#but because he switch genders twice he's blind now???

[gigizetz]

omg I'm doing some research of Tiresias' myths and all versions of how he became blind are the funniest things I've ever read

my favorite is the one where Hera and Zeus were arguing about which gender had more pleasure during sex (as you do), Hera being fully convinced that men was the answer. They asked Tiresias and he said women had the most pleasure, and Hera (in an act of pettiness I think?) made him blind

[behindheremeraldeyes]

damirae week 2021 Wednesday, May 5th - holiday & vacations title: love is in the air summary: When his brother decides to mess with him as a Holiday prank, Damian ends up having to travel in coach like the rest of the mortals. Eventually, though, he learns that turbulence can strike even before the plane takes off.

.

“What do you mean by coach class?”

His brows are furrowed when he asks her that, a puzzled expression taking over his face. Expectant, green eyes are on the flight attendant in front of him, as he waits for her to provide him a little more information on the matter. She’s growing anxious the longer he stares at her, a nervous tic making her left eye tremble whenever she tries to maintain eye-contact. Apparently, she knows who he is— of course she does— therefore; he believes it’s safe to presume she understands why he’s so confused.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Wayne, but that’s what your ticket says.” She explains, her voice laced with nervousness as she shows him the printed paper with his name written on. Damian is not blind— far from that, actually. He can see all the information written on that paper, but no matter how much he tries, he still can’t comprehend the ‘coach’ part. He has been traveling by plane for as long as he can remember, and never once has he deliberately chosen a seat in coach— in fact, never once has he chosen a seat at all, since he has a secretary of his own. A very competent and well-paid one, for the matter.

Such a primal mistake like this has never happened in all the years they’ve been working together. Something must have happened, he knows.

“I believe there must have been some mistake.” He states calmly, his demeanor unaltered. “Could you please check it again? The people at my company would never make such a trivial mistake.”

“Of course, I understand completely. I’ll try checking it on the system to see if I can find anything.”

Her fingers move rapidly across the keyboard, and he studies her face, looking for a hint of what’s actually happening. She’s still nervous, he can tell, and if anything, that’s not a good sign. It means she’s not finding the problem in the system, and if she’s not finding it, it means the said problem doesn’t exist. And if it doesn’t exist— well— something must have happened at Wayne tech.

How odd, he ponders.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne, but there really has been no mistake. Your ticket was ordered last Wednesday night, and it is as I’ve told you, see?” She turns the monitor so he can see, probably so he won’t hold it against her or anything. “You know, it’s quite common for some of our clients to make this kind of mistake. Perhaps you forgot to select the first class? “

“Highly unlikely. My secretary always double-checks everything.”

“Well, both the coach class and the seat were chosen by your secretary last Wednesday night. Are you sure nothing unusual happened when he ordered the ticket for you?”

“I’m positive. It was a normal Wednesday and— wait.” He suddenly stops. His emerald eyes blink once, twice and a third time, a blank expression taking over his handsome face. ”Did you just say he?”

Once he allows her words to sink in, Damian questions the integrity of his ears. Perhaps, after all of those years fighting crime and handling explosives, they might not be working as perfectly as they are supposed to.

He must have heard it wrong because, last time he checked, Mrs. Miller was not a man. She’s a conservative woman who’s around her 60s, and even if that doesn’t mean a thing anymore, she has never once told him anything about switching genders. If anything, she’s always the one lecturing Jason about finding a kind woman such as herself.

Still, a stranger such as the woman standing in front of him could never know such personal things about Mrs. Miller’s life. Things are not adding up. And for he is his father’s son, he wants to know why.

“Oh, yes. I presume the name Richard belongs to a man, no? It’s the name of the account who’s booked you this flight.”

“Richard?!” He questions, and it only takes him a second to put all the pieces of that silly puzzle together.

Grayson, you bastard.

Now it all makes perfect sense. Of course he had to be behind this childish act. Who else would have enough free time to waste before the Holidays just to prank a busy, young man such as himself? His older brother might be respected by many of their super friends, but more than anyone, Damian knows he is but a child filled with hormones. He probably thought it would be funny to make his little brother travel for hours in coach as a commoner, where he would have to sit next to a stranger.

That worthless manwhore.

However, he won’t let his predecessor have the last laugh. Grayson did this solely to piss him off and throw him out of his comfort zone, therefore, the best revenge should be handling the situation without creating a fuss. Damian is going to accept the conditions without putting up a fight, and his brother’s victory will have a bitter taste.

Yes, that’s how a real man gets his personal revenge. He will endure a six-hours flight home in coach class like a pro, and he will show the first Robin not to mess with the newest generation.

A proud smirk, then, takes over his lips. That certainly should teach him a lesson—well, that and the explosives Damian plans to hide in his brother’s bedroom, of course.

“Mister Wayne, I’m terribly sorry about all this. I—“

“No need to be sorry. In fact, I should be the one apologizing for all of these questions now that I know what happened.” He starts, placing his hand on his chest as an apologetical gesture. “You see, Richard is my older brother. He’s not as smart as the rest of the family, so it’s highly likely that he’s made this mistake.”

“Oh, I understand. I guess every family has one of those, right?”

“You have no idea. Now, Karen.” He says, finally paying attention to the name written on her uniform. “I’m incredibly sorry for wasting your time. Without further ado, I will head to my seat.”

“Mister Wayne, you’re very kind, indeed.” She starts, a blush tinging her cheeks. With a staple, she makes small holes on his ticket before handling it back to him. “I hope you have a safe flight to Gotham.”

“Yeah, me too.”

His voice doesn’t sound as irritated as he feels, and that alone is a big victory. Without wasting more of his precious time, Damian walks towards the jet bridge so he can finally board the plane. A couple walks behind him, chuckling as they talk about how much fun it will be to go back home for Christmas.

Going home for the Holidays, huh?

An entire week at the Wayne Manor with his brothers and his father, sharing meals together and trying not to murder each other during their morning exercises. Though Gotham could not get any safer since the whole bat-family will be together, it is also the one time of the year when his murderous instincts are at their peak.

A tired sigh escapes his lips. That’s a problem for another time, he thinks.

Once inside the plane, his eyes search for the signs that will take him to his seat. For the first time in his life, he turns right instead of left— coach instead of first class— and suddenly, a small corridor is in front of him. For a moment, he feels like a cow heading for the slaughterhouse, as many other people are forming a line in front of him.

It’s hard to breathe and even harder to walk with all of those people trying to put their bags inside the upper compartments. He checks his ticket again. D21. According to the numeration pattern, he’s almost there, but he’s still not moving fast enough. All the simultaneous talk is driving him insane, and now he understands why some people choose to dope themselves as soon as they get inside the plane.

He doesn’t have any sleeping pills with him, but maybe if he punches himself with enough strength…

No. He can make it. Things will get better once he sits down and they take off. It can’t possibly get any worse than it already is, right?

Right?

A curse is muffled under his breath, and finally, he reaches his seat. For he knows how to travel light, Damian is quick to place his bag where it belongs and now he can establish himself. It’s a window seat, he notices, which means that soon there will be another person next to him, too close for his own liking. He knows there’s no use in picturing what kind of person it will be, but he can certainly hope it’s a nice one who knows how to respect his personal space.

If he or she doesn’t have vocal chords, Damian definitely won’t complain.

He closes his eyes for a moment, then, allowing himself to settle down and get used to his surroundings. It’s chaotic, he thinks, and he knows chaotic. Children are crying, some people are on the phone and others are just breathing too loud. He knows he’s whining like a brat, but it’s stronger than him. It’s annoying, and he swears if that lady keeps on talking about her 3 cats, he’s going to—

His inner monologue stops, his eyes widening for a moment. At last, he hears the one thing he hates more than Joker’s maniacal laughter. That unbearable sound that makes his head throb and makes his lips turn into a deep frown.

“Is that Damian Wayne?”

Teenage girls. And they know him.

Perhaps it’s the annoying giggle or even the way they keep on getting bolder every time they meet him, but Damian can’t stand them. They’re just too obnoxious— a real pain. He honestly doesn’t know why on earth they tend to approach him whenever they have the chance, especially since he’s sure he has never once paid them any attention. In fact, chances are he has even been rude to them on more than one occasion.

Trying to understand a teenager’s mind is beyond his capacity. Ignoring them, though doesn’t prevent them from returning, is the easiest way out, and when they come— because they will come— that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

“Excuse me, Damian Wayne.” One of them says, her voice laced with excitement. Two more stand next to her, but he can’t really tell them apart. “It’s you, isn’t it? “

Jesus, can someone please knock him out already?

He crosses his arms at her words, his brows now knitted in annoyance. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing welcoming in his expression, but that won’t stop them from continuing. It’s not like they actually care about his feelings or anything.

“Oh, my god! It really is you!“ She claps her hands, biting her lower lip. “Can I get a selfie? Can I?”

“God, Mary. Can you be any more inconvenient?” The one on her left asks, pushing her friend away so she can take a step closer. “Forgive my friend. She can’t read the atmosphere like I can. If you want, I can send her away and keep you some company during the flight.”

“Ugh, get out of my way, both of you!” The third one pushes through, using her elbows to force her way forward. “Hi, I love you and I really mean it, Damian! I love you so much that, if you want, we can meet at the bathroom cabinet and I’ll show you.”

His eyes widen in horror at such proposal, and he’s almost sure this girl isn’t old enough to be saying such things. From the corner of his eyes, he watches as a bunch of people lift their phones to point at him, all of them waiting to hear his final answer so the dirty press can judge him.

Grayson is going to pay dearly for this.

This girl is insufferable. All of them are.

They’re causing all of that commotion, preventing people from walking down the small corridor and embarrassing him in front of all of those eyes. They can’t possibly think it’s okay to do or say those things so openly like to a man they know nothing about. Though the initial plan might have been for him to at least talk to them, Damian can’t bear any more hatred inside of him than at this very moment, and if looks could kill, those three wouldn’t be breathing anymore.

His hands turn into fists and he closes his heavy eyes so he can stop himself from committing a murder. Justice, not vengeance. His father’s words echo inside his head, and he’s having a really hard time trying not to think only about the second part. He really just wants to go home right now. And thankfully, he’s not the only one.

“Hum, excuse me…”

His ears detect a fresh voice, calmer and more mature. Instinctively, he opens his eyes to look at this new stranger, and he’s impressed by what he sees. She’s beautiful, he notices. Dark hair, violet eyes and ivory skin, all together to form an ethereal beauty like he has never seen before. Damian can’t help but keep looking at her, curious to know what she’s going to say on this matter.

“Hi!” She continues, her thin lips turning upwards in a smile. “I know you’re all busy trying to seduce this man with your oozing pheromones and irrefutable proposals, but in case you haven’t noticed, there are people trying to get to their seats here.”

“So what?” One of them says, a hand on her hips and a lot of attitude in her high-pitched voice. She’s trying to be intimidating, but it’s clearly not working. “Can’t you see who he is, you emo? He is—“

“I couldn’t care less about who he is.” The raven-haired girl cuts in, clearly not in the mood for that drama. “He could be Superman or even the president himself, for all I care. My problem is with you three airheads who are interrupting the flow. There are people trying to walk here and the airplane hallway is not a place to flirt with strangers who won’t even remember your face once we take off.”

“What!? Of course he will remember!” She glares. “We are—“

“Annoying the hell out of him? That you are. I mean, just look at his face! He looks like shit!” She points at him, violet eyes now meeting emerald ones. Her though expression suddenly melts into a softer one, her head tilting a bit to the right. “No offense, though.”

“None taken.” He answers, an amused smirk now taking over his face. She nods at him before returning her burning eyes to those three girls.

“Like the rest of us, this man just wants this damn plane to get him where he needs to be so he can move on with his life and get drunk during the holidays. We don’t want to be here. So, without further ado, could please you get the fuck out of the way before I lose my temper? ”

He doesn’t know what happens next or even how a small girl such as herself could be so intimidating, but at her words, he notices his three fangirls flinching. They’re avoiding eye-contact, and for the first time, one of them seems to grow aware of the crowd staring at them. The one standing in the middle starts to tremble, and though they’re looking at him as if searching for some sort of support, Damian can’t bring himself to offer them anything slightly remote to that.

In fact, if he has to pick sides, he wouldn’t need to think twice before taking the brunette’s.

“I-I… I—“

“You what?” She asks, arching an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her chest. Her pose holds no hesitation as she stands her ground. “Do you need me to spell it out for you? “

With a 'tch’, the three girls finally walk away, returning to their respective seats with their heads hanging low, and he can’t help but feel incredibly satisfied by that. There’s a victorious smirk on her face, and it’s safe for him to assume she’s also feeling pretty good about what she just did.

What an interesting woman, he thinks. All that sass and eloquence are certainly eliciting his curiosity, and though he doesn’t want to admit it, he can’t help but feel slightly turned on by this stranger.

Interesting, indeed.

While Damian is still trapped in his thoughts, a round of applause takes over the airplane, as people congratulate the raven-haired girl. They pat her shoulders, thank her for getting rid of those girls, and she even laughs once the old lady behind her tells her they don’t make girls like her anymore. For a quick moment, she becomes the hero they didn’t know they needed, and for sure, this is going to be a pleasant story to tell during Christmas dinner.

They will portray her as the girl who saved their flight.

Damian, however, will portray her as the one who told his fangirls to fuck off.

He really needs to thank her for that. Fortunately, he will have over six hours to do that.

Before the Wayne heir can bring himself to form the words in his head, the girl is placing her small bag in the compartment above their heads. As she lifts her arms, her shirt lifts, momentarily exposing her belly. Even if it was just for a brief second, she catches him staring, and once their eyes meet, he looks away, his cheeks growing slightly warmer.

He sees as she slowly shakes her head before sitting next to him, and though he was not expecting a girl such as her, he’s currently thanking the superior forces for the partner destiny has chosen to be his seat-mate. She’s beautiful, her voice is not annoying, and the best part is that she doesn’t seem to give a crap about who he is.

Maybe he’s finally going mad because of— well— everything, but right now, Damian trulls believes that he might even fall in love with this girl.

A sly smirk takes over his lips, and he can’t help but stare at her for a little too long. She watches as he does so, and as expected, she doesn’t feel embarrassed or inhibited at all. Instead, she stares back, eyes squinting a bit in sheer mockery. A questioning look spreads across her face, and he decides that he should be the one saying something. Anything, really.

“You’re mean.” He states, as if that’s the biggest truth in the world. She tilts her head, but his words don’t seem to affect her.

“So what?” She asks, not really caring about his answer as she fastens her seatbelt. ”If you didn’t like the way I talked to your fan girls, you can go and apologize to them, be their hero or whatever. Though, if you’re really gonna go meet them at the bathroom cabinet, I suggest we switch seats so we don’t bump knees every time you have to go.”

She’s a spirituous one, he notices. And if he’s not careful, he might be the next victim of her graciously rude words. “Nah, don’t worry about it. As you’ve pointed out before, I don’t even remember their faces anymore. Your knees can rest assured.”

“Thanks, I guess?” She lifts her brows, not bothering to spare him another glance as she adjusts her dark clothes. There’s a book resting over her lap— Christmas Carol, for what he can see— and she uses her small fingers to tug a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Yeah…” He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus. “By the way, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I am Damian— “

“Save it. I know who you are, Wayne. I might not be the most updated person in this world, but even Eskimos know your family. Don’t worry, though. I promise I’m not a disguised reporter or an annoying fangirl.”

“Not with that attitude, you’re not. Your clear lack of interest in my personal life can only be matched by only one other person I know.”

“Oh, really?” She asks, her eyes now turning to face him. Now that they’re so close to each other, he can see how bright they really are, and for a moment, he thinks she might even have hypnotic powers because he just can’t look away. There’s a curious tone lingering over her words, and he wants to believe she’s actually paying attention to him this time. “And who would that be, if I may ask?”

“My father.” He answers bluntly, and he notices as she she chokes back a giggle. There’s a soft smile decorating her lips now, and the surrounding atmosphere feels a lot lighter.

“Rachel Roth.” She sticks out her hand to him, and without hesitation, he shakes it carefully. Her hand is soft against his calloused one, and he notices the way she brushes her thumb over his skin. It’s a delicate and pure gesture, so fleeting that makes him wanting more as soon as he releases her from his grip.

“Well, Rachel…” Her name rolls out of his tongue as he tests the sound of it. It has a nice ring to it, he notices. “I think I need to thank you for saving me from a huge headache back then. Seriously, I owe you one.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I didn’t really do it for you, so you don’t need to thank me or anything. I just wanted them to get out of my seat, that’s all.”

“Selfish or not, you still got rid of them, so… thanks. “

“Well, if that’s the case, you’re welcome, Damian.” Rachel nods at him, the same smile still decorating her face. She picks up her book, then, flipping through the pages so she can pick up from where she had left. The way she says his name— so simple and unpretentious— makes his lips curl upwards, and all the bad feelings from before disappear.

This girl— Rachel— she’s showing what a life away from the streets and the business meetings must feel like. The conversation flows easily and effortlessly, to the point where it’s hard to believe they’ve met not even 30 minutes ago. It feels natural in a way very few things in his life do, and though he knows it’s not meant to last, at least he will cherish this moment before it turns into a fading memory in the depths of his mind.

Moments of pure joy shall fade into oblivion, that’s one of the most important rules of his life.

Thankfully, the internet is forever.

An unexpected buzz inside his pants breaks his train of thought. At first, he decides to ignore it, but after the third time, he gives up on the idea. Silently, he scoffs in annoyance, fishing his phone from his pocket. He presses the side button, then, the screen lighting up to reveal a couple of notifications. His eyes, though, land on three particular messages from his family’s group chat:

Grayson: I ship it

Drake : what happened, Damian? Are you okay?? Todd : hot and feisty. The best kind of girl, little bro

His brows furrow in confusion at his brothers’ messages. For what he can conclude, they’re talking about a girl he knows and has interacted with, but that’s pretty much it. The only female human in his mind right now is Rachel, and there’s no way for them to be talking about her. He’s not being followed or bugged, for all he knows— and he knows.

Something strange is happening, and he wants to know what. The youngest Wayne, then, texts them a single ‘?’ and almost immediately, Dick sends him a link to an Instagram page. He’s growing more confused with every additional information, but figures it must be just another one of Grayson’s stupid pranks.

He sighs at the thought. Isn’t he a bit too old for that?

An annoyed pout takes over his lips as a clear sign that he just wants to get this stupid thing over with. Once he taps on the link, though, it takes less than a second for his eyes to widen and his bored expression change into a surprised one. The video playing is muted, but he doesn’t need any volume or subtitles to know what the raven-haired girl in it is saying.

Oh… That angle does make her look nice.

He blinks twice as he allows the whole thing to sink in. Apparently, all of that show earlier was recorded by some cameras and posted all over the internet. There are many posts about it, with all possible captions and comments about them, and he has to admit some are quite creative. Apparently, they’re the new internet hits, not that Damian really cares about it. He’s used to all the lies and overreacted dramas, but if he were to be honest, this one is making him quite intrigued.

Not by the gossip itself, no. That would never happen.

This time, he’s intrigued by how the girl next to him will react as soon as she finds out.

From the corner of his eyes, he watches as she’s calmly reading her book, waiting for the plane to take flight. She’s immersed in Charles Dickens’ words, and it’s like the entire world around her can’t interrupt her. It’s just her and the book, and for she hasn’t touched her phone since her arrival, he’s quite sure she doesn’t know what’s happening in the digital world.

At least, not yet.

He’s definitely going to tell her.

“Uh… Rachel? ”

“Yes, Damian?” She answers, her eyes not bothering to leave the pages of the book.

“Just a quick question… How do you feel about being the center of attentions? “

“I hate it. Why?”

“Well, you might have to reconsider this…” His voice falters and he slowly massages the back of his head.

“Oh, and why would I do that?” She looks at him, at last, her brows now arched. Her expression is blank, and he suddenly wants to laugh because she has no idea of what’s coming.

“Here, check this out. ”

He gives her his phone, a smirk decorating his face. Slowly, he watches the video playing once again on the small screen, all life slowly fading from her pretty face. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and she places her fingers on her left temple. Her cheeks are growing redder than a tomato, and once the video ends, she is completely dumbfounded.

“Wha-what the hell!?“ A couple of seconds pass until she says something, her voice a little too loud, and her eyes filled with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “What’s the meaning of this, Damian!?”

“Well, I think people enjoyed your bossy words from many different angels”” He starts, taking his phone back and scrolling through his time line. His voice sounds too excited for her liking, and it’s easy to tell he’s trying to hold back a laughter. “You went viral, Rachel. ”

“No no no no.” She repeats, slowly shaking her head in denial and taking her own phone in hands. With trembling fingers, she opens her Instagram page and a rush of follows and mentions makes her eyes widen even more. “I can’t believe this is happening. ”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.” Damian tries to calm her down, but the joy in his voice takes all of his credit away.

“Not that bad?!” Her eyes are glaring at him now, cheeks puffed in pure anger. “I got remixed, Damian!”

A sly smile takes over his lips, and he’s]really trying not to laugh in front of her. “And it’s a good remix. Besides, for what I can see, most people are on our side.”

“Our side? I was just trying to reach my seat. There’s no our side, Damian.”

“Well, apparently, there is. Look.” He leans towards her, absentmindedly, until he’s close enough to feel her embarrassment exhaling from her. Their knees are brushing, but neither of them seems to be aware of that closeness right now. He shows her his phone one more time, a couple of comments now displayed. “Some people are even shipping us already. #Damirae.”

A defeated whimper escapes her lungs, and finally, she locks her phone-screen. Apparently, Rachel can’t look at all that anymore, and decides to just sink into the seat. Her hands are covering her face, and her voice is muffled when the next words come out. “Ugh, this is a nightmare.”

“Try looking at the bright side. This video can make you famous. I’m sure the media already loves your sarcasm. “

“If you haven’t noticed, Wayne, I’m a goth.” She spreads her hands across her face so she can look at him through the space between her fingers, and he can’t help but find that utterly adorable. “I don’t do bright side. ”

“God, you’re so dramatic.” He also locks his phone, placing it back inside his pockets. His torso turns around so he can face her properly, that same smirk still planted on his lips. “It’s just a video, relax. Most people will soon forget about it.”

“Some people? And what about the others?” Her voice is lower now, shier, as if she’s really seeking some sort of comfort— not that he’s even trying to offer her any.

“Oh, we will remember this forever, don’t worry.” A dry chuckle escapes his lips, and he notices the way her expression melts in response, tension and nervousness now gone.

Damian is having the time of his life, not only because the video was, indeed, funny; but also because he’s getting to see another side of this interesting girl who’s sitting next to him. Even if she really is bothered by the whole thing right now, eventually, he trusts that she will get over it and realize that no one gives a damn about stuff like that.

It’s just a temporary thing. A funny story for the future.

Rachel will survive it. And he—well…

He’s just found himself an excuse to follow her on Instagram.

“You jerk.” She chuckles, finally placing her hands on her lap and adjusting her posture. She takes a deep breath, then, as if she’s trying to recompose herself, but he notices the way she shrinks a little once she realizes the couple next to them are staring. Her body turns towards his, a sign that she feels somehow safe with him.

And for that, he’s extremely glad.

“That’s a new thing.” Damian states, mockery no longer lacing his voice.

“What is?” The girl questions.

“You’re laughing.”

“So what?”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s just… cute.”

Her cheeks grow red once more and she bites her lips. For a fraction of a second, she turns away from him, but soon, her amethyst eyes are once more looking into his emeralds ones. “Shut up, will you? You’ll need more than that if you want your Damirae fantasy to come true.”

“Oh, so are you saying I have a chance, Rachel?” He teases, knowing very well she didn’t mean it like that. Still, he figures he can’t waste this opportunity. “Are you sure you’re not a disguised fangirl? “

“You wish, Wayne.“ She smirks, offering him a side glance as she picks up her book again. “And I never said that.”

“You didn’t say the other way around, either.”

“Good point.” She nods, acknowledging his words instead of trying to deny them. “I guess you have the entire flight to make sure I keep it that way…”

There’s a flirty tone in her voice, and instantly, the Wayne heir is up for the challenge. Their eyes meet again, and for a moment, he thinks she’s checking him out. They smile at each other, exchanging that you-know-what look, and right now, he doesn’t think this flight will be long enough.

He wants to know more about her. He wants to play this push-and-pull game, and more than anything, he wants her phone number. And Damian Wayne win’t stop until he gets what he wants.

At last, the pilot makes his announcements, and for once, they break eye contact when the flight attendant passes by their seats, closing the compartment above their heads. Seat-belts are fastened, tables are up, and the crew is ready. They’re ready to take off.

fin.

-----

a/n: Well, there are not enough words to describe how much trouble I had with these prompts. I gave up on so many ideas and got so mad at everything that I’m impressed I even managed to write something in the end. Still, I’m glad to have written this one. I had a lot of fun with the dialogues and with every smirk I wrote! Hope you’ve enjoyed it, and please, tell me what you think!

[adhdeancas]

hi! if you still take requests for your transnatural series, could you do kaia, claire, and jack hanging out and kaia uses they/she? maybe jack learns about gender?

sorry it took me so long! I finally got the inspiration bc of LDOV, so here’s what Claire, Kaia, and Jack are doing to celebrate! featuring sickly sweet gays, gender-fuckery, and young dumbassery

Jody had made them promise not to drink. Like they would, with Jack right there. He may look like he’s their age, but that kid is… well, a kid. Claire had antagonized her purposely by pouring all their drinks into old empty bottles of margarita mix and tequila. Kaia reaches across her girlfriend to grab one now, swinging the Cuervo bottle of water toward their picnic setting. Jack and Claire may be cool enough to drink the homemade punch all day long, but Kaia’s teeth are starting to ache. Christ, she’s starting to sound as old as Dean and Sam. 

“Babe, pass me the box over there.” Claire interrupts her thoughts. Kaia blinks and passes said cardboard over to Claire, realizing they don’t actually know what’s in this one. Claire grins, obviously recognizing her confusion. “Surprise, Jack, we’re actually here to celebrate.” 

Jack’s whole face lights up. “Really? What? Is it someone’s birthday?” 

Claire rolls her eyes and Kaia presses a smile into submission. “No, kid, it’s lesbian day of visibility,” she says. She hands Kaia a cupcake from the box then, one of the giant ones they sell at the supermarket, with Claire’s clear personal touch of ‘congrats, you’ve got taste’ written in icing over the top. Kaia lets out a short laugh, and Claire beams. Jack cranes his neck over to see the writing until Claire passes him his own cupcake. It distracts him long enough that Kaia can duck in for a long sweet kiss that leaves Claire blushing. 

“Thanks, Claire. Let me see yours?” 

Claire obediently takes the last cupcake out of the box and sticks a candle in the middle, not quite covering up her message that says ‘congrats, you escaped the evangelicals.’ 

“Impressed that fit on a cupcake,” Kaia teases. Claire waggles her eyebrows. 

“I’m real talented with my fingers.” 

Kaia nudges her with a snort. “What’s a lesbian?” Jack asks abruptly. 

Kaia takes a peak at his own cupcake now as Claire lights it with the bic she keeps in her jacket. His says ‘congrats, your whole family is lesbian.’ “A lesbian,” Claire says studiously, lighting their and her own candle. “Is somebody who likes girls. Women. In a gay way.” She raises her eyebrows at him but he just blinks. “I’m a lesbian. They’re a lesbian.” She nods her head to Kaia. “Jody and Donna? Big ole d-” Kaia coughs loudly. “Lesbians. Sam and Eileen too, totally gay. And Dean and Cas don’t quite count, but they get an honorary title because it took them twelve years to figure out they were totally in love with each other.” 

Kaia shakes her head. “True kid, you’ve only got lesbians. Good for you,” She extends a fist to Jack and he bumps it happily. 

“Now blow out your candle.” Claire commands. They all take looks at each other to get on the same page and then blow them out at once. Well, Claire and Kaia blow theirs out. Jack huffs and puffs on his, but the stubborn thing stays lit. “Come on, Jack, blow it out!” 

Kaia starts laughing when they realize, and they’re leaned all the way back in the grass before Claire leans over to check on them. God, their girlfriend is a bitch, and she loves her so much. “You fucker,” she whispers, pointing at the poor kid. He’s about to turn blue with effort all for a trick candle. 

Claire winks. “That’s okay, Jack, I got you,” she licks her fingers and pinches the flame out, to Jack’s huge fucking amazement. 

“How did you-” 

She shows him her unburned fingers, grins. “I’m a badass.” 

“Do it again!” 

Claire laughs. “Later, dude. We’ve got plenty of flames to practice on tonight.” She sprawls out so her head’s in Kaia’s lap, apparently too good for the ground. 

Kaia sits up to put a hand on her cheek and sends an exaggerated wink to Jack. “Remember, nothing to anybody, but especially not Jody or Cas,” She reminds him. They’d kill them all if they knew she and Claire had brought fireworks with them. But hey, it’s Lesbian Day. They’re allowed. Being gay and committing crimes, and all. Fireworks in an abandoned field? That’s nothing compared to what they do on the regular 9 to 5.

“I remember.” Jack solemnly swears. “But Kaia, I thought-” He stops, eyebrows twisting in confusion. 

“What’s up, Jack?” 

He hesitates again before continuing. “I thought you weren’t a girl. Aren’t lesbians supposed to be girls?” 

Kaia grins. “Hm, kinda.” She looks down at Claire, whose eyes have fluttered shut with Kaia’s soft touches. She doesn’t open her eyes but must feel Kaia’s look, because she chips in.

“It’s more about loving girls in a gay way than being full-blown girl,” she tells him. Her hand seeks out the one of Kaia’s that’s not on her cheek and intertwines their fingers. Kaia’s heart flutters, and they can feel the tips of their ears flush. “Like Sam and Eileen. And Kaia.” 

Kaia nods, thankful for the start of the explanation. “Gender’s complicated. And sexuality. But, uh, it’s more about what you feel. Than the labels or anything,” 

“But being a lesbian’s great.” Claire says emphatically. “I mean, look at her.” She gestures wildly up to Kaia and ends up flopping a hand against her shoulder. “Sorry, babe,” 

“‘S okay,” Kaia assures her. They look up to see Jack looking at them with like the softest eyes she’s ever seen. It makes her blush and look back at Claire, who has the good sense to keep her eyes shut when she’s being sappy.

“I wanna be a lesbian!” 

Kaia grins, full-out this time, at the childlike wonder on his face. “Awesome, dude. Go for it.” 

Claire reaches a blind hand out to do an awkward version of her and Jack’s secret handshake. He complies just as clumsily. “Hell yeah, Jack. It’s in your blood. But, y’know, live your truth or whatever.” 

Kaia pats Claire on the cheek, once, twice, slapping a little harder each time until Claire’s eyes fly open and she tackles her. They tousle on the ground with Jack cheering and switching sides depending on who’s winning in the moment, until Claire rolls over and lets out a harsh gasp. Kaia stops immediately, turning her to look at the damage. “My fucking cupcake!” Claire cackles maniacally and shoves a handful of cake and icing at her face.

It devolves into a full-blown food fight. Kaia manages to eat most of her crushed cupcake through Claire’s repeated attacks with it, but once Jack gets involved, all bets are off. Jack squeezes a bottle of mayonnaise onto Claire’s shirt, and she upends the Tito’s bottle over his head. At one point Kaia gets hit with lunch meat (they make a vulgar joke that only Claire understands) and manages to get Claire in a headlock so Jack can smush the cupcake frosting he’d scraped off all over her face while she swears vengeance. 

They sneak onto the nearest farm to hose each other off, during which Claire very nearly gets her revenge in a water fight until the farmer catches on and runs them off the property. They’re all breathing hard and laughing by the time they get back to their field, and they huddle under a horse blanket from the back of Jody’s truck while they watch their fireworks. It’s a good day.

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 7: Bloody Reunions

Chapter summary: Time to get the Wolf. Alexis conducts interrogations like the badass she is, but sometimes it sucked being that good at her job. (Protective couple... you don’t even have to squint.)

Warnings: Misogynistic POS, emotional detachment, blood and violence, mild graphic detail of torture. (4490 words... i went hAM lol)

28 October 2019, 0630 "Alexis" and "Alex" | Codename Aces CIA with Demon Dogs Rammazan, Urzikstan

   "Place is a freaking morgue."

Judging by the piles of stacked bodies on the medical beds, it was a justified statement. Morgue might be an idoneous word for hospital. The patronising smell of death bypassed her as usual, but not the disturbing scene of unnaturally still bodies.

The handiwork of Roman Barkov.

There was a twisted satisfaction when Alexis shoved another magazine in her M4A1, knowing one of these bullets had Barkov's name mentally carved into it. She couldn't wait to see it lodged between his eyes.

"Check the bodies..." Sergeant Griggs ordered. The Marines and both CIA agents warily slithered along the occupied stretchers and medical beds—hoping none of them was sleeping with a gun.

It was a gut-wrenching sight. Bloodshed and raw injuries everywhere they turned. Not even sure if those alive should be considered lucky.

Suddenly, one of the civilians bolted into a sitting position, making everybody on edge. Frantic shouts and language barrier only escalated the chaos. Not willing to see another dead body, Alexis interjected in mediocre Arabic, calmly demanding the man to lay back down.

"More than a pretty face..." She looked distastefully over her shoulder, the Marine didn't bother wiping the smirk off his face and instead, shamelessly winked. Revolting, but she merely rolled her eyes, though a much younger her wouldn't hesitate to deck his face.

Gender discrimination in the military was a blast. There came a time when a heavy chip weighed down her shoulders—excruciating, yet she thrived under it. Often, some misogynistic meathead would challenge her.

Emotional, weaker, probably a lousy spotter, wouldn't last a week in the jungle.

Eventually, they all ate their words.

Alexis broke through every damn glass ceilings she went: the only female recruit in her company, made Lieutenant, then transferred to JSOC's Task Force Black. Impossible was understating things.

Her unconventional transfer to Task Force Black was a statement in itself. It finally felt like she earned it. Though she loved 88, the CIA was a nice change of scenery, where there were lesser suffocating males with inferiority complex and women were actually appreciated.

Five years later, such remarks were a humourless punchline to her. On the contrary, Alex fantasied how good Demon 1-2 would look with a bruise on his face. In the shape of his rifle stock.

Truthfully, even she considered shoving a middle finger. The weather was hot enough to vaporise her and having a tactical vest strapped against her sweaty body, was not it.

Things changed when another civilian to their 3 o'clock pulled out a gun targeted at the uniforms. While everyone was still busy hollering around, she shot a precise bullet between the hostile's eyes.

With a thud, the man fell off the stretcher.

The female agent scoffed, returning a satirical wink of her own, "Stay frosty, 1-2." He tripped around his words in shock, until Sergeant Griggs forced the gratitude out of him.

Well. If the Universe wanted to send it her way, who was she to reject it, right? She shook her head at the inevitable smirk on Alex, a subtle one hanging on her lips too.

It was a shame that the peace was ephemeral, by this time, several of Sergeant Griggs' men went radio silent. She religiously trailed behind Alex. They pushed further into the hospital, only to be met with a minigun.

"Mini my ass," Alexis laughed nervously as bullets sprayed inches away from tearing her abdominal—because of her ballsy move to switch covers.

"Holy fucking... Okay! Don't give me that look, Alex!"

She thanked the Heavens that Alex's yells were muffled over ricocheting bullets. Several smoke grenades later, Alex sniped the gunman and lo and behold, they finally reached a heavily chained door.

Score, imagery confirmed the Wolf was inside.

It was her job to clear the room while Alex secured the Wolf. Her index finger pressed lightly against the trigger, swallowing the adrenaline that dangerously swirled inside her. Upon Alex's signal, they sneaked in and hid behind messy shelves. The visual of the three missing Marines came into view, with one held hostage with a knife against his throat as the Wolf filmed another propaganda video.

"Check... Five hostiles."

"Affirmative. On my mark," Alex replied. A split second later, he tackled the Wolf from behind. His men's reactions were quick, but her years of muscle discipline was borderline supernatural.

"Clear!" Griggs rushed to untie his men. "You two good?"

Alexis nodded, tightening the zip ties uncomfortably around the Wolf's wrist. She began examining his body language, hopefully finding nibs of his tells to use against him in interrogation later.

Omar Sulaman was strangely calm for a man with a foiled plan. There was slight reluctance in his steps, but still, silence.

"Saint to Watcher, Wolf is in the bag."

Her voice was a stark contrast to the boyish tones that surrounded the room—earning the Wolf's attention, who made the bold decision to turn around abruptly.

"What are you doing here, daughter?"

Alexis felt the entire world's gaze burn into her side profile, equally as confused as the lot. She shrugged and walked away.

Inwardly, the interrogator inside was thrilled. The Wolf was in for a helluva surprise.

━━━━━

28 October 2019, 2100 Sakhra, Urzikstan

The air-conditioned room in the embassy was a godsend, not a word of complaint as the cold air blanketed her. Alexis, Alex, Farah and Hadir patiently waited for Price's arrival.

When Alexis expectingly popped a piece of mint gum, Alex knew. Though it didn't take an expert to discern the ominous aura around her. Alexis hadn't said more than what was necessary in the seven hours since they captured the Wolf, busying herself to study the Wolf.

Alex was smarter than to cut in between. Like Alexis said, she was damn good at her job. Interrogation was one of her most valued expertise, perhaps arguably why the CIA wanted her so badly and the reason why JSOC refused to let her go.

There was a secret to her tactics—compartmentalise. Alexis sat opposite the Wolf, gaze cold as ice. It was a chilling sight even for Alex.

Unscrewing his bottle, Alex greedily rehydrated himself, still observing Alexis. The grittier bite in her tactics was certainly noticeable. He guessed it had something to do with her incident. Having been captured once or twice, that was the closest Alex came to ever understanding her.

Sometimes Alex swore he never got her back.

Physical detachment was a given while she was... compartmentalising, although the rising situation gave him no choice. A shiver ran down his spine as he tapped her shoulders. At the slight arch of her eyebrows, "Bravo's three mikes out."

Alexis blinked slowly in comprehension, not realising Alex's first announcement shot past her. She nodded methodically, the metal chair screeched as she got up. She charged determinedly to an isolated hallway and slipped down against the wall, burying her head in her tucked knees. Despite the rapid intakes of breaths, it didn't suffice.

She loathed every single second in interrogations. Doing the Devil's work, she thought. The irony in this situation was her call sign. For someone called Saint, she didn't know anything else more normal than this.

Saint wasn't a moniker given to her because she was virtuous, innocent or some shit like that. Hilarious to think that, for its darker origin.

Every time she conducted an interrogation, she had to subdue the gag-inducing hypocrisy. How could she, after St. Petersburg?

The reports claimed it was a miracle she survived. Fuck that, what did they know.

That birthday was memorable, to say the least. He had even arranged something special that faithful day—nothing said happy birthday! more than electrocution.

152 days.

"ты прекрасна, ангел... (You are beautiful, angel..)"

"Fuck!" Her eyes shot open, desperate to let the ugly fluorescent light blind the image. Autonomously, her fingers scratched wildly across her arms. After a particularly deep breath, her head fell against the wall and like clockwork, she exhaled all her anxiety.

She was too good at pretending.

It was her desire to stay in solitude longer, but the shrilling embassy siren obviously had other plans. Doubling back, she found Alex at the doorway already looking for her.

"The Butcher and his men are about to breach. We need to leave, now." She peered into the room, barely seeing the tinted glow of the fire outside. Noticing the rising blood clots and angry red streaks on her forearms, Alex clenched his fists to restrain himself from reaching out, knowing she would only flinch. So, he settled for a hard swallow of his saliva, "Follow me."

Price's voice rang in their ears, "Saint and Echo 3-1, primary extraction failed. We're down on the roof."

"Understood. What's the call, Captain?"

"There's a saferoom in the basement. Head there. We'll be right behind you."

When they reached the basement, Alexis basically scrambled to the CCTVs for a sitrep–she had half a thought to join the sweep, eager to rid the hypocrisy from her systems. Eternity later, or in reality, twenty minutes later, their backup arrived.

Price.

The SAS Captain squeezed her upper arm in greeting. Lucky for her, it was where the bullet had previously scraped her. Price clapped Alex's back while glancing at her patched-up injury, "That fast, huh?"

Missed you too, old man, she thought, rolling her eyes as a response. Her coldness confused the Captain, eyes darting to Alex for an answer. He understood when Alex cocked his head at the Wolf.

"Let's move. Clock's ticking."

"You heard her..." Price ordered the Sergeant to direct the Ambassador secretary to safety and the rest headed to the parking lot. While Price and Farah went to retrieve the Ambassador's secretary, the two CIA agents stood guard at the car park entrance.

Under the flashing red coat of the emergency lights, there was no mistaking in the comfort Alex's concerned nod brought her.

It was apparent that Alex was her anchor. But in this state, she couldn't bear to look at him for long, internally disgusted by herself. All these years, she was petrified to ask if he was repulsed by her hypocrisy.

Then, she felt the hesitant touch of a coarse, large hand. She accepted it immediately—much to Alex's surprise. Their fingers intertwined secretly in the dimly lit hallway. Her eyes had long adapted to the darkness, able to witness Alex looking down at her and just like that, a sense of serenity flowed through her.

The unreadable expression on his face was a stranger to her in all their time together. Under the magnetic allure of Alex's gaze and the soothe whirring of his touch, it felt like they were worlds away from a war zone. Until gunshots unforgivingly interrupted.

She immediately retracted her hand.

Afterwards, the group slotted the obtained garage keycard. They fought through waves of Al-Qatala soldiers in low light, courtesy of the lacking streetlights.

The Ambassador's residence was no sanctuary either, as another wave of AQ fighters drew closer. Afraid the rising situation might delay their timeline, Price ordered her to start interrogations immediately. Her heart jumped at the unexpected news, suddenly thrown in the ring.

Hadir and Farah sent nods of encouragement before running out the residence. Price, despite raging at Laswell through the comms, mustered one last small smile for her.

That left Alex, who looked equally worried as her. Wordlessly, he tapped at the base of his neck. She understood instantly, feeling the cool metal of his dog tag against her skin. Obviously they had airtight obligations to not carry personal items, zero accountability and all, but it was Alex. She had corrupted him enough to not give a fuck.

The dog tag was nothing informative, only a simple 'X' carved messily from Alex's kitchen knife. Useless to her enemy, but deadly if it was ever pried from her neck.

It was a matching set. She mysteriously woke up with it after that night with Alex. His way of saying they'd always have a piece of each other.

With one last longing look, that unbeknownst to both of them—burned their insides, Alex left her alone with the Wolf.

━━━━

Her immediate observation? The Wolf was talkative.

It didn't faze her—narcissists simply could not shut up. Past thirty minutes, zero words retaliated and the Wolf was still going on.

Please. She wanted to yawn. Her legs swung restlessly while she sat on a table, undermining whatever authority the Wolf thought he had. The folklores he told in his grandiose sense of self-importance was vexing but valuable.

He hated women in combat. She learnt that when he tried to recruit Farah and even her, just minutes ago. Omar Sulaman thought women were weak.

Exciting.

As he rambled on, she almost failed to suppress a scoff. A woman wielding more power was his stressor, this meathead would be even easier to break.

"You have killer eyes," The Wolf said, tone switched from persuasive to intimidating. He exhausted everything—telling stories of what Barkov's men did to "weak" women, trying to scare her into his protection. Alexis hadn't bothered reacting, which pissed him off.

Victory surged past the fog of irritation inside her. She had conditioned the Wolf by staying quiet, truly a personal achievement. His narcissistic tendencies were itching to get out, evident from how he was desperately reaching for straws.

Alexis reached for her stripped vest and carelessly dug around for a plastic bottle. Popping the lid open, she chucked a mint gum in preparation.

It was time. Clouded by anger, he'd make mistakes that she would catch.

"Somebody hurt you."

She couldn't resist a huff at his eleventh-hour tactics. So the Wolf was now gunning for her emotional side? Fine, she'd bite.

"Don't act like you know me."

"Oh, child... I know more than you think. The look in your eyes, fear..." The Wolf paused, smirking arrogantly even at her mocking smile. "You put a great act, daughter. But I've been around longer than you... seen more."

"I bet... Because what makes a freedom fighter wake up and decide to switch sides?" Alexis circled him in pretence thought, "Money?" Noticing his jaw clenched, she pressed on it. "Power? That's why you made those videos?"

Alexis interrupted at the sounds of his protest, "Surely freedom fighters must not pay well. Maybe you got sick of that and switched?"

"I didn't switch sides! I was always on the right side."

"And what side is that?"

"The winning side," He snapped, "This occupation will never end if we hold sympathy for others."

A narcissist with a saviour complex, laughable. Alexis returned to stand in front of him, the grin ever present on her face. "But you didn't deny my claims—you want money and power."

The Wolf wanted to charge at her but was tied by the restraints, heavy creases in his forehead as he snarled, "No! I am saving Urzikstan!"

"Murdering people is saving them? I know people just like you, hiding behind a cause. After you kill Barkov, you will only start your own regime." Alexis chuckled darkly, "I'm not gonna let you do that. Don't bother holding out, nobody's coming to save you."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" At her strained expression, he continued, "If I die today, I die a hero. You? Your death will be meaningless, a secret." He continued laughing, "You Westerners... Busybodies, you have no business here. The price for that is death–"

He paused, not because of her killer gaze, but as if something in him clicked, "You have no family... That's why you are here." Loud waves of laughter escaped from the man, like he figured it out. And fuck, he did, word for word.

Alexis must have reached Nirvana or gained enlightenment, shocked by her restrain to not blow Omar Sulaman's brains out. She dare not move a muscle, refused to prove him right.

"When my men come, and they will. I will spare you, kill everybody but you. Maybe even make you watch that young man who loves you so much. Then, you shall know fear, child..."

That was it, her trigger point. Blood red. Hot flashes of anger. Picturing Alex's dead body was enough to chuck everything up. The wrathful voice inside her absolutely shattered her restrain, no longer concerned with not letting the Wolf gain an edge.

Alexis bit.

In a flash, she tipped his chair behind and roughly circled a hand around his neck.

"Don't. You think you know fear? You don't know shit until you carve your name on a disgusting brick wall with your bloody fingernails because it was the only way anyone would know what happened to you." Alexis spat, eyes boring at the choking man rendered helpless under her. "So don't fucking talk to me about fear, old man."

When the Wolf thrashed around to breathe, she waited another three seconds before releasing him—the once tipped chair landing wobbly with a sharp shriek. Her sudden outburst gained a new terror visible in the Wolf's eyes. No longer the delicate soldier his sanctimonious mind painted her as.

"Now," She slapped the invisible dust off her hands, tone bouncing scarily fast to normal. "Where is the gas?"

"I... I don't know."

Sighing, she wiped the sweat off her forehead and asked again. Still receiving the same reply, "And I don't believe you. Nothing escapes the Wolf. Someone stole the gas and you knew about it..." Alexis abruptly paused, fingers tapped against her forehead, "No, wait. You made a deal. Help whoever steal the gas and they promise to help you chase the foreign powers out?"

His silence was abundant.

There wasn't a tinge of remorse when her fingertips glided along a screwdriver.

"Since you have been here for much longer... You know this next part." As soon as she wiggled the screwdriver between her fingers, Alexis had him in the bag. The slight twitch under the Wolf's right eye was his tell, fear. Alexis witnessed it when she choked the living hell out of him.

Too damn easy. She should dress a big fat red ribbon across him right now.

"And since you know me so well," She gestured between them, "You definitely know that I'm a big believer in second chances. Right your wrongs, blah blah. I'll give you second chances. Many more, actually, I'm pretty generous... But I'm not sure if you can take it." With that, she ruthlessly stabbed into his left thigh, a devious smile spreading wider with the increased intensity of his screams. The metal tip squelched when she dug around.

"The gas?"

"I... Stop!" The Wolf bellowed in pain when she yanked it out, sprays of blood following. For someone called the Wolf, he had an embarrassing low pain tolerance.

She tilted his chin up, pleased as she surveyed the sweat that broke. "Here's your second chance. Third is when I snap your femoral artery and hang you for all of Urzikstan to see you bleed out. Your legacy will be a joke."

"Y–You can't do that..." He shook his head weakly, eyes blinking in pain. "Everyone will know the Americans are here... You'll be buried with me."

Reducing to eye level, she smiled wholeheartedly, "I'll make sure to dig a grave big enough for us both. Last call... Your third chance is coming," Alexis taunted, nodding towards the electrical screwdriver—witnessing the fear shudder across his body. "Where is the gas?"

She came so close to breaking him, practically seeing the words trying to tumble out of his mouth. Literally a blink later, a truck wildly crashed into their room, crumbling the house's weak foundations. Jerking to a standing position, she instantly reached for her sidearm and fired.

At least five men exited the truck, spraying bullets that forced her to tuck her body behind the slim profile of a cupboard.

They had AKs and she had a handgun, do the math.

She hurriedly pressed her comms, "I lost visual on the Wolf!"

Her instincts wrangled between fight or flight, seeing that she was severely outnumbered and the door was literally on her left. But the morality in her warred on. Suppressed under heavy fire, she still had no visual of the Wolf, but assumed he was freed by now.

She yelped in surprise as a painful tug tossed her out into the open. A burly man wasted no time to attack her. She barely raised her Glock 21 before he swiftly grabbed her wrist and pressed the magazine release button.

He wanted to reach for her Glock's slide lock before she elbowed his jaw, making him stumble backwards but made a quick recovery. He threw her into the metal table and she lost the grip on her gun.

Alexis' back arched painfully across the table, hands scrambling for purchase to rid the tightening hands around her neck. She weakly tried to pry in between his arms, but her lungs burned from the depleting oxygen. Fingers scrambling to poke his eyes and finally mustering enough strength, she sent a cheap blow to his nuts. He hunched over just enough for her to inhale loudly.

Seeing that, the Wolf's man started firing again.

She kneed him in the gut, put him in a chokehold and propped him up as her shield. The man's body jerked in reaction to every bullet he received.

Her ears picked up on the distinct sound of M4A1s approaching closer to her location. The Wolf motioned to leave, dust spluttering her way as their truck wildly reversed, with the Wolf grinning victoriously in the passenger seat.

"We will meet again, daughter! And your lovely man."

He left her alive. Like he said he would.

Miraculously still breathing, the man in her grasps used this distraction to tug on her legs. Seconds later, she felt a splitting pain in her head.

She was on the ground when she reopened her eyes, hazily feeling a wet sensation drip down her temples. The pain mirrored a wave, boggling inside her. Black spots started to consume the edges of her sight.

No no no.

From her blurry vision, she managed to squint out something glimmering in her 12 o'clock—she assumed a knife or her god damn screwdriver coming back to bite her ass.

Not like this.

The shuffles of dragged footsteps echoed in her brain, almost a warning from her body. She blindly saw the shift in light source, presuming he was walking towards her.

Incoherent words tumbled out, forcing herself to speak so she wouldn't pass out. Shaking, she pushed her upper body off the floor and stretched for her fallen sidearm...

That one bullet in the Glock's chambers was still waiting.

More blood flowed messily down her head, further impairing what was left of her vision.

Muscle memory dictated the rest—the grainy grip of her Glock, index finger looped around the trigger.

Alexis prayed when she fired.

At the assuring sound of a body collapsing, so did Alexis.

━━━━━

Price was the one to spot her.

"Clear!" He burst open the door, finding a jarring hole in the walls and an unconscious Alexis laying beside a dead man.

"Shit," Kyle said from beside him. "Is she breathing?"

Price shouted for Alex and the man instantly appeared beside him. Careful not to move her unnecessarily, two shaky fingers checked Alexis' pulse, Price felt his heart threatened to burst out.

"She's alive."

No one heaved louder than Alex. They examined her injuries, a large gash splashed across her right temple that hopefully a few stitches would solve. But her unconsciousness was troubling.

"How long has it been?"

"More than a minute..."

"Fuck, we need to do something!" Alex yelled frantically. Please, please, please wake up. Her chances of a brain injury increased by the seconds. Fuck! He should have stayed with her, why didn't he stay?

His hands gently cupped the sides of her face, feeling an onslaught of tears starting to form amidst the rising stuffiness in his nose. As his light-blue jeans was tinted a carmine red, he decided this was his fault.

Alex jerked at the mention of his name.

"Let me clean her injuries..." Farah coaxed, a cloth that reeked of disinfectant in her hands. Alex reluctantly shifted, kneeling beside her laying body and watched Farah dab carefully, venomously demanding her to exact more care.

"Alex," A powerful grip tugged on his vest, lifting him to his feet to meet John Price. "Ease off. Let Farah and Hadir do the work."

"Captain..."

"She will be fine, trust me." Price chuckled to himself, "Unbelievable. That woman is still an excellent shot." He whistled lowly, staring at the man with a fatal shot to his heart.

Price said with a knowing look, "Clear your head, son."

"Yes sir," Alex exhaled, going to retrieve her fallen comms set on the floor.

Seconds later, Farah yelled for them. The two men doubled back, finding Farah holding Alexis down from wiggling about. Alex heard a groggy mumble of his name.

"Alex..." Alexis repeated, head rolling around despite the yells of protest. "Where..."

"Here! Here! I'm right here. You need to stop moving, baby." Alex skidded to her side and held her outreached hands. His eyes raking over her as if he had the superpower to mentally check her wellbeing.

A weak grin formed at the realisation that he was alive, breathing and right before her. "The Wolf... He... The escaped... He... car... men."

"Shhh, we'll get him," Hadir tried to pacify her while handing Farah a clean cloth.

Ten minutes passed before she started making sense and was fully conscious. Though the pounding in her head was enough to last a lifetime. Her eyes averted to the dead man.

Jesus, the pain...

"Alexis." Price sternly warned.

"Get me up... I'm fine... Don't be a pussy."

Carefully positioning her to sit up, she weakly laid against Alex's chest. The man could care less when her blood seeped into his shirt—evident as he steadied her head against his own, refusing to let her move it wildly.

Staring at her bewildered teammates, she hazily slurred: "Well. Don't all of you look like shit."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓

a/n: i really went with the "i'm injured and my lover finds me and cradles me in my blood" trope and y'know what. y'all are welcome ;) btw sry for the late update... i edited this chapter 17 times lol i was so insecure about it. thanks for waiting lovers!

taglist: @flyboidameron​​ @wanderlustgiant​​ (wanna be tagged? lmk!)

[bigsnzstanacct]

Hayfever Story (sneezing + nose blowing)

I... don’t know what you all will think of this one. This is part one of two, though I’m not entirely certain how part two should go. This one is mostly setup but there’s plenty of sneezing at the top. Honestly it is almost all sneeze talk or description. The sneezer is described as male, but the narrator’s gender is left ambiguous: imagine whatever excites you the most.

This is unedited, obviously, but I may go through and take another pass at it at some point.

—-

I could hear him down the block.

“AAAHHHHCCHHH-HHOOOOOOO!!” The bellow was dimmed somewhat by distance and the walls between us, but I still heard it, clear as day. He’d be winding up for another one now, frozen in place, captive to his big, protruding proboscis. The handkerchief clutched in two hands, spread wide as his head tipped back and back and back until his shoulder got into it, his wide nostrils flaring absurdly as he gasped... and gasped... and gasped... until...

“EEEEEEAAAYYYYYATTCCHHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Even louder this time! He would have delivered it right into the handkerchief, so that he could transition, seamlessly, fluidly, almost... professionally into the window rattling roar of his great lawnmower honk of a nose blow, sonorous as a trombone, surely so because of the unusual architecture of his cavernous nostrils, which provided plenty of room for the great crashing blow to echo and resound and build in noise. The first great two-nostril honk taken care of, he’d press one nostril shut and blow his trumpet blast out the other, then switch sides, in a sort of aftershock to the first great blow. I could barely even hear them through the walls. But I knew after that would come the last big blow. First, an enormous lung-swelling long smooth inward gasp of air, his shoulders rising, rib cage expanding to let in more and more and more air. Then, a silent moment of preparation, practically like a prayer, his eyes scrunching shut, face flying into the waiting hankie and then...

The real foghorn, a nasal blast that dwarfed his sneeze in volume. His “big blows” as we called them existed less to expel moisture or whatever else might be lurking in his nasal passages, and more to cleanse the terrible itch with the sheer sound of it, as though by making his whole sinuses vibrate with the sonorous force of the blow, he could chase that twinging tickle into every nook and cranny of his nose, and in doing so scratch the itch into submission.

He’d be walking again now. Would there be another sneeze before he arrived at the door, would he in fact reach the door even as the ragweed and grass pollen and all the terrible floral irritations of spring reignited that desperate desire in him, left the poor exhausted man with no choice but to unleash another:

“HEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHSSHHH-OOOOOOOOO!!!” This was an angry sneeze. The sneeze of a man exhausted by his nose and a nose exhausted by the itch. It was the sort of sneeze he released only when he at last forgot about the noise and disruption his nose could cause—did cause, all throughout hayfever season—and could think only of finally relieving the terrible itch. I swung the door open, and was greeted by the sight, no longer in my imagination but in the flesh, of his reddened, dripping nose, his tired, sagging eyes—oh it was so obvious he was in the grips of an absolutely miserable allergy attack, and I could only reach out to him, press him into a tight embrace, even as, over my shoulder, he spread it out—oh, not a handkerchief at all, but one of those big red bandanas he used when his poor nose wore him out, when even his hankies seemed too small and too fragile to stand up to the ferocity of his allergic response. I barely noticed before he crushed his nose into his hand and, uncontrollably, right next to my ear blasted out a honk that I swear nearly made my go deaf.

Of course, if that were going to happen, it would have long since happened by now.

“Oh hodey...” he said, sniffing, as he straightened up. “Hodey I’b so sorry bud by dose...”

“Shhh, shhh,” I cooed at him, guiding him into the living room and down onto the sofa. “It’s fine, darling, I understand. Your hayfever...”

“Id’s terrible!” He announced, as though every centimeter of his face was not making the announcement for him, from the downturn of his lips to his constantly working, practically buzzing nose. “Wud sec godda blow...”

He said this with banal literalness—he was going to blow his nose. And yet I couldn’t help but think that “gonna blow” seemed accurate for any and everything pertaining to his nose, which resembled nothing so much as his personal Vesuvius, a volcano always on the edge of an eruption.

He held forth with a blow that put the others to shame, or perhaps that was just me being able to appreciate it properly now, neither muffled by walls nor so all-consumingly close that its relative volume was masked. De-stuffed a bit by the blow, he continued: “I had to sneeze so badly all day, darling, you wouldn’t believe it. I hate hayfever!” He said it with conviction, so much so that I couldn’t help but hate it too, even if his hayfever, this particular specimen, also thrilled me. “I don’t know how I got any work done, always having to duck into the bathroom to... t-tuhhh... huuuhhh.... HUUUUUHHHH... HUUUUUAAAAASSSHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!”

“To do that?”

“Mm.” He replied, congested again. Our flow of conversation ebbed for the moment, making way for his great trumpeting blows, always the same pattern: a great two nostril honk, a series of cleansing blows of each nostril individually, alternately, and then a final great tickle-chasing honk. Although this time even that pattern didn’t seem to be enough. “Cad you ged me adother h-hadker... hadker... hehhHH... AAAASSSSHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!”

He didn’t have to tell me twice, though as I heard the thumping on our ceiling from our neighbor above, already fed up with his nasal exuberance, I couldn’t help but hope, for the sake of peace in our little block of apartments if nothing else, that the next cleansing blow managed to clear out some of that infernal pollen and ease his allergies some.

Although, as he heard him snuffling and sniffing, surely hunting for any dry spot left on the great bandana, I didn’t hold out much hope.

—

He’d really had a terrible hayfever day, though it did calm at least somewhat after he’d been home for a while, with our humidifier and air filters all around. He explained that he’d had to sneeze all day at work, constantly ducking into the toilets to let one loose, fighting not to blast one of his rather disruptive and distinctive sneezes in the open office. He’d sworn he wouldn’t be known primarily by his nose, not at this workplace, unlike many of his others. Even then, he hadn’t felt like he could blow his nose, not fully, not properly, even in the toilets. On the bus home, he’d fought not to explode but his hayfever was just unbearable and before he knew it he was belting out sneeze after sneeze, so loud in the enclosed space he was afraid he’d startle the driver or something. The other passengers glaring daggers at him didn’t help. So he’d walked a good deal of the way home, which only succeeded in allowing his big nose to suck up even more allergens, to drive him even crazier with the urge to blow them all out.

By that evening, his nose had largely calmed down, its outbursts coming once or twice an hour rather than every few minutes. I gave him the tea that always helped, wiped his face with a warm cloth, did my best to soothe the allergic beast inside him, the little demon of nasal irritation that took up residence in his nose—a spacious abode—that tormented him and took over him body til his whole body used all its force to exorcize the demon in a blasting sneeze or trumpeting blow. There was something nice about it, the feeling that it was we two in a battle against his hayfever. Sure, it was him on the front lines, cajoling and managing and denying and satiating his itchy nose and its allergic demands. But I was there too, supporting and assisting and fetching bandanas and grabbing things out of his hands when a sudden blinding urge to sneeze robbed him of every other thought. I liked helping him in that way. It was plain to see those great galumphing sneezes took it out of the poor man. And though he always seemed pleased, satisfied after a good strong session of blowing, that too must have required energy. He’d tried to teach me on more than one occasion, when I caught bad colds, how to blow my nose as thoroughly and authoritatively as he did. I’d gotten quite a bit better—no longer the sniffer and snuffler I was when we met—but still, I could never quite manage the sheer ferocity of his nose blowing, let alone the power, let alone the volume. He was in another category for that.

Of course, that presented its problems. And there was another area in which I could help, in which it was I instead of him on the front lines of battle: the neighbors.

Now we’d been lucky enough to escape complaints in many if not most of the places we lived, though surely his nasal exertions were audible through the walls. And to his credit, most of the year, with the exception of lazy afternoons where gave his nose free reign and let his great bellowing sneezes rip as they pleased, he kept his nose to.... well not quite a polite acceptable volume, but at least a dull roar during quieter hours. But this was our second hayfever season in this apartment. And when hayfever season strikes that nose of his, all bets are off. I thought we’d come to blows with at least two of our neighbors by the end of the season, but although we narrowly avoided that, we did have to speak to the apartment management about noise complaints. They couldn’t, of course, kick us out of our apartment over hayfever. But to keep the peace, we agreed to try our very best to keep the noise down late at night, even during hayfever season. His nose had free reign until ten pm. It would be cruel to expect anything else. But his hayfever was too severe to let him sleep sometimes. I’d been awakened, more times than I could count, with a great bellowing sneeze, a desperate, whispered apology and then a trumpeting nose blow. Half-asleep, it never occurred to him to tamp down the violence... all he could think of was chasing away the terrible itch.

So, in those moments where he awoke at night, itchy and sneezy and desperate, it fell to me. Then I took the front lines in the battle against his allergies, or at least the battle to avoid coming to blows with Mr and Mrs Cadwallader upstairs.

I suspected, from the moment I heard him coming down the way to our apartment, that tonight would end up being just such a night. So I’d taken the bandana he normally hid under his pillow and hid it under mine. If he were about to sneeze, even in half-asleep stupor, he’d reach for that, and so it was that I was awakened at 2am, not by his nose, but by his mouth:

“—Quickly!! I n-need to snehhh... sneeze!”

[mcuamerica]

Multiverse of Love (One)

Summary: A world in which soulmates are each other on other earths, Peter just happens to meet his while fighting crime.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Far From Home spoilers, Endgame spoilers, some swearing, mentions of violence, a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff

Words: 2410

A/N: In this fic, Petra is the girl version Peter Parker (but doesn’t look like the Peter Parker we know because I don’t want to exclude anyone). So, just imagine yourself as Spider-Girl in this fic as well as yourself. If you want to be added to the taglist for this series, click here.

(gif credit here)

*454-Saturday*

She was fighting her villain. It was normal, Green Goblin chasing after her to achieve something that she never would. She would stop her before that could happen. And then, she ended up in her apartment. For a minute she thought that it was just because she was swinging her usual way home and her muscle memory swung her home. Then, she looked around the room and saw that the poster on the wall that said Isaac Newton rather than Isabella Newton. 

She stopped and looked around, confused as to why someone would switch out her favorite poster. “Uncle Mark?” She called out, looking around to see her Iron Spider Suit in the corner by the door. At least that didn’t change. She looked out the window and couldn’t see Green Goblin anywhere. She shut the window slowly and looked into her closet, all of the clothes looking a little bit bigger than usual. 

*616-Saturday*

She jumped when she heard a bang come from the window, surprised that her Spidey Sense didn’t warn her. Her eyes widened and she saw another person in a Spider-Girl suit slide the window up. “Woah! Stop, you can’t come in here.” She said, shooting a web so the person couldn’t get in. 

“Hey! What are you doing in my apartment- I mean- not my apartment- what are you doing here? Peter- Peter isn’t Spider-Man.” The person said, making the girl laugh. 

“You mean Spider-Girl? I don’t care about Peter, I just care that you’re trying to get into my apartment. This little fan-boy thing isn’t going to work. I’m not opening up my window.” She said, crossing her arms. 

“Spider… Spider-Girl? That’s not a thing.” He said and shook his head. The girl narrowed her eyes, walking over to the window. She opened it and then shut it, looking at the boy dressed in a suit very similar to her own. 

“You think I’m going to be tricked into taking off my mask, you’re wrong.” She said, placing her hands on her hips. “So don’t dressing up like this, it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? I know it’s dangerous, I’m Spider-Man!” The boy said, gesturing towards his suit. 

The girl scoffed, “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been… I don’t know.. Stalking me? I gotta say though, it’s a good costume. You got the eyes and everything, is that Stark Tech?” She asked, 

“Don’t- Don’t mention him.” He said, shaking his head. “You don’t know the first thing about Tony Stark.” 

“Oh, you don’t think I knew her? She was my-” She stopped, furrowing her eyebrows. “Did you say him?” She asked. 

“Yeah- Tony Stark. He’s a- He was a hero. And you don’t even know how much he meant to me.” 

“Toni Stark is a woman.” The female superhero said, shaking her head. “She was a hero, I- I watched her die in front of me. So if this is some sort of a sick joke…”

“You’re telling me that Tony Stark was a woman? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He muttered, shaking his head. “You’re a girl… and you’re dressed as Spider-Man-”

“Spider-Girl,” She corrected. 

“And you think that Tony was a girl… You’re… No… No, the multiverse isn’t real.” He said, shaking his head. 

“You’re right. Mysteria said that she was from another earth, but she lied. It was all fake.” The girl said, mirroring the boy. The two superheroes realized what was happening at practically the same time. 

“You’re on my earth.” They said together, stepping away from each other. 

“No, no you’re on my earth. See? That poster in there says Issac Newton, and- and on this earth, Tony Stark was a man. And it wasn’t Mysteria, it was Mysterio.” He said. He slowly opened the window, pulling the girl in and shutting his blinds. “And I’m Peter Parker… I am Spider-Man.” He said, pulling off his mask. “And you’re…” 

“I’m Petra Parker.” The girl said, pulling off her own mask. “And I’m Spider-Girl.” She said, looking around the room. “This isn’t possible, the last time someone told me they were from a different earth I almost died. I trusted her, and I gave her the one thing Toni left for me and she used it to hurt hundreds of people. On top of that, she made the entire world-” 

“Think that you were Spider-Man… Putting all of your friends and family in danger.” Peter finished, eyes looking towards the floor. Petra looked at him and nodded, looking around the room again. 

“How- how did I even get here? I was being chased by Goblin and I landed here. In my… In your room. That doesn’t make sense.” She said, shaking her head. 

“Well, it may have something to do with the portals Fisk has been opening,” Peter said, throwing his mask on his bed. “But I haven’t been able to figure out how to stop it. It needs some sort of algorithm, but I can’t figure it out. And if he opens more portals, he’s going to bring more people from other worlds here. I thought they were just portals to different parts of space, but I guess I was really off.” He muttered, messing up his hair. “You don’t exactly look like the girl-version of me... I don’t get how you are me from a different earth.” He said, narrowing his eyes. 

“Well, I don’t get how I’m on another earth… If my body weren’t in its own universe wouldn’t it start to--” She crumbled to the ground, Peter immediately going towards her. “--react,” she muttered as she sat up with Peter’s help. “That answers that… So I’m on your earth, the question is how do I get back to my own?” She asked. 

“Well, Fisk’s building is the headquarters for the anomalies, so if we get you there we can get you back and then I can close the portals,” Peter said, glancing at her before looking back at his laptop. “But I could use some help with this algorithm first.” He said, grabbing his laptop to set in his lap. 

“Well now that you know it’s opening portals to other universes rather than space, you should be able to…”

Peter and Petra went on, pausing for a moment here and there to speak to each other about what having a multiverse means, then continued on to finish the algorithm. They worked twice as fast as they usually did alone, considering they had the same mind and worked off of each other well. 

“Well, seems like this will work now,” Peter said, pulling the flash drive out of his laptop. “I guess we need to head over to Fisk’s building then.” He said, standing up and grabbing what he thought was his mask. As soon as he put it on, he realized it didn’t fit and handed it to Petra. “This is uh.. This is yours.” He laughed awkwardly, grabbing his actual mask and slipping it on his head. “So, tell me about the Green Goblin. Was he… she trying to tear you apart?” He asked, hopping out onto the fire espace. 

“Yeah, she was making this serum and I couldn’t let her do that, so I took it and dropped the only sample she had off the Empire State,” Petra explained as she latched her web onto a building, pulling back on it and swinging towards it. Peter followed her before leading her towards the building, even though she knew where it was she let him lead the way.  

“Jeez, I didn’t think someone could get greedier than Wilma Fisk… Guess the male version of her likes to flaunt himself.” Petra said, swinging down to the building across from Fisk Tower.

“I thought everything was the same about our universes besides the gender?” Peter asked, looking up at the building.

“If that were true, we would look the same, Spidey. We don’t.” She said, looking around. “You know as well as I do, multiverses are, in theory, parallel universes with slight differences. You get enough differences, a whole other universe emerges.” Peter looked at her for a moment, processing what she had said. 

“I guess you’re right,” he told her, standing up. “Come on, the lab is on the 45th floor. We can enter from the window since they keep it open for ‘air’.” He shook his head. Petra knew the eye-roll that Peter gave as he quoted the last word because she did the same thing.

“Well, that sounds like something that gives us an easy way in, but sure.” She pointed out, glancing between Peter and the open window. “Fisk didn’t put in anti-Spidey windows yet?” She asked. 

“Wha- What are anti-Spidey windows?” Peter questioned, looking back at Petra. 

“Wilma put them in, my webs don’t stick to the windows anymore. And I even tried to consult Hulk on it, she couldn’t figure it out either.” Petra shook her head as she shrugged. “But if you don’t know about them, Fisk either just put them in or he is just an idiot...” 

“Probably both.” They said at the same time, stepping away from each other after. They had only known each other for a little over an hour but when things like this happened, it freaked both of them out. “That’s weird,” Peter said, Petra silently agreeing with him.  

“Come on, why don’t we try the top and go through the vents. The window seems suspicious to me.” She said, slinging a web to the top of the building. 

“Spidey-Sense?” He asked, following her lead with his web. They both landed on the building and climbed the extra feet. Petra stood up and walked over to the ventilation shaft, shaking her head. 

“Don’t really have it too often, only when a bullet is about to hit me…” She said, nudging her head in the direction so Peter would follow. “Come on, my atoms don’t have all day.” She jumped into the shaft and stuck onto the side, slowing crawling down. 

“One time he thought it would be funny to see me suffocate and he-”

“Put pure oxygen through the vents because she knew you were in them and then watched as you clawed for air? Yeah… It-”

“Sucked… but it’s nice to have someone who gets it.” Peter finished. “Sometimes I just wish life could be simple.” 

“You’re Spider-Man... Life is never gonna be simple.” Petra said, shaking her head. “This is getting too serious. We’re over the lab anyway.” She said, leaning over the open vent. “You got the drive?” 

“Yeah, it’s right here.” Peter said and held it up. “I’ll go in while you create the distraction? Then try to get into that portal as soon as you see it open up.” He said, putting the flash drive back into the compartment he had it in earlier. 

“Peter… thanks.” Petra said, looking at him. “I really don’t know how I would’ve gotten back if it wasn’t for you,” She said and smiled gently. 

Peter nodded, saying a quick goodbye as Petra hopped down and made the guards turn her way. Peter crawled down to the ceiling and then the floor, spinning in the chair until he got to the USB port. He put it in and then heard someone shout out “Hey!” towards him. 

“Hay is for horses, and I am a Spider.” Peter quipped and shot a web towards the guard. He typed something in quickly. “Petra now!” He called out, seeing the portal opening and then seeing her swing into it. He closed it quickly with a click of the space bar, hoping that she made it back to her own world. 

“Spidey, where’d your friend go?” One of the guards asked. 

“She had to swing out of here. Maybe next time close your windows.” Peter said and shot a web towards him. Peter stuck a web to the building on the opposite side of the street and swung out of the window, waiting to see if the portals stopped opening. Once he noticed Kingpin get upset from his office, he swung away towards his apartment. 

*616-Monday*

Finding out there actually was a multiverse made physics a different class for Peter. He had to ask his teacher about it again, even though he had done a lot of research on it and even asked Bruce about it. He said it was possible, then went off on a tangent about time travel and how that could affect or even create multiverses. At that point, as interesting as it was, Peter stopped listening because he didn’t want to take in all that information at once.

And the fact that Peter knew someone from another multiverse made it even better. But it also made the situation even weirder when he saw her. 

She was sitting at a lunch table, writing something down in a notebook. He recognized the hair, but this time it was longer than he remembered. He thought he would’ve known to be more low-key about it, but he was pretty much the opposite. 

“Petra, hey, what are you-” He started as he walked around the table. He stopped once he saw her face. She was either pretending not to know him, or she really didn’t know him. 

“I’m not Petra, sorry.” She said to Peter, locking eyes with him. She motioned for Peter to sit across from her. “If you want.” 

“Oh, uh… Sorry, you just looked like someone I knew.” He said, not sitting down. “Are you new… here?” He asked, glancing around. He would have recognized her before if she was here, and he definitely would’ve recognized Petra as her if she attended his school. 

“Yeah uh… Today is my first day, I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.” She said, watching the boy stand awkwardly in front of her. “Do you want to sit down? Or are you gonna stand there all day?” She asked. 

“Uh, yeah... Actually, I’ve got a spot with my friends.” He said and gestured over to Ned and MJ, who were in their own conversation. “You can join us if you want. Not that I don’t think you don’t have any friends-- it’s just that you’re sitting here alone and..” 

“I’d love to.” She said, already standing up and grabbing her book. She walked over to the table with him. 

“By the way, what’s your name?” He asked, looking down at the girl.  

“(Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

***

teaser - part two - part three

[crimsonlocks]

`  ♡.  𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 ►  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓.

TAGGED BY:  @starvedwclf​ again, just doing for Laurence this time ^^ TAGGING:  Everyone who thinks Laurence is cute should do this.

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

FULL NAME:  Laurence NICKNAME(s): Yeah, no GENDER:  Male HEIGHT:  170 cm AGE:  I normally write him as around 32 years old ZODIAC:  Gemini SPOKEN LANGUAGES:  English, german, a little bit of french

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋.

HAIR COLOR:  It is an auburn tone, but people kept calling him the kid with the red hair back at Byrgenwerth. He wasn’t getting tired of correcting them that it is auburn, not red. EYE COLOR:  Blue. SKIN TONE:  Quite pale. Comes from him having anemia. It got a bit more healthy once he started the blood ministration but still pale. BODY TYPE:  Scrawny and skinny. He is underweight. VOICE: Daniel Fine. DOMINANT HAND:  Leff handed. POSTURE:  Dominant when posing as the Vicar, otherwise laid back. He can slouch back in a chair marvelously . SCARS:  Thanks to the blood ministration he barely has any scars, only a few from accidents from his time at Byrgenwerth. TATTOOS:  None. BIRTHMARKS:  None. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S):  Most people tend to notice his cat like eyes the most, the way they are sloped gives him a very animalistic look.

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃.

PLACE OF BIRTH:  Yharnam. HOMETOWN:  Yharnam, Byrgenwerth SIBLINGS:  None. PARENTS:  Two doctors who studied at Byrgenwerth and opened up a little clinic in Yharnam. They both died at a deadly disease when Laurence was 12 years old.

𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓  𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄.

OCCUPATION:   First Vicar of the Healing Church CURRENT RESIDENCE:  The great cathedral of the Healing Church in Cathedral Ward, Yharnam CLOSE FRIENDS:  Used to be Maria, Micolash, Gehrman, Caryll. Now only Ludwig and his secretary Florence remain. RELATIONSHIP STATUS:  In a relationship with Ludwig. FINANCIAL STATUS:  The Healing Church runs entirely on donations (they give out the blood for free), so he is making sure to live modestly. He also prefers to get the money into making the church look more nice. He still doesn’t know just why he lined the stairs to the great cathedral with Amydgala figurines. DRIVER’S LICENSE:  Modern Laurence can’t get a driver’s licence because of a sickness where he faints randomly. CRIMINAL RECORD:  Um, let’s see... Researching dubious blood from a tomb, stealing said dubious blood from a great one corpse while turning a blind eye to the slaughter around him, burning down Old Yharnam, experimenting on everyone with the beastly scourge and every voluntary with the goal to make them ascend, genociding Cainhurst oh and turning the whole freaking town of Yharnam into beasts! VICES: Hates Cainhurst with passion, solves problems with fire, drinks too much, gets on blood and sedative highs and then makes dumb decisions, doesn’t heed any warnings, realized far too late how much he fucked up.

𝐒𝐄𝐗 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION:  Bisexual. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE:  Submissive  /  Dominant  /  Switch. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE:  Submissive  /  Dominant  /  Switch. LIBIDO:  Laurence likes to have sex regularly, daily would be best, so quite high. TURN ON’S:  When his hair gets stroked he completely relaxes and when his body gets touched then he feels it twice as intense. He also really likes it when something is into him, so he prefers to be submissive. When with woman her touch with soft hands is a major turnon. TURN OFF’S:  Vilebloods obviously. LOVE LANGUAGE:  When he starts rambling and explaining his favourite subjects, offers snacks, hangs around the other one and climbs on their lap or introduces the cats. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES:  Laurence only had two relationships so far and the first one was pretty messy because he said yes to it without listening and so it broke down soon. With Ludwig he didn’t really realize it was love first, but when he realized he had a minor breakdown about it. He still doesn’t really know why this great man loves him or how he ever deserved him.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒.

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG:  He has a theme song in game HOBBIES TO PASS TIME: Playing with cats, feeding stray cats, doing sudoku or crosswords, reading, writing poetry, experimenting. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED:  Left. PHOBIAS:  The Amydgala. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL:  High. Laurence thinks he is absolutely right with everything and no one should doubt him. He tested that! VULNERABILITIES: Proving him wrong can make him break down really hard. Also the Amydgala. And despite having such a high confidence, he is actually weak and can’t win a fight.

[ailuronymy]

Guest Warriors-ify: 10%+ (Nature of Nature's Art)

Warning: spoilers for the main comic but also for the Addendum, which is print-only and not available to read online. 

Rule - Lilac tom with long, fuzzy fur. Still powerful despite his advancing age. A highly respected and decorated senior warrior who has mentored several apprentices in his long life. Aggressive and cruel, his mentorship consists of “tough love” and perfectionism. 

For unknown reasons, he’s has always had a powerful connection with StarClan and, through patience and perseverance over many moons, can train himself to perform supernatural acts. 

He grew up in a time where rogues were despised but the clan has since become, by his standards, much more relaxed about them being on the territory as long as they aren’t hurting anyone. In retaliation, he painstakingly over several years developed his most powerful ability yet: the ability to remove one’s soul from their body without doing any damage. This leaves behind a hollow, walking husk of a cat, whose heart still beats despite it being an empty shell. He calls this process “vacating,” and the bodies “vacated.” 

He makes plans to not only kill the rogues, but repurpose their empty bodies to serve the clan by training them to hunt/fight, and has recruited his best friend to help. He lures the rogues in by way of charming them, describing the community and security a clan offers, and then telling them they can join if they just hold still let him do this one painless little thing. His most recent capture is a mother, who he has already vacated, and her kits, who he’s waiting to open their eyes first. (name: Ashfang) 

Meander - Unusually tall, pale ginger classic tabby shorthair tom. A half-clan cat who never knew his father because he was a rogue, and who looks up to his mentor, Ashfang, as a father instead. Believes in being kind to everyone and taking failures in as much stride as his low self-esteem can manage. He has a powerful sense of justice and can’t stand to see others be bullied or harmed. Unfortunately, he’s well into adulthood but still an apprentice due to his inability to pay attention and retain what he’s learnt. 

Desperate to finally become a warrior and stop disappointing Ashfang, he slowly invents a meditation technique that greatly improves his attention and even gives him superhuman (supercat??) multitasking abilities - at the cost of burning up his braincells when he uses it. 

Despite knowing the danger, when he finds out his mentor and mentor’s friend are doing inhumane things to rogues, he uses his meditation technique to fight Ashfang with the intent of subduing and dragging him into camp for the leader to punish him. 

Unfortunately, right when he has Ashfang pinned, Ashfang vacates him, rendering him a walking corpse. And then the battered, weakened Ashfang drowns himself to falsely accuse the corpse of his murder. 

The ensuing trial changes clan law to make killing rogues officially illegal, as well as gives the whole clan an existential crisis about the nature of souls. (name: Flamepaw) 

Polarizing - Chocolate burmese shorthair tom, short and stout. An ex-medicine cat who switched to the life of a warrior after a fatal injury took his mother’s life. Not much younger than Ashfang and considered him his hero when he was young, now his closest companion. 

Ashfang confided his plans for the rogues to him, in need of someone who understood physiology well and could train things that don’t have thought. He took up Ashfang’s offer in an instant, thinking him a genius, and became his right hand. Despite the fact that killing non-clan cats who’re on their territory isn’t technically illegal, due to the disturbing nature of HOW they’re killing them and what they’re doing with the bodies, they agree to keep it a secret until the bodies are well-trained and can prove their usefulness. 

Despite his hatred of rogues and wholehearted belief in Ashfang’s superiority, when the trial happens, he is overcome with subconscious guilt and suffers a non-fatal heart attack as a result, which greatly harms his case. Since what he did wasn’t technically illegal yet, he’s not exiled, but is punished by way of being banned from mentorship. (name: Volepelt) 

Quintet - Dilute calico shorthair molly. She’s sharp-witted, tactical, ambitious, short-fused, and an excellent fighter. Flamepaw’s best friend and Volepelt’s apprentice (though tantalizingly on the cusp of warriorhood). She’s driven by an obsession with becoming leader spurned on by her strict family’s high expectations and conditional love, and plagued by survivor’s guilt from being the only kit not-stillborn from her litter; she claims to be able to speak to her littermates’ ghosts but it’s just a coping mechanism. 

Despite her obsession with staying on the straight-and-narrow to become leader and her belief that rogues are none of their business, when Flamepaw rushes in to save a litter of rogue kits from their mentors, she fears for his life and joins him in the fight. Later, she proves their innocence in trial. 

Even though she was vindicated of wrongdoing, her family still disowned her for “acting out” and told her not to bother aiming for the leader role anymore, stripping her of her only ambition and defining trait, which sent her into a spiraling identity crisis. She lost her eye in the fight and took the name change as a way of leaving behind her prior identity. She then withdrew from her clanmates, and more or less pretends to be a different cat - which everyone lowkey goes with because the ability to tear souls from bodies freaked them out and the whole clan would really rather not mention that whole ordeal unless they have to. (name: Mottlepaw, later Oneeye) 

Syncope - Cream mackerel tabby shorthair tom. Laidback and friendly, always willing to lend a hand as long as it doesn’t mean too much work. He’s Flamepaw’s other best friend who aided in the development of his meditation technique. His gentle, joking nature makes him the perfect counterpart to Mottlepaw, who he assists in proving the innocence of. He became an apprentice at the same time as Flamepaw but earned his warrior name on-time. (name: Goldencloud) 

Fiat - Dark cream mackerel tabby shorthair. Short-tempered molly who became a medicine cat more out of fascination with anatomy and physiology than out of any actual desire to heal. Considers the body to be something almost sacred and is quick to anger at anyone who mistreats themselves. Heals and then yells at Flamepaw for his dangerous meditation technique after it makes him faint and damages his ability to speak; later, during the trial, she’s the one who proves that Flamepaw is braindead, and seeks permission to keep and run experiments on Ashfang’s victims’ corpses. She gets permission but Mottlepaw/Oneye steals Flamepaw’s body and sets it loose just outside the clan’s territory before she can get it settled. Goldencloud has a crush on her. (name Hornetleaf) 

Keratin - Small, solid gray longhair tom. Senior warrior of another clan who made friends with Ashfang during a gathering, where they talked about Ashfang’s plans to use walking corpses as hunters/fighters for his clan. They then struck up a deal: he’ll secretly send out his son/apprentice to meet with Ashfang and Volepelt twice a week, where he’ll watch/help Ashfang “vacate” rogues and try learn how to do it himself. (name: Grayclaw) 

bunny child - Tiny, solid lilac shorthair tomkit. Grayclaw’s son and his apprentice, who was promised awesome clan-saving powers if he meets at the border with his dad’s friend twice a week. He has good intentions in doing right by his clan and doesn’t fully understand that Ashfang is committing murder. He even goes as far as “protecting” the kits from Flamepaw when he goes to rescue them. Harbors a childish, blind hatred of rogues purely because that’s how his father told him he should feel. (name: Dawnpaw, later Dawnfur)  

coyote pups - The five rogue kits rescued from Ashfang and Volepelt’s schemes were adopted and raised by Oneeye. The clan was in so much shock after what happened that the kits were quietly accepted as members, and treated with the same sort of “I won’t mention it if you don’t” that they treat Oneeye and Volepelt with. All of them are solid cinnamon but I honestly can’t tell what genders they all are. 

Oneeye used to tell them what happened to Flamepaw as a fantasy bedtime story, but now that they’re apprentices, they’re learning about the trial from their mentors, and have realized that the story their mother used to tell was true and that they ARE those rescued kits. (names: Deerpaw, Harepaw, Brownpaw, Mudpaw, and Elmpaw) 

The coyote mother, the maned wolf mother (from the Addendum), and Meander’s daughter (also from the Addendum) are rogues and don’t get warrior names, so I didn’t include them here. 

Sidenote: If no one catches that I gave Flamepaw’s murderer the prefix Ash- I will be very sad. 

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations, NOEL! You’ve been accepted as DEIMOS.

Noel, when writing Derek’s skeleton I envisioned someone that was constantly stuck between being alone and reaching out those around them - and you captured that perfectly. Your Derek is someone that knows who he is and knows how to keep everyone at arms length, and yet he still needs contact with others. I was hooked on your app from the very first word and had to read it twice because I couldn’t believe what life you brought to him. I’m beyond excited to see both you and him on the dash! 

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information: 

NAME/ALIAS: Noel

PRONOUNS: She/her they/them 

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST / GMT-6 I’m usually on 2-4 times a week depending on the time of year/school/work.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Derek Park (Deimos)

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: 

OVERVIEW

To me, Derek is interesting because he embodies one of the most human fears: that we are somehow born irreparably, intrinsically wrong. Broken. Cursed with a peach-pit of wickedness from day one that will always steer us away from what is right and good and lovely. For Derek, he’s just unlucky enough that the combination of his home environment and specific power only seem to prove his worst fears true: that everything good he may touch will come away worse for having known him. That he is, at a most basic level, a creature of destruction.

POWERS

Derek is a man possessed by a force that knows no satiety. Fire is, in its simplest form, a thing made to consume. Forever hungry. He has to be careful, controlled, or risk being consumed along with everything else. In practice, this looks like stony silence. Covered skin, an aversion to touch. An arched eyebrow without comment, or a single dog’s-bark of laughter. No drinking, no drugs-- only cigarettes to take the edge off, a controlled burn. Sarcasm, a dark, dry wit, a small smirk and a glance away. A very, very tight circle of trust, and a body that is always on the edge of something, ready for fight or flight.

THE JOB

He slips into interrogation naturally. Regardless of whatever he might have once liked to believe about himself, he has a knack for knowing where to press to hurt people the most. To extract what he needs. He takes people apart efficiently and effectively, and at least he can take pride in that. There’s an elegance to someone doing the job they are most suited for. If he must do something so ugly, at least he does it well.

The other half of the job is prevention. The right rumors, the right image-- good PR. That’s why he wears what he does (dark, black, leather), why he started smoking (though it’s not the reason he kept at it.) He’s a silhouette in the darkness, a shadow at the back of the pack, at the edge of the club, little visible apart from the glinting eyes, the trail of smoke left in his wake. It’s taken him the better part of a decade, establishing himself as someone you’ll be lucky to never meet. Privately, he considers this his best work, all the work he kept from happening. The ghost over your shoulder, asking: are you sure you want to do that?

BIO: 

(TW drugs, violence)

Touch has always been tied to pain for Derek. The first thing he touched on this Earth he hurt, and the first thing that touched him immediately recoiled. Him, a fresh, swaddled baby, handed to his mother to be pressed, cheek to cheek— and then the shriek, so out of place in what should have been a beautiful moment, and that unmotherly, wrenching instinct to push the painful thing away. A nurse had to step in before his mother could drop him to the floor, likely saving his life in the process. It was mortifying, Derek’s father looking at his mother like he’d never seen her before, the crease on the doctor’s brow. 

And then there was the evidence, left on his mother’s face: a burn mark in the shape of a newborn’s cheek. Tiny eyelashes like red, welted spider legs. 

Derek was supposed to be the miracle baby, their first son, but there was so much undeniably wrong about him. They could overlook that first burn— a freak accident— but there was another wrongness that infiltrated everything he did, everything he was. He moved through the world oddly, more like a wizened street cat than a child, always scowling too much for his age. Always somewhere far away in his own head, unreachable. Enigmatic. Hard to love.

Apart from that first incident, his powers didn’t manifest in earnest until his teen years, but when they did there was no stopping it. Derek became all too familiar with the smell of melting plastic, burning hair, and hot metal. He grew an aversion to paper, nail polish remover, and anything that took batteries or gasoline, anything explosive. Worst, though, was how his powers affected those around him. Even a small bump of arm to side in passing was enough to leave a welt, the hiss of burning skin and singed hair becoming all too familiar. Derek learned to pull his body in like a sail. He moved around on cautious, light feet, as if everywhere his skin touched the world hurt him. He stopped sleeping, for fear of what his body would do in his dreams.

It was an impossible way to live, and of course it had to come to a head sometime. One Fall night, he woke up surrounded by blinding light, and a weird taste in his mouth. At first, he thought he was seeing an angel. It was just so bright. A few delirious moments later and he realised what was happening. What he was.

The glowing coal at the center of a house fire.

No one was physically harmed, but in every other way his family was ruined. Everything had to change. The family of a high-level mutant couldn’t move through life like normal people. Government representatives visited to lay out the ground rules of their new lives, all the restrictions they were to follow at threat of having him taken away. In the years following, Derek could never decide whether his parent’s submission to these new rules was driven by some last vestige of parental love they had for him, or over the fear of what having him sent away would do to their reputation. Not that they had much of that left, anyway. In their small community they were pariahs, the reckless family putting everyone around them at risk, harboring that boy of theirs.

At home, Derek’s powers were a confirmation of every bad thought and reservation his parents had ever had about him. He was a death-trap burden, a dangerous changeling child with unknown motivations. He switched to homeschooling, was only allowed in certain parts of the house at certain hours, and almost never went outside. Within the house itself he was surveilled, his every movement controlled and judged against the possible harm he might cause. But nothing he did could ever be enough to win their trust, their approval. It changed how he saw himself, being treated like a liability. He’d spent his life being told what he was, and now he was starting to believe them.

So he decided: if he must be a bomb always about to go off, he might as well do something with it. Might as well become the weapon everyone treated him as. Might as well make a living out of it. He was deteriorating, trapped up in his fire-proofed room, always alone. 

A cursed life was better than no life at all.

So he left home and learned to control his powers. He found people who appreciated the worst parts of himself, and paid him well for it. He discovered a talent for interrogation, intimidation, a naturally threatening smile. By his early twenties, nothing he was doing could be called legal. A few years after that, and he’d made a real name for himself as someone who would go further than the others. Dangerous enough that even his employers were afraid of him. Eventually, only the worst would hire him. Looks normal enough, but don’t believe it. He’s fucking crazy. The tougher the employer, the tougher the work, but by that point he had stopped caring. The consequences weren’t real, the threats were just words. Enemies were just people he’d have to deal with later.

Amsterdam was his breaking point. Derek had switched to freelancing for a while, broken off from all alliances after a boss tried to two-time him. He was unaffiliated, impartial, just helping bad guys hurt bad guys. Still, this was his riskiest gig. He’d never gone international before, a Level 5 mutant with fake papers on a commercial airline-- it was enough to give any number of governmental agencies reason to take him out on sight. But he was bored, numb, bored, numb. Coming up to 30 years old and sick of the Chicago scene. So he’d tried something new.

The boss there was something else, a real talker, beautiful, had gotten under his skin in a way few ever had. He should have left when the boss had asked about taking out a hit-- it had always been a sore subject for him. That’s not my job, dead people can’t talk, I’m not fucking paid enough to kill people. (There was no amount of money could be paid to kill people.) 

But the man was just so charming. Derek relaxed an inch, and they took a mile. It was just one drink. He didn’t even taste the ketamine. When he woke up, his mouth tasted like copper, and barbeque smoke. The sweet, musky smell of burning spinal fluid. Three were dead, the boss was laughing, and his return flight was in under an hour. 

When he got back, he had a missed call from Damien Matthews, with a different kind of job for him. A job with rules, structure. Protection. He’d heard about the Jems and all the noise they’d been making about Mutant Rights and he didn’t really care about that shit, but he took the job immediately. He needed the discipline, a boss, someone to reel him back in from where he’d strayed too far from his himself, almost at the cost of his humanity. The Jems saved him, and while he may be somewhat ambivalent to their cause, his loyalty to Damien is unflinching. The Jems need him, but he needs them more.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

LUCA MENDOZA: Luca is even more dangerous than Derek is and-- somehow-- that makes them the only person he feels completely safe around. Fact is, Luca’s position and power make them uniquely suited to shield his weakest spots, as: 1) When they’re together their power is a shared one, nullifying the risk of Derek hurting them by accident, and 2) no hitman is going to judge an interrogator for their occupation. The outcomes of their jobs may be different, but they’re two sides of the same coin. Their friendship is uncomplicated, enabling, and chaotic, but also somehow comfortable in a way Derek is unaccustomed to.

ISABEL ACOSTA: Oh, the angst. Derek never, ever thought he’d be in the position he is with Isabel, has fought that sort of connection his whole life. And if it were anyone other than Isabel, he’d be able to continue that way. Isabel is the best and the worst thing to happen to him. Look, is there anything better than two people learning to lower their boundaries and let someone in? Being so unable to stay away from the other that they can’t help but become knowable, to be seen as they are, terrible and ugly and complicated and beautiful? And then to know what it feels like to be loved not in spite of your flaws, but because of everything you’ve done to overcome them? Ohh my god.

EXTRA: 

Ideas for future plots/connections:

I’d love to plot something with a character who could have known him pre-Jems, when he was a real piece of work. 

In general, I’m really interested in how all the different powers within the groups interact with the powers of those around them! I.e., what the hell would happen if he met Dione? Would they just cancel each other out? Or be extra dangerous to each other?

For a decade and a half, he lived without really caring about the consequences, and he made lots of enemies along the way. I’d be interested to see some effects of this coming to fruition. Past alliances broken, a history of betrayal or always ending up on the wrong side of the table.

He has a lot of easily pushed buttons. This could go very poorly for the wrong person, someone stubbornly curious or just amused by the thought of getting under his skin.

Also I’m excited to see how the Isabel Situation puts a strain on his loyalty to the Jems, and his relationships within the gang.

General HC’s

He’s a vegetarian. Yes, most of the Jems find this hilarious, someone whose job is to hurt people being not wanting to eat cute little animals. In reality, it’s more an aversion to the idea of cooked meat. Particularly the smell. You can guess why.

Derek is still bad at keeping his phone on him. It’s a holdover from growing up avoiding electronics, anything that might easily explode. At this point in life he just finds it kind of irritating. He doesn’t like the idea of being easily reachable.

He’s bisexual.

He still has nightmares about burning houses, familiar faces flickering amongst the flames, frozen in silent screams. He has lived alone since he left home as a teen, and he plans to do so for the rest of his life.

I could go on and on but this is already way too long. Thank you guys for taking the time to read through this!

ANYTHING ELSE: Nope :)

[independent-thot-blog]

Having a really shitty day on this Trans Day of Remembrance.

I was already in a fragile mental state. I just got back from New York a few days ago, and had to go back to pretending to be a boy in public again after getting to really live fulltime as a woman in a place that I love, which has been a brutally hard adjustment.

Coming back from New York to a childhood home that’s been stripped and emptied. The lawn stripped bare by a hurricane, the house smelling of chemicals and mold. The lighting cold and bright, the furniture gone or sparse. A warped mockery of the house I grew up in. The house my grandparents owned across the street, that I loved, that I had so many positive memories of, where I started my transition as a woman, was sold while I was in New York. A new family has moved in, I will never set foot there again.

Today, specifically, on Trans Day of Remembrance, 4 days before my birthday, was the court date I got to finally legally change my name. I had been waiting on this for over a month, and finally got one right in the middle of when I said I wasn’t available. I tried so hard to be able to last second change my plans to make the court date, I wasted over $300 I can NOT afford to spend on tickets that I ended up not being able to use. It was just impossible to get transportation that close to Thanksgiving. There was nothing I could do. 

I tried to send a request to reschedule but that didn’t even have time to get there yet, I only found out about the court date less than a week ago. So now I simply didn’t show up, for the court date to finally, FINALLY change my name and gender. I am so utterly terrified of how much harder the process might become now. This consumes my thoughts and I hate myself so much for letting this happen.

Today sucked outside of that. Went to meet with my mom’s friend and their family (I’m also friends with her daughter) with my mom. Had to sit next to her on the couch while she constantly deadnamed and misgendered me, only catching herself once or twice. My mom’s friend entire family got my name and pronouns right every time. 

I hate how much this has strained my relationship with my mom. She’s the literal only person where coming out to them went worse than expected. She’s supportive, and sometimes seems to really see me as her daughter and be cool with it, but depending on what her mood is she can be very cold and impatient about it. I was so close to her before, I hate having lost this mother I was so close with, who was the nicest, most compassionate person I knew. 

My dad accepted me, and had always been good about my name and pronouns, while my mom can never seem to remember. I didn’t hold it against her in the past, since she was surrounded by people I wasn’t out to, and it was understandably hard to switch back and forth. But now she has no cause to deadname me, and hasn’t for ages, and she continues to do so. Worse still, she’s made it harder for my dad, now HE’S slipping up constantly, when he never did before. 

But I also hate that I complain about this, because almost every trans person I know has it worse than me. I still have the best parents of almost everyone I know, and I hate how much this bothers me. But I hate that my relationship with my parents is becoming more strained than ever before.

I got to meet and hang out with other transgender people in New York, as a fellow transwoman, which was a new experience. I’ve hung out with transgender friends, but it was cool to run into new people in public. I got to catch glimpses into these lives. But now it just eats at me. I’ve been getting more and more insecure about my appearance lately, and so many of these women looked amazing. Passing, not to mention stunningly attractive. I hate that seeing passing/attractive transwomen is such a source of dysphoria for me, it’s so stupid and bad and petty but I can’t help it. The entire trip to New York, I got this taste of this lifestyle that I so desperately need, but cannot have. It eats away at me so much.

Every day I feel more and more disgusted with my body. I hate how trapped I am in it, how I can never have the body I want, I can never have a body I would be comfortable in. I feel so conscious of my physical presence and how I look to others and it keeps making me naseaus. When I think too much about my body my thoughts go incoherent, blinded by this white noise of misery and hopeless despair. 

I all too briefly got a taste of the life I need in New York, my identity. I have had all of that stripped away. No where feels like home, I feel deeply uncomfortable by both my parents house in North Carolina and my grandparent’s in New Hampshire. Both fill me with dread and isolation, thinking about either building makes me spiral downward. 

My legal name and gender have slipped from my grasp and are harder than ever to change. 

I cannot live as a woman in my living situation, and have absolutely no means of finding a living situation where I can do so safely or comfortably. 

I have been getting hit with the most intense waves of dysphoria I can remember having, and am disgusted by my body and appearance. I hate how my body affects the life I can lead, every interaction I have with every person I meet. 

I feel completely divorced from, and repulsed by my home, my body, my legal name and IDs, my family, my non-existent career path, everything. Everything that defines my identity is beyond my grasp, there is no aspect of my life right now that I can identify with. I feel like a prisoner of someone else’s life, I can express nothing that makes me me. 

I have been having serious suicidal thoughts for the first time in years, something I never thought I would go through again. 

I’m not a huge cryer, but I have weeping uncontrollably so much over the past few days. I have never cried so much in my life. 

Every time I think about myself, or almost any aspect of my situation, every thought in my head instantly falls apart and is disintegrated, my mind starts falling apart. I lose the ability to think as deafening screaming and furious static and bright whiteness tear apart, overwhelm, and drown out everything in my head.

I cannot picture the future anymore. I can not imagine the next few months. I cannot understand or visualize any way I can live any sort of life for the next few months. I do not know how to cope with this. I am not okay. 

[shatteringzimmermann]

hello yes hi i got bored here’s part one

Shitty found him leaning heavily on the kitchen sink, the coffee pot beside him gurgling quietly.

"You okay?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder at his roommate. "Had another weird dream," he said. "I was-" he waved his hand in front of his face and he turned to lean against the sink. His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot.  "-blind. Stumbled around for what felt like hours, bumping into shit and nearly breaking my ankle falling off what must have been a curb or a rock." He cursed quietly. "There were other people there too, loads by the sound of all the voices. All blind and bitching about it."

Shitty hopped onto the island counter. His ass was a little closer to the corner than he had intended, but Jack's reoccurring-but-not-exactly-the-same dreams had been happening for months.

"And remember how I had that dream where everything was black and white until I met someone and then everything was in color?"

Shitty nodded. That was three months ago, and not even the first dream Jack had told him about.

"It was the same idea, but I guess I bumped into the right person and suddenly I could see." Jack frowned. "There was a lot of trash littered all over the place.” The crease between his eyebrows deepened. "I was wearing mismatched sneakers."

"Brah," Shitty said. "But what did they look like? Did you see them this time?"

The coffee pot chirped and Jack pulled two mugs from the cabinet. "No, but I'm starting to think it's a man," he said.

"Any reason why you might think that?"

Jack handed Shitty his Harvard Law mug and wrapped his fingers around his own Falconers one. "Just a feeling."

"Is this a...good feeling?"

Jack's right eyebrow rose.

"You know what I mean, man."

Jack hummed. "Yes, Shitty. It's cool that this mysterious person who may or may not be real but that I keep dreaming about may be male. I’m well aware I haven’t publically dated someone of any gender in years but I’m still okay with this dream person being a dude."

"Asshole."

 It made Jack smile and when he glanced out the window over the sink again he saw a flash of honey blonde hair before it disappeared in the rush of the morning commute sidewalk below.

 "Tell you what," Shitty said. "Start writing this shit down and I'll have my girlfriend paint you a book of these bizarre-ass dreams."

 "Girlfriend? When did that happen?"

 "Get that shit-eating grin off your beautiful face. It's the girl I told you about weeks ago."

 Jack hid his smile behind another sip of coffee. "Eh. She needs to pass the bathroom test."

 Shitty's mustache dipped into his light coffee, leaving the hairs looking like a paintbrush dipped in dirty water from a too-much-white canvas. "The fuckin what?"

 "Bathroom test. Marty told me he started doing it with his girlfriends over the years and his wife was one of the few who passed."

 Shitty frowned. "This isn't some sexist shit is it?"

 Jack shook his head. "When she comes over for a long weekend, how much of her girly crap takes over your bathroom?"

 "Literally none of that matters," Shitty protested. "She can do whatever she wants to feel good about herself. Why even do something this stupid anyway?"

 Jack rinsed his empty cup and tucked it into the top shelf of the dishwasher. "You're right, overall it doesn't matter. But you're not the kind of guy who wants a super high maintenance chick making him late all the time cause she’s still getting ready. You're more of a 'sorry we're late, we got stoned and were halfway through a box of donut holes before we realized the time.'"

 It made Shitty chuckle, but he shook his head. "While that last part may be true, I don't give two shits if she wants to use fruity body wash or wear makeup."

 Jack shrugged. "It's not a pass/fail text, eh? Just something to notice."

 Shitty hummed before pouring himself another mug. He’d decided, way back in high school, that relationship tests were stupid. A decade and a degree-and-a-half later, he hadn’t changed his mind. Jack, sweet, stupid Jack, hadn’t sat through entire semesters of Women’s Gender and Sexuality classes. Maybe there was a book Shitty could get Jack, maybe something comparing women’s rights from the American Revolution to modern day. It wouldn’t be as educational as having to sit through many classmates’ personal stories that still clung to his mind and changed the way he treated everyone around him, but maybe it would open the door for more conversation.

   It was barely a week later when the next dream happened. Two days after that, another. Then another and another and- Matching birthmarks, coincidentally identical tattoos, first words memorized by longing hearts. Palms that warmed when held by a soulmate.

 The dreams didn't bother Jack, per se, but the way he felt after was enough to pull him from bed and turn on the bathroom light. Dark shadows had been lining his eyes for most of his life but these dreams made it harder to pretend they weren’t there. It wasn’t sleeplessness that caused the shadows, either; Jack had always been too close with the ache in his chest. Sometimes he could keep it at an arms-length away. Sometimes it grabbed him by the waist and held him tight no matter how much Jack fought.

 Jack sat up, sheets falling to his waist, and buried his face in his hands. Breathing deeply for a few moments, Jack focused on the things he could feel and hear to ground himself in reality. He switched on the light when he finished. A history book titled 1776 sat on his nightstand and Jack pulled it off, opening it to his marked chapter.  

 The words blurred after a few pages. He sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids.

 He was Jack Zimmermann, the first out bisexual NHL player. He’d never had to go a day without food or shelter and had gone to the most expensive rehabilitation center in Montreal after his accidental overdose. His parents ended each twice-weekly phone call with a we love you and we are so proud of you. And Shitty, who ran into Jack in a bar bathroom after a Falconers win talking himself through the beginnings of a panic attack, had quickly turned into his best friend. He was a good roommate too, prompt with the meager rent Jack charged and ready for a snuggle when Jack’s anxiety climbed to a suffocating level. Jack could hear him snoring from across the condo; the noise had been one of the things he’d used to center himself in the now.

 Jack dropped his book back on the nightstand, tossing his bookmark on the cover and turning off the light before turning away. He grabbed the extra pillow from the other side of the bed. He hugged it against his bare chest, squeezing tightly until his lungs reminded him to exhale. The cool fabric sent a ripple of goosebumps down his back and arms. Pulling the covers over his shoulder helped, but that coldness had settled into his chest a long time ago and no amount of distant lovers, platonic snuggles, and proud parents had ever been able to warm it. They stopped it from getting worse, from every ounce of his insides turning into a deadly winter storm like the ones he weathered inside a warm home, but sometimes…sometimes his feet were too numb to walk toward the laughing brunette at the cookout Marty had over the summer and his fingers were frostbitten when he thought about reaching out to the tan-skinned man with the sweet smile at the last Pride Parade.

 The morning summer sun found Jack wearing thick sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, eyes open and body shivering underneath enough blankets to melt ice.

 When he finally emerged from his room, still wrapped in one of the blankets, Shitty poured him a coffee and slid it across the island.

 “What was it this time?”

 Jack held the too-hot mug between his palms. “No dream,” he said.

 Shitty’s eyebrows rose as they drank in silence.

 “My last class is over at 12:30 and I could be back by 1:15,” his friend offered.

 “I thought you were hanging out with your girlfriend?”

 He spread his arms wide. “Brah. You come first.”

 “Bros before hoes?”

 “Yes, that’s right, brothers should always come before gardening tools.” It was a familiar banter. Jack’s shoulders lowered a few inches.

 “Hang out with your girl. I have meetings all day anyway.”

 It wasn’t a lie. He just had an hour and a half between his three meetings. Maybe he could manage a nap in the team room after morning skate.

 His skin prickled the second he locked the condo door, body unhappy with the lack of thick clothing in the hallway air conditioning. The few minutes he spent getting into his car and then out of it again at the rink was the only time he felt relatively warm.

 Jack’s teammates were familiar enough with his not-very-god days that no one bugged him about his sloppiness on the ice. He showered and changed quickly after Coach called the end of practice. His first meeting was with some journalists from Samwell, the college his mother went to. If he’d gone to college, Jack imagined he would have gone there. A couple of their guys had been drafted in recent years so clearly they were of elite caliber. Johnson and Oluransi, if he remembered right.

 The journalism students were nice; professional and understandably nervous. Jack made sure to chat with them for a few minutes before the interview started. Idle chit chat to get them used to him, to the way he spoke, to get over the fact that on my god that’s Jack Zimmermann. Their questions were ranged: everything from how he managed to still be drafted six years ago despite missing a full year of competition, to the charity he started in Providence.

“So much of my life has been obsessed with hockey. I wanted to create something that had nothing to do with it. This Colorful Home is about finding safe, long-term foster families for queer youth. No one deserves to become homeless or forced into unhealthy and dangerous living conditions because of their orientation or identity. I was raised by amazing and supportive parents who love me, not despite my mental health issues or my sexuality, but including them. They are the majority of why I'm still alive today. And-and the thought of children not having the same support system because of who they are-” He shook his head. “It's unacceptable.”

The students were all leaning back in their seats, faces paler than earlier. Jack huffed a quiet laugh. After a silence that had Jack reaching seven before anyone spoke again, there were a few more questions until the students were finished. He made sure to take photos and pass out signed t-shirts.

 When they left Jack retreated to the team room. There was no one else around to notice when he stopped hiding the way his hands shook. No one saw him go through his grounding routine or press the heels of his palms in his eyes. He'd gotten good at making people believe his anxiety was well-controlled and easy to live with. It's part of why he almost always agreed to interviews; the more normalized he can make bisexuality, the more people will realize he’s not a walking petri dish of STIs. The more normalized he can make anxiety, the less it will involve silent, life-long struggles. Maybe he could keep someone else from overdosing, someone who doesn’t have a teammate to find them before it was too late.

He was back to his media-ready façade for his next interview. It’s with a reporter from the local newspaper, an older woman Jack respected more than most people who got one-on-ones with him. Her questions always required more than the blanket “Well, we need to get the puck in the net” kind of responses. She never looked annoyed when he took too long to respond. Hopefully she wasn’t just pretending to be fine with it but calling him an idiot in her head.

Jack didn’t tremble as much after this interview, but it’s easier to handle a smaller chat than one with a bunch of people he didn’t know. There was still no chance of a nap. He sat on the overstuffed couch again, lights off, and did enough deep breathing that he got lightheaded.

His last interview was to brainstorm ideas for his upcoming You Can Play campaign. A few other guys in the league were out – Oluransi being one of them – and Jack wanted to do something with all of them. For starters, they’d all been using pride tape for every game. The tape company had even started making more color pairings for more sexualities.

That’s where Jack had gotten the idea for the name of his charity. Most non-LGBTQIA people didn’t realize the amount of colorful flags made for specific orientations. Jack had googled them and scrolled through for nearly two hours, reading the descriptions and history of all of them. So many colors, so many people, choosing to celebrate themselves. Jack had bought a bisexual one immediately.

His sticks were always wrapped in the blue, purple, and pink tape made especially for him. Trilman, a forward on the Schooners, used it too. Oluransi used the rainbow as did four other players. The Devils’ goalie used a black, purple, and white tape for asexuality.

By the time Jack dumped himself into his car a lose plan had been formed: This summer, post-Cup, all the out players would go on a US and Canada tour to speak to youth teams. Jack wasn’t sure how much it would help, to speak out against homophobia, transphobia, and racism in sports, but he had a list of colleges and junior teams to call over the next few weeks. It was a start.

Shitty found him less than an hour later, curled up on the couch in the blanket Jack had left there that morning. Jack wasn’t asleep – far from it- and his eyes ached as Shitty wrapped himself around Jack. He smelled faintly of weed and hot wings and cheap beer. When Jack could finally feel enough of himself to speak again his voice was hoarse.

“How as your date?”

“Fun. You’ll like her. She’s cool as hell.”

“Hell is hot.”

Shitty patted his cheek with a condescending touch. “It’s a good thing you’ve got that wonderful hockey ass,” he said, smiling.

Jack hummed, wishing he could rub his eyes but Shitty was latched on too tightly. “I think my baby cup pictures negate any attractiveness.”

After a pause Shitty rearranged himself so he straddled Jack’s lap, weight carefully held off of the knee that had been plaguing Jack for several years. Holding Jack’s face in his hands, Shitty told him, softly but firmly, “Everyone is embarrassed by shit they did as a kid. Your brain likes to remind you about it more than the non-mentally-ill person’s brain, yes, but what you did as a baby- or even something you did last week- doesn’t detract from your attractiveness.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest but Shitty continued. “Brah, you didn’t kill anyone or steal candy from any babies. And while we are definitely going to have a talk about that stupid bathroom test you’re not any less attractive or less worthy of love because of the struggles you’ve gone through.”

He felt the immediate tension in Jack’s jaw. “You’re my best friend, and nothing is going to change that.”

Jack had to pull his face away. Shitty pressed his hands on Jack’s shoulders instead. The pressure was enough for Shitty to feel the way his friend’s heart was pounding in his chest. Jack’s expression wasn’t one he recognized though; years of friendship and all he could tell was that Jack’s heart was breaking, and he didn’t know why.

“Brah,” he said, squeezing his hands gently. “You can talk to me about anything.”

Jack kept his mouth firmly shut but nodded. His gaze was hard, directed over Shitty’s shoulder. The only thing for him to stare at there was a blank section of the wall. Maybe he would put his next photo print there.

Twenty minutes later Shitty was sitting beside Jack, watching Netflix with Shitty’s legs draped over Jack’s lap. The blanket was spread over them, jostling every time Shitty laughed.

Jack was asleep before the end of the third episode.