#this post was written during the strikes but now that the strikes are over and we still haven't heard anything... oof

[cleo-fox]

Overtime

Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).

A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.

Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.

You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.

“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.

“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”

“You’re still doing it.”

Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.

And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”

Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”

You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”

But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.

Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.

Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.

“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”

“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”

You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”

Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.

“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.

Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”

You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.

“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”

The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.

This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.

You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.

The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.

Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.

“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.

Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.

And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.

It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.

“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”

In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.

Also not a great sign.

Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”

“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”

“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”

Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.

“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”

“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.

“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.

This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.

You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”

“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”

Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.

“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder

You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.

There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.

“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.

“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”

That at least earns you a hint of a smile.

*

Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.

You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.

Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.

You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”

Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.

But you’re also not about to say no, either.

“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”

The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.

“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.

You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”

“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”

“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”

You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.

“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?”  he says.

You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”

“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.

Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”

“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”

He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going out for dinner.”

*

He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.

“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.

“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”

He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”

“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”

“Technically.”

“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”

You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”

“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”

Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”

You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”

“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.

“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.

“Liar,” you say promptly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”

“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.

“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”

“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”

“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”

“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”

“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”

“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”

“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”

He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”

You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”

That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.

“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”

You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”

Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.

“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.

You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”

“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“It’s not a lie—”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.

“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”

There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.

“It does.”

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”

He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”

It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”

He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”

He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”

You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”

Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”

Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”

“I think I have that memorized at this point.”

“‘The perfect choice for families.’”

“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”

“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”

“‘You can’t say no to that.’”

You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.

The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.

“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.

His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”

You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.

Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation. 

Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.

“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.

“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later. 

“What’s that?”

“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”

You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”

He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”

“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.

You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”

“What are body shots?”

For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.

He’s teasing you.

“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.

He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”

You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”

He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”

You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.

But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.

“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.

“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”

“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”

He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says

“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.

“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”

Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together. 

“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”

“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”

“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”

“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”

You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place.”

*

The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.

“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.

Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”

“You do. It’s Mobius.”

“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”

“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”

He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”

You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”

He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”

Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”

You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.

The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.

“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”

“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”

“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”

He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it. 

You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.

“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.

“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”

“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”

“Darling. You have a TemPad.”

“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”

You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”

He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”

“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”

He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”

“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”

It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”

He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.

The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.

There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.

You touch his hand. “This way.”

You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.

“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”

He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“What is it?”

They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”

The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”

“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”

This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”

You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”

“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”

“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”

“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”

“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”

He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”

You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”

He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”

Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”

“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”

You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.

You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”

He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For showing me that.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”

He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.

For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.

The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.

Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”

There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.

You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.

But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.

*

You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.

But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.

“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.

It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.

Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”

You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”

Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.

“There’s still so much left.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”

He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”

He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.

You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.

You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.

You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.

As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.

“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh. 

This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.

“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.

“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”

Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.

And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit. 

“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.

She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”

With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.

“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.

Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.

Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.

But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.

You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—

“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”

“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”

“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.

His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”

Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”

You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.

He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.

“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“Thanks.”

In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.

You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.

You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.

You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”

You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”

“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.

You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”

He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”

You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”

“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”

“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”

“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.

He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.

Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.

“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”

“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.

“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.

“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.

“Hey!” you shout in protest.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.

This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.

Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.

He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”

That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.

He grins. “Not a chance.”

You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.

It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.

Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.

“Yield,” he says.

You shake your head. “Never.”

His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”

“No.”

Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net. 

But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.

“Yield.”

You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”

Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?

“Yield.”

God, he’s so close and you want him so badly. 

“No.”

He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.

They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.

“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.

“No,” you say.

He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.

He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.

“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar. 

“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.

You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.

“No,” you say.

“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.

His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.

“Cheater,” you say. 

“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”

You shiver. “Your prize?”

“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”

“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”

“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants. 

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“You have not,” you say.

“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.

You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”

You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.

He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.

You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.

His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.

Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.

“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.

“What is it, my love?”

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”

You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. 

You believe him.

His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.

“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.

You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.

“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”

You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”

His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”

For who?”

“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”

“You’re not,” you say.

“Some would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.

“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”

You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”

“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”

“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”

“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.

“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”

That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.

“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”

This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.

“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”

Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.

You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.

He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.

Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.

You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.

You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.

This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.

Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.

It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.

“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”

“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.

“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.

“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”

His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?

“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”

You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.

You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.

You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.

“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.

“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”

You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine. 

“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.

“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”

You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.

He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”

You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.

“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”

He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.

Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.

He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He rolls on top of you  and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.

He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.

But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.

You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does.

He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.

He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.

He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.

“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”

He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”

His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.

He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.

He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.

You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”

“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”

With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.

He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”

He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.

He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.

You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.

“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.

He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”

You whimper. “Loki—”

“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”

Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.

You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.

As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.

It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.

After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.

You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.

You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.

You don’t know it then, but you’re right.

*

Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.

Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.

“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.

“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.

“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”

Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”

But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.

“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”

You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”

“A confession,” says Mobius.

“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”

Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee. 

Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”

“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”

“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”

“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.

Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”

You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.

“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”

Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”

Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”

“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”

Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”

Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”

“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”

Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.

“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”

“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”

“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.

Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”

“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”

Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”

Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.

It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.

“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back.

But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.

“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.

“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.

He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”

Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”

He grins and tugs you through the time door.

-------

But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki x female reader smut #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tva loki x reader

[neil-gaiman]

Dear Mr. Gaiman,

I’ve been meaning to write to you for a bit and today -  May 1st - is a prefect bit of timing.

I’d like to address 2 1/2 things if I may: You recently posted a conversation you had about losing a cat and how much the death of a pet hits you. My spouse and I have and have had a number of pets - best friends really - pass away. One of the ways we have come to deal with their moving on is to make up a story.

(To be honest, yet another story. Our friends live very full lives, indeed.) Our Tuxedo cat, Tybalt, is now playing bass in a Journey cover band that tours. I travel a lot for work and that allows “Tybalt” to send us postcards telling of his latest adventures. Since today is May Day and the expiration of the Writer’s contract I wanted to say bravo to you for posting about it and the subtles of the issues at hand. Most people looking at Hollywood will not give carful consideration to what is at hand.

Since you have the currency of a celebrity that is thoughtful and nuanced your voice carries over much of the rhetoric. I thank you for that. I should say at this point that I also work in film and television and have for most of the last 30 years. I am a grip and enjoy the craft of my job.

While the concerns of your Guild are valid and should be addressed i would like to point out that your voice and those of your colleagues are heard. All the national pages and news outlets are carrying the story. As they should. In 2021, IATSE (the union the covers all the below the line craft people in the United Staes and Canada with approximately a 150,000 members) was set to renew our contact that August. Our asks for that contract were minimal and most of us assumed the contract would be updated with little haggling. The producers balked. They, in fact, wanted to get rid of a number of long held points in our contract. This went on for four months. Something that never happed in my 30 years of work. I won’t go into all the details. I assume that you have a passing familiarity with the issues.

My point to all of this is that our voice was never heard. All the news outlets merely interviewed the producers and only gave their side of the story. And this happens every time the is a contract or safety issue (Think “Rust”. Reporters never interviewed other armors. The closest that came to a below the line voice was an essay written by a Prop Master - who happens to be Martin Scorsese’s daughter.)

Most producers have little idea of what it takes to make a show. But they are the only ones who are quoted. Overlapping during these 4 months was the John Deere strike (with just over 10,000 members).  And good for them. 

It should be noted that their coverage was far greater than ours.

There are 7 stories about the John Deere strike in the New York Times morgue. There are none for the IATSE contract negotiations. I can go on but I feel I should wrap this up. If you’ve read this far, I thank you.

I have an ask for you. The half of my 2 1/2 things to say. When the IATSE contract comes up for re-negotiation next year, would you please put a posting on your social media sites about it? 

The same as you have done for your Guild? It would give us a voice we have not had before. Thank You, Spider Goat P.S. Also thank you for all the wonderful stories you've written. I do so love visiting the worlds you've created.

I was pushing IATSE on Social Media last time -- for example

and pushing things like the @ia_stories Instagram link -

I will do it again. And I was disappointed by the outcome of the negotiations last time, too.

#IATSE

[dostoyevsky-official]

in most cases, as i've written before, what happens on campus is a matter for those on campus, not for the newspapers. but a few days ago, the new president of columbia, after a mccarthyite investigation by congress, during which she was questioned whether or not god damns columbia and stated that she is surveilling faculty, ordered the police to arrest students expressing their right to free speech; suspended a number of others, including ilhan omar's daughter, for which she received republican praise, barring them from their dorms and giving them only 15 minutes to collect their belongings before throwing them out; arrested legal observers at the encampment; and is now making it difficult for professors to access their offices and classrooms by requiring a police escort. this is an unconscionable attack on students doing nothing more than peacefully protesting the war in gaza and the university's financial investments in israel. there is no antisemitism, no harassment, no endangerment—save the endangerment from an unwarranted police presence and the kicking of 20 year olds out to the curb. it has since spiralled beyond campus, bringing together students, adjuncts, and academics from CUNY, NYU, and other city universities; similar encampments have popped up at universities across the country.

courtesy of a law professor:

Second, although President Shafik’s decision to invite the NYPD on campus to arrest students may have been within her formal authority, it breaks with an informal settlement that had been in place for more than a half-century. The last time the university called the cops on student protesters was April 1968;* that episode ended so bitterly and bloodily that it yielded a norm of police noninvolvement. Since 1968, student protesters have repeatedly occupied Low Library, blockaded Hamilton Hall, held sit-ins in administrative offices, waged hunger strikes, staged walkouts, and more. Some of these protests led to disciplinary code charges. None elicited a criminal law enforcement response. This week’s encampment on the South Lawn posed a difficult problem for the university administration, to be sure, but not one that was different in kind, duration, or disruptiveness from scores of post-1968 protests. When the next extended student demonstration occurs, it will be hard to resist pressure to call in the cops again.  Third, the most serious charge that President Shafik leveled against the student protesters, that their encampment created a “harassing and intimidating environment,” was made without the benefit of any factfinding process.** “Discriminatory harassment,” defined to include the creation of “an intimidating … environment,” is prohibited by Columbia’s Standards & Discipline policy. But that policy, and the procedural protections that come with it, does not seem to have been applied here. This suggests that the university deemed the protesters’ expressive conduct, as well as their occupation of the lawn, to be in violation of the Rules of University Conduct. Yet while the Rules allow the restriction of “expression that constitutes a genuine threat of harassment,” President Shafik offered no examples of such threats, nor to my knowledge have any been reported. If this finding of harassment is based on the discomfort some feel from the presence or message of the encampment, then the harassment concept—intended to set an objective standard that preserves a wide berth for provocative speech—has become an engine of viewpoint discrimination. Either way, its application to this case indicates that the president’s office now believes it can make such fraught judgments summarily and unilaterally. Other examples of recent ruptures might be added to the list. In the jettisoning of these institutional norms, one throughline is the prioritization of immediate objectives over longer-term considerations of academic autonomy and democratic self-governance—considerations that the norms had developed, however imperfectly, to protect. In the university as in the wider world, crisis has thus led not only to rising repression but also to the consolidation of presidential power.

[shiin-ye]

𖥔┊『Sleep Medicine』✧°. ݁

☪︎ Summary : During the star plasma vessel escorting mission,Satoru receives a call...

☪︎ Warnings : angst,Satoru Gojo x sorcerer!reader,reader's death

☪︎ a/n : I don't know what's wrong with my tumblr I've been wanting to post this for a few days now TvT

You take a deep breath as an attempt to calm down.

Failed.

"Alright..." You start the recorder and call Satoru. He picks up instantly.

"Hey. Missed me so bad that you couldn't wait till morning to hear my voice?" Exhaustion is evident is his voice,yet you feel him grinning on the other side.

"Oh,you got me." You chuckle weakly. "Why are you awake at this time?"

Pause.

"Well...it's a super special secret escorting mission,and I'm keeping watch."

"I see..." A groan escapes your lips as the pain strikes again.

"You okay?" Satoru says,his tone worried.

"Yeah...just...sprained my ankle."

"Ouch!" He laughs awkwardly.

Pause.

"How many nights you skipped sleep,Satoru?"

"This is the second and last one,I promise!"

Pause.

"Hey...Toru? Can I sing you to sleep?"

"But I should stay awake,y/n. Why so suddenly?"

"Nothing,just...missed you. You can put an alarm to wake up in a little while just...please..." Your voice trails off.

Pause.

"Okay. And just so you know,I missed you too y/n. Missed you so so so soooo much!"

You chuckle. "Thank you."

And then you start singing.

You sing him the same song you always sing to him whenever he has a headache because of his technique and six eyes or whenever he couldn't sleep.The pain strikes again,but you don't bother.You keep singing to him.

"I can't wait to see you again,y/n..." His voice is so quiet,barely above a whisper. "I love you,y/n,more than you could ever imagine..." His voice trails off,and it isn't long before you hear him snort sofly.

"Toru...I wish...I want you to be happy..." Your voice is weak. You push your palm to the side of your waist,where you wound is,and you see it's painted crimson in a matter of a few seconds.You take a deep,shaky breath before you continue. "I love your laughter,your smile,and even your stupid ego. I love your voice,your quiet 'I love you's before you fall asleep,your soft and steady breaths when you're sleeping and your calm pretty face when you snort softly. I love your smirk and grin whenever you're planning antics. I love how your crystal blue eyes and how they shine when you smile...please let them keep shining,okay? I love...I..."

Tears start blurring your vision. "I...I love you,Satoru. I love you so so so soooo much...more than you could ever imagine...always did and always will...so please,remember that..."You take another shaky deep breath. "Don't come over soon,okay? Can you do that for me?" You chuckle.

You then start humming the same song...until you can't. "Good night,Satoru. Sweet dreams..."

Pause.

"I love you,Satoru Gojo,forever and ever..."And with that,you stop the recording and send it to Satoru. You stay on the call,though. You listen to his steady breathing and soft snorts,until your eyelids fall shut,you lose complete control on your muscles,and the phone drops down.

Ten years later :

Satoru wakes up by the sound of his phone ringing. "Hello?" He says with a weak groan.

"Gojo? The results of the tests you asked for are ready."

"Okay...thanks Shoko..." He yawns. "I'll come get them soon."

"You were sleeping? How can you sleep?"

Satoru looks at the old phone in his hands and smiles. "Well..." He pauses the recorded voice message that was playing on a loop,over and over again. "I have a sleep medicine,a good one at that."

Shoko sighs. "Must be strong to make you fall sleep. Could you tell me the name of it? My other ones are losing their effect."

"Oh,I'm afraid this only works for me." He chuckles.

"Why? Is there a 'Only for Satoru Gojo' written in its description?"

Satoru looks at the old phone again and smiles. "Yeah...it's for me specifically."

✐ᝰ.divider by @/saradika-graphics

#〔𖤐Shin's work༉〕 #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #gojo angst #satoru gojo deserves the world and more

[txttletale]

You've spoken at length about how the Lancer setting is just wildly incongruent with what the authors think it is at length, and I agree wholeheartedly. My question is, largely for the purpose of if I ever want to run a game of it again, how would you make the setting carry that tone the authors think it has without too terribly much rewriting? Say, from the point of 'there was a revolution to overthrow seccom'? I love the 'gallant warriors of liberation in giant robots' and would like it if the game actually was that.

But the more the bureaucratic apparatus is “redistributed” among the various bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties , the more keenly aware the oppressed classes, and the proletariat at their head, become of their irreconcilable hostility to the whole of bourgeois society. Hence the need for all bourgeois parties, even for the most democratic and "revolutionary-democratic" among them, to intensify repressive measures against the revolutionary proletariat, to strengthen the apparatus of coercion, i.e., the state machine. This course of events compels the revolution "to concentrate all its forces of destruction" against the state power, and to set itself the aim, not of improving the state machine, but of smashing and destroying it.

-- Vladimir Lenin, The State & Revolution

In the heady days after the revolution, the air buzzed with potential. The future was today. Hazy, gaseous dreams of liberation patiently awaited their turn to be forged into something you could touch. But those days didn't last for long. The coalition was already a fragile thing during the revolution, and now that it was faced with the levers of Union's imperial machine each hairline crack became a chasm. The corporate armies, who had marched under the banner of the enormous profits locked away behind Harrison Armory's legal monopolies, had reached their personal horizons and refused to move an inch further. The moderates and high-class intellectuals saw the wealth that Union funneled from its edges being distributed generously to the citizens of the Core Worlds and declared a new economic paradigm of post-scarcity and mutual wealth. The anarchist cells with their mysterious reality-hacking mechs were the first to come to the only inevitable conclusion: the revolution was not over.

Now that the old order had been surgically deposed, the new order was finding itself fitting comfortably in its throne. Humbled and stripped of its previous privileges, Harrison Armory was welcomed back into the halls of power under the smiling auspices of free enterprise. Groundbreaking legislation was still being written in the halls of ThirdComm--guaranteeing the right of worlds to self-determination, the rights of clones to live freely, even radical and heretofore-unthinkable proposals laying the groundwork for an end to NHP-shackling. But the old revolutionaries had grown weary and cautious (and, of course, had begun to personally experience the economic benefits of Union's vast hegemony). To enforce this legislation, they argued, would be a de facto redeclaration of war against the corpostates, a disaster for the trade networks on which our wealth depends. To those who still harboued the hopes of revolutionary change, this was a loud and clear signal: the war had not ended. The revolution was not over.

The All-Galaxy Revolutionary Front as it exists now is a set of strange bedfellows. The disciplined combat battalions of the Communist Party fly in perfect harmony, distinguishable by their red battle flags, mass-produced in collectivized forges with reverse-engineered corpo tech. The motley individual oddities that the anarchists call their mechs, their open-source physics-bending HORUS peculiarities, strike unpredictably, in and out of ThirdComm's sight. But the one thing which binds them all, as they fight for the liberation of the peripheral worlds, for the wealth of mines and factories to enrich the people of the planets they're built on instead of fueling ever-replenishing consumption in the distant Core, is that they still have those old revolutionary dreams.

This is what it means to be a Lancer: to be willing to struggle. To acknowledge that the revolution is not over.

#ask #scrumpledorph #ttrpg #is this technically lancer fanfiction? yeah

[jaskierx]

so many people are feeling some kind of way about s2 being over tomorrow and of course that’s valid but we still have so much to look forward to after that!

think about all the newly inspired fics that have yet to be written and all the incredible art that is yet to be made

think about the big chunky meta posts we’ll get once folks have had the chance to process the whole season

think about how good it’ll be when the strike ends and the actors can finally talk about s2 (and samba is allowed to show us all the bts stuff he’s obviously dying to post)

think about how people were still picking up new tiny details during re-watches over a year after s1 aired

think about how many new fans will join us when they pick the show up now s2 is fully released

think about how good it’ll feel when it gets renewed for s3 (which is looking incredibly likely due to how successful s2 has been)

think about how nice it feels to be able to watch s1 knowing that you know what happens next and they do in fact end up together

it feels really nice to be part of a fandom that was so active and producing so much new stuff even 18 months into the off season. ofmd is not going away after tomorrow’s finale. quite the opposite

#ofmd #ofmd s2 spoilers #lyse.jpg

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

There's not a lot of details yet, because this happened less than an hour ago, but it's being reported that a terrorist shooting attack took place today, at least two people are said to have been wounded and taken to the hospital, and the terrorist has been neutralized.

A little over a week ago, I wrote that Marwan Issa, Hamas' 3rd top leader in Gaza, might have been killed in an IDF strike, but there's no final confirmation yet. Since then, no one has been able to contact Issa, and the Israeli assessment is that his body is buried under the rubble. Now, there's been private conversations where Hamas has said the same thing, though officially they're still saying they don't know. Hamas has motivation to present Issa as alive, and thus Israel as having failed, but at the same time, if he actually hasn't been killed, just wounded in the strike, then Hamas has reason to want Israel to falsely believe he's dead. In other words, I wouldn't take Hamas' double position as confirming anything, and from what I know, that's the general thinking in Israel. If Marwan Issa is dead, one of the sides will get to his body sooner or later, and then we might know (if it's Israel, or if it's Hamas, but for whatever reason, they decide it serves them better to confirm his death). That said, it's kind of funny, how the US doesn't seem to get the complexity of Hamas' contradicting motives here, and takes their word as final confirmation that Issa is indeed dead. The concept of "terrorists lie if it benefits them, in this case they just seem currently unsure if it does" shouldn't be that hard to grasp. Like yes, we all are inclined to think Issa's dead, but there's a reason why no Israeli official has yet come out and publicly said it as a fact. This vid reports how Hamas both confirms and rejects the claim that Issa's dead, and the way it's subtitled with both positions says it all IMO:

Also amusing is how the international press doesn't not the ranking within Hamas Gaza. Marwan Issa is NOT Hamas' #2 in Gaza, he's #3. I saw headlines saying Israel might have killed Hamas' second top senior in Gaza, which is Mohammed Deif, and was disappointed to learn that nope, the media is just confused. Quick reminder: Yahya sinwar is Hamas Gaza's leader and #1, Mohammed Deif is the military leader and #2, Marwan Issa is Deif's right hand man and #3, while international media is way too clueless on some very basic stuff regarding this conflict.

Here's the international press giving Issa a postmortem promotion:

For comparison, here are those who correctly referred to him as Hamas' #3:

The operation at the Shifa hospital, which I wrote about yesterday, continues. The number of terrorists killed there has risen to 50, and 180 suspects were arrested. Another soldier has been killed during this recent operation, 51 years old Sebastian Haion, after we already lost one during it. Just a small reminder, that if there had been only unarmed civilians at this hospital, there would have been no dead Israeli soldiers in this raid.

This tweet was too long to fit in one screenshot, but here's the essence of it. The IDF's spokesman in Arabic has published on Twitter evidence that just like Hamas, Hezbollah along with fellow Lebanese terrorist organization Amal are also misusing medical ambulances and organizations for terrorist activities.

I've written about a British Jewish director who, at the Oscars, hijacked the Holocaust to denounce hijacking the Holocaust for political positions he does not agree with, based on a false and ignorant narrative, which is harmful to Jews. I also mentioned that the biggest organization fighting against antisemitism, the ADL, as well as an organization of Holocaust survivors has come out to denounce this director. I've been seeing even more denouncements. Here's a short recap. I just wanna clarify, this isn't about him personally. This is a reminder that people like him don't get to erase the voices of the majority of Jews, while using his own Jewish identity to do so, without us speaking up, too. The sad thing is none of these voices will be heard as loudly or be as applauded as he was, for throwing most Jews (and Holocaust victims) under the bus, in favor of what's trendy to say these days.

I'll start with another Jewish director, László Nemes, who had also won an Oscar for a Holocaust movie, Son of Saul (I have to admit, Holocaust movies will never be truly able to capture the full horror and brutality of the Nazi camps, but of all the ones I've seen, and I've watched way too many, Son of Saul comes closest, probably aided by the fact that it's based on testimonies of the survivors who had seen the worst of the worst with their own eyes). Nemes said: "[The] director should have stayed silent instead of revealing he has no understanding of history and the forces undoing civilisation, before or after the Holocaust. Had he embraced the responsibility that comes with a film like that, he would not have resorted to talking points disseminated by propaganda meant to eradicate, at the end, all Jewish presence from the Earth. It is especially troubling in an age where we are reaching pre-Holocaust levels of anti-Jewish hatred – this time, in a trendy, ‘progressive’ way."

Another Jewish creator, Richard Trank, wrote a whole op-ed about how offensive he found the speech. Trank is a producer who won an Oscar for Holocaust documentary The Long Way Home (a movie that follows the struggle of the majority of survivors to get to Israel at the end of WWII, despite British opposition and Arab violence). Trank wrote, among other things: "Upon hearing [the speech], I thought about the assistant camera operator who has worked on three of my films, and whose 79-year-old father was kidnapped. This man had been spending his retirement years volunteering to drive Gazans needing medical care into Israel, care which Hamas could not provide for them despite billions in aid that has been sent to the area since the terrorist organization took control of it in 2006. I thought about the young people I have met in the last few weeks who survived the massacre at the Nova music festival. And then I reflected on this incredibly arrogant man who equated Israeli Jews to Nazis, and then left the Dolby Theatre with his statue when the awards show ended to party the night away."

And then, it turned out that the man who denounced hijacking the Holocaust for political causes, had not only hijacked the Holocaust itself with his little stunt, he also hijacked the Holocaust movie he had directed, from fellow Jewish co-creators who disagree deeply with his speech. Among them is Danny Cohen, an executive producer of this Oscar winning Holocaust film, and the article about his objection mentions that another Jewish producer of the movie, Len Blavatnik, who was standing on stage during the speech and was specifically referred to as if he agreed with it, did not sign off on it. Cohen made his position clear: "My support for Israel is unwavering. The war and the continuation of the war is the responsibility of Hamas, a genocidal terrorist organization, which continues to hold and abuse the hostages, and which doesn’t use its tunnels to protect the innocent civilians of Gaza, but uses it to hide themselves and allow Palestinians to die. I think the war is tragic and awful and the loss of civilian life is awful, but I blame Hamas for that. And any discussion of the war without saying that lacks the proper context that any discussion should have."

Now, there's an open letter condemning the director's speech, with the signatures of over 450 Jewish Hollywood creators, from different fields in the film industry. The letter says: "We refute our Jewishness being hijacked for the purpose of drawing a moral equivalence between a Nazi regime that sought to exterminate a race of people, and an Israeli nation that seeks to avert its own extermination. Every civilian death in Gaza is tragic. Israel is not targeting civilians. It is targeting Hamas. The moment Hamas releases the hostages and surrenders, is the moment this heartbreaking war ends. This has been true since the Hamas attacks of October 7th. The use of words like “occupation” to describe an indigenous Jewish people defending a homeland that dates back thousands of years, and has been recognized as a state by the United Nations, distorts history. It gives credence to the modern blood libel that fuels a growing anti-Jewish hatred around the world, in the United States, and in Hollywood.  The current climate of growing antisemitism only underscores the need for the Jewish State of Israel, a place which will always take us in, as no state did during the Holocaust." Here's a link to the full letter, and list of signatories, which includes 4 rabbis. Please don't let all of these voices go unheard and lost.

This is 19 years old Oz Daniel.

I was listening to a TV interview with the family of Oz Daniel yesterday. For many months, he was thought to be kidnapped when wounded (they found traces of blood), but not dead. The main reason for the latter assumption, was that Hamas had uploaded on Oct 7 a video of him where Oz is seen being taken away while alive. I wrote about him in one of my daily update post when it was published that the army had enough to determine he had actually been murdered during the massacre, and it's his body that's being held hostage in Gaza. His parents mentioned yesterday, that as the IDF is fighting Hamas in Gaza, it also gets to a lot of their computers. And on one of them, they found the original, unedited footage of Oz being kidnapped. It shows the part they'd seen before, where he's being taken away still alive, but then it continues to show him fighting back, and the Hamas terrorists murder him. That means that they took the time to go over the footage before they uploaded it, and edit it in the cruelest way, to give Oz's family false hope. For months, the Daniel family waited for any sign of life from their child, without knowing there will never be one. It is heartless and abusive, it is torture to put people through the ordeal of thinking that they have a chance of seeing their son alive, knowing it's a deliberate lie. I don't know if I can think of any worse form of torment.

This is (on the left) 40 years old Shlomi Ziv, with his wife Miren.

Shlomi finished his interior design studies a month before Hamas' massacre, and on occasion, he worked in security. On Oct 7, he worked at the Nova music festival as a guard, together with Aviv, who's Miren's cousin, and a friend of Slomi and Miren, Jack. Shlomi saw both of his friends murdered, while he himself was kidnapped. Miren shared that they had wanted kids, and tried fertility treatments, but after years of repeated attempts, she had to give up, and how rare and incredible it was, that Shlomi understood and accepted her decision, and stood by her. "We only have each other," she said, "we're each other's world. Please bring him back to me." In the last phone call that Shlomi had with her, he was running away from the terrorists, and could barely speak. Since then, Miren hasn't had any sign of life from her husband.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

[adventuringblind]

Hi I saw your requests are open you don’t have to write anything if you don’t want to but I had this idea and I wanted to share

I was thinking of meting Charles on Monaco maybe during Sumer break or something, and being a little homesick so he decides to take us to a bookstore (sorry I just like to rad a lot you can change the place) and just talking about like a book he likes and just sitting on the floor with him looking for something to read and getting romantic

Idk if it makes sense but thank you and have a nice day/night

Home is Where You Are

Charles leclerc x reader

Genre: fluff

Request: Yes! I hope you enjoy it, I thought the idea was super cute! I'm open for Max, Charles, Lando, Oscar, George, and Daniel. Also, up for poly fics if anyone is interested. (If you have too much love to go around, clap your hands)

Summary: living with Charles is a dream come true. Longing for home, though, can strike anyone. Good thing he's there to help you through it until you can find time to go visit.

Warnings: home sickness, straight fluff

Notes: written in second person. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

Also, I've sent up my account to let tips be enabled. I was debating whether or not to say this because i dont want to sound like im begging, but frankly, people opinions do not matter me me. If you like my writing and want to support me, please consider tipping my posts or my blog. I put a lot of effort into my writing, and it would mean the world to me. Obviously, I won't have my feelings hurt if you ignor this, but I wanted to put it out there.

Masterlist

You and Charles had been together for a while now. Managing to do some long distance when you couldn't travel with him.

Now you were engaged, and you said yes. Knowing you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

You traveled more now. Finding yourself in different countries for the majority of the year. But you always went back home when you could. The family and familiarity bringing you comfort.

When Charles asked you to move in with him, you'd been happy. The two of you now completely together. Ready to share your lives with each other.

You were lucky you could take your job anywhere. The traveling often helping provide inspiration for your novel.

Charles made sure you felt comfortable in his, now yours as well, apartment. Making sure you had your favorite foods. He purchased an entire bookshelf just for you. He even stockpiled the apartment with soft blanket.

It was a dream come true for you.

You loved it. Waking up with Charles. Eating breakfast with him. Not having to FaceTime him to say goodnight for half the year.

When the summer break for formula 1 came around, you found yourself wanting to go back to your home country. You'd been back in Monaco for less than a week, but the days had you missing things you didn't realize you would.

You liked it in Monaco. It's your home now. But it didn't stop your mind from wandering back to the streets you grew up on. To your friends and family. The shops you frequented.

That's how Charles found you. Sitting at the table, staring into your cup of tea. Lost in the world of your subconscious.

"Mon Amour? Are you alright?"

His voice dragged out out of your thoughts. Your eyes dragging themselves to his face as he found a spot next to you.

He knew something was wrong. There was really no point in trying to lie when it was written all over your body.

You run your finger around the rim of your glass. Taking comfort in Charles nimble fingers running up and down your arm.

"Just a bit homesick, I guess." You confessed. Sighing at your relentless thoughts. Pulling your heart deeper into its sad state.

Charles hums in response. Considering what you'd said to him. "I think I know how to cheer you up." He smirks.

Charles couldn't take you back to your home country currently. You'd been working ridiculously hard, and he'd been busy doing sim work. He'd get you there soon, but for now, he'd settle for trying to get your mind off things.

An hour later, you were dressed and walking down the streets of Monaco. Nonclue where Charles was taking you. Just giggling as he held your hand and pulled you along with him. The two of you are making conversation about anything that pops into your heads.

Charles was basking in the warmth of your smile. So much so that he almost missed his intended destination. A little corner store with a vintage looking sign reading 'Nook's Books'.

"Here we are." He smiled and opened the door for you. A little bell rang to alert the owner that someone had entered.

Charles watched as your mouth opened in awe. Taking in the shelves lined top to bottom with books new and old. "I thought you might like it."

"Why did I never know about this?"

"It's hidden away, so those who don't know the city will have a harder time finding it. It's our own little corner of peace." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I was going to surprise you right before the wedding."

It didn't take long for you to grab Charles' hand and lead him down the rows of books.

You'd found many books that you liked and had picked a spot on the floor to look through them.

Charles couldn't help but admire you. On the floor surrounded by books. You looked adorable in his eyes.

He plopped down next to you and spread out his arms and legs. Inviting you without words to come rest your body against his. You happy oblige. Crawling into the safety of his arms.

You spent hours in the small store. Charles listening intently as you either talked about a book or read chapters from one.

The twobof you finally left when the store was about to close. Having spent so much time there that it was now dark outside. The streets illuminated with the orangey hue of lampposts.

Charles spun you around as you walked, Making you giggle. Completely unbothered by the nightlife of Monaco.

When you two made it to the outside of the apartment building, Charles pulled you into him.

"I know I can't get you back to your family right now, but are you feeling a bit better?"

"Yes, thank you, for everything." Your eyes met his soft gaze.

"No thanks needed. I was simply doing my job." He chuckled. Leaning in closer to you.

Finally, his lips landed on yours. A loving kiss shared between you two. But this time, when he kissed you, you knew Charles was your home.

#x reader #fanficion #f1 fic #formula one #formula 1 #racing #fluff #reader is a reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc #charles #leclerc #charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader #charles leclerc x y/n #ferrari racing #ferrari formula one #scuderia ferrari #ferrari #formula racing #f1 #cl16 #cl16 x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles lechair #charles leclerc is a simp and you can't change my mind #hes so adorable #Monaco #motorsport

[dduane]

Ok so

1. I’ve only ever read one book you wrote (So You Want To Be a Wizard) but it was very good and I love it. Big fan.

2. Both out of curiosity and on behalf of my sister, as a writer of Barbie Fairytopia, did you invent Bibble. Because my sister has Bibble as her Home Screen and my whole family had a conversation about Bibble yesterday.

Thank you. Ur books are cool.

Thank you! Glad you liked SYW... . 😊

Now, about Bibble (and a nod here to @the-best-of-the-geeks, who also inquired about this):

The answer is... maybe. At this end of time, it's hard to tell.

I took a few moments off from today's* graphic arts work to go digging in my archived project files. What I can see from a quick glance at them is that Bibble (or the character who'd eventually be Bibble: there were a lot of name changes throughout the writing process) doesn't appear in any of the drafts of the worldbuilding bible I wrote, or in other associated background material. If it had, that would've been—not absolute, but at least fairly strong circumstantial evidence—that I was the character's creator.

The problem is that when you're working on a big-IP project like this, there are so many people involved in the creative process that it can become really difficult to accurately trace any one character's or story element's "lineage". It's possible Bibble originated in a note to me from one of the creative team, which would have been one of hundreds of archived emails. Or it might have been something suggested to me in a phone conversation... of which there were many. Without sifting through all those emails (and please forgive me, that's not something I've got time for at the moment) it's tough to say.

What I am sure of is that Bibble definitely turned up on my watch. I have a premise file dated 30 December 2003 which does not contain the character, and then a second-draft premise dated 10 January 2004... in which, with a slightly different name, Bibble first appears. Bibble (as Bobble) is also in my first draft screenplay, which was turned in in early February 2004.

So that much, at least, we can be sure of. Bibble's personality and speech style is clearly spelled out in the script (as is the suggestion that Bibble be voiced by Frank Welker. It's a shame that didn't happen: I'm a huge fan of his).

But this still doesn't constitute proof that I invented the character. Bibble could very well have been suggested to me by someone else—and suggestions and notes are so free-flowing in a project like this that it's possible we'll just never know. (sigh) Such is life.

What I do want to emphasize here was how extremely pleasant this whole project was, from beginning to end. There are screenwriting projects that will make you shudder decades after the fact just on hearing their name. But there are others that unfailingly make you smile when someone mentions them... and this, for me, was one of those.

The giveaway of how much fun I was having lies in some stuff that happens in the script and would, to those unfamiliar with tropes in animation writing, look like nothing in particular. But a recurring joke among animation writers back then (and maybe still) was designating a character's speech as a walla. In this case, it means not just a description of some kind of crowd noise—the usual definition—but of that particular character making speechlike noises. It's the kind of thing you don't bother doing if you're not feeling playful. (Or at least I don't.)

...Anyway: hope this has helped, at least a little. :)

*This post was written at the very beginning of May 2023, around the time the WGA strike was starting. During the strike period I haven’t been comfortable with doing long posts about my screen work… but the strike’s over now. 😄 Thanks to @violet-yimlat and @the-best-of-the-geeks for being so patient.

#Fairytopia #Bibble

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ uzui tengen x fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ !!! written with the intention of being canon-divergent: tengen is in his early 20s when you marry and either you will be the only wife or the first (so no mention of the 3 wives here). term "bride" is used. virginity loss (and mention of sex hurting). unprotected sex. creampie. AUTHOR'S NOTE: tbh, i'm not a huge fan of this but i didn't work for hours not to post this lol so pls be nice... WORD COUNT: 3.1K PSD CREDIT !!! MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED !!!!!!!（ ꐦꉺωꉺ)つ

Marriage, it’s a means to an end for the women in your clan; how useful can you be if you’re not bearing children, and lots of them, to ensure that the livelihood of your bloodline (or rather, your husband’s) stands the test of your time? Affection is hardly guaranteed, intimacy only a factor when you’re underneath the man you’re promised to. You know this, were raised with this idea in mind. The very notion of love is an afterthought.

You aren’t expecting it. Did not think it would come to you, no matter who you were to wed. So as you’re seated, posture nice and proper, with your treasured koto lying in front of you as evidence of your many talents, you expect your heart to be tame when your betrothed walks through those doors.

So imagine your surprise when your heart betrays you, thumping at a rate you’ve only experienced during your harsh and diligent kunoichi training, when a certain Uzui Tengen, strongest of his family, strides in your line of vision with an aura unlike anything you’ve ever sensed before.

You feel silly, fingers trembling for a man you know only by his name on your tongue. It’s a sickly sensation, your stomach folding in on itself with nerves you didn’t count on. You nearly forget to bow, not wanting to tear your eyes away from the magnetism the man exudes for even a second but your mother is kind enough to press a firm palm to your back. You always thought she would want this more than you, but now you’re not so sure after coming face to face with someone the likes of him. 

Tengen grew up largely the same, if we are on the topic of principle alone. Children in the Uzui household are raised to care for aptitude and strength, not each other. Bloodshed is more common than a kind word. But while his father tried to hammer away the notion that wives are only good for childrearing and nothing else, Tengen couldn’t help but feel that his heart would sing for a woman to call his own.

A hope that comes to fruition the moment his eyes land on you, that very song he always longed for reaching a crescendo when you bless him with the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. 

So the questions the faction head goes through end up mattering little in comparison to your answers. Every word, Tengen clings to. Even when you play the koto, fingers daintily and precisely plucking the strings to orchestrate a tune Tengen wants as his personal lullaby, all he can keep his eyes on is you. 

The attraction between the two of you is as sudden as it is all encompassing. You have never entertained the thought of love, much less love at first sight, yet here you are, completely and totally enamored with a man you hardly know. 

You didn’t think you would get swept up like this, didn’t think this passion would overtake your heart so easily and so strongly but you suppose this is fate and you aren’t about to question the gift it’s plopped onto your lap.

The clan leader is just about to take back the reins on the meeting, declare that a further review would take place, when Tengen pipes up loud and clear, with a fire in his eyes you would soon grow accustomed to.

“No need! This will be my bride!” 

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and it is throbbing. He sounds so sure, looks even more so with his brawny arms crossed over his puffed out chest and you can feel your vision wobble, his entire visage and the intention of his declaration striking you right where you sit. And with that, you refuse to allow any moment of silence to cross the room, for fear even a second could cost you the marriage. Your volume is on par with Tengen’s as you cry, “It would be my honor! Please,” You bow before the man, forehead kissing the tatami mat below when you continue, “bless me with the privilege to live alongside you for as long as either of us shall live.”

Those words… You mean them, can feel your tongue fanning the flames of your soul, embers burning bright for the man you are determined to make your husband. And it’s a role he is just as eager to take, having resolved to claim you since the moment your eyes met.

And he tells you as much when the two of you are finally alone, after the arrangement is all said and done.

“Come here.” Unlike your first meeting, Tengen’s voice here is tender and soft, a hand of his outstretched as he beckons you to come into the room the two of you will now share as husband and wife. Dressed in a nighttime garment with his hair down and face clean of any distractions, it’s no wonder you hesitate, in awe of the beauty of your spouse. You catch yourself staring, cheeks basking in newfound feverish warmth but your husband simply laughs. Not at you, not at your expense, but because you’re just too damn cute.

Your intention is to sit beside him, but Tengen has other plans. Not content with the idea of being apart from you any longer, he captures your hands in his and pulls, guiding you onto his lap. He feels your legs buckle and squirm until you’ve adjusted to the thick muscle just underneath his robe. This may be as foreign to him as it is to you, but it sure doesn’t seem like it. Must be the confidence that seems to come with everything Tengen does, like the grin he’s giving you right at this moment.

“Comfortable?” He asks, just as he runs a large palm down your spine until resting firmly on the small of your back. He cocks his head then, white tresses framing his strong jawline and you feel your heart rattling from his effortless charm. And to think, you have this man now and forever. It’s supposed to be daunting to a degree but this climate is nothing like the arranged marriages you’ve heard about in the district. Where you’re supposed to feel constrained, you feel cradled. Where you’re supposed to feel obligation, you feel true desire. 

“Mmhm,” Your hands travel from your body to his, walking up his torso and stifling a breath when you feel the firmness of his pecs waiting underneath his garb, “Very.” You notice the slight quiver in his chest on an inhale; it would be indiscernible to anyone else but to someone of your caliber, someone trained to analyze even the most minute changes in another person’s body, it’s all too apparent. “And you?” You feel called to touch more of him, fingertips trailing towards his center and dipping beneath the hemline of his clothing. 

He revels in your touch, craves more of it actually but Tengen is also enjoying the simplicity of this initial contact. You’ve inspired him to explore more of you, letting his other hand wander up your arm until it sweeps over your clavicle. He’s thoughtful in the way his thumb brushes strokes along the bone, admiring the finer details of your form. “Very.” He repeats, crimson eyes flitting to meet yours and you swear, you lose even the most basic skill of breathing just then. 

You realize then, just how close the two of you are. It should scare you, the intensity of this position but you can only think of wanting more when you look at Tengen’s strong features, the flare burning and circulating his pupils.

“Tengen,” You breathe, “Do you believe in fate?” 

He offers up a smile before moving his fingers up from your neckline until he has his thumb pressing down on the surface of your chin, the rest of his fingers crooked underneath to gingerly move your head, allowing him to admire your features from every angle. “Of course.” He sounds so certain, “How else would we have met?”

His words, they’re so sweet they litter goosebumps on your skin. But he doesn’t stop there. The pad of his thumb is now at your bottom lip, squishing the skin so he can watch the delightful way color drains from it. Your teeth poke out just a tad and you hear a soft rumble in the base of his throat, a groan he’s barely able to restrain at how delicious you look. “You need to know, I don’t do anything half-assed. I don’t take anything that’s beneath me.” You follow his direction, your head tilting to the side and god, he could just eat you up. Looking as disheveled as you do, hair flowing in the same direction with the collar of your garment starting to slide down the slope of your shoulder. 

You notice the pivot in his gaze, feel a tremble in your bones when he starts to speak again, “And what I do take…” You feel pressure on your back, Tengen working to close the gap between you two at last and all you can do is follow, desperately craving the same thing. “Is what I treasure.” 

And at long last, your lips touch, the hand at your face now withdrawing only for it to land squarely on your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh that awaits him there. You sigh, following suit and finally letting your fingers curl and grip knots into Tengen’s robe. You’ve never kissed, never known it could feel this good and it’s a high your brain won’t soon forget, even if your movements are naive and at times, clunky. 

When you part, it’s only for a breath. Tengen milks the opportunity though, drinking in the dazed look in your eyes, the gap between your lips as you try to find satisfaction apart from him. He knows what he wants, knows what he needs and that is to kiss you more.

You desire the same, knees at either side of Tengen’s body starting to cave in as the urge for more, more, more starts to overwhelm your very soul. You swoop in, kissing Tengen and stealing a glance at just the right moment so you can watch those pretty eyes of his flutter shut. His lips, they’re as firm as the rest of him but when he kisses you, it’s with a fondness you’ve never felt in your life. A care you’ll only ever want from him.

One kiss turns to two, then three until it’s like you’ve only known how to kiss him your whole life. The moment, it starts to feel so good that you unknowingly start to sink deeper into his lap, squeezing a throat groan from the man that you part your lips to swallow. You have to have more so your tongue crosses the threshold, sliding along his until the spit starts to trickle out the corner of your mouth and coat your lips in a glossy sheen.

Do you know what you’re doing to him? Do you understand that you’re reducing a man as strong as he into a melted mess? You feel his nails start to dig into your back, mimicking what you’re doing to his chest and you whimper. Not from pain, but from pleasure.

You don’t know when it happened, but you’ve stopped rubbing yourself on his meaty thighs and started grinding on the very prominent outline of his hardened cock. And now that you’ve started, you don’t want to stop. So you keep bumping yourself against his girth, keep winding yourself up and down, up and down over its thick weight because it sparks to life a tingling pleasure you’ve never imagined.

Tengen tries to grin into the kiss but he surprises himself when all he can offer up is a needy groan. What a little minx you’ve become, he should have expected this show of force but the surprise only quickens the blood flow to his shaft and you feel it, experience the twitch bouncing between your folds. He reminds you of the hold he has on you, one hand deepening the arch in your back while the other at your thigh starts to direct the rhythm of your hips. “Let me have you. Let me have all of you, my bride.” He growls so intently into your mouth that all you can do is nod your head and let his hands get to work.

“Need to see you, hold on.” Tengen’s back to the floor and you on top, he ushers you to come to a seat under his shaft so he can see how far up his long and heavy cock will go inside you. The sight is beautiful, perfect even as he bends his knees so you have something to recline on. The way he starts to pivot his pelvis, running the length of his shaft up your tummy is driving you mad. You’re so wet, it’s dripping onto the base of his member and he trembles once the droplets start to run down his fat and full sac. “Shit, you’re this wet for me? Come on, show me that you’re made for me.”

With that, you pick yourself up, giving yourself enough space to position his leaking tip at your entrance. The head of his dick is wide and swollen. Driblets of his pre-cum start to slather along your folds and as you start to lower yourself, you learn that his length, his width, is going to be a challenge.

But when have you ever turned down a challenge?

“Come on, that’s it.” Tengen’s hands find themselves latched onto your hips, the veins running down his knuckles making themselves known as his grip grows tighter and tighter. He watches your expression, takes note of how your twist and your brows furrow as you stretch for him and he starts to whisper gentle praises, telling you that you’re doing so good, doing so well for your husband.

And it’s like a cork pops when he finally gets the tip in. A whimper escapes you, as does a pant as you struggle to take him. You’ve known pain, trained for it even but this… He’s just massive, you feel like he could split you in two if either of you aren’t careful. Your gummy walls convulse, trying to adopt to the intrusion as best it can as you start to lower yourself inch by inch. 

“S-Shit. You could keep it there and I’d– Fuck.” Tengen throws his head back, crown digging into the mat while he stills himself inside you. Even though you’re clenched around him so firmly, you’re still dribbling your juices onto him, slathering him in your essence and he’s only a little past his glans inside you. “You’re so damn tight.”

When did you start drooling? When did tears start to prick at your waterline? The sensation of Tengen filling you out is all you can think about and even though it hurts, you want to work through the strain. “Is– s-so big, T-Tengen.” You whine and it shocks you, the frailty in your voice.

His head picked back up, Tengen can’t believe what he’s seeing. A bump is starting to take shape the more you sink down his cock, the evidence that he’s well inside you on a beautiful display for him. “You’re doing great. Taking me so fucking well.” You have him hissing, incapable of taking on a tone any louder than that– a true feat for the man with a voice that can command a room.

So he watches you with bated breath and the edge of his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as you take him right to the end, your ass coming to a snugly rest on his upper thighs. Neither of you move just then, wishing to enjoy the moment as it is.

You’re shaking, your entire body rocking on Tengen’s burly muscles and even though all he is doing is flexing his cock inside you, you paw incessantly on his chest. “T-Tengen…” 

He coaxes you to lower yourself, draw close to him so you’re chest to chest. Close enough to kiss, so he does. “Gonna move a little.” Accenting his words is the slow roll of his hips, the rigidity of his member expanding further into your core and while it still aches, you’re starting to weed out the bits and pieces of dizzying pleasure within. “This is all I need tonight, baby. Just this.” Tengen nibbles on your bottom lip, narrowed eyes still on you even as you kiss.

The nod you give is lazy, all your energy drained by every tremor, every squeeze of your cunt. “T-Tengen, t-touch me– t-touch me here.” You mewl, saliva dripping into your husband’s mouth as one of your hands shakily takes his. You mold his hand, direct it to cup your sopping heat. “P-Please, please, please.” 

You’ve never begged. But for him? You’ll do anything.

Huffing because every exhale turns into a stifled grunt, Tengen’s thick fingers start to run motions along your little bundle of nerves until he gets to a routine of toying with your clit. He follows your moans like a song, paying attention to what movement makes you sing the prettiest. He kneads your sweet muscle, swiping some of your slick and coating your clit until it too is drenched.

Lashes kissing and eyes rolling back, you begin to meet Tengen’s ruts as if it comes to you naturally. That’s what it feels like anyways, because you keep driving your hips back so expertly it must be instinctual. You continue at this pace for a while, your motions languid and his penetration deep. 

“Gonna cum,” Tengen suddenly grunts, rocking you forward so your forehead ends up docking against his, “and it’s gonna be inside.” This isn’t a question. This isn’t up for debate.

And you’re okay with that.

“Y-Yes, plea-please.” 

Pressure builds in his thrusts, he’s fucking into you with more strength but with the same speed and that’s just what he needs before you feel him emptying his hot and heavy load into you. It’s passionate, the kiss he gives you as he fills you up and makes you nice and wet for him to pump the remaining spurts of his seed. “Hnnghh, fuckkkkk.” The thunderous moan has you trembling, your hole spasming around your husband’s cock as you too start to feel an overwhelming wave of bliss wash over you.  It’s amazing how gentle this boisterous, big man can be as he helps you off his cock, so much of him leaking out of you almost instantly as he does so. And it’s amazing, how he massages your stomach afterwards, soothing your various muscles for all their hard work. And it’s amazing, how at home you feel, in his arms and against his chest, falling asleep to the chorus of his heartbeat after a long, long night.

#uzui tengen #uzui x you #uzui x reader #uzui tengen x reader #uzui tengen x you #kny smut #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #kny x you #⋆ ˚｡⋆✄˚ ┆ ˗ˏˋ ꒰ marie writes! ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ┆

[decolonize-the-left]

genuine question: i thought communism ideology supported no states? what do you not support with communism?

Also: is PSL problematic/harmful? I hadn’t seen anything about them denying a genocide.

Apologies if this looks like I’m coming to you instead of research. Unfortunately research has lead my to discourse reddit threads and people speaking over another of what is true and right. It’s difficult for me to sort through what is actually backed and i always perfect to get first hand, personal opinions from individuals for conversation purposes! If this is inappropriate please lmk! I’m a fan of your blog and truly am just looking for more input and takes on our options and to know the best way to get involved in a community— and avoid getting involved with the wrong kind of people I don’t agree with!

Thank you in advance!! Hope your future doctor visits continue to treat you well!

So a classless, moneyless society is socialism.

There are branches of socialism the same way there can be democratic and Republican beliefs within capitalism.

So communism is socialism with a state/government. This is what PSL is and advocates for.

And yeah im stepping on a fucking beehive saying this but yeah, Marxists/Marxists-Leninists support a communist state. For this exact reason, they deny that China has been persecuting Uyghur people. They think if they deny the genocide is happening at all then communism will seem more "valid."

Additionally, they think the genocide is little more than more anti-communist propaganda from the USA. Even Aljazeera has written about this.

Aside from that, yes PSL has organized with orgs like BLM before, but that said.... Ugh.

They speak over everyone. In fact, I've been told several times that they are now doing the same thing with the Pro-Palestine rallies they've been hosting, too.

As someone who worked with them closely during the BLM protests of 2020 I can confirm this with my own experiences. They're super organized, which is great for them. For the rest of us though, it means we have to work around their schedules. They spread their own parties propaganda at these events while making themselves out to be The Official Organization for the event which was almost never true. When they were at our events it's because they were invited by us, but everyone thought it was the other way around. They have a way of centering themselves which seems anti-thetical to their allyship.

They very much use minorities to boost their party's status. Which is not much different from how a democrat tries to get minority votes would.

I don't use Instagram but the USPCN and NAARPR posted about how PSL was doing this. I had just reblogged a post where PSL was calling for a strike in solidarity and was immediately informed to IGNORE it and boost actual Palestinians calls for action instead. They included a link to the Instagram post as well. I'll see if I can find it and reblog it after this.

Anyway, It was a good question and didn't bother me at all to answer, thanks for sending it!

#asked #answered #PSL #communism #uyghurs #uyghur genocide #for the record my views are closest to anarcho communism or straight up anarchy tbh #self determination and sovereignty above all else #EDITED TO CORRECT THE ORG LISTED

[queen-breha-organa]

I wanted to briefly come back online and discuss the WGA and, in turn, the current writer's strike.

I know my opinion matters very little, and I don’t consider myself an expert or a valuable voice in this matter. However, since I talk about Star Wars a lot, I wanted to discuss the strike because these things go hand in hand. I think it’s unfair to ignore the real-world circumstances that shape the media you enjoy. Knowing the context of something is important. And beyond that, this situation has just been on my mind, and I wanted to express my thoughts somewhere. 

Firstly, all workers should be paid living wages. All workers deserve to be treated fairly and compensated fairly. All workers deserve safe, productive, and fair working environments—end of story.

I’ve been seeing a lot of jokes along the lines of “I didn’t even know media had writers these days,” and while I understand the joke and the potential humor in it, I feel like it’s important to realize that this is entirely why the WGA is striking in the first place.

The writer’s rooms are shrinking. Writers are being overworked. Writers are being underpaid. Writers are being dismissed and undercut. These factors lead to poorly written and poorly managed shows because the individuals who write the bones of the shows are exhausted and burdened by corporate interference, unreasonable deadlines (especially in animation), unfair wages, and stale corporate agendas.

Additionally, these writers often aren’t given the opportunity to oversee or manage their writing while it’s being filmed. Instead, companies are acting as if the writing process ends before the filming process so that they can shorten the writer's contracts and pay them less. However, in actuality, the writing process is often most valuable during the filming process. 

Some things work on paper but don’t work on the day. Maybe the joke doesn’t land, or an actor can’t deliver the line as intended. Writers are needed on set to rework and revise these lines, so the process can run smoother without sacrificing story and believability. Now some actors are incredible at improvising and can make these things work. However, overall, without writers on set, you usually end up with awkward/stiff dialogue or scenes that make no sense. Writing doesn’t stop in the writers' room.

Another massive force driving this strike is the evolution of streaming services. 

With “traditional” tv reruns, the network airing the media has to purchase the viewing rights of the episode or the show. This money is then extended to the people who worked on the show in the form of residuals. It makes sense. Something you worked on makes money, so in turn, you get money. 

However, streaming services have broken this mold by allowing consumers to watch whatever media whenever they want. Streaming services claim that it is no longer possible to pay residuals for these shows since they don’t know how often or when the shows are being watched. This is a lie.

Companies will brag privately in shareholder's meetings and publicly in articles about streaming shows that have done well. We’ll read headlines like “Stranger Things’ Was Most-Streamed TV Show in 2022” or “‘Star Wars’ vs. Marvel: Which Disney+ Shows Are Most-Viewed.” These articles and the data within them prove it is possible to know how frequently shows/movies are being watched on streaming services. Still, companies are only willing to shell out this information for bragging rights and not for fair payments.

In 2021, Disney CEO Bob Chapk earned $32 million. In contrast, the WGA website states, “Median weekly writer-producer pay has declined 4% over the last decade. Adjusting for inflation, the decline is 23%.” These writers are merely asking for 3%, while CEOs are given the moon.

This is unacceptable.

If you’re reading this post, if you’re on Tumblr and engaging with fandoms enough to have this post written by me, a Star Wars blog, circulate on your feed, media writing has affected your life. Writers have impacted you and your daily routine and hobbies. 

You should care about this strike. You should be supporting this strike. 

We all want our favorite shows to come back, we all want to reunite with our favorite characters, and we all want to see their stories, their triumphs, and their struggles. 

But the real people behind these stories and behind these characters are far more important than any fictional narrative. 

These writers have crafted the worlds and stories we love, and by supporting them, we can return the favor and craft a better world for them too.

#Writers strike #real people matter more than the new season of your favorite show #Long post

[trendywaifus]

hello there! Nice seeing you post again— been following you since your first Kny’s posts and I love your writing style! Since we’re under the HSR train, can I request reader who is part of the express and like March and Stelle are very protective of them because they’re really weak due to a past injury? And Then they tell the Characters that one day they’ll find the strength to be able to fight for themselves soon? Heurhuryeue that’d just be cool, only if you wanna tho!! Thank you!!!! Have a bread day

omg!! rlly?? eeeeeeeeee, its so nice to see long time followers! its been like. .5 or 4 years since i made this blog? wow time goes by fast, im really happy that you’re still here! i hope you’ve been growing as a person without much struggle as time passed!

“ march! “ you swatted her prying hand away and adjusted the crutch to your side. “ for the last time, i can get up and walk myself, can’t you see i have this crutch to support me? “ taken aback by you swatting her hand and your warning glare, her expression saddens. you were injured from the encounter with the doomsday beast. march made a mistake she wish she could take back. during the doomsday beast encounter, she gotten cocky; biting more than she can chew and recklessly attacked the beast with barrage of arrows while staying in one spot. at that moment, one of its hands quickly appeared in front of her, ready to strike. luckily, you managed to push her out of the way at the cost of your side getting clawed and a fractured leg.

march’s stomach churns at the horrible memory. what stuck to her mind was the look of horror written on your face as the creature’s large claw nearly dug itself into your side as you clumsily dodged backwards. you nearly screamed as you landed in a bad position and danheng had to escort you far away from the fight as far as he could. she swallows hard, digging her nails into her palm, enough to engrave crescents into her skin.“ i know that, but still! i want to support you too. i-i was the one who made you like this! if i had buffed you with defense, i- “

“ march 7th. “ your partner shakes her head stubbornly, tears in her eyes. “ you don’t understand, seeing you back there—seeing you in pain like that— haunts me! i can’t pretend to be all happy and joyful when you’re not even with me on adventures! i know that i’m ignorant to many things that i shouldn’t be ignorant to. but. . i don’t want to be insensitive to your struggles either that’s why i been so protective.”

you sighed deeply, dropping your gaze to the floor. unusual silence fills the atmosphere of your cabin while you fully process march’s confession. you were wrong for being annoyed at her protectiveness. things could of been much worse and you could only imagine how’d she think of herself then. march takes your hand in hers, your eyes immediately reverts back to hers, gaze softening around the edges. her lips curled into an apologetic sad smile, she looks at you with pleading eyes.

“ months from now march. .” you cast her a tight—lipped smile, “ me, you, stelle, and danheng will all be together running around making memories in some random planet. i’ll be able to do things for myself fully again so don’t you worry, you reckless girl.”without any protest, you let her throw her arms around your shoulders to embrace you.

“ i’ll do better next time, i swear on it (name)!“

“ i know that i don’t miraculously come back alive after i die like you but you’re watching me as if i’ll just suddenly fall over and perish. “ you remark, striking the wooden dummy with a wooden sword. you were careful not to swing too fluidly because of the stitches on your abdomen. you’d rather not reopen them and bleed out on the spot. “ danheng said that you’re not suppose to be training while you have stitches in. “

you scoffed, “ alright? well i am, now what? i’m not in much pain anymore and i just have to reduce my movement in my slashes. danheng’s a snitch for telling you that i’m here. you know what they say stelle, snitches get sti—fuck! “ a momentary sharp sensation shoots in your wound area and you crumble to your knees. stelle is by your side, her countenance contorted in disappointment. her gloved hand rests on the small of your back and the other on your knee. “ i-i’m okay, this normally happens after a few weeks of having stitches. pretty fun experience time to time. it’ll be completely painless sooner or later. “ you comment, mustering a shaky smile.

“ i think danheng is right and i don’t like seeing you like this. “ stelle frowns. you sighed in relief at the sensation going away and lifted yourself from the floor, stelle follows suit. “ then leave, stelle. you don’t have to be here. “ you shrugged her off and repositioned yourself into sword stance. she blocks you from the dummy, giving you a pointed look. “ don’t look at me like that. unless you want to be my training partner, i want you to step aside. “ you commanded, glaring at your stubborn girlfriend.

she shakes her head, a mocking smile erasing the frown from her lips. “ i don’t want to so now what?”you roll your eyes, she continues, placing her hands on her hips playfully, “ i don’t think you have the strength yet to defeat the likes of me, foolish mortal.“

“ oh no! you’re right! “ you gasped, dropping your sword dramatically, “ i wonder how i can defeat you! oh, i know how. “ before she can react, you pulled her in by the hoodie and smashed your lips against hers for a brief moment then pulled away. stelle looks absolutely dumbfounded, her jaw slightly ajar at the surprise kiss. you smirked, “ i don’t even need my full strength to defeat you and when i do, i’ll do a lot more than this. “

#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #honkai x reader #hsr x reader #hsr stelle #hsr scenarios #stelle x reader #hsr march 7th #march 7th x reader #honkai star rail imagines

[iamsonny-j]

This was originally going to be in reply to @glowinggreeneyes-e post about the Captain's education and career path...but then I got carried away because I'm so normal about this stuff so it's now its own post...with added angst because I have no control over any of this, my brain just goes.

So for a start the Captain would have gone to a public boarding school. I think it's worth pointing out that public schools and universities operated scholarships for students from less wealthy backgrounds. We're still talking middle class and upper middle, but not always full on wealthy and privileged in the way of someone like Julian. Cap strikes me as having the background of a family well enough off but he probably always had to work hard to prove himself for his place, maybe not so much for public school but definitely for university.

Whatever school he attended would have had an Officer Training Corps junior division. Basically cadets. This would lead to the possibility to do an exam (written and practical) to get what was called certificate A to show he had participated in the OTC.

From the Button House Archives it says Cap got to the front in WW1 at armistice and so never saw action. So I imagine he finished his studies at school in the summer, enlisted and completed basic training, and then was out to Europe just in time for things to end. Because he got his certificate A at school he had the option at university to join the OTC university division. This was a route to becoming a commissioned officer. You either needed certificate A or experience in the ranks to join. For the sake of argument, serving in the army for a couple of months wouldn't count as experience so he must have had the certificate A...

University options at that time were limited to Oxbridge, Durham or London. All of those had OTC. I think London can be ruled out...only because it was busy, loud and ugly, even then (sorry London friends!) and the Captain likes wildlife and the countryside and nature walks...I can't see him thriving in London.

Training with the OTC at university involved physical training, military strategy, history and law etc. The Captain would have had to complete 2 years training before he could have done exams for his Certificate B - practical and written. Passing the exams would have entitled him to a commission on graduation. Getting Certificate B wasn't common because of the amount of work involved and dedication required to be successful. It was hard!

Like I want to point out that to get that far would have required so much effort and dedication right from being a child. And this is where I will get sad and headcanon-y for a bit (let me have this one thing out of all this research!)

Bullying and abusive rituals were a big part of public school life at this time and any boy seen as even slightly different would have been targeted for sure, even by some of the teachers. So although Cap comes across as clever and capable at what he knows I think school would have been socially really freaking hard. For a child in that situation I could see the OTC being a respite and something the Captain would have found very comforting with the set rules, order and expectations and from there you can understand why career army would have been appealing...

And I think that's when things get a bit complicated. The army was his life but in a different way to officers who wanted to be on the front line, like Havers. Obviously Cap worked extremely hard for his commission - and he was obviously very well qualified and knowledgable in his areas of interest, but he was always ever going to be best at HQ tasks like intelligence or engineering or whatever his particular career skills were - loving the army in theory, but some of it would have always been out of his reach. And I think being in a public school during WW1 and hearing of so many former pupils (some he would have known personally as seniors, prefects or head of houses) losing their lives on a daily basis during WW1 would have had a huge effect on him and probably influenced some of the guilt about not having the opportunity to fight himself, but ultimately I think he probably knew that wasn't his part to play even with WW2.

And I think all that that shows in his interactions we see in his past as CO - he was obviously doing a good job at whatever secret little operations he had but he really didn't have the skills/personality needed to be a CO. Having someone like Havers as a second hid that (and that's also seen in Havers getting 2 promotions in 4 years...he was much more of a natural CO) and I wonder if a lot of affection that Cap had for Havers originally came from the fact that Havers not only respected him as CO but he was also just kind to him and saw a person worthy of affection - rather than the CO that everyone tolerated but secretly disrespected and laughed at (just look at how all the other officers couldn't wait to come down on him in 5.05)

And then he lost Havers. But still had to command up to 150 men and operations at Button House for the next 4 years. And it's obvious from the letters and information in the Button House Archives that he really REALLY did try and I think with considering everything it's no wonder he overcompensates a lot and that's where he's at in the first couple of seasons of Ghosts; fighting for authority and trying to do his best.

Last sad point because it does relate: When he died Havers gave Cap the swagger stick to hold - Havers still called him 'Sir' even though he outranked him at that point. I don't know if I can begin to unpick all of that, but there's definitely something in there about respect, belief and the burden of responsibility that he clearly took seriously into his afterlife not wanting to let Havers down both personally and professionally.

If you read all of this I love you and respect you and appreciate you for appreciating my level of not normal xD

#bbc ghosts #the captain #i missed sharing infodumps so much #please feel free to add

[sharonccrter]

The thing that strikes me about Taylor is how insensitive it is and how she is talking about mental health. Did she really love Joe? Because it seemed to me she was eager for a marriage she could show off and was mad that Joe’s mental health was getting in the way of that. Because if Joe was the person she could see herself getting married to and having children with then I am sure you could have found a better way to overcome it together other than fantasize over a racist man.

I personally I’m on a long term relationship (5 years) and a few months ago I got into this very heavy depression and it was ruining our relationship. I became really closed off, in constant bad mood and didn’t notice much that my partner was also struggling with that. I constantly felt like a burden and like I wasn’t making them happy anymore. Dating someone with mental health issues isn’t a walk in the part. It got so bad that I couldn’t eat sometimes and got panic attacks very frequently. But we spoke a lot, reestablished if we wanted to be together and decided that yes we’ll work on it. I went to therapy and have been taking prescriptions (only now at times when I’m feeling particularly anxious) and I’ll say our relationship has gotten way better now. And also myself. So reading lyrics like “get your sht together so I can love you” is really weird because does that mean mentally ill people cannot be loved? That he suddenly is another person to her? Don’t know Taylor, I wouldn’t want to marry you either if this is the way you act at the first sign of trouble.

Here's the thing, I do think she loved him. Have you ever heard of the theory that famous people get emotionally stunted at the age they become famous? Because I think in the case of ts, it's a solid theory. If you hear "The Alchemy" and "So High School", the two songs written for Travis, you can see how she craves being the 'cool kid,' she wants to be the cheerleader with the footballer boyfriend. She's still acting like she's a teenager.

Going back to the theory that she was emotionally stunted in her teens, I do think she loved Joe; did she love him enough? No. She's clearly very self-obsessed, and there are times when she can be self-aware. For example, in her Instagram post, she admits that a lot of the wounds were self-inflicted. The only grace I will give her is being with someone with MH issues is hard, and it's not for everyone. But she could have left at any point. Clearly, Joe's MH got worse or had a bad spell during the end of their relationship.

If that was too much for her, she should have left. She didn't have to run into the arms of a sewer rat before their relationship was even really over. She didn't have to make out he'd wronged her, or write songs giving away details of Joe's struggle which were private.

I think ts needs to grow up.

#anti taylor swift #taylor swift #joe alwyn

[writingnocturne]

On Forbidden Ground

This is my contribution to @zelinkcommunity's Zelink Week 2023! Day Two: Forbidden

Look below the break to read! Be sure to check out everyone else's work, as well! They did great!

{ For this week, I will be posting a little peek at art/writing for memories in Call of the Forgotten, a TotK rewrite I am working on (there will obviously be direct and indirect spoilers for TotK). These memories will be posted out of order and are subject to change. They follow the Ancient Hero and Princess during the time of the First Great Calamity. }

Memory ?? – On Forbidden Ground

( Word Count – 1,625 )

A young woman approaches the edge of a forest of ruin. She travels along the Dracozu River, even the ripples of the water carrying her reflection with trepidation. Higher cliffs hang not far above her head, looming over the thin slits of land she has to travel upon. It occurs to her that she would have benefited from bringing along a boat, but it's far too late to turn back now. She braved this accursed wood on a whim; chasing a hope for her people.

You are chosen, Impa had told her, As a child of Light and Time– one born from the bloodline of Hylia herself– you are perhaps the only one worthy of bearing the complete Triforce upon her hand. Awaken it, and perhaps this Calamity you foresee shall fall before it even begins.

This land– the land of Faron– has been one forbidden to set foot in since she was young. However, legend properly written down by the late Queen Sonia states that a magical spring within it is hidden beyond the walls of a temple; one built to resemble a spring of the earth in ancient myth. Although later taken over by an outcast clan of barbarians, the lands holding the site were once the home of King Rauru's own ancestors; and hers. It was a place of ceremony, dedicated to the guardian dragons they worshiped. She hopes, if anywhere, she will have the best luck starting from here. Passing through this place, seeing the old statues overturned and overwhelmed by overgrowth, carries a sort of bitterness; yet this bitterness is nothing she is not already familiar with. This shell of a place is the same as the life she once knew: an empty realm of memories one simply cannot grasp. The emptiness remains, but the resentment it brings alongside it is unmatched. Creatures that once lurked in the night followed the order of the demon responsible for this hollow state. She once hid from them, in fear that The Demon King would discover the heir of his mortal enemy and try to bring her to the same fate as her mother. At that time, she was young… She never could have accounted for the people that had no option to run.

The princess becomes distant from the world she travels amidst; something that has become the norm when her thoughts dwell in a time now lost. It leaves her unaware. This moment of staring off soon twists into folly as, by the time she snaps back into reality, her attention is caught by the sound of swift movement through the tall grass. The young woman is quick to turn her head back towards the source. In unison, a golden aura emits from her body and stops a weapon mid-air. It was mere inches from striking the back of her head… it surely would have knocked her unconscious. She squints, perplexed by the weapon's structure. Suspended before her is a bat with blades fastened into the wood. Resembling a weapon of which a monster would have carried during the Imprisoning War, the club has a peculiar green substance securing the individual parts. As if she has forgotten the obvious threat of whatever threw the weapon, she slowly brings a hand towards it to inspect what has been done to upgrade such a primitive weapon this way. It is almost… familiar. The instant she attempts to investigate where she recognizes the substance from, however, she feels a heavy force drive into her back.

Zelda is sent down to the earth, managing to catch herself just before she can collide with it at full-force. Instinct kicking in, she immediately turns herself to be sure her attacker cannot catch her off guard again whilst she tries to stand. This reveals their now-visible silhouette to be close; they are close enough to easily kick the princess's stomach and pin her down with their weight. She grunts as she finally is forced down. Zelda lifts her right hand to focus a surge of light energy towards the figure, but finds herself pausing at the sight of a paralleled action from her attacker. A green energy comes from their own aimed arm, streams of its power leaking out into the air around them. It now illuminates their form in the shade of the canopy. Although their flowing red hair strikes her as odd, it is their face that particularly stands out. Unlike any Hylian, they have an almost animalistic appearance. And upon their forehead: a tear-shaped stone emits the faintest light of its own.

Almost breathless, she mutters the baffling realization aloud, "You're…– You're a Zonai."

The Zonai's blue eyes widen slightly as they gaze upon her, their right hand leaving the surface of their left arm as the glow slowly dims. She keeps an eye on every movement they make, but they do not seem intent on attacking again. The figure brings their hand to their face, their fingers spread out across it, before… removing this face entirely. In a short flash of light, she finds the Zonai has disappeared. It has been reduced to a carved face in the hands of a new person: a shorter Hylian with a mass of long red hair falling to his sides. He shares the same blue eyes, which continue to stare at the princess for a moment or two in thought. Still alarmed, regardless, Zelda hurriedly scoots back from the figure before returning the gesture with locked eyes.

"You're… like me." His eyes trail to her left arm as he mumbles his words. Zelda looks down to it as well, recalling the clash both lines of her ancestors have over her appearance. It shows even in her ears, which are large and aligned with her hair. With this shared understanding out of the way, the young man suddenly offers a hand to her to help her up. This is certainly an unexpected shift, but the princess would rather accept it over the fight that was seconds away from breaking out. Although hesitant, she slowly places her hand in his own. Less than a second follows before he pulls her up into a stand, then finding he has to now look up to the girl instead. "...you aren't a monster, then."

"Did you… think I was?" Zelda tilts her head, her long ears angling downward slightly. The boy simply shrugs. Perhaps he did, but perhaps he just didn't take the time to properly look at her. It has been years since he's really seen a monster. "...The Imprisoning War has been over for… for over a decade. There haven't been monsters since. How long have you…–?" The boy simply turns around, suddenly beginning to lead her off. "Hey–! What are you doing?"

He glances back for a second, blankly staring again. The young man subtly points ahead of him, but realizes this is not a sufficient answer for the princess. It takes him a while before he eventually decides to give a verbal answer, "...You're going to the head of the river."

Zelda seems slightly surprised that he knows this, but she supposes he must have noticed her following the river. She nods. For him to have attacked her like that initially… Did he aim to protect it? If he is the only one left in these woods, he must have. Such a thought leaves the returning bitterness in her chest. She pities this boy, understanding quickly that both have been barred away– forbidden by fate to have the peaceful lives that they were owed as youth. Deciding they have this common ground, she speaks, "My name is Princess Zelda of Hyrule, daughter of King Rauru and Queen Sonia."

"..." The boy peers back, looking incredibly disturbed by the length of that title. It's clear he tries to brush it off, although he knows his own name is rather bland in comparison, "...Link."

"Link… That does sound familiar…" The princess thinks aloud, finding her gaze wandering back down to his arm. Within the mysterious Zonai form he took, his arms glistened with an eerily recognisable power. It looked similar to her own, but far more decorated. It… reminds her of someone.

As Link leads Zelda over ruin– unintentionally nearly tripping her a time or two– he pulls her along until they reach a split in the river. The Dracozu ends in a pond that jaggedly takes two routes, presenting itself like a set of open jaws. The girl's initial thought is that this is what Link meant by the "head," yet her mind easily changes upon seeing the Great Dragon Head statue casting a shadow upon them both.

"This must be it. The Spring of Courage." Taking a step towards it, the princess focuses on the statue visible within the dragon's mouth. It sits, overlooking the spring, as countless durians oddly float around it upon the water's surface. The statue of Hylia wears a mask of its own: one that imitates the dragon-like face of the figures outside. She decides not to question this fact, for now, simply entering the forsaken yet sacred ground. Link's footsteps are more than audible following behind, which is rather expected. "Link–" The girl turns her head back to the peculiar stranger, "Thank you." Zelda is about to say more, but her words come to a sudden halt. Although their encounter was certainly strange enough, she could have sworn that the eyes of his mask… moved. This is the final detail it takes for her to redirect the course of her words. The princess takes a deep breath, then makes her decision: "There is something I must do here, but… Link, once I am done, may I speak to you for a while longer?"

Thank you for reading! Check out the first concept doodles of them here! Obviously, this is all very incomplete; but most is planned out thoroughly! If you have questions, just ask!

Art Info: (Check my art blog @nocturnalfandomartist!)

Program: Ibis Paint X

Time Elapsed: 7 hours, 27 minutes

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