking about."

Caitlyn growled in exasperation, rolling her eyes and throwing her hands in the air. "Fine. If you're going to be difficult, so can I. Riven, Yasuo. Talk to Riven."

Yasuo's eyes flashed to her, and he quelled the surprise in his chest. "How'd you know?" he asked finally, his voice low.

Caitlyn tapped the rim of her hat. "Valoran's Greatest Detective, remember? Don't worry, love, other than me and maybe Vayne, I don't think a lot of people suspect it." She scrunched her nose, her brow furrowing. "And I don't think Shauna gives much of a damn, either. Relationships aren't really her cup of tea, so to speak."

"If you know about… her, then you know the feelings I have for her aren't romantic in the slightest," he said, his voice still low and dangerous. "She killed my master, Caitlyn. She's the reason I've suffered these past years."

"The rest of Ionia doesn't seem to believe you, love," she said softly. "And I can't but feel like you're lying to yourself about your own feelings."

"That's their problem," he said coldly, once again ignoring the second part of her comment. He narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you think, Caitlyn? Do you believe me, or do you think I'm a liar, just like all the other Ionians do?"

Caitlyn kept his gaze for a silent minute, her gray eyes searching his intently before she looked away. Sighing wearily, she lifted her hat as she brushed her hair back. "I believe you, love," she said at last once she had placed her hat back on her head. "I don't think you did it." She smiled humorlessly. "But even I have to admit… the evidence is compelling. An Elder killed at the temple you were tasked to guard. Killed by a wind technique when the only known user of those techniques was you. Once you were confronted, you chose instead to run rather than turn yourself in. You have to admit, it seems like an open-and-shut case."

"The evidence is compelling and the case is open-and-shut only for those who had already made up their minds. They didn't so much as give me a chance to explain myself. They were going to execute me right there without a trial or anything."

"Whatever the case may be…" she muttered. "If you're not going to talk to Riven, why not talk to one of her friends? Maybe you can understand her better that way. If you want to understand her better at all."

"All of her friends are Ionians," he said simply. "I doubt they're in much of a mood to talk to me." But even as he said it, he thought of Lee Sin. The Blind Monk had always been more receptive of him, and silently, he made a promise to speak to him some time later. Caitlyn was watching his facial expression, her eyes flickering back and forth across his face.

"You've thought of something," she noted.

"Maybe."

Yasuo stood, and Caitlyn watched him as he placed a hand to the wall beside him to steady himself. With his conversation with Caitlyn, he had almost forgotten that he was still drunk. He closed his eyes to help abate the nausea as he caught his breath. Once he found he could stand without his legs shaking, he opened his eyes once more. Caitlyn kept her eyes trained onto him, the amused expression returning as she watched him stumble.

"I'd almost forgotten you were completely sloshed, love," she said in barely contained delight.

"So did I," he said with a groan. It's going to be a long night… Damn you, Gragas.

"You're a very cogent drunk, you know that, Yasuo?" she added as she stood as well. "You were very articulate this whole time."

Yasuo chuckled. "I've been drunk a lot, Caitlyn. You get used to it after a while. Soon enough, people don't even know you're drunk." He closed his eyes as another wave of vertigo washed over him. "Sometimes you can even fool yourself," he added with a wince.

Caitlyn looked at him, this time her eyebrows raised in more derisive amusement. "Whatever the reason, I hope this teaches you a lesson or two."

"I doubt it; I'm not a very good listener."

"I'd imagine not, love." The Sheriff gave a friendly tip of the hat as she also turned to leave. "Well, until next time, Yasuo."

"What are you going to do tonight?" he asked suddenly as she began to walk away.

Caitlyn paused, and when she turned, there was another, more unreadable smile on her face. "Me? Why do you want to know, Yasuo? You want to ask me on a date?"

Yasuo shrugged. "No, I'm just curious."

Caitlyn sighed, and Yasuo could not tell if it was from disappointment or something else. "I'm going to go to my apartment, take a nice long bath – preferably with candles, bubbles and slow music and most definitely alone – then I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to need my rest for whatever disaster happens tomorrow between Vi and Jayce. And you?"

"Lie down and wait until this hangover goes away," he said with a groan. "Hopefully I won't succumb to the temptation to kill myself to end it sooner."

Caitlyn laughed. "Maybe you should drink less."

Yasuo scoffed. "Drink less? What kind of a suggestion is that?"

"A reasonable one."

"Reasonable?" he repeated, aghast. "You must be even drunker than I am to be thinking such crazy things."

Caitlyn laughed again, turning away and waving farewell over her shoulder. "Good night, Yasuo."

As Yasuo watched her go, his eyes were far lower than he would normally cast them if she were facing him. He watched her slender legs stride away confidently, enjoying the view despite himself. For once, he found he rather enjoyed the Sheriff's choice in barely-there skirts. A small smile lifted the right corner of his mouth as he shook his head.

Consider us even now, Caitlyn, he thought to himself as her form disappeared completely from view; he was thinking back to the time when he had been shirtless in the League cafeteria and he had felt her gaze linger on his own body as he walked away. With a quiet chuckle and with more concentration than he would have liked for it to take, he forced the image of a Caitlyn… alone… in a bath… with bubbles… and candles… and slow music… from his mind's eye.

Now, now, Yasuo, he chided himself as he began to make his way slowly in the direction of his apartment. We can't have that. You heard her: relationships with friends are nothing but trouble. Even if she does have a nice as- nope, don't even think it, Yasuo.

But he let the image of a bathing Caitlyn linger in his mind as he walked back to his apartment. It was all in good fun, after all; he had no romantic feelings for the Sheriff, and liked her perfectly well as nothing more than a friend, though he still considered her very attractive. Especially when her flavor for clothing was a little on the risqué side. Besides, whenever he fell asleep, there was only one woman who invaded his dreams. Someone who he would much rather not have there.

Riven.

[mariana-oconnor]

All I Do Not Want for Christmas

I have a not-so-guilty love of cheesy Christmas Movies. They are stupid and predictable and reinforce gender stereotypes and the idea of the supremacy of the heterosexual babies ever after with a fucking vengeance. I know all this. I still enjoy them. And it’s November, and I’ve been off work for two weeks recovering from a minor operation, so I’ve been crocheting more of my three year crochet project that will never end and watching anything that sounds mindless and serotonin inducing. Feeling happy helps with pain relief, fight me. No don’t, because I am still on pain medication and thus I am invincible!

I was bumbling around Amazon Prime when I found this film and I thought ‘that’s a cheesy terrible title, but it sounds like the plot of a fic I would read, so I will watch it.’

The film is called His and Her Christmas and the description was “two newspaper columnists have a battle of the sexes in a small town.”

I will admit I sort of glossed over the ‘battle of the sexes’ bit, because usually that’s just a dramatic way of saying that they flirt aggressively at each other. In this instance, however, that was not the case.

I have watched a lot of crappy christmas films, and crappy other films, tbh. Yes, I have seen that one where Morgana from Merlin ends up marrying a Prince. I have seen about eleven where Santa Claus’s child goes to the mortal world and falls in love with a human who doesn’t know they’re from the North Pole. I have seen the one where that guy who was Santa’s son in that other film is now a window decorator at a department store and there is a ‘battle of the windows’ until they realise that they’re better designing the window displays together (who would have thought). I have seen christmas wishes and christmas princes and christmas widowers and five thousand versions of “small town girl who made it big in the city returns home to remember the true meaning of Christmas”.

I say this so you understand that I am coming to this film from a place where I get the tropes and understand where these films are coming from. I unironically enjoy these films. They are feel-good nonsense. This film was Not Like The Others.

For a start, in every single one of those films I just described, the male romantic lead is actually nice, even if it’s hidden at first because he was once left at the altar on Christmas Eve or whatever. He’s a good guy, sure in that shallow, shiny sort of way that people are in these films, but any rough edges he had at the start are resolved - often in a hand wavy way, but they are resolved.

In this film, that is very much not the case. When it says ‘battle of the sexes’, what it means is that he, a famous columnist from a massive newspaper conglomerate, on the verge of getting his own TV show, uses his readership and influence to publically insult and humiliate her, a small town newspaper columnist whose job is almost certainly in jeopardy, in a misogynistic and vicious way.

And all her friends say ‘he’d only be that mean if he really likes you’.

They have about three conversations, during which they insult each other face to face and he is a smug dick with no redeeming features, and when she complains about him to her friend, her friend says ‘but he’s so hot tho?!? You sure you’re not just mistaking horniness for hatred?’ Everyone belittles her anger at being mocked and derided publically.

Rather than having a startling revelation that he’s been an utter dick and should apologise for his very existence, instead he goes to see his Dad, who is having Christmas alone and decides that because newspaper lady is hot - especially when she’s angry, which, to be fair, is the only way he’s ever seen her because he is a fucking wanker - he is going to use her to avoid the horrific fate of spending all his future christmases alone eating fried chicken or something.

And that’s the heartwarming Christmas get-together.

There are other horrific things, like his female boss, who is clearly supposed to be some sort of ‘look, we’re not sexist’ figure who continually sexually harasses him and other people and entirely encompasses the worst aspects of the Bitch In Charge stereotype.

And then I looked up when it was from, thinking early nineties, because of the sheer overwhelming amount of NOPE that it was inciting in me. And apparently it was from 2005. So that’s upsetting (and I know that’s almost 15 years ago now, but still... that’s not long enough ago for that level of misogyny).

Basically, it’s a terrible film and I may copy paste this rant into a review and give it one star because it’s that bad (so far it’s on 4 stars and the only review in my country has it as ‘very enjoyable’, which is a travesty).

I know all these films are sexist and stupid, but this took it to a whole new level of appalling. The two romantic leads had 0 on screen time together when they weren’t at each other’s throats. I kept waiting for him to actually reform, but no... he’s still a dick.

Just, most of you probably would never have watched it anyway, but just... don’t. For the sake of everyone in the world, don’t watch it. I’m not even gonna link to it, because it does not deserve the hits.

However, if anyone wants to write a fic where two idiots on rival newspapers do have a friendly flirtatious rivalry in their columns and fall in love, I will 100% read that fic.

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Chapter 11; Operation Time Heist is a go

*Author’s note*

And so it begins. The epic rising action of our fic so buckle up everyone because here’s where things get a little funky, wacky, emotional feels and of course ANGSTY. So for all you Marvel fans out there who knows what’s to come, BE PREPARED WITH YOUR TISSUES. 

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@platawnic​

@waddles03​

___________________________________________________________

NEW YORK. 2012

It was during the Chitauri invasion when Loki first came to Earth in search of the Tesseract.  The battle that first brought the Avengers together.  As the six main Avengers at the time were preparing for the battle of their lives, Steve, Scott, Bruce, Tony and I appeared out of an alleyway in our disguise for this mission.

Scott, Steve and Tony would grab the Space stone while Bruce and I went to the New York Sanctum to retrieve the Time Stone.

“Alright we all have our assignments. Two stones uptown, one stone down. Stay low, Keep an eye on the clock.” Said Steve.  It was then we saw 2012 Hulk come into sight and began to overkill a few Chitauri aliens by smashing a taxicab on one of them, then bouncing up and down on the cab, going way overboard with the killing.

Before going after the second Chitauri that fled after seeing the Hulk kill it’s comrade. We all turned to Bruce who looked away shamefully and embarrassedly, not even believing that he once acted like that.

“Maybe smash a few things along the way.” Steve continued as he turned towards Bruce.

“I think it’s a little gratuitous, but whatever.” Bruce said as he ripped his shirt off and tried to go full Hulk.  But he only softly growling and hardly put in any effort as he lightly slammed his hand against a car, then picked up a motorcycle and tossing it aside weakly roaring.

“Alright c’mon big guy. The Sanctum’s this way.” I said. He then leaped on ahead and I followed behind using my magic to help my fly.

We finally landed at the roof of the sanctum and thankfully it was cleared by now.  Just before I could open the door a voice said.

“I’d be careful going that way we just had the floor’s waxed.” At that point my heart stopped.  I looked up and there she was, The Ancient One.  My eyes widened and I can’t believe I was seeing her again. Unfortunately I wasn’t there when she died, in fact the last time I saw her was here during this battle.

I had come for some counseling with her since she had heard of my ‘Jaguar’ persona and she asked me to come to the New York Sanctum for all that I had done by using my magic against mortals instead of the interdimensional threats.

But then when the Chitauri came down, I assisted her before at this point she sent me to try and keep the army away from the hospital where Stephen Strange was performing surgery.  She had asked me to protect him because he was to be important in five years to come at this time.

“Ancient One.” I muttered in awe.

“Morowa. But then again, not my Morowa.” I slowly walked up to her and she cupped both sides of my face. “You’ve grown weary my child.”

“You have no idea.” I choked out.  She smiled and leaned her forehead against mine.  I must’ve been crying because she wiped away a tear that had fallen down my face and that’s when Bruce said.

“Sorry to interrupt the reunion but uhh—we’re looking for Stephen Strange.”

“We’re five years too early Bruce.” I said to him as both I and the Ancient One turned to face him.

“She is correct. Her past self is currently protect Stephen Strange who is currently performing surgery about 20 blocks that way.” She said as she walked a bit away from me before pointing to the direction I went to in the past. “What do you want from him?” she asked turning to Bruce.

“That actually.” Bruce said pointing to the Eye of Agamotto that the Ancient One was wearing around her neck.

“Ahh! I’m afraid not. And you know that Morowa.”

“I know, but please Ancient One this is an emergency.” I said.

“Plus we weren’t really asking.” Bruce said as he walked towards her.

“You don’t wanna do this.” She warned him.

“Ah, you’re right I don’t. But I need that stone….”

“Bruce no!” But it was too late.  The Ancient one took Bruce’s hulk hand and immediately palm strike his chest sending his astral form out of his physical.  Bruce now appeared human while his Hulk body collapsed unconscious to the floor.

I looked at him with a ‘told you’ look as he turned back towards the Ancient One and she said.

“Let’s start over, shall we?”

ASGARD. 2013 *Rauri’s POV*

Thor, Rocket and I arrived in the prison cells of Asgard and we snuck by Loki’s cell who was throwing what looked like a cup up in the air before catching it in his hand.

Finally we arrived at the upper levels of the palace where Jane Foster was being kept.  The three of us watched as a servant handed her a dress and when Jane asked if they had any pants, of course the servant girl was confused.  

But Jane told her it was fine before she finally bowed to Jane and took her leave.

“There’s Jane.” Thor whispered as the servant left and Jane went back into her room.

“Alright. Here’s the deal, tubby.” Rocket said as he hopped off the pillar. “You’re gonna charm her, while big bad wolf here holds her down and I’m gonna poke her with this thing and extract the Reality stone and get gone lickety-split.” Rocket explained to the Thor and me the plan.

“Why must I be the one to hold her down?” I asked.

“Because you’re the intimidating one out of us. Next to that wife of yours of course. Hell you might be more frightening than her.”

“Don’t speak about my wife like that!” I snarled down at the raccoon. It was then I heard a sniff and I knew it was Thor as he just merely watched our argument before saying.

“I’ll be right back, okay? There’s uhh—the wine cellar is just down here. My father used to have this huge barrel of Aakonian ale. I’ll see if the scullery has a couple of to-go cups.” Un-fucking-believable.

“Hey! Hey! Aren’t you drunk enough already!?” hissed Rocket.  Suddenly there was a sound of a door opening.  We all ducked down and as I peeked over, I saw an older woman with long blonde hair wearing a blue dress with armor plates mixed in.  

She was surrounded by younger woman, probably her servants or something, and just by getting a quick sniff of her, she smelled of authority.  Much like my (y/n).

“If you could send Loki some soup?”

“Yes Milady.”

“And ask our librarians to pull some volumes out of the astronomy shelf.” I looked towards Thor and he was just in shock as he stared at this woman.  As Rocket came up on top of my shoulders he asked.

“Who’s the fancy broad?”

“That’s my mother. She dies today.”

“Wait, as in today-today?” I asked.  At that point Thor exhaled heavily and began to shake his head.

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come. It’s a bad idea!” he began to panic. Alright that’s it.

“Come here.” I said as I gestured him to come closer with my finger.

“No, no, no. I think-I think- I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“Just—just come here. Right here.” I said pointing in front of me.  As he kept babbling nonsense, I slapped him across the face.

“You think you’re the only one whose lost people? What the hell do you think we’re doing here?! I lost my wife of only 24 hours five years ago because of that purple wanker! And Rocket he’s lost his entire family. All my remaining friends they’ve lost people they’ve loved. Everyone in the entire world, no galaxy has lost people they’ve loved. Now Thor I get you miss your mum. But she’s gone. Really gone. And there are billions of people who are only kinda gone, and it’s up to you to save them. So is it too much to ask that you suck in those tears, brush the crumbs off that damn beard of yours, smooth talk your ex-girlfriend and when she’s not looking, suck out the Infinity stone and help us get our families back?”

“Okay.” He choked out.

“Are you crying?” asked Rocket.

“No…..yes! I feel like I’m losing it.” He sobbed out.

“Hey listen to me. Pull yourself together.” I said as I gripped his shoulders. “You can do this.” He exhaled as I told him again, “This is your moment God of Thunder.” He took a deep breath as we both stared at each other.

“We good now?” asked Rocket.

“Yes I can.” Thor said.

“Good boy.” I patted his cheek before walking away from him with Rocket walking beside me.

“Okay heartbreaker she’s alone. This is our shot.” Rocket said but as we turned around, Thor was gone. “Thor? Thor!? Gah!” Rocket growled.

“Damn that god! Now what do we do?” I snarled.

“Well we could go to Plan B. And have you flirt with pretty pants. I mean at this point between the two of you, you’re the more attractive one.”

“I’m a married man, I won’t betray my wife’s trust with a woman of the past!”

“Okay, okay fine. We’ll have to improvise then. Follow me.” He walked on ahead and I followed behind.

NEW YORK 2012 MOROWA’S POV

‘Please, please.’ Bruce pleaded in his astral form.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you Bruce. If I give up the Time Stone to help your reality, I’m dooming my own.” The Ancient One said as the three of us walked along the balcony.

‘With all due respect, alright…I’m-I’m-I’m not sure the science really supports that.’ Ahh Bruce, thinking like a scientist and not believing there is an alternate way.  It was then the Ancient One created a magic stream that stretched out far and wide from either side.  The six infinity stones soon came in front of us spinning around in a circle as she explained.

“The infinity stones create what you experience as the flow of time. Remove one of the stones…and that flow splits.” She took the Time stone out of the equation which allowed a black time stream to form another way. “Now, this may benefit your reality. But my new one, not so much. In this new branch reality….without our chief weapon against the forces of darkness, our world will be overrun. Millions will suffer. So, tell me, Doctor. Can your science prevent all that?” At that point Bruce didn’t know what to say, but I did.

“It won’t. But we can erase it.” She turned to look at me. “You once taught me that alternate realities can be prevented if an object taken from a certain timeline is returned to its original place. Once we’re done with the stones, we can return them to the exact time point in which they were taken. So chronologically, in that reality” I grabbed the illusioned Time Stone and put it back into the circle with the other five stones which made the black stream disappear. “It never left.”

“Yes, but you’re leaving out the most important part Morowa.” She said as she walked away from us.  She walked to the edge of the balcony before turning back towards us. “In order to return the stones, you have to survive.”

“We will. I will. I will see to it that the stones get returned myself if I have to.” I assured her as I walked up to her.

“I can’t risk this reality on a vow. Even if it’s from one of my own. It’s the duty of the Sorcerer Supreme to protect the Time Stone.”

“Then why the hell would Strange give it away?!” I yelled.  She looked at me stunned.

“What did you say?”

“Strange he gave it away. He gave it to Thanos!” Bruce pipped in as he walked up and stood beside me.

“Willingly?” she asked more as a demand than a question.

“Yes.” I answered.  She went silent before snapping.

“Why?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he made a mistake.” At that point she grew quiet.  She then walked right up to me, her face just inches away from mine as she whispered.

“Or I did.” She lifted her hand and made a twisting motion which sent Bruce’s hulk body back towards us and Bruce’s astral form returned to his body.  After that she stepped away and opened the Eye of Agamotto which revealed the Time Stone. She took it out and had it levitating between her index and thumb. “Strange was meant to be the best of us.”

“So he must’ve done it for a reason.” Both Bruce and I said.

“I fear you both might be right.” She then handed me the stone.  I held it in my right hand and clenched my fist over it.  I felt her hands cup my face and she said to me in a desperate tone, “I’m counting on you Morowa. We all are.” I nodded and she wrapped her arms around me.

I took in the hug for as long as I could knowing that this would be the last time I would ever see her.

“Alright come on Morowa. Let’s link up. Hopefully Tony, Steve and Scott got the Mind and Space stone.” I separated from her and I tried to tell her something about what was to come but she told me.

“No Morowa. I know of what my future is to be. Just continue being the woman I know you are. I can tell you’ve achieved great things in your time. Keep fighting, and know that I will always be with you.” I smiled sadly and as Bruce and I revealed our time suits, we linked up and Bruce counted down from three and soon we were gone.

ASGARD 2013. RAURI’S POV

Jane Foster was sound asleep in the bed and as she awoke from her sleep, Rocket peeked out the head of her bed and activate the extraction and snuck up behind her.  He hopped up onto her back which made her scream.

“Wolf boy now!” he exclaimed.  I came out and pinned her arms down and covered her mouth with my free hand.

“Shh! If you know what’s good for you you’ll stay quiet. We’re just going to extract the stone inside you.” She muffled from my hand and that’s when Rocket poked her arm with the device and soon the Reality stone went out of her body and into the device.  Once it was all out of her, she passed out and we left the room.

“Alright we got it. Now to find drunkard and—you gotta be kidding me.” Rocket said as we exited her room.  At first I don’t know what his second statement was about but that wasn’t until I looked up and saw an army of guards standing before us.

“Bugger.” I cursed.

“Get them! They’ve attacked Lady Jane!” one of them cried out.

“Run for it!” I phased into my wolf form and Rocket and I took off running.  As we ran down the corridor Rocket kept screaming out to Thor that we got it. Bloody hell at this rate, we’re not getting anywhere.

It was then I picked Rocket up by the scruff of his neck and carried him onward.

“No! No damnit not again! Put me down! First your broad and now you! I’m not a damn chew toy!”

“Get the rabbit and wolf!” I heard one of the guards proclaim.  I ran faster which left the guards in the dust.  It was then I caught Thor’s scent and I took a sharp left then a right and raced onward towards the door and slammed right through them.

“Damnit black wolf, give me warning next thing before you bust through the door like that.”

‘Be thankful I carried you when I did, otherwise you’d be a hat right about now!’ I growled through my collar.  It was then we stood before Thor and his mother. “Oh hi.” I said phasing back into my human form.  She waved at me, “You must be Queen Frigga.”

“We got the thing. Come on, we gotta move.” Rocket said as he held the device.

“Oh, I wish we had more time.” Thor said to his mum.

“No. This was a gift.” His mother said as she took his hands in his. “Now you go and be the man you’re meant to be.”

“I love you mom.”

“I love you.” The two of them hugged each other. As he stepped back his mother advised him to eat a salad.

“C’mon we gotta go.” I urged. I looked down at my time watch and counted down from three. But before I could get to one, Thor exclaimed.

“No wait!” he then held out his left hand but nothing happened.

“Wait what are—what are we looking at?” asked Rocket.

“Oh sometimes it takes a second.” It was then appearing in his hand was the famed Mjolnir hammer.  Thor laughed ecstatically and said as he held it in his hand. “I’m still worthy.”

“Oh boy.” Rocket rolled his eyes. “C’mon you two.” Our time suits reactivated and as Thor said one final farewell to his mum, Rocket finished punching in the coordinates and soon we left Asgard.

We traveled through the quantum realm before finally reaching back home to our present timeline along with everyone else. As the time suits faded away Stark asked.

“Did we get them all?”

“Are you telling me this actually worked?” asked Rhodey happily.  But it was then I notice Clint fall to his knees, his face grim and his body was soaked in water.

“Clint where’s Nat?” asked Bruce.  He didn’t respond.  Oh no. When Nebula had said that Thanos murdered her sister on Vormir, I had believed that it was an actual murder but—now I’m thinking he actually used her to get the Soul Stone, and now…..Clint had done the same thing with Natasha.

But I could tell he didn’t want to do it, Nat must’ve sacrificed herself knowing that Clint would be the one to probably do it.

Everyone was heartbroken as Bruce fell to his knees and punched the floor.